[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author'sspelling has been maintained. ]

[Illustration: Sarah Bernhardt as Cleopatra. ]

GREAT MEN AND FAMOUS WOMEN

_A Series of Pen and Pencil Sketches of_

THE LIVES OF MORE THAN 200 OF THE MOST PROMINENT PERSONAGES IN HISTORY

VOL. VIII. 

Copyright, 1894, BY SELMAR HESS

edited by Charles F. Horne

[Illustration: Publisher's arm. ]

New-York: Selmar Hess Publisher

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VIII. 

 SUBJECT AUTHOR PAGE

 MICHAEL ANGELO, _Anna Jameson_, 214 BEETHOVEN, _C. E. Bourne_, 319 SARAH BERNHARDT, _H. S. Edwards_, 382 ROSA BONHEUR, _Clarence Cook_, 276 EDWIN BOOTH, _Clarence Cook_, 370 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN, _Dutton Cook_, 355 _Letter from Miss Cushman to a young friend on the subject of "Self-conquest, "_ 362 LEONARDO DA VINCI, _Anna Jameson_, 209 GUSTAVE DORÉ, _Kenyon Cox_, 298 ALBERT DÜRER, _W. J. Holland_, 231 EDWIN FORREST, _Lawrence Barrett_, 349 DAVID GARRICK, _Samuel Archer_, 343 GÉRÔME, _Clarence Cook_, 281 HANDEL, _C. E. Bourne_, 302 HAYDN, _C. E. Bourne_, 315 WILLIAM HOGARTH, 247 JOSEPH JEFFERSON, _Clarence Cook_, 374 FRANZ LISZT, _Rev. Hugh R. Haweis, M. A. _, 332 MEISSONIER, _Clarence Cook_, 272 MENDELSSOHN, _C. F. Bourne_, 326 JEAN FRANÇOIS MILLET, _Clarence Cook_, 265 MOZART, _C. E. Bourne_, 308 PAGANINI, 325 ADELINA PATTI, _Frederick F. Buffen_, 378 PHIDIAS, _Clarence Cook_, 203 RACHEL, _Dutton Cook_, 363 RAPHAEL, _Mrs. Lee_, 221 REMBRANDT, _Elizabeth Robins Pennell_, 240 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, _Samuel Archer_, 250 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI, _Edmund Gosse_, 287 RUBENS, _Mrs. Lee_, 236 THORWALDSEN, _Hans Christian Andersen_, 258 TITIAN, _Giorgio Vasari_, 226 GIUSEPPE VERDI, 342 RICHARD WAGNER, _Franklin Peterson, Mus. Bac. _, 338 BENJAMIN WEST, _Martha J. Lamb_, 254

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME VIII. 

PHOTOGRAVURES

 ILLUSTRATION ARTIST TO FACE PAGE

 SARAH BERNHARDT AS CLEOPATRA, _Georges Clairin_ _Frontispiece_ MICHAEL ANGELO AND VITTORIA COLONNA, _Hermann Schneider_ 220 ALBERT DÜRER VISITS HANS SACHS, _Richard Gross_ 234 MARIE DE MEDICI AT THE HOUSE OF RUBENS, _Florent Willems_ 240 CONNOISSEURS AT REMBRANDT'S STUDIO, _Adolphe-Alexandre Lesrel_ 244 MEISSONIER'S ATELIER, _Georges Bretegnier_ 272 MOZART SINGING HIS REQUIEM, _Thomas W. Shields_ 314 AN ANECDOTE ABOUT BEETHOVEN, _Paul Leyendecker_ 322 FRANZ LISZT, _Fortuné-Joseph-Seraphin Layraud_ 334 WAGNER AND HIS FRIENDS, _Wilhelm Beckmann_ 340 RACHEL AS THE MUSE OF GREEK TRAGEDY, _Jean Léon Gérôme_ 368 JOE JEFFERSON AS BOB ACRES, _From life_ 376

 WOOD-ENGRAVINGS AND TYPOGRAVURES

 RAPHAEL INTRODUCED TO DA VINCI, _Brune Pagès_ 212 LEO X. AT RAPHAEL'S BIER, _Pietro Michis_ 224 A FÊTE AT THE HOUSE OF TITIAN, _F. Kraus_ 228 ALBERT DÜRER'S WEDDING, _A. Bodenmüller_ 232 HOGARTH SKETCHING THE HIGHWAY OF QUEENBOROUGH, 248 BENJAMIN WEST, PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, _Sir Thomas Lawrence_ 258 ROSA BONHEUR, _E. Dubufe_ 278 HANDEL'S RIVER-CONCERT FOR GEORGE I. , _A. Hamman_ 304 HAYDN COMPOSING HIS "CREATION, " _A. Hamman_ 318 PAGANINI IN PRISON, _Louis Boulanger_ 326 GARRICK AS RICHARD III. , _William Hogarth_ 346 FORREST AS METAMORA, _From Photograph_ 352 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN AS MRS. HALLER, _Watkins_ 360

PAINTERS AND SCULPTORS

PHIDIAS[1]

 [Footnote 1: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(ABOUT 500-432 B. C. )

Phidias, one of the greatest sculptors the world has seen, and whosename has become, as it were, the synonym of his art, was born atAthens about 500 B. C. He belonged to a family of artists, none of whomindeed were distinguished in their profession, but their variedoccupations furnished the atmosphere in which such a talent as that ofPhidias could best be fostered and brought to maturity. His father wasCharmides, who is believed to have been an artist, because the Greeks, in their inscriptions, did not associate the name of the father withthat of the son unless both were of the same calling. A brother ofPhidias, Panoenos, was a painter, and is mentioned among thoseartists, twenty or more in number, who in conjunction with Polygnotus, one of the chief painters of his day, were employed in the decorationof the Poecile or Painted Portico, one of the many beautiful buildingserected by Cimon. The Poecile was simply a long platform, with a roofsupported by a row of columns on one side and by a wall on the other. It was called "the painted, " because the wall at the back was coveredwith a series of large historical pictures containing many figures, and recording some of the chief events of the time, together withothers relating to an earlier and more shadowy epoch. The subject ofthe painting, executed, at least in part, by the brother of Phidias, was the Battle of Marathon, in which great event it is thought he mayhimself have taken part. 

The boyhood of Phidias fell in a time of national revival, when underthe influence of an ennobling political excitement, all the arts werequickened to a fresh, original, and splendid growth. The contestbetween the Greeks and Persians, which had begun with the Ionianrevolt, was in full activity at the time of his birth. He was tenyears old when the battle of Marathon was fought, and when he wastwenty, four of the most striking events in the history of Greece werecrowded into a single year; the battle of Thermopylæ, the victory atSalamis, and the twin glories of Platæa and Mycale. His early youth, therefore, was nourished by the inspiring influences that come fromthe victorious struggle of a people to maintain their national life. He was by no means the only sculptor of his time whom fame remembers, but he alone, rejecting trivial themes, consecrated his talent to thenobler subjects of his country's religious life and the idealconception of her protecting gods. No doubt, Phidias, like all who areborn with the artistic temperament, would be interested from childhoodin the progress of the splendid works with which Athens was enrichingherself under the rule of Cimon. But his interest must have beengreatly increased by the fact that his brother Panoenos was activelyengaged in the decoration of one of those buildings. It would benatural that he should be often drawn to the place where his brotherwas at work, and that the sight of so many artists, most of them youngmen, filled with the generous ardor of youth, and inspired by thenature of their task, should have stirred in him an answeringenthusiasm. It gives us a thrill of pleasure to read in the list ofthese youths the name of the great tragic poet, Euripides, who beganlife as a painter, and in whose plays we find more than one referenceto the art. It cannot be thought unreasonable to suppose that two suchintelligences as these must have had an attraction for one another, and that, as in the case of Dante and Giotto, the great poet and thegreat artist would be drawn together by a likeness in their taste andaims. 

Phidias studied his art first at Athens, with a native sculptor, Hegias, of whom we know nothing except from books. Later, he went toArgos, and there put himself under the instruction of Ageladas, aworker chiefly in bronze, and very famous in his time, of whom, however, nothing remains but the memory of a few of his more notableworks. For us, his own works forgotten, he remains in honor as theteacher of Myron, of Polycletus, and of Phidias, the three chiefsculptors of the next generation to his own. On leaving the workshopof Ageladas, Phidias executed several statues that brought himprominently before the public. For Delphi, he made a group of thirteenfigures in bronze, to celebrate the battle of Marathon and apotheosizethe heroes of Attica. In this group, Miltiades was placed in thecentre, between Athena, the tutelary goddess of Athens, and Apollo, the guardian of Delphi; while on each side were five Athenian heroes, Theseus and Codrus with others, arranged in a semicircle. Thisimportant work was paid for by Athens out of her share in the spoilsof Marathon. Another important commission executed by Phidias was astatue of Athena made for her temple at Platæa, and paid for with theeighty talents raised by the contributions of the other Grecian statesas a reward for the splendid services of the Platæans at Marathon, where they played somewhat the same part as the Prussians at thebattle of Waterloo. The head, hands, and feet of this statue were ofmarble, but the drapery was of gold; so arranged, probably, as in thecase of the great statue of Athena designed later by Phidias for theParthenon, as to be removable from the marble core at pleasure. Phidias made so many statues of the virgin goddess Athena, that hisname became associated with hers, as at a later day that of Raphaelwas with the Virgin Mary. In the first period of his artistic career, moved perhaps by his patriotic gratitude for her intervention inbehalf of his native state, he had represented the goddess as awarlike divinity, as here at Platæa; but in his later conceptions, asin a statue made for the Athenians of Lemnos, Athena appeared investedwith milder attributes, and with a graceful and winning type ofbeauty. 

In their invasion of Attica the Persians had destroyed the city ofAthens, and the people, who had fled to all quarters of the peninsulato seek refuge from the enemy, returned after the victory at Salamisand the flight of the Persians, to find their homes a heap of ruins. The dwelling-houses of the Greeks were everywhere, even in theirlargest cities, built of mean materials: walls of stubble overlaidwith stucco and gayly painted. It was not long, therefore, beforeAthens resumed something of her old appearance, with such improvementsas always follow the rebuilding of a city. The most important changeeffected was that brought about in the character of the great plateau, the fortified rock of the Acropolis. Here, as in many Greek cities, the temples of the gods had been erected, and about them, as about thecathedrals of the Middle Ages, there had grown up a swarm of housesand other buildings built by generations of people who sought there atonce the protection of the stockade which enclosed the almostinaccessible site, and the still further safeguard of the presence ofthe divinities in their temples. The destructive hand of the Persianinvaders had swept this platform clear of all these multipliedincumbrances, and in the rebuilding of the city it was determined toreserve the Acropolis for military and religious uses alone. 

The work of improvement was begun by Cimon, who, however, confined hisattention chiefly to the lower city that clustered about the base ofthe Acropolis. Here, among other structures, he built the temple ofTheseus and the Painted Portico, and he also erected, near the summitof the Acropolis, on the western side, the little gem-like temple ofthe Wingless Victory, Nike Apteros, in commemoration of the success ofthe Athenian arms at the battle of the Eurymedon. It was from Cimonthat Phidias received his first commission for work upon theAcropolis, where later he was to build such a lasting monument to hisown fame and to the fame of his native land. The commission given himby Cimon was to erect a bronze statue of Athena which was to stand onthe citadel, at once a symbol of the power of Athens and a tribute tothe protecting goddess of the city. The work upon the statue wasprobably begun under Cimon, but according to Ottfried Müller it wasnot completed at the death of Phidias. It stood in the open air, andnearly opposite the Colonnade at the entrance of the great flight ofmarble steps that led from the plain to the summit of the Acropolis, and was the first object to meet the eye on passing through thegateway. It represented the goddess, armed, and in a warlike attitude, from which it derived its name, Athena Promachos: Athena, the leaderof the battle. With its pedestal it stood about seventy feet high, towering above the roof of the Parthenon, the gilded point of thebrazen spear held by the goddess flashing back the sun to the ships asin approaching Athens they rounded the promontory of Sunium. We readthat the statue was still standing so late as 395 A. D. , and it is saidthat its towering height and threatening aspect caused a panic terrorin Alaric and his horde of barbarians when they climbed the Acropolisto plunder its temple of its treasure. 

But it was under the rule of Pericles that Phidias was to find atAthens his richest employment. Pericles had determined, probably bythe advice of Phidias, to make the Acropolis the seat and centre ofthe new and splendid city that was to arise under his administration. The first great undertaking was the building of a temple to AthenaParthenos, Athena the Virgin, a design believed to have been suggestedto Pericles by Phidias. The plans were intrusted to Ictinus, anAthenian, one of the best architects of the day; but the generalcontrol and superintendence of the work were given to Phidias. As thebuilding rose to completion, workmen in all branches of the artsflocked to Athens from every part of Greece and were given fullemployment by Phidias in the decoration and furnishing of the temple. 

The taste of Phidias controlled the whole scheme of decoration appliedto the building, into which color entered, no doubt, to a much greaterextent than was formerly believed. Even after time and the destructivehand of man have done their worst, there still remain sufficienttraces of color to prove that the sculpture, and the whole upper partof the temple, were painted in bright but harmonious colors, and thatmetal ornaments and accessories accented the whole scheme withglittering points of light reflected from their shining surfaces. 

The sculptures with which the Parthenon was adorned by Phidias, andwhich were executed under his immediate superintendence, consisted oftwo great groups that filled the eastern and western pediments; ofgroups of two figures each in the ninety-two metopes or panels abovethe outer row of columns; and, finally, the famous frieze that rancompletely round the temple itself, just below the ceiling of thecolonnade, and at a height of about thirty-nine feet from the floor. 

The subject of the group that filled the eastern pediment, the oneabove the entrance door of the temple, was the birth of Athena. Justhow the event was represented we do not know because quite half thegroup, including the principal figures, disappeared very early in ourera, and no description of them remains in any ancient or modernwriter. The group in the western pediment represented the contestbetween Athena and Poseidon for the dominion over Attica. According tothe legend, the strife between the two divinities took place in anassembly of the gods on the Acropolis, who were to determine which ofthe two contestants should be the protector of the city. To prove hispower, Poseidon struck the rock with his trident, and a salt springleaped forth, as if the sea itself had obeyed the call of its lord. Athena struck the ground, and an olive-tree sprang up, the emblem ofpeace and of the victories of commerce, and the assembly awarded theprize to her. The goddess having thus received the sovereignty ofAthens, it was but natural that a day should be set apart for herspecial honor, and a festival instituted to commemorate the greatevent. This was the greater Panathenaia, or All Athenians Day, whichwas celebrated every fourth year in honor of the goddess, and which, as its name implies, was taken part in by all the people of the city. It occurred in the early summer and lasted five days. On the fifthday, it closed with a procession which went through all the chiefstreets of the city and wound its way up the Great Stairway to theAcropolis, bearing the _peplos_ or embroidered robe woven by youngvirgin ladies of Athens, chosen from the highest families, and knownfor their skill in this kind of work. After the _peplos_ had beenconsecrated in the temple it was placed with due solemnities upon theancient and venerable figure of the goddess, made of olive-wood, andsaid to have descended from heaven. From its subject, which thuscelebrates the Panathenaic procession, the frieze is often called thePanathenaic frieze. 

It is carved from Pentelic marble, of which material the marblebuilding is constructed. Its original length, running as it did aroundthe entire building, was 522. 80 feet, of which about 410 feet remain. Of this portion, 249 feet are in the British Museum in slabs andfragments; the remainder is chiefly in the Louvre, with scatteredfragments in other places. As a connected subject this was the mostextensive piece of sculpture ever made in Greece. From all that can begathered from the study of the fragments that remain, the design ofthe frieze was of the utmost simplicity and characterized by the unionof perfect taste and clear purpose that marks all the work of thegreat sculptor. The subject begins in the frieze at the western end ofthe temple, where we watch the assembling of the procession. It thenproceeds along the northern and southern sides of the building, inwhat we are to suppose one continuous line, moving toward the east, since all the faces are turned that way; and at the eastern end, directly over the main entrance to the building, the two parts of theprocession meet, in the presence of the magistrates and of thedivinities who had places of worship in Athens. 

Of the grace, the skill in arrangement, the variety of invention, thehappy union of movement and repose shown in this work, not onlyartists--men best fitted to judge its merits from a technical point ofview--but the cultivated portion of the public, and a large andever-increasing circle of every-day people, have by common consentagreed in praise. By the multiplication of casts, to be found now inall our principal museums, we are enabled to study and to enjoy thelong procession even better than it could have been enjoyed in itsoriginal place, where it must have been seen at a great disadvantagein spite of the skill shown by Phidias in adapting it to its site;for, as the frieze stood thirty-nine feet from the floor, and as thewidth of the portico between the wall and the columns was only ninefeet, it was seen at a very sharp angle, and owing to the projectionof the roof beyond the wall of the temple the frieze received onlyreflected light from the marble pavement below. 

Apart from the marble sculptures on the exterior of the Parthenon, thetwo most famous works of Phidias were the statues of Athena, made forthe interior of the Parthenon, and of Zeus for the temple of the godat Olympia in Elis. Both these statues were of the sort called_Chryselephantine_, from the Greek _chrousous_, golden, and_elephantinos_, of ivory; that is, they were constructed of plates ofgold and ivory, laid upon a core of wood or stone. The style was notnew, though its invention was at one time ascribed to Phidias. It camefrom the East, but it was now employed for the first time in Greece ina work of national importance. 

In the Athena, the face, neck, arms, hands, and feet were made ofivory, and the drapery and ornaments, the helmet, the shield, and thesandals of gold, which as in the case of the statue made for Platæa, was removable at pleasure. The height of the statue, including thepedestal, was nearly forty feet. The goddess stood erect, clothed witha tunic reaching to the ankles, and showing her richly sandalled feet. She had the ægis on her breast, her head was covered with a helmet, and her shield, richly embossed with the Battle of the Amazons, restedon the ground at her side. In one hand she held a spear, and in theother, an image of Victory six feet high. 

A still more splendid work, and one which raised the fame of Phidiasto the highest point, was the statue of the Olympian Zeus, made forthe Eleans. In this statue, Phidias essayed to embody the Homericideal of the supreme divinity of the people of Greece sitting on histhrone as a monarch, and in an attitude of majestic repose. Thethrone, made of cedar-wood, was covered with plates of gold, andenriched with ivory, ebony, and precious stones. It rested on aplatform twelve feet high, made of costly marble and carved with theimages of the gods who formed the council of Zeus on Olympus. The feetof the god rested on a footstool supported by lions, and with thecombat of Theseus and the Amazons in a bas-relief on the front andsides. In one hand Zeus held the sceptre, and in the other a wingedVictory. His head was crowned with a laurel wreath; his mantle, falling from one shoulder, left his breast bare and covered the lowerpart of his person with its ample folds of pure gold enamelled withflowers. The whole height of the statue with the pedestal was aboutfifty feet; by its very disproportion to the size of the temple it wasmade to appear still larger than it really was. This statue wasreckoned one of the wonders of the world. In it the Greeks seemed tobehold Zeus face to face. To see it was a cure for all earthly woes, and to die without having seen it was reckoned a great calamity. 

The downfall of Pericles, due to the jealousies of his rivals, carriedwith it the ruin of Phidias, his close friend, to whom he hadentrusted such great undertakings. An indictment was brought againstthe sculptor, charging him with appropriating to himself a portion ofthe gold given him for the adornment of the statue of Athena; andaccording to some authorities Pericles himself was included in thecharge. The gold had, however, been attached to the statue in such amanner that it could be taken off and weighed, and in the proof, thecharge had to be abandoned. But Phidias did not escape so easily. Hewas accused of sacrilege in having introduced portraits of himself andPericles on the shield of the goddess, where, says Plutarch, in thebas-relief of the Battle of the Amazons, he carved his own portrait asa bald old man lifting a stone with both hands, and also introduced anexcellent likeness of Pericles fighting with an Amazon. 

Phidias died in prison before the trial came off, and his name must beadded to the long list of those whom an ungrateful world has rewardedfor their services with ignominy and death. 

[Signature of the author. ]

LEONARDO DA VINCI

By ANNA JAMESON

(1452-1519)

[Illustration: Leonardo Da Vinci. ]

Leonardo da Vinci seems to present in his own person a _résumé_ of allthe characteristics of the age in which he lived. He was _the_ miracleof that age of miracles. Ardent and versatile as youth; patient andpersevering as age; a most profound and original thinker; the greatestmathematician and most ingenious mechanic of his time; architect, chemist, engineer, musician, poet, painter--we are not only astoundedby the variety of his natural gifts and acquired knowledge, but by thepractical direction of his amazing powers. The extracts which havebeen published from MSS. Now existing in his own handwriting show himto have anticipated by the force of his own intellect some of thegreatest discoveries made since his time. "These fragments, " says Mr. Hallam, "are, according to our common estimate of the age in which helived, more like revelations of physical truths vouchsafed to a singlemind than the superstructure of its reasoning upon any establishedbasis. The discoveries which made Galileo, Kepler, Castelli, and othernames illustrious; the system of Copernicus, the very theories ofrecent geologists, are anticipated by Da Vinci within the compass of afew pages, not perhaps in the most precise language, or on the mostconclusive reasoning, but so as to strike us with something like theawe of preternatural knowledge. In an age of so much dogmatism hefirst laid down the grand principle of Bacon, that experiment andobservation must be the guides to just theory in the investigation ofnature. If any doubt could be harbored, not as to the right ofLeonardo da Vinci to stand as the first name of the fifteenth century, which is beyond all doubt, but as to his originality in so manydiscoveries, which probably no one man, especially in suchcircumstances, has ever made, it must be by an hypothesis not veryuntenable, that some parts of physical science had already attained aheight which mere books do not record. "

It seems at first sight almost incomprehensible that, thus endowed asa philosopher, mechanic, inventor, discoverer, the fame of Leonardoshould now rest on the works he has left as a painter. We cannot, within these limits, attempt to explain why and how it is that as theman of science he has been naturally and necessarily left behind bythe onward march of intellectual progress, while as the poet-painterhe still survives as a presence and a power. We must proceed at onceto give some account of him in the character in which he exists to usand for us--that of the great artist. 

Leonardo was born at Vinci, near Florence, in the Lower Val d'Arno, onthe borders of the territory of Pistoia. His father, Piero da Vinci, was an advocate of Florence--not rich, but in independentcircumstances, and possessed of estates in land. The singular talentsof his son induced Piero to give him, from an early age, the advantageof the best instructors. As a child he distinguished himself by hisproficiency in arithmetic and mathematics. Music he studied early, asa science as well as an art. He invented a species of lyre forhimself, and sung his own poetical compositions to his own music, bothbeing frequently extemporaneous. But his favorite pursuit was the artof design in all its branches; he modelled in clay or wax, orattempted to draw every object which struck his fancy. His father senthim to study under Andrea Verrocchio, famous as a sculptor, chaser inmetal, and painter. Andrea, who was an excellent and correct designer, but a bad and hard colorist, was soon after engaged to paint a pictureof the baptism of our Saviour. He employed Leonardo, then a youth, toexecute one of the angels; this he did with so much softness andrichness of color, that it far surpassed the rest of the picture; andVerrocchio from that time threw away his palette, and confined himselfwholly to his works in sculpture and design, "enraged, " says Vessari, "that a child should thus excel him. "

The youth of Leonardo thus passed away in the pursuit of science andof art; sometimes he was deeply engaged in astronomical calculationsand investigations; sometimes ardent in the study of natural history, botany, and anatomy; sometimes intent on new effects of color, light, shadow, or expression in representing objects animate or inanimate. Versatile, yet persevering, he varied his pursuits, but he neverabandoned any. He was quite a young man when he conceived anddemonstrated the practicability of two magnificent projects: one wasto lift the whole of the church of San Giovanni, by means of immenselevers, some feet higher than it now stands, and thus supply thedeficient elevation; the other project was to form the Arno into anavigable canal as far as Pisa, which would have added greatly to thecommercial advantages of Florence. 

It happened about this time that a peasant on the estate of Piero daVinci brought him a circular piece of wood, cut horizontally from thetrunk of a very large old fig-tree, which had been lately felled, andbegged to have something painted on it as an ornament for his cottage. The man being an especial favorite, Piero desired his son Leonardo togratify his request; and Leonardo, inspired by that wildness of fancywhich was one of his characteristics, took the panel into his ownroom, and resolved to astonish his father by a most unlooked-for proofof his art. He determined to compose something which should have aneffect similar to that of the Medusa on the shield of Perseus, andalmost petrify beholders. Aided by his recent studies in naturalhistory, he collected together from the neighboring swamps and theriver-mud all kinds of hideous reptiles, as adders, lizards, toads, serpents: insects, as moths, locusts, and other crawling and flyingobscene and obnoxious things; and out of these he composed a sort ofmonster or chimera, which he represented as about to issue from theshield, with eyes flashing fire, and of an aspect so fearful andabominable that it seemed to infect the very air around. Whenfinished, he led his father into the room in which it was placed, andthe terror and horror of Piero proved the success of his attempt. Thisproduction, afterward known as the "Rotello del Fico, " from thematerial on which it was painted, was sold by Piero secretly for onehundred ducats to a merchant, who carried it to Milan, and sold it tothe duke for three hundred. To the poor peasant, thus cheated of his"Rotello, " Piero gave a wooden shield, on which was painted a hearttransfixed by a dart, a device better suited to his taste andcomprehension. In the subsequent troubles of Milan, Leonardo's picturedisappeared, and was probably destroyed as an object of horror bythose who did not understand its value as a work of art. 

During this first period of his life, which was wholly passed inFlorence and its neighborhood, Leonardo painted several other picturesof a very different character, and designed some beautiful cartoons ofsacred and mythological subjects, which showed that his sense of thebeautiful, the elevated, and the graceful was not less a part of hismind than that eccentricity and almost perversion of fancy which madehim delight in sketching ugly, exaggerated caricatures, andrepresenting the deformed and the terrible. 

Leonardo da Vinci was now about thirty years old, in the prime of hislife and talents. His taste for pleasure and expense was, however, equal to his genius and indefatigable industry; and anxious to securea certain provision for the future, as well as a wider field for theexercise of his various talents, he accepted the invitation ofLudovico Sforza il Moro, then regent, afterward Duke of Milan, toreside in his court, and to execute a colossal equestrian statue ofhis ancestor, Francesco Sforza. Here begins the second period of hisartistic career, which includes his sojourn at Milan, that is from1483 to 1499. 

Vasari says that Leonardo was invited to the court of Milan for theDuke Ludovico's amusement, "as a musician and performer on the lyre, and as the greatest singer and _improvisatore_ of his time;" but thisis improbable. Leonardo, in his long letter to that prince, in whichhe recites his own qualifications for employment, dwells chiefly onhis skill in engineering and fortification; and sums up hispretensions as an artist in these few brief words: "I understand thedifferent modes of sculpture in marble, bronze, and terra-cotta. Inpainting, also, I may esteem myself equal to anyone, let him be who hemay. " Of his musical talents he makes no mention whatever, thoughundoubtedly these, as well as his other social accomplishments, hishandsome person, his winning address, his wit and eloquence, recommended him to the notice of the prince, by whom he was greatlybeloved, and in whose service he remained for about seventeen years. It is not necessary, nor would it be possible here, to give aparticular account of all the works in which Leonardo was engaged forhis patron, nor of the great political events in which he wasinvolved, more by his position than by his inclination; for instance, the invasion of Italy by Charles VIII. Of France, and the subsequentinvasion of Milan by Louis XII. , which ended in the destruction of theDuke Ludovico. The greatest work of all, and by far the grandestpicture which, up to that time, had been executed in Italy, was the"Last Supper, " painted on the wall of the refectory, or dining-room, of the Dominican convent of the Madonna delle Grazie. It occupiedLeonardo about two years, from 1496 to 1498. 

The moment selected by the painter is described in the 26th chapter ofSt. Matthew, 21st and 22d verses: "And as they did eat, he said, Verily, I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me: and they wereexceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I?" The knowledge of character displayed in the heads ofthe different apostles is even more wonderful than the skilfularrangement of the figures and the amazing beauty of the workmanship. The space occupied by the picture is a wall twenty-eight feet inlength and the figures are larger than life. 

Of this magnificent creation of art, only the mouldering remains arenow visible. It has been so often repaired that almost every vestigeof the original painting is annihilated; but from the multiplicity ofdescriptions, engravings, and copies that exist, no picture is moreuniversally known and celebrated. Perhaps the best judgment we can nowform of its merits is from the fine copy executed by one of Leonardo'sbest pupils, Marco Uggione, for the Certosa at Pavia, and now inLondon, in the collection of the Royal Academy. Eleven other copies, by various pupils of Leonardo, painted either during his lifetime orwithin a few years after his death, while the picture was in perfectpreservation, exist in different churches and collections. 

While engaged on the Cenacolo, Leonardo painted the portrait ofLucrezia Crivelli, now in the Louvre (No. 483). It has been engravedunder the title of _La Belle Ferronnière_, but later researches leaveus no doubt that it represents Lucrezia Crivelli, a beautiful favoriteof Ludovico Sforza, and was painted at Milan in 1497. It is, as a workof art, of such extraordinary perfection that all critical admirationis lost in wonder. 

Of the grand equestrian statue of Francesco Sforza, Leonardo neverfinished more than the model in clay, which was considered amasterpiece. Some years afterward (in 1499), when Milan was invaded bythe French, it was used as a target by the Gascon bowmen, andcompletely destroyed. The profound anatomical studies which Leonardomade for this work still exist. 

[Illustration: Raphael Introduced to Da Vinci. ]

In the year 1500, the French being in possession of Milan, his patronLudovico in captivity, and the affairs of the state in utterconfusion, Leonardo returned to his native Florence, where he hoped tore-establish his broken fortunes, and to find employment. Here beginsthe third period of his artistic life, from 1500 to 1513, that is, from his forty-eighth to his sixtieth year. He found the Medici familyin exile, but was received by Pietro Soderini (who governed the cityas "_Gonfaloniêre perpetuo_") with great distinction, and a pensionwas assigned to him as painter in the service of the republic. One ofhis first works after his return to Florence was the famous portraitof Madonna Lisa del Giocondo, called in French _La Joconde_, and nowin the Louvre (484), which after the death of Leonardo was purchasedby Francis I. For 4, 000 gold crowns, equal to 45, 000 francs or £1, 800, an enormous sum in those days; yet who ever thought it too much?

Then began the rivalry between Leonardo and Michael Angelo, whichlasted during the remainder of Leonardo's life. The difference of age(for Michael Angelo was twenty-two years younger) ought to haveprevented all unseemly jealousy; but Michael Angelo was haughty andimpatient of all superiority, or even equality; Leonardo, sensitive, capricious, and naturally disinclined to admit the pretensions of arival, to whom he could say, and _did_ say, "I was famous before youwere born!" With all their admiration of each other's genius, theirmutual frailties prevented any real good-will on either side. 

Leonardo, during his stay at Florence, painted the portrait of GinevraBenci, the reigning beauty of her time. We find that in 1502 he wasengaged by Cæsar Borgia to visit and report on the fortifications ofhis territories, and in this office he was employed for two years. In1503 he formed a plan for turning the course of the Arno, and in thefollowing year he lost his father. In 1505 he modelled the group whichwe now see over the northern door of the San Giovanni, at Florence. In1514 he was invited to Rome by Leo X. , but more in his character ofphilosopher, mechanic, and alchemist, than as a painter. Here Raphaelwas at the height of his fame, and engaged in his greatest works, thefrescos of the Vatican. The younger artist was introduced to theelder; and two pictures which Leonardo painted while at Rome--the"Madonna of St. Onofrio, " and the "Holy Family, " painted for Filibertaof Savoy, the pope's sister-in-law (which is now at St. Petersburg)--show that even this veteran in art felt the irresistibleinfluence of the genius of his young rival. They are both_Raffaelesque_ in the subject and treatment. 

It appears that Leonardo was ill-satisfied with his sojourn at Rome. He had long been accustomed to hold the first rank as an artistwherever he resided; whereas at Rome he found himself only one amongmany who, if they acknowledged his greatness, affected to consider hisday as past. He was conscious that many of the improvements in thearts which were now brought into use, and which enabled the paintersof the day to produce such extraordinary effects, were invented orintroduced by himself. If he could no longer assert that measurelesssuperiority over all others which he had done in his younger days, itwas because he himself had opened to them new paths to excellence. Thearrival of his old competitor, Michael Angelo, and some slight on thepart of Leo X. , who was annoyed by his speculative and dilatory habitsin executing the works intrusted to him, all added to his irritationand disgust. He left Rome, and set out for Pavia, where the Frenchking, Francis I. , then held his court. He was received by the youngmonarch with every mark of respect, loaded with favors, and a pensionof 700 gold crowns settled on him for life. At the famous conferencebetween Francis I. And Leo X. , at Bologna, Leonardo attended his newpatron, and was of essential service to him on that occasion. In thefollowing year, 1516, he returned with Francis I. To France, and wasattached to the French court as principal painter. It appears, however, that during his residence in France he did not paint a singlepicture. His health had begun to decline from the time he left Italy;and feeling his end approach, he prepared himself for it by religiousmeditation, by acts of charity, and by a most conscientiousdistribution by will of all his worldly possessions to his relativesand friends. At length, after protracted suffering, this great andmost extraordinary man died at Cloux, near Amboise, May 2, 1519, beingthen in his sixty-seventh year. It is to be regretted that we cannotwholly credit the beautiful story of his dying in the arms of FrancisI. , who, as it is said, had come to visit him on his death-bed. Itwould indeed have been, as Fuseli expressed it, "an honor to the king, by which destiny would have atoned to that monarch for his futuredisaster at Pavia. "

MICHAEL ANGELO

By ANNA JAMESON

(1474-1564)

[Illustration: Michael Angelo. ]

We have spoken of Leonardo da Vinci. Michael Angelo, the other greatluminary of art, was twenty-two years younger, but the more severe andreflective cast of his mind rendered their difference of age far lessin effect than in reality. It is usual to compare Michael Angelo withRaphael, but he is more aptly compared with Leonardo da Vinci. All thegreat artists of that time, even Raphael himself, were influenced moreor less by these two extraordinary men, but they exercised noinfluence on each other. They started from opposite points; theypursued throughout their whole existence, and in all they planned andachieved, a course as different as their respective characters. 

Michael Angelo Buonarroti was born at Setignano, near Florence, in theyear 1474. He was descended from a family once noble--even among thenoblest of the feudal lords of Northern Italy--the Counts of Canossa;but that branch of it represented by his father, Luigi LeonardoBuonarroti Simoni, had for some generations become poorer and poorer, until the last descendant was thankful to accept an office in the law, and had been nominated magistrate or mayor (_Podesta_) of Chiusi. Inthis situation he had limited his ambition to the prospect of seeinghis eldest son a notary or advocate in his native city. The youngMichael Angelo showed the utmost distaste for the studies allotted tohim, and was continually escaping from his home and from his desk tohaunt the ateliers of the painters, particularly that of Ghirlandajowho was then at the height of his reputation. 

The father of Michael Angelo, who found his family increase toorapidly for his means, had destined some of his sons for commerce (itwill be recollected that in Genoa and Florence the most powerfulnobles were merchants or manufacturers), and others for civil ordiplomatic employments; but the fine arts, as being at that timeproductive of little honor or emolument, he held in no esteem, andtreated these tastes of his eldest son sometimes with contempt andsometimes even with harshness. Michael Angelo, however, had formedsome friendships among the young painters, and particularly withFrancesco Granacci, one of the best pupils of Ghirlandajo; hecontrived to borrow models and drawings, and studied them in secretwith such persevering assiduity and consequent improvement, thatGhirlandajo, captivated by his genius, undertook to plead his cause tohis father, and at length prevailed over the old man's family prideand prejudices. At the age of fourteen Michael Angelo was receivedinto the studio of Ghirlandajo as a regular pupil, and bound to himfor three years; and such was the precocious talent of the boy, that, instead of being paid for his instruction, Ghirlandajo undertook topay the father, Leonardo Buonarroti, for the first, second, and thirdyears, six, eight, and twelve golden florins, as payment for theadvantage he expected to derive from the labor of the son. Thus wasthe vocation of the young artist decided for life. 

At that time Lorenzo the Magnificent reigned over Florence. He hadformed in his palace and gardens a collection of antique marbles, busts, statues, fragments, which he had converted into an academy forthe use of young artists, placing at the head of it as director asculptor of some eminence, named Bertoldo. Michael Angelo was one ofthe first who, through the recommendation of Ghirlandajo, was receivedinto this new academy, afterward so famous and so memorable in thehistory of art. The young man, then not quite sixteen, had hithertooccupied himself chiefly in drawing; but now, fired by the beauties hebeheld around him, and by the example and success of a fellow-pupil, Torregiano, he set himself to model in clay, and at length to copy inmarble what was before him; but, as was natural in a character andgenius so steeped in individuality, his copies became not so muchimitations of form as original embodyings of the leading idea. Forexample: his first attempt in marble, when he was about fifteen, was acopy of an antique mask of an old laughing Faun; he treated this in amanner so different from the original, and so spirited as to excitethe astonishment of Lorenzo de Medici, who criticised it, however, saying, "Thou shouldst have remembered that old folks do not retainall their teeth; some of them are always wanting. " The boy struck theteeth out, giving it at once the most grotesque expression; andLorenzo, infinitely amused, sent for his father and offered to attachhis son to his own particular service, and to undertake the entirecare of his education. The father consented, on condition ofreceiving for himself an office under the government, and thenceforthMichael Angelo was lodged in the palace of the Medici and treated byLorenzo as his son. 

Michael Angelo continued his studies under the auspices of Lorenzo;but just as he had reached his eighteenth year he lost his generouspatron, his second father, and was thenceforth thrown on his ownresources. It is true that the son of Lorenzo, Piero de Medici, continued to extend his favor to the young artist, but with so littlecomprehension of his genius and character, that on one occasion, during the severe winter of 1494, he set him to form a statue of snowfor the amusement of his guests. 

Michael Angelo, while he yielded, perforce, to the caprices of hisprotector, turned the energies of his mind to a new study--that ofanatomy--and pursued it with all that fervor which belonged to hischaracter. His attention was at the same time directed to literature, by the counsels and conversations of a very celebrated scholar andpoet then residing in the court of Piero--Angelo Poliziano; and hepursued at the same time the cultivation of his mind and the practiceof his art. Engrossed by his own studies, he was scarcely aware ofwhat was passing around him, nor of the popular intrigues which werepreparing the ruin of the Medici; suddenly this powerful family wereflung from sovereignty to temporary disgrace and exile; and MichaelAngelo, as one of their retainers, was obliged to fly from Florence, and took refuge in the city of Bologna. During the year he spent therehe found a friend, who employed him on some works of sculpture; and onhis return to Florence he executed a Cupid in marble, of such beautythat it found its way into the cabinet of the Duchess of Mantua as areal antique. On the discovery that the author of this beautifulstatue was a young man of two-and-twenty, the Cardinal San Giorgioinvited him to Rome, and for some time lodged him in his palace. HereMichael Angelo, surrounded and inspired by the grand remains ofantiquity, pursued his studies with unceasing energy; he produced astatue of Bacchus, which added to his reputation; and in 1500, at theage of five-and-twenty, he produced the famous group of the deadChrist on the knees of his Virgin Mother (called the "Pietà"), whichis now in the church of St. Peter's, at Rome; this last beingfrequently copied and imitated, obtained him so much applause andreputation, that he was recalled to Florence, to undertake severalpublic works, and we find him once more established in his native cityin the year 1502. 

In 1506 Michael Angelo was summoned to Rome by Pope Julius II. , who, while living, had conceived the idea of erecting a most splendidmonument to perpetuate his memory. For this work, which was nevercompleted, Michael Angelo executed the famous statue of Moses, seated, grasping his flowing beard with one hand, and with the othersustaining the tables of the Law. While employed on this tomb, thepope commanded him to undertake also the decoration of the ceiling ofthe Sistine Chapel. Pope Sixtus IV. Had, in the year 1473, erectedthis famous chapel, and summoned the best painters of that time, Signorelli, Cosimo Roselli, Perugino, and Ghirlandajo, to decorate theinterior; but down to the year 1508 the ceiling remained without anyornament; and Michael Angelo was called upon to cover this enormousvault, a space of one hundred and fifty feet in length by fifty inbreadth, with a series of subjects representing the most importantevents connected, either literally or typically, with the fall andredemption of mankind. 

No part of Michael Angelo's long life is so interesting, so full ofcharacteristic incident, as the history of his intercourse with PopeJulius II. , which began in 1505, and ended only with the death of thepope in 1513. 

Michael Angelo had at all times a lofty idea of his own dignity as anartist, and never would stoop either to flatter a patron or toconciliate a rival. Julius II. , though now seventy-four, was asimpatient of contradiction as fiery in temper, as full of magnificentand ambitious projects as if he had been in the prime of life; in hisservice was the famous architect, Bramante, who beheld with jealousyand alarm the increasing fame of Michael Angelo, and his influencewith the pontiff, and set himself by indirect means to lessen both. Heinsinuated to Julius that it was ominous to erect his own mausoleumduring his lifetime, and the pope gradually fell off in his attentionsto Michael Angelo, and neglected to supply him with the necessaryfunds for carrying on the work. On one occasion, Michael Angelo, finding it difficult to obtain access to the pope, sent a message tohim to this effect, "that henceforth, if his Holiness desired to seehim, he should send to seek him elsewhere;" and the same night, leaving orders with his servants to dispose of his property, hedeparted for Florence. The pope despatched five couriers after himwith threats, persuasions, promises--but in vain. He wrote to theGonfaloniere Soderini, then at the head of the government of Florence, commanding him, on pain of his extreme displeasure, to send MichaelAngelo back to him; but the inflexible artist absolutely refused;three months were spent in vain negotiations. Soderini, at length, fearing the pope's anger, prevailed on Michael Angelo to return, andsent with him his relation, Cardinal Soderini, to make up the quarrelbetween the high contending powers. 

On his return to Rome, Michael Angelo wished to have resumed his workon the mausoleum; but the pope had resolved on the completion of theSistine Chapel; he commanded Michael Angelo to undertake thedecoration of the vaulted ceiling; and the artist was obliged, thoughreluctantly, to obey. At this time the frescos which Raphael and hispupils were painting in the chambers of the Vatican had excited theadmiration of all Rome. Michael Angelo, who had never exercisedhimself in the mechanical part of the art of fresco, invited fromFlorence several painters of eminence, to execute his designs underhis own superintendence; but they could not reach the grandeur of hisconceptions, which became enfeebled under their hands, and onemorning, in a mood of impatience, he destroyed all that they had done, closed the doors of the chapel against them, and would not thenceforthadmit them to his presence. He then shut himself up, and proceededwith incredible perseverance and energy to accomplish his task alone;he even prepared his colors with his own hands. He began with the endtoward the door, and in the two compartments first painted (thoughnot first in the series), the "Deluge, " and the "Vineyard of Noah;" hemade the figures too numerous and too small to produce their fulleffect from below, a fault which he corrected in those executedsubsequently. When almost half the work was completed, the popeinsisted on viewing what was done, and the astonishment and admirationit excited rendered him more and more eager to have the wholecompleted at once. The progress, however, was not rapid enough to suitthe impatient temper of the pontiff. On one occasion he demanded ofthe artist _when_ he meant to finish it; to which Michael Angeloreplied calmly, "When I can. " "When thou canst!" exclaimed the fieryold pope, "thou hast a mind that I should have thee thrown from thescaffold!" At length, on the day of All Saints, 1512, the ceiling wasuncovered to public view. Michael Angelo had employed on the paintingonly, without reckoning the time spent in preparing the cartoons, twenty-two months, and he received in payment three thousand crowns. 

The collection of engravings after Michael Angelo in the BritishMuseum is very imperfect, but it contains some fine old prints fromthe Prophets which should be studied by those who wish to understandthe true merit of this great master, of whom Sir Joshua Reynolds saidthat, "to kiss the hem of his garment, to catch the slightest of hisperfections, would be glory and distinction enough for an ambitiousman!"

When the Sistine Chapel was completed Michael Angelo was in histhirty-ninth year; fifty years of a glorious though troubled careerwere still before him. 

Pope Julius II. Died in 1513, and was succeeded by Leo X. , the son ofLorenzo the Magnificent. As a Florentine and his father's son, wemight naturally have expected that he would have gloried inpatronizing and employing Michael Angelo; but such was not the case. There was something in the stern, unbending character, and retired andabstemious habits of Michael Angelo, repulsive to the temper of Leo, who preferred the graceful and amiable Raphael, then in the prime ofhis life and genius; hence arose the memorable rivalry between MichaelAngelo and Raphael, which on the part of the latter was merelygenerous emulation, while it must be confessed that something likescorn mingled with the feelings of Michael Angelo. The pontificate ofLeo X. , an interval of ten years, was the least productive period ofhis life. In the year 1519, when the Signoria of Florence wasnegotiating with Ravenna for the restoration of the remains of Dante, he petitioned the pope that he might be allowed to execute, at his ownlabor and expense, a monument to the "Divine Poet. " He was sent toFlorence to superintend the building of the church of San Lorenzo andthe completion of Santa Croce; but he differed with the pope on thechoice of the marble, quarrelled with the officials, and scarcelyanything was accomplished. Clement VII. , another Medici, was electedpope in 1523. He had conceived the idea of consecrating a chapel inthe church of San Lorenzo, to receive the tombs of his ancestors andrelations, and which should be adorned with all the splendor of art. Michael Angelo planned and built the chapel, and for its interiordecoration designed and executed six of his greatest works insculpture. 

While Michael Angelo was engaged in these works his progress wasinterrupted by events which threw all Italy into commotion. Rome wastaken and sacked by the Constable de Bourbon in 1527. The Medici wereonce more expelled from Florence; and Michael Angelo, in the midst ofthese strange vicissitudes, was employed by the republic to fortifyhis native city against his former patrons. Great as an engineer, asin every other department of art and science, he defended Florence fornine months. At length the city was given up by treachery, and, fearing the vengeance of the conquerors, Michael Angelo fled andconcealed himself; but Clement VII. Was too sensible of his merit toallow him to remain long in disgrace and exile. He was pardoned, andcontinued ever afterward in high favor with the pope, who employed himon the sculptures in the chapel of San Lorenzo during the remainder ofhis pontificate. 

In the year 1531 he had completed the statues of "Night and Morning, "and Clement, who heard of his incessant labors, sent him a briefcommanding him, _on pain of excommunication_, to take care of hishealth, and not to accept of any other work but that which hisHoliness had assigned him. 

Clement VII. Was succeeded by Pope Paul III. , of the Farnese family, in 1534. This pope, though nearly seventy when he was elected, was asanxious to immortalize his name by great undertakings as any of hispredecessors had been. His first wish was to complete the decorationof the interior of the Sistine Chapel, left unfinished by Julius II. And Leo X. He summoned Michael Angelo, who endeavored to excusehimself, pleading other engagements; but the pope would listen to noexcuses which interfered with his sovereign power to dissolve allother obligations; and thus the artist found himself, after aninterval of twenty years, most reluctantly forced to abandon sculpturefor painting; and, as Vasari expresses it, he consented to serve PopePaul only because he _could_ not do otherwise. 

The same Pope Paul III. Had in the meantime constructed a beautifulchapel, which was called after his name the chapel _Paolina_, anddedicated to St. Peter and St Paul. Michael Angelo was called upon todesign the decorations. He painted on one side the "Conversion of St. Paul, " and on the other the "Crucifixion of St. Peter, " which werecompleted in 1549. But these fine paintings--of which existing oldengravings give a better idea than the blackened and faded remains ofthe original frescos--were from the first ill-disposed as to thelocality, and badly lighted, and at present they excite littleinterest compared with the more famous works in the Sistine. 

With the frescos in the Pauline Chapel ends Michael Angelo's career asa painter. He had been appointed chief architect of St. Peter's, in1547, by Paul III. He was then in his seventy-second year, and duringthe remainder of his life, a period of sixteen years, we find himwholly devoted to architecture. His vast and daring genius findingample scope in the completion of St. Peter's, he has left behind himin his capacity of architect yet greater marvels than he has achievedas painter and sculptor. Who that has seen the cupola of St. Peter'ssoaring into the skies, but will think almost with awe of theuniversal and majestic intellect of the man who reared it?

It appears, from the evidence of contemporary writers, that in thelast years of his life the acknowledged worth and genius of MichaelAngelo, his widespread fame, and his unblemished integrity, combinedwith his venerable age and the haughtiness and reserve of hisdeportment to invest him with a sort of princely dignity. It isrecorded that, when he waited on Pope Julius III. , to receive hiscommands, the pontiff rose on his approach, seated him, in spite ofhis excuses, on his right hand, and while a crowd of cardinals, prelates, and ambassadors, were standing round at humble distance, carried on the conference as equal with equal. When the Grand DukeCosmo was in Rome, in 1560, he visited Michael Angelo, uncovered inhis presence, and stood with his hat in his hand while speaking tohim; but from the time when he made himself the tyrant of Florence henever could persuade Michael Angelo to visit, even for a day, hisnative city. 

The arrogance imputed to Michael Angelo seems rather to have arisenfrom a contempt for others than from any overweening opinion ofhimself. He was too proud to be vain. He had placed his standard ofperfection so high, that to the latest hour of his life he consideredhimself as striving after that ideal excellence which had beenrevealed to him, but to which he conceived that others were blind orindifferent. In allusion to his own imperfections, he made a drawing, since become famous, which represents an aged man in a go-cart, andunderneath the words "_Ancora impara_" (still learning). 

He continued to labor unremittingly, and with the same resolute energyof mind and purpose, till the gradual decay of his strength warned himof his approaching end. He did not suffer from any particular malady, and his mind was strong and clear to the last. He died at Rome, onFebruary 18, 1564, in the ninetieth year of his age. A few days beforehis death he dictated his will in these few simple words: "I bequeathmy soul to God, my body to the earth, and my possessions to my nearestrelations. " His nephew, Leonardo Buonarroti, who was his principalheir, by the orders of the Grand Duke Cosmo had his remains secretlyconveyed out of Rome and brought to Florence; they were with duehonors deposited in the church of Santa Croce, under a costlymonument, on which we may see his noble bust surrounded by three verycommonplace and ill-executed statues, representing the arts in whichhe excelled--Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture. They might haveadded _Poetry_, for Michael Angelo was so fine a poet that hisproductions would have given him fame, though he had never peopled theSistine with his giant creations, nor "suspended the Pantheon in theair. " The object to whom his poems are chiefly addressed, VittoriaColonna, Marchioness of Pescara, was the widow of the celebratedcommander who overcame Francis I. At the battle of Pavia; herself apoetess, and one of the most celebrated women of her time for beauty, talents, virtue, and piety. She died in 1547. 

[Illustration: Michael Angelo and Vittoria Colonna. ]

RAPHAEL

By Mrs. LEE

(1483-1520)

[Illustration: Raphael. ]

The solemn and silent season of Lent had passed away; and, on thesecond evening of the joyful Easter, a house was seen brightlyilluminated in one of the streets of Urbino. It was evident that afestival was held there on some happy occasion. The sound of music washeard, and guest after guest entered the mansion. No one, however, wasmore cordially welcomed than Pietro Perugino, the fellow-student ofLeonardo da Vinci, at the school of the good old Andrea Verocchio. 

For a moment, general gayety was suspended in honor of the guest. Hewas considered at that time one of the greatest painters of the age;and the host, Giovanni di Sanzio, though himself only ranking in thesecond or third order of limners, knew well how to prize the raretalents of his visitor. 

The wife of Giovanni came forward, leading her son Raphael. Peruginohad the eye of an artist: he gazed upon the mother and son withenthusiastic feeling; the striking resemblance they bore to eachother, so exquisitely modulated by years and sex, was indeed a studyfor this minute copyist of nature. 

"Benvenuto, Messer Perugino, " said the hostess, with her soft musicalvoice and graceful Italian accent, and she placed the hand of her boyin that of the artist. Gently he laid the other on the head of theyouthful Raphael, and in a solemn and tender manner pronounced abenediction. 

"Your blessing is well timed, my honored friend, " said Giovanni, "ourfestival is given to celebrate the birthday of our son. "

"Is this his birthday?" inquired Perugino. 

"Not so, " replied the father, "he was born on April 7th, the eveningof _Good Friday_, and it well befits us to be gay on the joyful Easterthat succeeds it. "

"My friend, " said Perugino, "if thou wilt entrust thy boy to my care, I will take him as my pupil. "

The father acceded with delight to this proposal. When the motherbecame acquainted with the arrangement, and found that her son was toquit his paternal dwelling at the early age of twelve, and residewholly with Perugino, she could not restrain her tears. With hers theyoung Raphael's mingled, though ever and anon a bright smile dartedlike a sunbeam across his face. 

He remained with Perugino several years. Raphael was made foraffection, and fondly did his heart cling to his instructor. For atime he was content to follow his manner; but at length he began todwell upon his own beau ideal; he grew impatient of imitation, andfelt that his style was deficient in freshness and originality. Helonged to pass the narrow bounds to which his invention had beenconfined. 

With the approbation of Perugino and the consent of his parents, herepaired to Siena; here he was solicited to adorn the public librarywith fresco, and painted there with great success. But while he wasbusily engaged, his friend, Pinturrichio, one day entered. Afterlooking at his friend's work very attentively, "Bravo!" he exclaimed, "thou hast done well, my Raphael--but I have just returned fromFlorence--oh, would that thou couldst behold the works of Leonardo daVinci! Such horses! they paw the ground and shake the foam from theirmanes. Oh, my poor Raphael! thou hast never seen nature; thou artwasting time on these cartoons. Perugino is a good man and a goodpainter, I will not deny that--but Leonardo's horses!"

Raphael threw aside his pencil and hastily rose. 

"Where now?" asked his friend; "whither art thou going so hastily?"

"To Florence, " exclaimed Raphael. 

"And what carries you so suddenly?"

"The horses of Leonardo, " replied the young artist, sportively;"seriously, however, the desire of excellence implanted in my soul. "

When he arrived at Florence he was charmed with the appearance of thecity; but his whole mind was absorbed in the works of Leonardo daVinci and of Michael Angelo, the rival artists of the age. As his staywas to be short, he did not enter upon laborious occupation. Hismornings were passed in the reveries of his art; his evenings in thegay and fascinating society of Florence, where the fame of Perugino'sbeloved pupil had already reached. The frescos at Siena were spokenof; and the beautiful countenance and graceful deportment of Raphaelwon him the friendship of distinguished men. Taddeo Taddei, thelearned friend of Cardinal Bembo, solicited him to reside in hishouse; he consented, and in return for the courtesy painted for himtwo pictures, in what is called his first style, that of Perugino. 

One evening he retired to his couch at a late hour. He had been thehero of a _fête_, and love and beauty had heedlessly scattered theirflowers in the path of the living Adonis. In vain he sought a fewhours of slumber. He had quaffed the juice of the grape, emptyinggoblet after goblet, till his beating pulse and throbbing templesrefused to be quieted. He started from his couch and approached thelattice; the heavens had changed their aspect, the still serenity ofthe evening had passed away, and the clouds were hurrying over thepale and watery moon. Nothing was heard but the low sighing of thewind, and now and then a sudden gust swept through the lattice, andthreatened to extinguish the taper which was burning dimly on thetable. A slight noise made him turn his eyes, and he perceived a notethat the wind had displaced. He hastily took it up. It was Perugino'shandwriting. He cut the silken cord that fastened it, and read:

"On me, my beloved Raffaello, devolves the task of informing you ofthe events which have taken place at Urbino. May this letter find youprepared for all the changes of life; a wise man will never sufferhimself to be taken by surprise; this is true philosophy, and the_only philosophy_ that can serve us! An epidemic has prevailed atUrbino, and has entered your paternal dwelling. Need I say more? Cometo me, my son, at Perugia, for I am the only parent that remains toyou. Pietro Perugino. "

As he hastily arose, a crucifix which his mother had suspended to hisneck at parting, fell from his bosom. Even the symbols of religion aresacred where the living principle has been early implanted in theheart. He pressed it to his lips: "Ah!" thought he, "what is the_philosophy_ of Perugino, compared to the _faith_ of which this is theemblem?" His thoughts went back to infancy and childhood, and hisgrief and remorse grew less intense. He dwelt on the deep and enduringlove of his parents till he felt assured death could not extinguishit, and that he should see them again in a brighter sphere. 

When morning came it found Raphael calm and composed; the lines ofgrief and thought were deeply marked on his youthful face; but thewhirlwind and the storm had passed. He took leave of his friends, andhastened to Perugino, who received him with the fondness of a parent. 

Here he remained some time, and at length collected sufficientresolution to return to Urbino, and once more enter the mansion of hisdesolated home. 

It was necessary for him to reside at his native place for a number ofmonths. During that time he painted several fine pictures. His heart, however, yearned for Florence, and he returned to it once more withthe determination of making it his home. With far different sensationsdid he a second time enter the city of beauty. The freshness of hisgayety was blighted; lessons of earthly disappointment were everpresent to his mind, and he returned to it with the resolute purposeof devoting himself to serious occupation. 

How well he fulfilled this resolution all Italy can bear witness. Fromthis time he adopted what has been called his _second manner_. Hepainted for the Duke of Urbino the beautiful picture of the Saviour atsunrise, with the morning light cast over a face resplendent withdivinity; the flowers glittering with dew, the two disciples beyond, still buried in slumber, at the time when the Saviour turns his eyesupon them with that tender and sorrowful exclamation, "Could ye notwatch one hour?"

Raphael enriched the city of Florence with his works. When asked whathad suggested some of the beautiful combinations of his paintings, hesaid, "They came to me in my sleep. " At other times he called them"visions;" and then again said they were the result of "una certa ideache mi viene alla mente. " It was this power of drawing from the deepwells of his own mind that gave such character, originality, andfreshness to his works. He found that power _within_ which so manyseek, and seek in vain, _without_. 

At the age of twenty-five Raphael was summoned by the pope to paintthe chambers of the Vatican. The famous frescos of the Vatican needneither enumeration nor description; the world is their judge andtheir eulogist. 

No artist ever consecrated his works more by his affections thanRaphael. The same hallowed influence of the heart gave inexpressiblecharm to Correggio's, afterward. One of Raphael's friends said to him, in looking upon particular figures in his groups, "You havetransmitted to posterity your own likeness. "

"See you nothing beyond that?" replied the artist. 

"I see, " said the critic, "the deep-blue eye, and the long, fair hairparted on the forehead. "

"Observe, " said Raphael, "the feminine softness of expression, thebeautiful harmony of thought and feeling. When I take my pencil forhigh and noble purposes, the spirit of my mother hovers over me. It isher countenance, not my own, of which you trace the resemblance. "

This expression is always observable in his Madonnas. His portraits ofthe _Fornarina_ are widely different. Raphael, in his last and mostexcellent style, united what was graceful and exquisite in Leonardowith the sublime and noble manner of Michael Angelo. It is theprivilege and glory of genius to appropriate to itself whatever isnoble and true. The region of thought is thus made a common ground forall, and one master mind becomes a reservoir for the present andfuture times. 

When Raphael was invited to Rome by Pope Julius II. , Michael Angelowas at the height of his glory; his character tended to inspire awerather than affection; he delighted in the majestic and the terrible. In boldness of conception and grandeur of design, he surpassedLeonardo, but never could reach the sweetness and gentleness of hisfigures. Even his children lose something of their infantine beauty, and look mature; his women are commanding and lofty; his men ofgigantic proportions. His painting, like his sculpture, is remarkablefor anatomical exactness, and perfect expression of the muscles. Forthis union of magnificence and sublimity, it was necessary to preparethe mind; the first view was almost harsh, and it was by degrees thathis mighty works produced their designed effect. Raphael, while hefelt all the greatness of the Florentine, conceived that there mightbe something more like nature--something that should be harmonious, sweet, and flowing--that should convey the idea of intellectual ratherthan of external majesty. Without yielding any of the correctness ofscience, he avoided harshness, and imitated antiquity in uniting graceand elegance with a strict observation of science and of the rules ofart. 

It was with surprise that Michael Angelo beheld in the youthfulRaphael a rival artist; nor did he receive this truth meekly; hetreated him with coldness and distance. In the meantime Raphael wenton with his works; he completed the frescos of the Vatican, anddesigned the cartoons. He also produced those exquisite paintings inoil which seem the perfection of human art. 

[Illustration: Leo X. At Raphael's Bier. ]

Human affection is necessary to awaken the sympathy of human beings;and Raphael, in learning how to portray it, had found the way to theheart. In mere grandeur of invention he was surpassed by MichaelAngelo. Titian excelled him in coloring, and Correggio in thebeautiful gradation of tone; but Raphael knew how to paint the soul;in this he stood alone. This was the great secret of a power whichseemed to operate like magic. In his paintings there is somethingwhich makes music on the chords of every heart; for they are theexpression of a mind attuned to nature, and find answering sympathiesin the universal soul. 

While Michael Angelo was exalted with the Epic grandeur of his ownDante, Raphael presented the most finished scenes of dramatic life, and might be compared to the immortal Shakespeare--scenes of spiritualbeauty, of devotion, and of pastoral simplicity, yet uniting a classicelegance which the poet does not possess. Buonarroti was the wonder ofItaly, and Raphael became its idol. 

Julius was so much enchanted with his paintings in the halls of theVatican, that he ordered the frescos of former artists to bedestroyed. Among them were some of Perugino's, but Raphael would notsuffer these to be removed for his own; he viewed them as the relicsof a beloved and honored friend, and they were consecrated by tenderand grateful feelings. 

Raphael collected from every part of the world medallions of intagliosand antiques to assist him in his designs. He loved splendor andconviviality, and gave offence thereby to the rigid and austere. Itwas said that he had a prospect of changing the graceful beretta for acardinal's hat; but this idea might have arisen from the delay whichexisted in his marriage with Cardinal Bibiano's niece, whose hand heruncle had offered to him. Peremptorily to reject this proposal of thecardinal without giving offence would have been impossible, andRaphael was too gentle in his own feelings voluntarily to injureanother's; but he was not one to sacrifice his affections to ambition. 

Whatever were the struggles of his heart, they were early terminated. Amid the caresses of the great, the fond and devoted friendship of hisequals, the enthusiastic love of his pupils, the adulation of hisinferiors, while crowned with wealth, fame, and honor, and regarded asthe equal of the hitherto greatest artist in the world, he wassuddenly called away. He died on Good Friday, the day of his birth, atthe age of thirty-seven, 1520. 

We are sometimes impressed with veneration when those who have evendrunk the cup of life almost to its dregs resign it with resignationand Christian faith. But Raphael calmly and firmly resigned it when itwas full to the brim. 

Leo X. And Cardinal Bibiano were by his bedside. The sublime pictureof the "Transfiguration, " the last and greatest which he painted, wasplaced opposite to him, by his own desire. How impressive must havebeen the scene! His dying eye turned from the crucifix he held in hishand to the glory of the beatified Saviour. 

His contemporaries speak of him as affectionate, disinterested, modest, and sincere; encouraging humble merit, and freely giving hisadvice and assistance where it was needed and deserved. 

TITIAN

By GIORGIO VASARI[2]

 [Footnote 2: Giorgio Vasari, a contemporary of Titian, and himself a painter of no mean rank, wrote a series of lives of the Italian artists, from which the following is extracted. There are several slight inaccuracies in his work Titian was born, not in 1480, but in 1477, and died in 1576. He was in coloring the greatest artist who ever lived. ]

1477-1576

[Illustration: Titian. ]

Titian was born in the year 1480, at Cadore, a small place distantabout five miles from the foot of the Alps; he belonged to the familyof the Vecelli, which is among the most noble of those parts. Givingearly proof of much intelligence, he was sent at the age of ten to anuncle in Venice, an honorable citizen, who, seeing the boy to be muchinclined to painting, placed him with the excellent painter, GianBellino, then very famous. Under his care, the youth soon provedhimself to be endowed by nature with all the gifts of judgment andgenius required for the art of painting. Now, Gian Bellino and theother masters of that country, not having the habit of studying theantique, were accustomed to copy only what they saw before them, andthat in a dry, hard, labored manner, which Titian also acquired; butabout the year 1507, Giorgione da Castel Franco, not being satisfiedwith that mode of proceeding, began to give to his works an unwontedsoftness and relief, painting them in a very beautiful manner; yet heby no means neglected to draw from the life, or to copy nature withhis colors as closely as he could; and in doing the latter he shadedwith colder or warmer tints as the living object might demand, butwithout first making a drawing; since he held that, to paint with thecolors only, without any drawing on paper, was the best mode ofproceeding, and most perfectly in accord with the true principles ofdesign. 

Having seen the manner of Giorgione, Titian early resolved to abandonthat of Gian Bellino, although well grounded therein. He now, therefore, devoted himself to this purpose, and in a short time soclosely imitated Giorgione that his pictures were sometimes taken forthose of that master, as will be related below. Increasing in age, judgment, and facility of hand, our young artist executed numerousworks in fresco which cannot here be named individually, having beendispersed in various places; let it suffice to say, that they weresuch as to cause experienced men to anticipate the excellence to whichhe afterward attained. At the time when Titian began to adopt themanner of Giorgione, being then not more than eighteen, he took theportrait of a gentleman of the Barberigo family, who was his friend, and this was considered very beautiful, the coloring being true andnatural, and the hair so distinctly painted that each one could becounted as might also the stitches in a satin doublet, painted in thesame work; it was so well and carefully done, that it would have beentaken for a picture by Giorgione, if Titian had not written his nameon the dark ground. 

Giorgione meanwhile had executed the façade of the German Exchange, when, by the intervention of Barberigo, Titian was appointed to paintcertain stories in the same building and over the Merceria. Afterwhich he executed a picture with figures the size of life, which isnow in the Hall of Messer Andrea Loredano, who dwells near SanMarcuola; this work represents "Our Lady" in her flight into Egypt. She is in the midst of a great wood, and the landscape of this pictureis well done; Titian having practised that branch of art, and keepingcertain Germans, who were excellent masters therein, for severalmonths together in his own house. Within the wood he depicted variousanimals, all painted from the life, and so natural as to seem almostalive. In the house of Messer Giovanni Danna, a Flemish gentleman andmerchant, who was his gossip, he painted a portrait which appears tobreathe, with an "Ecce Homo, " comprising numerous figures which, byTitian himself, as well as others, is considered to be a very goodwork. The same artist executed a picture of "Our Lady, " with otherfigures the size of life, men and children being all taken fromnature, and portraits of persons belonging to the Danna family. 

In the year 1507, when the Emperor Maximilian was making war on theVenetians, Titian, as he relates himself, painted the "Angel Raphael, with Tobit and a Dog, " in the Church of San Marziliano. There is adistant landscape in this picture, wherein San Giovanni Battista isseen at prayer in a wood; he is looking up to heaven, and his face isillumined by a light descending thence; some believe this picture tohave been done before that on the "Exchange of the Germans, " mentionedabove, was commenced. Now, it chanced that certain gentlemen, notknowing that Giorgione no longer worked at this façade, and thatTitian was doing it (nay, had already given that part over theMerceria to public view), met the former, and began as friends torejoice with him, declaring that he was acquitting himself better onthe side of the Merceria than he had done on that of the "GrandCanal;" which remark caused Giorgione so much vexation, that he wouldscarcely permit himself to be seen until the whole work was completed, and Titian had become generally known as the painter; nor did hethenceforward hold any intercourse with the latter and they were nolonger friends. 

In the year 1508, Titian published a wood-engraving of the "Triumph ofFaith;" it comprised a vast number of figures: our first Parents, thePatriarchs, the Prophets, the Sybils, the Innocents, the Martyrs, theApostles, and Our Saviour Christ borne in triumph by the fourEvangelists, and the four Doctors, followed by the holy Confessors;here Titian displayed much boldness, a fine manner, and improvingfacility. I remember that Fra Bastiano del Piombo, speaking on thissubject, told me that if Titian had then gone to Rome, and seen theworks of Michael Angelo, with those of Raphael and the ancients, hewas convinced, the admirable facility of his coloring considered, thathe would have produced works of the most astonishing perfection;seeing that, as he well deserved to be called the most perfectimitator of Nature of our times, as regards coloring, he might thushave rendered himself equal to the Urbinese or Buonarroto, as regardedthe great foundation of all, design. At a later period Titian repairedto Vicenza, where he painted "The Judgment of Solomon, " on theLoggetta wherein the courts of justice are held; a very beautifulwork. Returning to Venice, he then depicted the façade of the Germain;at Padua he painted certain frescos in the Church of Sant' Antonio, the subjects taken from the life of that saint; and in the Church ofSanto Spirito he executed a small picture of San Marco seated in themidst of other saints, whose faces are portraits painted in oil withthe utmost care; this picture has been taken for a work of Giorgione. 

Now, the death of Giovan Bellino had caused a story in the hall of theGreat Council to remain unfinished; it was that which representsFederigo Barbarossa kneeling before Pope Alessandro III. , who plantshis foot on the emperor's neck. This was now finished by Titian, whoaltered many parts of it, introducing portraits of his friends andothers. For this he received from the senate an office in the Exchangeof the Germans called the Senseria, which brought him in three hundredcrowns yearly, and which those Signori usually give to the mosteminent painter of their city, on condition that from time to time heshall take the portrait of their doge, or prince when such shall becreated, at the price of eight crowns, which the doge himself pays, the portrait being then preserved in the Palace of San Marco, as amemorial of that doge. 

After the completion of these works, our artist painted, for theChurch of San Rocco, a figure of Christ bearing his cross; the Saviourhas a rope round his neck, and is dragged forward by a Jew; many havethought this a work of Giorgione. It has become an object of theutmost devotion in Venice, and has received more crowns as offeringsthan have been earned by Titian and Giorgione both, through the wholecourse of their lives. Now, Titian had taken the portrait of Bembo, then secretary to Pope Leo X. , and was by him invited to Rome, that hemight see the city, with Raffaello da Urbino and other distinguishedpersons; but the artist having delayed his journey until 1520, whenthe pope and Raffaello were both dead, put it off for that timealtogether. For the Church of Santa Maria Maggiore he painted apicture of "St. John the Baptist in the wilderness;" there is an angelbeside him that appears to be living; and a distant landscape, withtrees on the bank of a river, which are very graceful. He tookportraits of the Prince Grimani and Loredano, which were consideredadmirable; and not long afterward he painted the portrait of KingFrancis, who was then leaving Italy to return to France. 

[Illustration: A Fête at the House of Titian. ]

In 1530, when the Emperor Charles V. Was in Bologna, Titian, by theintervention of Pietro Aretino, was invited to that city by theCardinal Ippolito de' Medici, and there he made a magnificent portraitof his majesty in full armor. This gave so much satisfaction that theartist received a present of a thousand crowns for the same. Out ofthese he had subsequently to give the half to Alfonso Lombardi, thesculptor, who had made a model of that monarch to be executed inmarble. 

Having returned to Venice, Titian there found that many gentlemen hadbegun to favor Pordenone, commending exceedingly the works executed bythat artist in the ceiling of the Hall of the Pregai, and elsewhere. They had also procured him the commission for a small picture in theChurch of San Giovanni Elemosynario, which they intended him to paintin competition with one representing that saint in his episcopalhabits, which had previously been executed there by Titian. Butwhatever care and pains Pordenone took, he could not equal nor evenapproach the work of the former. Titian was then appointed to paint apicture of the Annunciation for the Church of Santa Maria degliAngeli, at Murano; but those who gave the commission for the work, notwishing to pay so much as five hundred crowns, which Titian requiredas its price, he sent it, by the advice of Pietro Aretino, as a giftto Charles V. , who being greatly delighted with the work, made him apresent of two thousand crowns. The place which the picture was tohave occupied at Murano was then filled by one from the hand ofPordenone. 

When the emperor, some time after this, returned with his army fromHungary, and was again at Bologna, holding a conference with ClementVII. , he desired to have another portrait taken of him by Titian, who, before he departed from the city, also painted that of the CardinalIppolito de Medici in the Hungarian dress, with another of the sameprelate fully armed, which is somewhat smaller than the first; theseare both now in the Guardaroba of Duke Cosimo. He painted theportraits of Alfonso, Marquis of Davalos, and of Pietro Aretino, atthe same period, and these things having made him known to FederigoGonzaga, Duke of Mantua, he entered the service of the latter, andaccompanied him to his states. At Mantua our artist made a portrait ofthe duke, which appears to breathe, and afterward executed that of hisbrother, the cardinal. These being finished, he painted twelvebeautiful "Heads of the Twelve Cæsars, " to decorate one of the roomserected by Giulio Romano, and when they were done, Giulio painted a"Story from the Lives of the Emperors" beneath each head. 

The productions, but more especially the portraits, of Titian are sonumerous that it would be almost impossible to make the record of themall. I will, therefore, speak of the principal only, and that withoutorder of time, seeing that it does not much signify to tell which waspainted earlier and which later. He took the portrait of Charles V. Several times, as we have said, and was finally invited by thatmonarch to his court; there he painted him as he was in those lastyears; and so much was that most invincible emperor pleased with themanner of Titian, that once he had been portrayed by him, he wouldnever permit himself to be taken by any other person. Each time thatTitian painted the emperor he received a present of a thousand crownsof gold, and the artist was made a cavalier, or knight, by hismajesty, with a revenue of two hundred crowns yearly, secured on thetreasury of Naples, and attached to his title. 

When Titian painted Filippo, King of Spain, the son of Charles, hereceived another annuity of two hundred crowns; so that these fourhundred, added to the three hundred from the German Exchange, make hima fixed income of seven hundred crowns, which he possesses without thenecessity of exerting himself in any manner. Titian presented theportraits of Charles V. And his son Filippo to the Duke Cosimo, whohas them now in his Guardaroba. He also took the portrait ofFerdinand, King of the Romans, who was afterward emperor, with thoseof his children, Maximilian, that is to say, now emperor, and hisbrother; he likewise painted the Queen Maria; and at the command ofthe Emperor Charles, he portrayed the Duke of Saxony, when the latterwas in prison. But what a waste of time is this! when there hasscarcely been a noble of high rank, scarcely a prince or lady of greatname, whose portrait has not been taken by Titian, who in that branchof art is indeed an excellent painter. 

All these works, with many others which I omit to avoid prolixity, have been executed up to the present age of our artist, which is aboveseventy-six years. Titian has been always healthy and happy; he hasbeen favored beyond the lot of most men, and has received from Heavenonly favors and blessings. In his house he has entertained whateverprinces, literati, or men of distinction have gone to or dwelt inVenice; for, to say nothing of his excellence in art, he has alwaysdistinguished himself by courtesy, hospitality, and rectitude. 

Titian has had some rivals in Venice, but not of any great ability, wherefore he has easily overcome them by the superiority of his art;while he has also rendered himself acceptable to the gentlemen of thecity. He has gained a fair amount of wealth, his labors having alwaysbeen well paid; and it would have been well if he had worked for hisamusement alone during these latter years, that he might not havediminished the reputation gained in his best days by works of inferiormerit, performed at a period of life when nature tends inevitably todecline, and consequent imperfection. 

In the year 1566, when Vasari, the writer of the present history, wasat Venice, he went to visit Titian, as one who was his friend, andfound him, although then very old, still with the pencils in his handand painting busily. Great pleasure had Vasari in beholding his worksand in conversing with the master. 

It may be affirmed, then, that Titian, having adorned Venice, orrather all Italy, and other parts of the world, with excellentpaintings, well merits to be loved and respected by artists, and inmany things to be admired and imitated also, as one who has produced, and is producing, work of infinite merit; nay, such as must endurewhile the memory of illustrious men shall remain. 

ALBERT DÜRER[3]

 [Footnote 3: Copyright, 1894, by Helmar Hess. ]

By W. J. HOLLAND, Chancellor of the Western University of Pennsylvania

(1471-1528)

[Illustration: Albert Dürer. ]

It has been given to some men to be not only great in the domain ofart by reason of that which they have themselves succeeded inproducing, but by reason of that which they have inspired other men toproduce. They have been not merely artists, but teachers, who byprecept and example have moulded the whole current and drift ofartistic thought in the ages and lands to which they have belonged. Among these lofty spirits, who live through the centuries not only inwhat their hands once fashioned, but still more in what they haveinspired others to do, undoubtedly one of the greatest is AlbertDürer. Justly reckoned as the representative artist of Germany, he hasthe peculiar honor of having raised the craft of the engraver to itstrue position, as one of the fine arts. As a painter not unworthy tobe classified with Titian and Raphael, his contemporaries upon Italiansoil, he poured the wealth of his genius into woodcuts andcopperplates, and taught men the practically measureless capacity ofwhat before his day had been a rudimentary art. 

Dürer was born in Nuremberg on May 21, 1471. The family was ofHungarian origin, though the name is German, and is derived fromThürer, meaning a maker of doors. The ancestral calling of the familyprobably was that of the carpenter. Albert Dürer, the father of thegreat artist, was a goldsmith, and settled about 1460 in Nuremberg, where he served as an assistant to Hieronymus Holper, a mastergoldsmith, whose daughter, Barbara, he married in 1468. He was at thetime forty years of age, and she fifteen. As the result of the unioneighteen children were born into the world, of whom Albrecht was thesecond. The lad, as he grew up, became a great favorite with hisfather, who appeared to discern in him the promise of future ability. The feeling of attachment was reciprocated in the most filial manner, and there are extant two well-authenticated portraits of the fatherfrom the facile brush of the son, one in the Uffizi at Florence, theother in the possession of the Duke of Northumberland. It was theoriginal intention of the father of the artist that he should followthe craft of the goldsmith, but after serving a period as anapprentice in his father's shop, his strong predilection for thecalling of the painter manifested itself to such a degree that thefather reluctantly consented to allow the boy to follow his naturalbent, and placed him under the tutelage of Michael Wohlgemuth, theprincipal painter of Nuremberg. Wohlgemuth was a representative artistof his time, who followed his calling after a mechanical fashion, having a large shop filled with apprentices who, under his directionand with his assistance, busied themselves in turning out for a smallconsideration altar-pieces and pictures of martyrdoms, which were invogue as necessary parts of decoration in churches. Numerous examplesof the work of Wohlgemuth and his contemporaries survive, attesting, by the wealth of crudities and unintended caricatures with which theyabound, the comparatively low stage of development attained by the artof the painter in Germany at that day. According to Dürer, the periodof his apprenticeship to Wohlgemuth was spent profitably, and resultedin large acquisitions of technical skill. The period of hispreliminary training being ended, he set forth upon his "Wanderjahre, "and travelled extensively. Just what points he visited cannot withcertainty be determined. It is ascertained beyond doubt that hevisited Colmar, where he was hospitably entertained by the family ofMartin Schongauer, the greatest painter of his time on German soil, but who had died shortly before the visit of Dürer. He also visitedStrasburg, and it is thought by many that he extended his journeyingsas far as Venice. In 1494 he returned to Nuremberg, and in the monthof July was married to Agnes Frey, the daughter of a prosperousmerchant of the city. He was twenty-three years of age, and shesomewhat younger. They lived together happily, though no children wereborn to them, and it has been proved that the reputation which hasbeen given her, of being little better than a common scold, whoimbittered his life by her termagancy, is the creation of the illtemper of one of the testy friends of Dürer, Willibald Pirkheimer, who, in the spirit of spitefulness, besmirched her character in aletter which unfortunately survives to this day, and in which heaccuses her of having led her husband a mad and weary dance by hertemper. The reason for this ebullition on the part of Pirkheimerappears to have been that, after Dürer's death, she refused to givehim a pair of antlers which had belonged to her husband, and whichPirkheimer had set his heart upon having. 

[Illustration: Albert Dürer's Wedding. ]

The first eleven years of the married life of Dürer were spent inNuremberg, where he devoted himself with unremitting assiduity to theprosecution of his art. During these years his powers unfoldedrapidly, and there are extant two notable pictures, which wereundoubtedly produced at this time, the triptych in the DresdenGallery, and an altar-piece which is in the palace of the Archbishopof Vienna, at Ober St. Veit. These compositions, while remarkable inmany respects, still reveal the influence of his master, Wohlgemuth, and give evidence of having been in part executed with the assistanceof apprentices. In fact, the peak-gabled house at the foot of thecastle-mound in Nuremberg was a picture factory like that ofWohlgemuth, in which, however, work of a higher order than anyhitherto produced in Germany was being turned out. We know the namesof four or five of those who served as apprentices under Dürer atthis time and they are stars of lesser magnitude in theconstellation of German art. But Dürer was not contented simply toemploy his talents in the production of painted altar-pieces, and wefind him turning out a number of engravings, the most noticeable amongwhich are his sixteen great wood-cuts illustrating the Apocalypse, which were published in 1498. The theme was one which had peculiarfascinations for all classes at the time. The breaking up of allpre-existing systems, the wonderful stirrings of a new life which werebeginning to be felt everywhere with the close of the Middle Age andthe dawning of the Renaissance, had filled the minds of men withwonder, and caused them to turn to the writings of the ApocalypticSeer with keenest interest. A recent critic, commenting upon his workas represented in these engravings, says: "The energy and undismayedsimplicity of his imagination enable him, in this order of creations, to touch the highest point of human achievement. The four angelskeeping back the winds that they blow not, the four riders, theloosing of the angels of the Euphrates to slay the third part ofmen--these and others are conceptions of such force, such grave ortempestuous grandeur, in the midst of grotesqueness, as the art of noother age or hand has produced. "

At this period Dürer was also engaged in experimenting upon the art ofcopper-plate engraving, in which he restricted himself mainly toreproducing copies of the works of other artists, among them those ofJacopo de Barbari, a painter of the Italian school, who was residingin Nuremberg, and who among other things gave the great artistinstruction in plastic anatomy. The influence of his instructor isplain, when we compare engravings executed about 1504 with thosepublished at a previous date, and especially when we examine hisdesign of the Passion of our Lord painted in white upon a greenground, commonly known as "The Green Passion, " which is treasured inthe Albertina at Prague. He also during these twelve years finishedseven of the twelve great wood-cuts illustrating the passion, andsixteen of the twenty cuts which compose the series known as "The Lifeof the Virgin. " The activities of Dürer in Nuremberg were temporarilyinterrupted by a journey to Italy, which he undertook in the fall ofthe year 1505. What the immediate occasion for undertaking thisjourney may have been is not plain, though it seems most likely thatone of his objects was to enable him to recuperate from the effects ofa protracted illness, from which he had suffered during the summer ofthis year, and also incidentally to secure a market for his wares inVenice, the commercial relationships of which with Nuremberg were veryclose at this period. A German colony, composed largely of Nurembergfactors and merchants, was located at this time in Venice, and theyhad secured the privilege of dedicating a great painting in the churchof St. Bartholomew. The commission for the execution of this paintingwas secured by Dürer. It represents the adoration of the Virgin, buthas been commonly known under the name of "The Feast of the RoseGarlands. " After having undergone many vicissitudes, it is preservedto-day in a highly mutilated condition in the monastery of Strachow, near Prague. Dürer's stay in Venice was signalized not only by theproduction of this painting, but of three or four other notable workswhich still exist, and which reflect the great influence upon him ofthe Italian school of painting, with which he had attainedfamiliarity. His stay in Venice lasted about a year. In the fall of1506, he returned to Nuremberg, and there remained for the nextfourteen years, engaged in the practice of his art. These years wereyears of success and prosperity. His name and fame had spread over thewhole of Europe, and the greatest artists of the day were glad to dohim homage. Raphael said of him, when contemplating some of hisdesigns, "Truly this man would have surpassed us all, if he had themasterpieces of ancient art constantly before his eyes as we have. " Afriendly correspondence was maintained between the immortal Italianand his German contemporary, and in his own country, all men, from theemperor to the peasant, delighted to do honor to his genius, theproducts of which were found alike in church and palace, and throughhis printed designs in the homes of the humble poor. 

The proud old imperial city of Nuremberg had gathered within itsbattlemented walls a multitude of men who were distinguished not onlyfor their commercial enterprise and wealth, but many of whom were theexponents of the literary and artistic culture of the time. Among themen with whom Dürer found congenial companionship were Adam Krafft, the sculptor; Veit Stoss, whose exquisite carvings in wood may reflectin some measure in the wild luxuriance of the imagination which theydisplay, the restless, "dare-devil" spirit with which his biographersinvest him; Peter Vischer, the bronze founder; and last but not least. Hans Sachs, the cobbler poet, whose quaint rhymes are a source ofdelight to this day, and were a mighty force in the great work of theReformation, by which the fetters of mediæval traditions andecclesiastical abuse were thrown off by the German people. 

Of the personal appearance of Dürer at this time, we are not left inignorance. A portrait of himself from his own hands has been preservedand is well known. His features reveal refinement and greatintellectuality, united with grace, and his attire shows that he wasnot oblivious to matters of personal adornment. After the fashion ofthe time, his hair was worn in long and graceful ringlets, which fellin heavy masses about his shoulders. 

The first six years which followed his return from Venice were almostwholly given to painting, and his productions give evidence of thefact that he had dismissed from his employment the retinue ofassistants and apprentices, whom he had employed in his earlier years. From this period date most of his great masterpieces, which are stillpreserved, among them the "Adam and Eve, " in the Pitti Palace; the"Ten Thousand Martyrs of Nicomedia, " in the Imperial Gallery, atVienna; the "Adoration of the Trinity, " at the Belvedere, in Vienna;and "The Assumption of the Virgin, " the original of which wasdestroyed by fire more than three hundred years ago, but of which agood copy is preserved at Frankfort. To this period belong theportraits of Charlemagne and of the Emperor Sigismund, which arepreserved in the National German Museum at Nuremberg. 

[Illustration: Albert Dürer Visits Hans Sachs. ]

But while prosecuting the work of the painter, he did not neglect theart of the engraver, and in 1511, brought out in complete form hisgreat book of woodcuts in folio, and began to develop that marvellousart of etching which is indissolubly connected with his name. Amongthe products of the etcher's needle which attest his activity in thisdirection are those masterpieces which have for centuries been at oncethe delight and the puzzle of artistic minds: the "Melancholia, " "TheKnight and the Devil, " and "St. Jerome in his Cell. " The mostreasonable explanation of these weird fancies is that they wereintended to represent in allegorical style the three temperaments--themelancholic, the sanguine, and the phlegmatic. The Diet of Augsburg, which was convened in 1518, gave Dürer a passing opportunity to depictthe lineaments of the Emperor Maximilian, who gave him severalsittings, and who manifested great interest in the painter. The deathof the emperor in the following year, the outbreak of an epidemic inNuremberg, together with the coronation of Charles V. AtAix-la-Chapelle, led Dürer to undertake a journey to the LowCountries, in which he was accompanied by his faithful wife. He waspresent at the coronation and was one of the distinguished civilianswhose appearance added dignity to the occasion. His diary, in which herecounts his experiences upon this journey, and which is accompaniedby a multitude of wayside sketches, is still preserved, and contains, besides the dry entries of his current expenditures, most entertainingallusions to the distinguished people whom he met, and who receivedhim with the utmost cordiality. Intermingled with these narrativedetails are outbursts of feeling, which are provoked by passingpolitical and ecclesiastical events, in which he took a profoundinterest, though he never appears to have committed himself withpositive openness to the party of reform. His sympathies are, however, clearly shown by his writings, as well as by his works of art, to havebeen with the Reformers, and he lived on terms of intimacy withErasmus and Melancthon, of both of whom we have portraits from hishand. 

Dürer returned from the Netherlands in 1521, about the middle of July, and the remaining years of his life were spent in the prosecution ofthe art of the engraver, in painting, and in the effort to elucidatethe sciences of perspective, geometry, and fortification, upon all ofwhich he has left treatises. 

His labors, though they had not brought with them great wealth, hadsecured for him a competency, and the latter years of his life weredevoted more and more to labors which, while dignified, did not tendto add greatly to his already magnificent reputation. These laborswere prosecuted in spite of ever-failing health. While in theNetherlands he had contracted a malarial fever, the effects of whichclung to him, in spite of the best treatment which could be secured, and left him the wreck of his former self. On April 6, 1528, deathsuddenly overtook him. There was not even time to summon his friendsto his side before his spirit had fled. The city which had been hishome from childhood was filled with mourning. They took up his remainsand gently laid them to rest in the burial vault of his wife's familyin the graveyard of the Church of St. John, where the setting sunpours its last glowing beams at evening over the low Franconianhill-tops. The vault has since been changed and the lastresting-place of the remains of the Raphael of the North is a lowlymound, reverently approached by all who visit the quaint imperialcity, upon which is a slab, covered with a bronze tablet upon whichare the words:

 Quicquid Alberti Dureri Mortale Fuit Sub Hoc Conditum Tumulo. Emigravit VIII Idus Aprilis, MDXXVIIL

 "_Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed--for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!"

[Signature of the author. ]

RUBENS

By Mrs. LEE

(1577-1640)

[Illustration: Rubens. ]

"It is just one hundred and twenty years to-day, " said a young artistto his friend, as he stood in the hall of St. Mark, at Venice, contemplating the noble works of Titian. "Time, the destroyer, hashere stayed his hand; the colors are as vivid and as fresh as if theywere laid on but yesterday. Would that my old friend and master, OthoVenius, was here! At least I will carry back to Antwerp that in mycoloring which shall prove to him that I have not played truant to theart. "

"Just one hundred and twenty years, " repeated he, "since Titian wasborn. Venice was then in its glory, but now it is all falling; itschurches and palaces are crumbling to dust, its commerce interrupted. The republic continually harassed by the Porte, and obliged to call onforeign aid; depressed by her internal despotism, her council of ten, and state inquisitors; her decline, though gradual, is sure; yet thesplendor of her arts remains, and the genius of Titian, her favoriteson, is yet in the bloom and brilliancy of youth!"

Such was the enthusiastic exclamation of Rubens, as he contemplatedthose paintings which had brought him from Antwerp. How many giftedminds spoke to him from the noble works which were before him! Thethree Bellinis, the founders of the Venetian school; Giorgione, Titian, and Tintoretto. Then Paolo Veronese, who, though born atVerona, in 1537, adopted Venice as his home, and became thefellow-artist of Tintoretto, and the disciple of Titian. Pordenone, too, who viewed Titian as a rival and an enemy. Palma the young, andPalma the old, born in 1548, and the Bassanos, who died near 1627. 

All these were present to the eye of Rubens, their genius embodied onthe canvas in the halls of St. Mark. "These, " he exclaimed, "haveformed the Venetian school, and these shall be my study!"

From this time, the young artist might daily be seen with his sheetsof white paper, and his pencil in his hand. A few strokes preservedthe outline which his memory filled up; and by an intuitive glance, his genius understood and appropriated every signal beauty. 

In Venice he became acquainted with the Archduke Albert, whointroduced him to the Duke of Mantua, whither he went for the purposeof studying the works of Julio Romano. From thence he proceeded toRome; here Raphael was his model, and Michael Angelo his wonder. Hedevoted himself to painting with a fervor that belongs only to genius;and he soon proved that, whatever he gained by ancient study, theoriginality of his own conceptions would still remain and appear. Tothe vivid and splendid coloring of the Venetian school, he was perhapsmore indebted than to any other model. The affectionate and constantintercourse, by letters, that subsisted between Rubens and his mother, made his long residence in Italy one of pleasure. At Rome he wasemployed to adorn, by his paintings, the Church of Santa Croce, andalso the "Chiesa Nova. "

Rubens had been originally destined by his mother for one of thelearned professions. His father was born at Antwerp, and held thehonorable office of councillor of state. When the civil war broke outhe repaired to Cologne, where his son, Peter Paul Rubens, was born. Hedied soon after his return to Antwerp, and left his property muchdiminished from losses occasioned by the civil war. The mother ofRubens put him early to the best schools, where he was initiated inlearning and discovered a taste for belles-lettres; but all theintervals of necessary study were devoted to drawing. His motherperceiving it, determined to indulge his inclination, and placed himin the studio of Van Noort. 

The correct taste of the scholar soon led him to perceive that hecould not adopt this artist's style, and he became the pupil of OthoVenius. Similarity of thought and feeling united them closely, and itwas with true disinterestedness that the master urged his pupil toquit his confined circle and repair to Italy, the great school of art. 

Time flew rapidly with Rubens, while engaged in his beloved andhonorable pursuit; he looked forward to the period when he mightreturn to Antwerp and place his mother in her former affluence. Nearlyseven years had passed since he took leave of her. Of late he thoughther letters had been less cheerful; she spoke of her declininghealth, of her earnest hope that she might live to embrace him oncemore. This hint was enough for his affectionate heart. He immediatelybroke off all his engagements and prepared to return. Everyone knowswhat impatience is created when one first begins to contemplate home, after a long absence, and the heart is turned toward it. "Seven yearsabsent?" wrote Rubens to his mother, "how is it possible I have livedso long away from you? It is too long; henceforth I will devote myselfto your happiness. Antwerp shall be my future residence. I haveacquired a taste for horticulture; our little garden shall be enlargedand cultivated, and our home will be a paradise. "

What are human anticipations and projects! the day before he was toquit Rome he received a letter informing him that his mother was veryill, and begging him to return with all speed. With breathless hastehe hurried back, without sleep or rest. When he reached the city hedared not make any inquiries. At length he stood before the paternalmansion; he saw the gloomy tiles and half-closed window-shutters. Itwas the fall of the trees. He observed people going in and out at thedoor; to speak was impossible. At length he rushed in and heard theappalling sentence, "Too late, " a sentence that often strikesdesolation to the human heart. His mother had expired that morning. 

While he was struggling with the bitterness of sorrow, he met withElizabeth Brants. There was something in the tone of her voice whichinfused tranquillity into his mind, and affection came in a new formto assuage his loss. She was the "ladye of his love, " and afterwardhis wife. He built a magnificent house at Antwerp, with a saloon inform of a rotunda, which he ornamented and enriched with antiquestatues, busts, vases, and pictures by the most celebrated painters. Thus surrounded by the gems of art, he devoted himself to theexecution of works which were the pride of his native country, andcaused honors and wealth to be heaped upon him. 

There were those found who could not endure the splendor of hissuccess; these calumniated. There were others who tried to draw himinto visionary speculations. A chemist offered him a share of hislaboratory, to join in his search for the philosopher's stone. Hecarried the visionary to his painting-room, and said, "The offer comestoo late. You see I have found out the art of making gold by mypalette and pencils. "

Rubens was now at the height of prosperity and happiness, a dangerouseminence, and one on which few are permitted to rest. A second timehis heart was pierced with sorrow: he lost his young wife, Elizabeth, a few years after their union. Deep as was his sorrow, he had yetresolution enough to feel the necessity of exertion. He left the placewhich constantly reminded him of domestic enjoyment, the memory ofwhich contrasted so sadly with the present silence and solitude, andtravelled for some time in Holland. After his return, he received acommission from Mary de Medici, of France, to adorn the palace of theLuxembourg. He executed for this purpose a number of paintings atAntwerp, and instructed several pupils in his art. 

At this time Rubens devoted himself wholly to painting, and scarcelyallowed himself time for recreation. He considered it one of the mosteffectual means of instruction, to allow his pupils to observe hismethod of using his paints. He therefore had them with him while heworked on his large pictures. Teniers, Snyders, Jordaens, and Vandykewere among his pupils--all names well known. 

When Rubens had executed the commission given him by Mary de Medici, wife of Henry IV. , he repaired to Paris to arrange his pictures at theLuxembourg palace, and there painted two more, and likewise thegalleries, representing passages of her life. 

Here he became acquainted with the Duke of Buckingham, as thatnobleman was on his way to Madrid with Prince Charles. On his returnto Antwerp, he was summoned to the presence of the Infanta Isabella, who had, through Buckingham, become interested in his character. Shethought him worthy of a political mission to the court of Madrid, where he was most graciously received by Philip. While at Madrid hepainted four pictures for the convent of the Carmelites, and a fineportrait of the king on horseback, with many other pictures; for theseextraordinary productions he was richly rewarded, received the honorof knighthood, and was presented with the golden key. 

While in Spain, Don John, Duke of Braganza, who was afterward king ofPortugal, sent and invited him to visit him at Villa Vitiosa, theplace of his residence. Rubens, perhaps, might at this time have beena little dazzled with his uncommon elevation. He was now _Sir Paul_and celebrated all over Europe. It was proper he should make the visitas one person of high rank visits another. His preparations were greatto appear in a becoming style, and not to shame his noble host. Atlength the morning arrived, and, attended by a numerous train ofcourteous friends and hired attendants, the long cavalcade began thejourney. When not far distant from Villa Vitiosa, Rubens learned thatDon John had sent an embassy to meet him. Such an honor had seldombeen accorded to a private gentleman, and Rubens schooled himself toreceive it with suitable humility and becoming dignity. 

He put up at a little distance from Villa Vitiosa, awaiting thearrival of the embassy; finally it came, in the form of a singlegentleman, who civilly told him that the duke, his master, had beenobliged to leave home on business that could not be dispensed with, and therefore must deny himself the pleasure of the visit; but as hehad probably been at some extra expense in coming so far, he beggedhim to accept of fifty pistoles as a remuneration. 

Rubens refused the pistoles, and could not forbear adding that he had"brought two thousand along with him, which he had meant to spend athis court during the fifteen days he was to spend there. "

The truth was, that when Don John was informed that Rubens was comingin the style of a prince to see him, it was wholly foreign to hisplan; he was a great lover of painting, and had wished to see him asan artist. He therefore determined to prevent the visit. 

The second marriage of Rubens, with Helena Forman, was, no less thanthe first, one of affection; she had great beauty, and became a modelfor his pencil. His favor with the great continued. Mary de Medicivisited him at his own home more than once; and the Infanta Isabellawas so much satisfied with his mission in Spain, that she sent him toEngland, to sound the disposition of the government on the subject ofa peace. 

Rubens disclosed in this embassy his diplomatic talents; he firstappeared there in his character of artist, and insensibly won upon theconfidence of Charles. The king requested him to paint the ceiling ofthe banqueting-house at Whitehall. While he was employed upon it, Charles frequently visited him and criticised the work. Rubens, verynaturally introducing the subject, and finding, from the tenor of hisconversation, that he was by no means averse to a peace with Spain, atlength produced his credentials. The king received his mission mostgraciously, and Rubens returned to the Netherlands crowned with honorsand success. 

He had passed his fiftieth year when his health began to fail, and hewas attacked with a severe fit of the gout. Those who have witnessedthe irritation attendant upon that disorder will appreciate theperfect harmony and gentleness that existed between Rubens and hiswife. With untiring tenderness she devoted herself to him, and wasingenious in devising alleviations and comforts. 

The severe attacks of Rubens' disorder debilitated his frame, yet hecontinued painting at his easel almost to the last; and, amidsuffering and sickness, never failed in giving the energy of intellectto his pictures. He died at the age of sixty-three, in the year 1640, leaving great wealth. The pomp and circumstance of funeral rite canonly be of consequence as showing the estimation in which a departedcitizen is held. Public funeral honors were awarded, and men of everyrank were eager to manifest their respect to his memory. He was buriedin the Church of St. James, at Antwerp, under the altar of his privatechapel, which was decorated with one of his own noble pictures. 

REMBRANDT[4]

 [Footnote 4: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL

(1606-1669)

[Illustration: Rembrandt. ]

A heretic in art Rembrandt was to many of his Dutch contemporaries; tous, he is the master, supreme alike in genius and accomplishment. Because, as time went on, he broke completely from tradition and inhis work gave full play to his originality, his pictures were lookedat askance; because he chose to live his own life, indifferent toaccepted conventions, he himself was misunderstood. It was his cruelfate to enjoy prosperity and popularity in his earlier years, only tomeet with neglect in his old age. But this he felt probably less thanother men; he was not a courtier, with Velasquez, nor vowed toworldly success, with Rubens. His pleasure and his reward, he foundin his work. So long as easel and canvas, brushes and paints were leftto him, he demanded no greater happiness. 

[Illustration: Marie De Medici at the House of Rubens. ]

In Leyden, a town already made famous by another master, Lucas vanLeyden, Rembrandt was born in 1606; though this date has beendisputed, some authorities suggesting 1607, others, 1608. His familywere respectable, if not distinguished, burghers, his father, HarmenGerritszoon, being a miller by trade, his mother, Neeltjen Willems ofZuitbroeck, the daughter of a baker. Not until early in theseventeenth century did permanent surnames become common amongDutchmen; hitherto children had been given their father's, in additionto their own Christian name; Rembrandt for many years was known asRembrandt Harmenzoon, or the son of Harmen. But the miller, to be inthe growing fashion, had called himself Van Ryn--of the Rhine--andthus, later on, Rembrandt also signed himself. Harmen was well-to-do;he owned houses in Leyden, and beyond the walls, gardens, and fields, and the mill where Rembrandt, because he once drew a mill, wassupposed to have been born. But there was no reason for Neeltjen tomove from a comfortable house in town into such rustic quarters, andit is more likely that Rembrandt's birthplace was the house pointedout in the Nordeinde Street. A commercial career had been chosen forhis four older brothers. But Harmen, his means allowing the luxury, decided to make of his fifth son a man of letters and learning, andRembrandt was sent to the University of Leyden. That letters, however, had small charm for him, was clear from the first. Better than hisbooks he loved the engravings of Swanenburch, better still, thepictures of Lucas van Leyden, which he could look at to his heart'scontent on gala days, when the Town Hall, where they hung, was thrownopen to the public. His hours of study were less profitable than hishours of recreation when he rambled in the country, through hisfather's estate, and, sometimes as far as the sea, a sketch-book, thechances are, for sole companion. Certainly, by the time he wasfifteen, so strong were the proofs of his indifference to the classicsand his love for art, that his father, sacrificing his own ambitions, allowed Rembrandt to leave the university for the studio of VanSwanenburch. From this day forth, his life's history is told in thesingle word--work; his indeed was the genius of industry. 

Van Swanenburch had studied in Italy; but his own painting, to judgeby the few examples still in existence, was entirely commonplace. Three years were more than enough to be passed under his tuition. Atthe end of the third, Rembrandt went to Amsterdam, and there enteredthe studio of Lastman. His second master also had studied in Italy, and also was a painter of mediocre talent, popular in his owntimes--the Apelles of the day, he was called--but remembered nowchiefly because of his relations to his pupil. From the first, Rembrandt, even if obliged to paint the stock subjects of the day, wasdetermined to treat them in his own way, and not to follow set formsthat happened to be adopted in the schools. He used real men and womenfor models, and painted them as he saw them, not as he was bidden tolook at them through his teacher's spectacles. In six months he hadlearned at least one thing, that Lastman had nothing more to teachhim. The man of genius must ever be his own master, though he remainthe hard-working student all his days. Back to Leyden and to hisfather's house, Rembrandt had not returned to lead a life of idleness. He worked tremendously in these early years. Even needed models hefound in the members of his family; he has made the face of his motheras familiar as that of a friend; his own, with the heavy features, thethick, bushy hair, the small intelligent eyes, between them thevertical line, fast deepening on the fine forehead, he drew and etchedand painted, again and again. More elaborate compositions he alsoundertook. As in his maturity, it was to the Bible he turned forsuggestions: Saint Paul in prison, Samson and Delilah, thePresentation in the Temple--these were the themes then in vogue whichhe preferred, rendering them with the realism which distinguished hislater, more famous Samsons and Abrahams and Christs, making them themotive for a fine arrangement of color, for a striking study of lightand shadow. A pleasant picture one can fancy of his life at thisperiod; he was with his own people, for whom his love was tender; busywith brush, pencil, and etching-needle; he was strengthening hispowers of observation, developing and perfecting his style, occasionally producing work that won for him renown in Leyden; and, gradually, he gathered round him a small group of earnestfellow-workers, chief among them Lievens, Gerard Dou, and Van Vliet, the last two, though but slightly his juniors, looking up to him asmaster. These were the years of his true apprenticeship. 

Leyden, however, was not the best place for a young painter who hadhis fortunes to make. It was essentially a university town; interestwas concentrated upon letters; art was but of secondary consideration. It was different in Amsterdam, the great commercial centre of Holland. There, all was life and activity and progress; there, was money to bespent, and the liberal patron willing to lavish it upon the artist. Holland just then was in the first flush of prosperity and patriotism, following upon her virtual independence from Spain. Not a citizen butglowed with self-respect at the thought of the victory he had, in oneway or another, helped to win; the state, as represented by the goodburghers, was supreme in every man's mind. It was natural thatindividuals and corporations alike should seek to immortalize theirgreatness by means of the painter's art, which, in Holland, had longsince ceased to be a monopoly of the church. Hence the age becameessentially one of portrait-painting. Many were the painters whoseportraits had already achieved distinction. De Keyser was busy inAmsterdam; a far greater genius, Franz Hals, but fifteen yearsRembrandt's senior, was creating his masterpieces in The Hague andHarlem. It was as inevitable that Rembrandt should turn toportraiture, as that he should find commissions less numerous inLeyden than in Amsterdam. Often in the latter town his services wererequired; so often, indeed, that at last, about 1631, when he was justtwenty-five, he settled there permanently and set up a studio of hisown. 

Success was his from the start. Sitter after sitter sought him out inhis house on the Bloemgracht; the most distinguished men in the townhastened to patronize him. His work was liked by the burghers whom hepainted, its strength was felt by artists, whose canvases soon showedits influence. Admirers crowded to his studio. He had not been inAmsterdam a twelvemonth when, before he was yet twenty-six, he wasentrusted with an order of more than usual importance. This was theportrait of Dr. Tulp and his class of surgeons: the famous "Lesson inAnatomy" now in the Gallery at The Hague. The subject at the time wasvery popular. Many artists, De Keyser among others, had already, inpainting prominent surgeons, placed them around the subject they weredissecting; indeed, this was the arrangement insisted upon by thesurgeons themselves, and, as there seems to have been no limit totheir vanity, "Lessons in Anatomy" were almost as plentiful in Hollandas "Madonnas" in Umbria. Rembrandt in his composition was simplyadhering to accepted tradition. It is true that he instilled life intoa group hitherto, on other painters' canvases, stiff and perfunctory;but, though the picture was a wonderful production for a man of hisyears, it is not to be ranked with his greatest work. 

Commissions now poured in still faster. It was at this time he paintedseveral of his best known portraits: the "Master Shipbuilder and hisWife, " at present in Buckingham Palace; that simply marvellous oldwoman at the National Gallery in London, made familiar to everyone bycountless photographs and other reproductions; the man in ruff andwoman in coif at the Brunswick Museum; and a score of others scarceless important. With increasing popularity, he was able to command hisown prices, so that only a part of his time was it necessary for himto devote to the portraits which were his chief source of income. During the leisure he reserved, he painted biblical subjects, ever hisdelight, and made etchings and drawings, today the most prizedtreasures in the world's great galleries. As in Leyden, he drew abouthim students; a few, notably Ferdinand Bol and Christophe Paudiss, destined, in their turn, to gain name and fame. Indifferent to socialclaims and honors--an indifference the burghers, his patrons, found ithard to forgive, his one amusement was in collecting pictures andengravings, old stuffs and jewels, and every kind of _bric-à-brac_, until his house in Amsterdam was a veritable museum. This amusementlater was to cost him dear. 

Four years after the "Lesson in Anatomy" was painted, when he was atthe height of prosperity, in 1634, he married Saskia van Uylenborch, the Saskia of so many an etching and picture. She was of a goodFrisian family, and brought with her a dowry of no mean proportions. Rembrandt's marriage made small changes in his way of living. Into thesociety, so ready to receive him, he never went, not even now that hehad a wife to introduce. It bored him, and he was no toady to wastehis time fawning upon possible patrons. "When I desire to rest myspirit, I do not seek honors, but liberty, " was his explanation. Thecompanionship of artists he always welcomed; sometimes he visited thehumbler burghers, whose ways were as simple as his own; sometimes hesought the humblest classes of all, because of their picturesqueness, and his contemporaries took him to task for his perverted taste forlow company. The truth is that always he devoted himself solely andwholly to his art; the only difference, once he was married, was that, when he sat at his easel all day or over his copperplate, andsketchbook all evening, Saskia was with him. She shared all hisinterests, all his ambitions; she had no will but his. During hisworking hours, she was his model, obedient to his call. She nevertired of posing for him, nor he of painting her now simply as Saskia, now as Delilah feasting with Samson, as Susanna surprised by theElders, as the Jewish Betrothed at her toilet. Sometimes herepresented her alone, sometimes with himself at her side; once, inthe famous Dresden portrait, on his knee, as if to proclaim the lovethey bore for one another. And he, who could render faithfully theways of the beggar, the austere black of the burgher, for himself andSaskia found no masquerading too gay or extravagant. In inventingcostumes for their own portraits, he gave his exuberant fancy freeplay: in gorgeous embroidered robes, waving plumes, and priceless gemsthey arrayed themselves, until even the resources of his collectionwere exhausted: the same rich mantle, the same jewels appear, andreappear in picture after picture. 

Rembrandt's short married years were happy, though not without theirsorrows. Of Saskia's five children, four died in infancy; the fifth, Titus, was not a year old when, in 1642, the end came for Saskia, andRembrandt, who had just reached his thirty-seventh year, was left inhis great house alone with an infant son and his pupils. Herconfidence in him is shown by her will, in which the inheritance ofTitus is left in the father's charge, though already Rembrandt'saffairs must have given signs of coming complications. 

[Illustration: Connoisseurs at Rembrandt's Studio. ]

Much of his best work remained to be done, but after Saskia's deathhis worldly fortunes and his popularity never again touched suchhigh-water mark. The reason for this is not far to seek. During allthese years, Rembrandt's powers had matured, his methods broadened, and his individuality strengthened. With each new canvas, hisoriginality became more conspicuous. It was not only that the world ofnature, and not imagination, supplied his models. Many of the Dutchpainters now were no less realists than he. It was not only that hesolved certain problems of _chiaro oscuro_, there were men, likeLievens, who were as eager as he in the study of light and shadow. ButRembrandt brought to his every experiment an independence thatstartled the average man. He painted well because he saw well. If noone else saw things as he did, the loss was theirs. But he paid forhis keener vision; because he did not paint like other artists, hismethods were mistrusted. To be misunderstood is the penalty of genius. The picture which, of all his work, is now the most famous, marks theturn in the tide of his affairs. Shortly before Saskia's death, he hadbeen commissioned to paint a portrait group of Banning Cock and themilitary company which he commanded. These portrait groups of themilitary corporations rivalled in popularity the "Lessons in Anatomy. "Each member, or officer, paid to be included in the composition, and, as a rule, a stiff, formal picture, with each individual posed as fora photograph, was the result. Rembrandt, apparently, was in nowiserestricted when he undertook the work for Banning Cock, and so, instead of the stupid, hackneyed arrangement, he made of the portraitof the company a picture of armed men marching forth to beating ofdrums and waving of banners, "The Night Watch, " as it must ever beknown--more accurately, "The Sortie of the Company of BanningCock"--now in the Ryks Museum of Amsterdam. With the men for whom itwas painted, it proved a failure. The grouping, the arrangementdispleased them. Many of the company were left in deep shadow, whichwas not the privilege for which they had agreed to pay good money. Rembrandt was not the man to compromise. After this many burghers, whocared much for themselves and their own faces, and not in the leastfor art, were afraid to entrust their portraits to him lest theirimportance might be sacrificed to the painter's effects. Certain it isthat six years later, in 1648, when the independence of Holland wasformally recognized at the Congress of Westphalia, though Terburg andVan der Heist celebrated the event on canvas, Rembrandt's serviceswere not secured. Good friends were left to him--men of intelligencewho appreciated his strong individuality and the great originality ofhis work. Banning Cock himself was not among the discontented. A fewleading citizens, like Dr. Tulp and the Burgomeister Six, were everhis devoted patrons. Artists still gathered about him; pupils stillcrowded to his studio; Nicolas Maes, De Gelder, Kneller among them. Many of his finest portraits--those of Hendrickje Stoffels, of hisson, of himself in his old age, of the Burgomeister Six, above all, his masterpiece, "The Syndics of the Guild of Clothmakers, " now inAmsterdam; many of his finest etchings, the little landscapes, thefamous "Hundred Guilder Print, " "Christ Healing the Sick, " belong tothis later period. There was no falling off, but rather an increase, in his powers, despite the clouds that darkened his years of middleage. 

Of these clouds, the darkest was due to his financial troubles. Rembrandt had made large sums of money; Saskia's dowry had been by nomeans small. But he also spent lavishly. He had absolutely no businesscapacity. Once he was accused of miserliness; that he would at timeslunch on dry bread and a herring served as reproach against him; therewas a story current that his pupils would drop bits of paper paintedto look like money in order to see him stoop to pick them up. Bothcharges are too foolish to answer seriously. When he was at work, itmattered little to him what he ate, so that he was not disturbed; whowould not stoop to pick up coins apparently scattered on the floor?The money he devoted to his collection is sufficient to show how smalla fancy he had for hoarding; upon it a princely fortune had beensquandered. To his own people in Leyden, when times were hard, he hadnot been slow to hold out a generous hand. It was because he was notenough of a miser, because he gave too little heed to businessmatters, that difficulties at length overwhelmed him. It is too sad astory to tell in detail. Perhaps the beginning was when he bought ahouse for which he had not the ready money to pay, and borrowed alarge sum for the purpose. More and more involved became his affairs. In time his creditors grew clamorous, and at length the blow fellwhen, in 1657, he was declared bankrupt. The collection of years, theembroidered mantles and draperies, the jewels with which Saskia hadbeen so gayly decked, the plumes and furs and gorgeous robes in whichhe himself had masqueraded, the armor and plate, the engravings andpictures which had filled his house--all were sold. He, the master, had, at the age of fifty-one, to begin life anew as if he were stillbut the apprentice. 

In the midst of his troubles and losses, Hendrickje Stoffels, whoseportrait hangs in the Louvre, was the friend who cheered and comfortedhim. She had been his servant; afterward she lived with him as hiswife, though legally they were not married. To Titus, as to her ownchildren, she was ever a tender mother, and Titus, in return, seems tohave loved her no less well. In the end, they together tookRembrandt's business interests into their own hands, the son, probably, using his inheritance in the enterprise. Renting a house intheir own name, they became his print and picture dealers. 

But as time went on, Rembrandt's work brought lower and lower prices, and he, himself, the last two years of his life, was almost forgotten. Though he still lived in Amsterdam, the town from which he had soseldom journeyed, and then never far, he had fallen into suchobscurity, that report now established him in Stockholm as painter tothe King of Sweden, now in Hull, or Yarmouth. In his own familynothing but sorrow was in store for him. Hendrickje died, probablyabout 1664, and he was once more alone; and next he lost Titus, whothen had been married but a few short months. 

Fortunately for Rembrandt, he did not long survive them. In 1669, atthe age of sixty-two, his release came. He was buried in the WestChurch, quietly and simply. Thirteen florins his funeral cost, andeven this small expense had to be met by his daughter-in-law. When aninventory of his possessions was taken, these were found to consist ofnothing but his own wardrobe and his painter's tools. 

But better than a mere fortune, his work he left as an heirloom forall time; his drawings, not the least among them without the stamp ofhis genius; his prints, still unsurpassed, though it was he who firstdeveloped the possibilities of etching; his pictures, "painted withlight, " as Fromentin has said. His subjects he may have borrowed fromthe fashions and traditions of the time; certain mannerisms oftechnique and arrangement his pupils may have copied. But for allthat, his work belongs to no special school or group; like all theworld's great masterpieces, whether produced in Spain by a Velasquez, in Venice by a Titian, in England by a Whistler, it stands alone andsupreme. 

[Signature of the author. ]

WILLIAM HOGARTH

(1697-1764)

[Illustration: William Hogarth. ]

"I was born, " says Hogarth, in his Memoirs of himself, "in the city ofLondon, November 10, 1697. My father's pen, like that of many authors, did not enable him to do more than put me in a way of shifting formyself. As I had naturally a good eye and a fondness for drawing, shows of all sorts gave me uncommon pleasure when an infant; andmimicry, common to all children, was remarkable in me. An early accessto a neighboring painter drew my attention from play, and I was, atevery possible opportunity, employed in making drawings. I picked upan acquaintance of the same turn, and soon learned to draw thealphabet with great correctness. My exercises when at school were moreremarkable for the ornaments which adorned them than for the exerciseitself. In the former I soon found that blockheads with bettermemories could much surpass me, but for the latter I was particularlydistinguished. "

To this account of Hogarth's childhood we have only to add that hisfather, an enthusiastic and laborious scholar, who, like many of hiscraft, owed little to the favor of fortune, consulted theseindications of talent as well as his means would allow, and bound hisson apprentice to a silver-plate engraver. But Hogarth aspired aftersomething higher than drawing ciphers and coats-of-arms; and beforethe expiration of his indentures he had made himself a gooddraughtsman, and obtained considerable knowledge of coloring. It washis ambition to become distinguished as an artist; and not contentwith being the mere copier of other men's productions, he sought tocombine the functions of the painter with those of the engraver, andto gain the power of delineating his own ideas and the fruits of hisacute observation. He has himself explained the nature of his views ina passage which is worth attention:

"Many reasons led me to wish that I could find the shorter path--fixforms and characters in my mind--and instead of copying the lines, tryto read the language, and, if possible, find the grammar of the art bybringing into one focus the various observations I have made, and thentrying by my power on the canvas how far my plan enabled me to combineand apply them to practice. For this purpose I considered whatvarious ways, and to what different purposes, the memory might beapplied, and fell upon one most suitable to my situation and idledisposition; laying it down first as an axiom, that he who could byany means acquire and retain in his memory perfect ideas of thesubjects he meant to draw, would have as clear a knowledge of thefigure as a man who can write freely hath of the twenty-five lettersof the alphabet and their infinite combinations. " Acting on theseprinciples, he improved, by constant exercise, his natural powers ofobservation and recollection. We find him roaming through the country, now at Yarmouth and again at Queenborough, sketching everywhere. Inhis rambles among the motley scenes of London he was ever on the watchfor striking features or incidents; and not trusting entirely tomemory, he was accustomed, when any face struck him as beingpeculiarly grotesque or expressive, to sketch it on his thumb-nail, tobe treasured up on paper at his return home. 

For some time after the expiration of his apprenticeship, Hogarthcontinued to practise the trade to which he was bred; and hisshop-bills, coats-of-arms, engravings upon tankards, etc. , have beencollected with an eagerness quite disproportionate to their value. Soon he procured employment in furnishing frontispieces and designsfor the booksellers. The most remarkable of these are the plates to anedition of "Hudibras, " published in 1726; but even these are of nodistinguished merit. About 1728 he began to seek employment as aportrait-painter. Most of his performances were small family pictures, containing several figures, which he calls "Conversation Pieces, " fromtwelve to fifteen inches high. These for a time were very popular, andhis practice was considerable, as his price was low. His life-sizeportraits are few; the most remarkable are that of Captain Coram, inthe "Foundling Hospital, " and that of Garrick as King Richard III. , which is reproduced in the present volume. But his practice as aportrait-painter was not lucrative, nor his popularity lasting. Although many of his likenesses were strong and characteristic, in therepresentation of beauty, elegance, and high-breeding he was littleskilled. The nature of the artist was as uncourtly as his pencil. WhenHogarth obtained employment and eminence of another sort through hiswonderful prints, he abandoned portrait-painting, with a growl at thejealousy of his professional brethren; and the vanity and blindness ofthe public. 

March 25, 1729, Hogarth contracted a stolen marriage with the onlydaughter of the once fashionable painter, Sir James Thornhill. Thefather, for some time implacable, relented at last; and thereconciliation, it is said, was much forwarded by his admiration ofthe "Harlot's Progress, " a series of six prints, commenced in 1731 andpublished in 1734. The novelty as well as merit of this series ofprints won for them extraordinary popularity; and their successencouraged Hogarth to undertake a similar history of the "Rake'sProgress, " in eight prints, which appeared in 1735. The third, andperhaps the most popular, as it is the least objectionable of thesepictorial novels, "Marriage à la Mode, " was not engraved till 1745. 

[Illustration: Hogarth Sketching the Highway of Queenborough. ]

The merits of these prints were sufficiently intelligible to thepublic: their originality and boldness of design, the force andfreedom of their execution, rough as it is, won for them anextensive popularity and a rapid and continued sale. The "Harlot'sProgress" was the most eminently successful, from its novelty ratherthan from its superior excellence. Twelve hundred subscribers' nameswere entered for it; it was dramatized in several forms; and we maynote, in illustration of the difference of past and present manners, that fan-mounts were engraved containing miniature copies of the sixplates. The merits of the pictures were less obvious to the few whocould afford to spend large sums on works of art, and Hogarth, tooproud to let them go for prices much below the value which he put uponthem, waited for a long time, and waited in vain, for a purchaser. Atlast he determined to commit them to public sale; but instead of thecommon method of auction, he devised a new and complex plan with theintention of excluding picture-dealers, and obliging men of rank andwealth who wished to purchase to judge and bid for themselves. Thescheme failed, as might have been expected. Nineteen of Hogarth's bestpictures, the "Harlot's Progress, " the "Rake's Progress, " the "FourTimes of the Day, " and "Strolling Actresses Dressing in a Barn"produced only £427 7s. , not averaging £22 10s. Each. The "Harlot'sProgress" was purchased by Mr. Beckford at the rate of fourteenguineas a picture; five of the series perished in the fire atFonthill. The "Rake's Progress" averaged twenty-two guineas a picture;it has passed into the possession of Sir John Soane, at the advancedprice of five hundred and seventy guineas. The same eminent architectbecame the proprietor of the four pictures of an "Election" for thesum of £1, 732. "Marriage à la Mode" was disposed of in a similar wayin 1750; and on the day of the sale one bidder appeared, who becamemaster of the six pictures, together with their frames, for £115 10s. Mr. Angerstein purchased them, in 1797, for £1, 381, and they now forma striking feature in the National Gallery. 

The satire of Hogarth was not often of a personal nature; but he knewhis own power, and he sometimes exercised it. Two of his prints, "TheTimes, " produced a memorable quarrel between himself, on one side, andWilkes and Churchhill, on the other. The satire of the prints of "TheTimes, " which were published in 1762, was directed, not against Wilkeshimself, but his political friends, Pitt and Temple; nor is it sobiting as to have required Wilkes, in defence of his party, toretaliate upon one with whom he had lived in familiar and friendlyintercourse. He did so, however, in a number of the _North Briton_, containing not only abuse of the artist, but unjust and injuriousmention of his wife. Hogarth was deeply wounded by this attack; heretorted by the well-known portrait of Wilkes with the cap of liberty, and he afterward represented Churchill as a bear. The quarrel wasunworthy the talents either of the painter or poet. It is more to beregretted because its effects, as he himself intimates, were injuriousto Hogarth's declining health. The summer of 1764 he spent atChiswick, and the free air and exercise worked a partial renovation ofhis strength. The amendment, however, was but temporary, and he diedsuddenly, October 26th, the day after his return to his Londonresidence in Leicester Square. 

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

By SAMUEL ARCHER

(1723-1792)

[Illustration: Sir Joshua Reynolds. ]

Sir Joshua Reynolds, the celebrated painter, was, on July 16, 1723, born at Plympton, a small town in Devonshire, England. His father wasa minister of the parish, and also master of the grammar school; andbeing a man of learning and philanthropy, he was beloved and respectedby all to whom he was known. Such a man, it will naturally besupposed, was assiduous in the cultivation of the minds of hischildren, among whom his son Joshua shone conspicuous, by displayingat a very early period a superiority of genius and the rudiments of acorrect taste. Unlike other boys, who generally content themselveswith giving a literal explanation of their author, regardless of hisbeauties or his faults, young Reynolds attended to both these, displaying a happy knowledge of what he read, and entering with ardorinto the spirit of his author. He discovered likewise talents forcomposition, and a natural propensity to drawing, in which his friendsand intimates thought him qualified to excel. Emulation was adistinguishing characteristic of his mind, which his father perceivedwith the delight natural to a parent; and designing him for thechurch, in which he hoped that his talents might raise him toeminence, he sent him to one of the universities. 

Soon after this period he grew passionately fond of painting; and bythe perusal of Richardson's theory of that art was determined to makeit his profession through life. At his own earnest request, therefore, he was removed to London; and about the year 1742 became a pupil toMr. Hudson, who, though not himself an eminent painter, was preceptorto many who afterward excelled in the art. One of the first adviceswhich he gave to Mr. Reynolds was to copy carefully Guercino'sdrawings. This was done with such skill, that many of the copies aresaid to be now preserved in the cabinets of the curious as theoriginals of that very great master. 

About the year 1749, Mr. Reynolds went to Italy under the auspices, and in the company, of the late Lord (then Commodore) Keppel, who wasappointed to the command of the British squadron in the Mediterranean. In this garden of the world, this magic seat of arts, he failed not tovisit the schools of the great masters, to study the productions ofdifferent ages, and to contemplate with unwearied attention thevarious beauties which are characteristic of each. His labor here, ashas been observed of another painter, was "the labor of love, not thetask of the hireling;" and how much he profited by it is known to allEurope. 

Having remained about two years in Italy, and studied the language aswell as the arts of the country with great success, he returned toEngland, improved by travel and refined by education. On the road toLondon from the port where he landed, he accidentally found in the innwhere he lodged Johnson's life of Savage, and was so taken with thecharms of composition, and the masterly delineation of characterdisplayed in that work, that, having begun to read it while leaninghis arm on the chimney-piece, he continued in that attitude, insensible of pain till he was hardly able to raise his hand to hishead. The admiration of the work naturally led him to seek theacquaintance of its author, who continued one of his sincerestadmirers and warmest friends till 1784, when they were separated bythe stroke of death. 

The first thing that distinguished him after his return to his nativecountry was a full-length portrait of Commodore Keppel; which inpolite circles was spoken of in terms of the highest encomium, andtestified to what a degree of eminence he had arrived in hisprofession. This was followed by a portrait of Lord Edgecombe, and afew others, which at once introduced him to the first business inportrait-painting; and that branch of the art he cultivated with suchsuccess as will forever establish his fame with all descriptions ofrefined society. Having painted some of the first-rate beauties of theage, the polite world flocked to see the graces and the charms of hispencil; and he soon became the most fashionable painter not only inEngland, but in all Europe. He has indeed preserved the resemblance ofso many illustrious characters, that we feel the less regret at hishaving left behind him so few historical paintings; though what he hasdone in that way shows him to have been qualified to excel in bothdepartments. The only landscape, perhaps, which he ever painted, except those beautiful and chaste ones which compose the backgroundsof many of his portraits, is "A View on the Thames from Richmond, "which in 1784 was exhibited by the Society for Promoting Painting andDesign in Liverpool. 

In 1764 Mr. Reynolds had the merit of being the first promoter of thatclub, which, having long existed without a name, became at lastdistinguished by the appellation of the _Literary Club_. Upon thefoundation of the Royal Academy of Painting, Sculpture, andArchitecture, he was appointed president; and his acknowledgedexcellence in his profession made the appointment acceptable to allthe lovers of art. To add to the dignity of this new institution, hismajesty conferred on the president the honor of knighthood; and SirJoshua delivered his first discourse at the opening of the Academy, onJanuary 2, 1769. The merit of that discourse has been universallyadmitted among painters; but it contains some directions, respectingthe proper mode of prosecuting their studies, to which every studentof every art would do well to pay attention. "I would chieflyrecommend (says he) that an implicit obedience to the _rules of art_, as established by the practice of the great masters, should be exactedfrom the young students. That those models, which have passed throughthe approbation of ages, should be considered by them as perfect andinfallible guides, as subjects for their imitation, not theircriticism. I am confident that this is the only efficacious method ofmaking a progress in the arts; and that he who sets out with doubtingwill find life finished before he becomes master of the rudiments. Forit may be laid down as a maxim, that he who begins by presuming on hisown sense, has ended his studies as soon as he has commenced them. Every opportunity, therefore, should be taken to discountenance thatfalse and vulgar opinion, that rules are the fetters of genius. Theyare fetters only to men of no genius; as that armor, which upon thestrong becomes an ornament and a defence, upon the weak and misshapenturns into a load, and cripples the body which it was made toprotect. "

Each succeeding year, on the distribution of the prizes, Sir Joshuadelivered to the students a discourse of equal merit with this; andperhaps we do not hazard too much when we say, that from the wholecollected, the lovers of belles-lettres and the fine arts will acquirejuster notions of what is meant by taste in general, and better rulesfor acquiring a correct taste, than from the multitude of thosevolumes which have been professedly written on the subject. 

In the autumn of 1785 he went to Brussels, where he expended about£1, 000 on the purchase of paintings which, having been taken from thedifferent monasteries and religious houses in Flanders and Germany, were then exposed to sale by the command of the Emperor Joseph. Gainsborough and he had engaged to paint each other's portrait; andthe canvas for both being actually stretched, Sir Joshua gave onesitting to his distinguished rival; but to the regret of every admirerof the art, the unexpected death of the latter prevented all furtherprogress. 

In 1790 he was anxiously desirous to procure the vacant professorshipof perspective in the academy for Mr. Bonomi, an Italian architect;but that artist not having been yet elected an associate, was, ofcourse, no academician, and it became necessary to raise him to thosepositions, in order to qualify him for being a professor. Mr. Gilpinbeing his competitor for the associateship, the numbers on the ballotproved equal, when the president, on his casting vote, decided theelection in favor of his friend, who was thereby advanced so fartoward the professorship. Soon after this, an academic seat beingvacant, Sir Joshua exerted all his influence to obtain it for Mr. Bonomi; but finding himself out-voted by a majority of two to one, hequitted the chair with great dissatisfaction, and next day sent to thesecretary of the academy a formal resignation of the office, which fortwenty-one years he had filled with honor to himself and to hiscountry. His indignation, however, subsiding, he suffered himself tobe prevailed upon to return to the chair, which, within a year and ahalf, he was again desirous to quit for a better reason. 

Finding a disease of languor, occasioned by an enlargement of theliver, to which he had for some time been subject, increase, and dailyexpecting a total loss of sight, he wrote a letter to the academy, intimating his intention to resign the office of president on accountof bodily infirmities, which disabled him from executing the dutiesof it to his own satisfaction. The academy received this intelligencewith the respectful concern due to the talents and virtues of theirpresident, and either then did enter, or designed to enter, into aresolution honorable to all parties, namely, that a deputation fromthe whole body of the academy should wait upon him, and inform him oftheir wish, that the authority and privileges of the office ofpresident might be his during his life, declaring their willingness topermit the performance of any of its duties which might be irksome tohim by a deputy. 

From this period Sir Joshua never painted more. The last effort of hispencil was the portrait of the honorable Charles James Fox, which wasexecuted in his best style, and shows that his fancy, his imagination, and his other great powers in the art which he professed, remainedunabated to the end of his life. When the last touches were given tothis picture, "The hand of Reynolds fell, to rise no more. "

On Thursday, February 23, 1792, the world was deprived of this amiableman and excellent artist, at the age of sixty-eight years; a man thanwhom no one, according to Johnson, had passed through life with moreobservations of men and manners. The following character of him issaid to be the production of Mr. Burke:

"His illness was long, but borne with a mild and cheerful fortitude, without the least mixture of anything irritable or querulous, agreeably to the placid and even tenor of his whole life. He had, fromthe beginning of his malady, a distinct view of his dissolution, whichhe contemplated with that entire composure which nothing but theinnocence, integrity, and usefulness of his life, and an unaffectedsubmission to the will of Providence, could bestow. In this situationhe had every consolation from family tenderness, which his tendernessto his family had always merited. 

"Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on very many accounts, one of the mostmemorable men of his time; he was the first Englishman who added thepraise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country. Intaste, in grace, in facility, in happy invention, and in richness andharmony of coloring, he was equal to the great masters of the renownedages. In portrait he went beyond them; for he communicated to thatbranch of the art in which English artists are the most engaged, avariety, a fancy, and a dignity derived from the higher branches, which even those who professed them in a superior manner did notalways preserve when they delineated individual nature. His portraitsreminded the spectator of the invention of history and the amenity oflandscape. In painting portraits he appears not to be raised upon thatplatform, but to descend to it from a higher sphere. His paintingsillustrate his lessons, and his lessons seem to be derived from hispaintings. 

"He possessed the theory as perfectly as the practice of his art. Tobe such a painter, he was a profound and penetrating philosopher. 

"In full happiness of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the expertin art, and by the learned in science, courted by the great, caressedby sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his nativehumility, modesty, and candor never forsook him, even on surprise orprovocation; nor was the least degree of arrogance or assumptionvisible to the most scrutinizing eye in any part of his conduct ordiscourse. 

"His talents of every kind--powerful from nature, and not meanlycultivated in letters--his social virtues in all the relations and allthe habitudes of life, rendered him the centre of a very great andunparalleled variety of agreeable societies, which will be dissipatedby his death. He had too much merit not to excite some jealousy, toomuch innocence to provoke any enmity. The loss of no man of his timecan be felt with more sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow. "

BENJAMIN WEST

By MARTHA J. LAMB[5]

 [Footnote 5: Reprinted by permission, from the Magazine of American History. ]

(1738-1820)

[Illustration: Benjamin West. ]

In the wilds of the new world, a century and a half ago, there was, apparently, no spot less likely to produce a famous painter than theQuaker province of Pennsylvania. And yet, when George Washington wasonly six years old there was born, in the little town of Springfield, Chester County, a boy whose interesting and remarkable career frominfancy to old age has provided one of the most instructive lessonsfor students in art that America affords. 

Perhaps Benjamin West's aptitude for picture-making in his infancy, while he was learning to walk and to talk, did not exceed that ofhosts of other children, in like circumstances, in every generationsince his time. But many curious things were remembered and told ofthis baby's performances after he had developed a decided talent forreproducing the beautiful objects that captivated his eye. It was inthe summer of 1745, a few months before he was seven years old thathis married sister came home for a visit, bringing with her an infantdaughter. The next morning after her arrival, little Benjamin was leftto keep the flies off the sleeping baby, while his mother and sisterwent to the garden for flowers. The baby smiled in its sleep, and theboy was captivated. He must catch that smile and keep it. He foundsome paper on the table, scrambled for a pen, and with red and blackink made a hasty but striking picture of the little beauty. He heardhis mother returning, and conscious of having been in mischief, triedto conceal his production; but she detected and captured it, andregarded it long and lovingly, exclaiming as her daughter entered, "Hehas really made a likeness of little Sally!" She then caught up theboy in her arms, and kissed instead of chiding him, and he--looking upencouraged--told her he could make the flowers, too, if she wouldpermit. The awakening of genius in Benjamin West has been distinctlytraced to this incident, as the time when he first discovered that hecould imitate the forms of such objects as pleased his sense of sight. And the incident itself has been aptly styled "the birth of fine artsin the New World. "

The Quaker boy, in course of years, left the wilderness of America tobecome the president of the Royal Academy in London. Hisirreproachable character not less than his excellence as an artist, gave him commanding position among his contemporaries. From first tolast he was distinguished for his indefatigable industry. The numberof his pictures has been estimated, by a writer in _Blackwood'sMagazine_, at three thousand; and Dunlap says that a gallery capableof holding them would be four hundred feet long, fifty feet wide, andforty feet high--or a wall a quarter of a mile long. 

The parents of Benjamin West were sincere and self-respecting, and inthe language of the times, well-to-do. His mother's grandfather wasthe intimate and confidential friend of William Penn. The family ofhis father claimed direct descent from the Black Prince and LordDelaware, of the time of King Edward III. Colonel James West was thefriend and companion in arms of John Hampden. When Benjamin West was atwork upon his great picture of the "Institution of the Garter, " theKing of England was delighted when the Duke of Buckingham assured himthat West had an ancestral right to a place among the warriors andknights of his own painting. The Quaker associates of the parents ofthe artist, the patriarchs of Pennsylvania, regarded their asylum inAmerica as the place for affectionate intercourse--free from all themilitary predilections and political jealousies of Europe. The resultwas a state of society more contented, peaceful, and pleasing than theworld had ever before exhibited. At the time of the birth of BenjaminWest the interior settlements in Pennsylvania had attainedconsiderable wealth, and unlimited hospitality formed a part of theregular economy of the principal families. Those who resided near thehighways were in the habit, after supper and the religious exercisesof the evening, of making a large fire in the hallway, and spreading atable with refreshments for such travellers as might pass in thenight, who were expected to step in and help themselves. This wasconspicuously the case in Springfield. Other acts of liberality wereperformed by this community, to an extent that would have beggared themunificence of the old world. Poverty was not known in this region. But whether families traced their lineage to ancient and noblesources, or otherwise, their pride was so tempered with the meeknessof their faith, that it lent a singular dignity to their benevolence. 

The Indians mingled freely with the people, and when they paid theirannual visits to the plantations, raised their wigwams in the fieldsand orchards without asking permission, and were never molested. Shortly after Benjamin West's first efforts with pen and ink, a partyof red men reached and encamped in Springfield. The boy-artist showedthem his sketches of birds and flowers, which seemed to amuse themgreatly. They at once proceeded to teach him how to prepare the redand yellow colors with which they decorated their ornaments. To theseMrs. West added blue, by contributing a piece of indigo. Thus the boyhad three prismatic colors for his use. What could be more picturesquethan the scene where the untutored Indian gave the future artist hisfirst lesson in mixing paints! These wild men also taught him archery, that he might shoot birds for models if he wanted their bright plumageto copy. 

The neighbors were attracted by the boy's drawings, and finally arelative, Mr. Pennington, a prominent merchant of Philadelphia, cameto pay the family a visit. He thought the boy's crude pictures werewonderful, as he was then only entering his eighth year. When he wenthome he immediately sent the little fellow a box of paints, with sixengravings by Grevling. John Gait, who wrote from the artist's ownstatements, describes the effect of this gift upon the boy. In goingto bed he placed the box so near his couch, that he could hug andcaress it every time he wakened. Next morning he rose early, andtaking his paints and canvas to the garret, began to work. He went tobreakfast, and then stole back to his post under the roof, forgettingall about school. When dinnertime came he presented himself at table, as usual, but said nothing of his occupation. He had been absent fromschool some days before the master called on his parents to inquirewhat had become of him. This led to the discovery of his secretpainting, for his mother proceeded to the garret and found the truant. She was, however, so astonished with the creation upon his canvas, that she took him in her arms and kissed him with transports ofaffection. He had made a composition of his own out of two of theengravings--which he had colored from his ideas of the proper tints tobe used--and so perfect did the picture appear to Mrs. West that, although half the canvas remained to be covered, she would not sufferthe child to add another touch with his brush. Sixty-seven yearsafterward, Mr. Gait saw this production in the exact state in which itwas left, and Mr. West himself acknowledged that in subsequent effortshe had never been able to excel some of the touches of invention inthis first picture. 

The first instruction in art which the artist received was from Mr. William Williams, a painter in Philadelphia. Young West's firstattempt at portraiture was at Lancaster, where he painted "The Deathof Socrates" for William Henry, a gunsmith. He was not yet sixteen, but other paintings followed which possessed so much genuine merit, that they have been preserved as treasures. One of these is inpossession of General Meredith Reed, of Paris, France, a descendant ofthe signer. West returned to his home in Springfield, in 1754, todiscuss the question of his future vocation. He had an inclination formilitary life, and volunteered as a recruit in the old French war;but military attractions vanished among the hardships involved, and in1756, when eighteen years old, he established himself in Philadelphiaas a portrait-painter, his price being "five guineas a head. " Twoyears later he went to New York, where he passed eleven months, andwas liberally employed by the merchants and others. He painted theportrait of Bishop Provoost, those of Gerardus Duyekinck and hiswife--full length--one of Mrs. Samuel Breese, and many others, whichare in the families of descendants, and characteristic examples of hisearly work. 

In 1760 an opportunity offered for him to visit Rome, Italy. Hecarried letters to Cardinal Albani and other celebrities, and as hewas very handsome and intelligent, and came from a far-away land aboutwhich hung the perpetual charm of tradition and romance, he soonbecame the lion of the day among the imaginative Italians. It was anovelty then for an American to appear in the Eternal City, and thevery morning after his arrival a curious party followed his steps toobserve his pursuit of art. He remained in Italy until 1763, and whilethere he painted, among others, his pictures of "Cimon and Iphigenia, "and "Angelica and Medora. " His portrait of Lord Grantham excited muchinterest, and that nobleman's introduction facilitated his visit toLondon, which proved so prolific in results. There was no great livinghistorical painter in England just then; and at first there was nosale for West's pictures, as it was unfashionable to buy any but "oldmasters. " But the young artist was undaunted, and presently attractedattention in high places. His picture of "Agrippina Landing with theAshes of Germanicus, " painted for Dr. Drummond, Archbishop of York, secured him the favor of George III. , and the commission from hismajesty to paint the "Departure of Regulus from Rome. " His untiringindustry and gentlemanly habits were conspicuous, and may be regardedas among the great secrets of his continual advance and publicrecognition. His "Parting of Hector and Andromache, " and "Return ofthe Prodigal Son, " were among his notable productions of this period. His "Death of General Wolfe" has been, says Tuckerman, "truly declaredto have created an era in English art, by the successful example itinitiated of the abandonment of classic costume--a reform advocated byReynolds, who glories in the popular innovation. " His characters wereclad in the dress of their time. Reynolds said to the Archbishop ofYork: "I foresee that this picture will not only become one of themost popular, but will occasion a revolution in art. " It was purchasedby Lord Grosvenor. Among the long list of paintings executed by orderof the king were "The Death of Chevalier Bayard;" "Edward III. Embracing his Son on the Field of Battle at Cressy;" "The Installationof the Order of the Garter;" "The Black Prince Receiving the King ofFrance and his Son Prisoners at Poictiers, " and "Queen PhilippaInterceding with Edward for the Burgesses of Calais. " West was one ofthe founders, in 1768, of the Royal Academy, and succeeded Sir JoshuaReynolds as president of the institution in 1792, which post he heldalmost uninterruptedly until 1815. 

In the year 1780 he proposed a series of pictures on the progress ofrevealed religion, of which there were thirty-six subjects in all, but he never executed but twenty-eight of these, owing to the mentaltrouble which befell the king. He then commenced a new series ofimportant works, of which "Christ Healing the Sick" was purchased byan institution in Great Britain for £3, 000, and was subsequentlycopied for the Pennsylvania Hospital. "Penn's Treaty with the Indians"was painted for Granville Penn, the scene representing the founding ofPennsylvania. West wrote to one of his family that he had taken theliberty of introducing in this painting the likeness of his father andhis brother Thomas. "That is the likeness of our brother, " he says, "standing immediately behind Penn, leaning on his cane. I need notpoint out the picture of our father, as I believe you will find it inthe print from memory. " Tuckerman says that the work which, in theopinion of many critics, best illustrates the skill of West incomposition, drawing, expression, and dramatic effect, is his "Deathon the Pale Horse. " His "Cupid, " owned in Philadelphia, is one of hismost effective pictures as to color. 

The full-length portrait of West, by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A. , represents the great artist in his character as president of the RoyalAcademy, delivering a lecture on "coloring" to the students. Under hisright hand may be noticed, standing on an easel, a copy of Raphael'scartoon of the "Death of Ananias. " The picture of West's face has beenconsidered a perfect likeness, but the figure somewhat too large andtoo tall in its effects. A copy of this portrait was made by CharlesR. Leslie; and Washington Allston also painted a portrait of theartist. There exists, it is said, a portrait of West from his ownhand, taken apparently at about the age of forty, three-quarterlength, in Quaker costume. 

[Illustration: Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy. ]

THORWALDSEN

By HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

(1770-1844)

It was in Copenhagen, on November 19, 1770, that a carver of figuresfor ships' heads, by name Gottskalk Thorwaldsen, was presented by hiswife, Karen Grönlund, the daughter of a clergyman in Jutland, with ason, who at his baptism received the name of Bertel, or Albert. 

The father had come from Iceland, and lived in poor circumstances. They dwelt in _Lille Grönnegade_ (Little Green Street), not far fromthe Academy of Arts. The moon has often peeped into their poor room;she has told us about it in "A Picture-book without Pictures":

[Illustration: Thorwaldsen. ]

"The father and mother slept, but their little son did not sleep;where the flowered cotton bed-curtains moved I saw the child peep out. I thought at first that he looked at the Bornholm clock, for it wasfinely painted with red and green, and there was a cuckoo on the top;it had heavy leaden weights, and the pendulum with its shining brassplate went to and fro with a 'tick! tick!' But it was not that helooked at; no, it was his mother's spinning-wheel, which stooddirectly under the clock; this was the dearest piece of furniture inthe whole house for the boy; but he dared not touch it, for if he did, he got a rap over the fingers. While his mother spun, he would sit forhours together looking at the buzzing spindle and the revolving wheel, and then he had his own thoughts. Oh! if he only durst spin thatwheel! His father and mother slept; he looked at them, he looked atthe wheel, and then by degrees a little naked foot was stuck out ofbed, and then another naked foot, then there came two small legs, and, with a jump, he stood on the floor. He turned round once more, to seeif his parents slept; yes, they did, and so he went softly, quitesoftly, only in his little shirt, up to the wheel, and began to spin. The cord flew off, and the wheel then ran much quicker. His motherawoke at the same moment; the curtains moved; she looked out andthought of the brownie, or another little spectral being. 'Have mercyon us!' said she, and in her fear she struck her husband in the side;he opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and looked at the busylittle fellow. 'It is Bertel, woman, ' said he. "

What the moon relates we see here as the first picture inThorwaldsen's life's gallery; for it is a reflection of the reality. Thorwaldsen has himself, when in familiar conversation at Nysöe, toldthe author almost word for word what he, in his "Picture-book, " letsthe moon say. It was one of his earliest remembrances, how he, in hislittle short shirt, sat in the moonlight and spun his mother's wheel, while she, dear soul, took him for a little spectre. 

A few years ago there still lived an old ship-carpenter, whoremembered the little, light-haired, blue-eyed boy, that came to hisfather in the carving-house at the dock-yard; he was to learn hisfather's trade; and as the latter felt how bad it was not to be ableto draw, the boy, then eleven years of age, was sent to thedrawing-school at the Academy of Arts, where he made rapid progress. Two years afterward, Bertel, or Albert, as we shall in future callhim, was of great assistance to his father; nay, he even improved hiswork. 

See the hovering ships on the wharves! The Dannebrog waves, theworkmen sit in circle under the shade at their frugal breakfasts; butforemost stands the principal figure in this picture: it is a boy whocuts with a bold hand the lifelike features in the wooden image forthe beak-head of the vessel. It is the ship's guardian spirit, and, asthe first image from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wanderout into the wide world. The eternally swelling sea should baptize itwith its waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it. 

Our next picture advances a step forward. Unobserved among the otherboys, he has now frequented the Academy's school for six yearsalready, where, always taciturn and silent, he stood by hisdrawing-board. His answer was "yes" or "no, " a nod or a shake of thehead; but mildness shone from his features, and good-nature was inevery expression. The picture shows us Albert as a candidate forconfirmation. He is now seventeen years of age--not a very young ageto ratify his baptismal compact; his place at the dean's house is thelast among the poor boys, for his knowledge is not sufficient to placehim higher. There had just at that time been an account in thenewspapers, that the pupil Thorwaldsen had gained the Academy'ssmaller medal for a bas-relief representing a "Cupid Reposing. " "Is ityour brother that has gained the medal?" inquired the dean. "It ismyself, " said Albert, and the clergyman looked kindly on him, placedhim first among all the boys, and from that time always called himMonsieur Thorwaldsen. Oh! how deeply did that "Monsieur" then sound inhis mind! As he has often said since, it sounded far more powerfullythan any title that kings could give him; he never afterward forgotit. 

In a small house in Aabeuraa--the street where Holberg lets his poorpoets dwell--lived Albert Thorwaldsen with his parents, and dividedhis time between the study of art and assisting his father. TheAcademy's lesser gold was then the prize to be obtained for sculpture. Our artist was now twenty years of age; his friends knew his abilitiesbetter than himself, and they compelled him to enter on the task. Thesubject proposed was, "Heliodorus Driven out of the Temple. "

We are now in Charlottenburg; but the little chamber in whichThorwaldsen lately sat to make his sketch is empty, and he, chased bythe demons of fear and distrust, hastens down the narrow back-stairswith the intention not to return. Nothing is accidental in the life ofa great genius; an apparent insignificance is a God's guiding finger. Thorwaldsen was to complete his task. Who is it that stops him on thedark stairs? One of the professors just comes that way, speaks to him, questions, admonishes him. He returns, and in four hours the sketch isfinished, and the gold medal won. This was on August 15, 1791. 

Count Ditlew de Reventlow, minister of state, saw the young artist'swork, and became his protector; he placed his own name at the head ofa subscription that enabled Thorwaldsen to devote his time to thestudy of his art. Two years afterward the large gold medal was to becontended for at the Academy, the successful candidate thereby gainingthe right to a travelling _stipendium_. Thorwaldsen was again thefirst; but before he entered on his travels, it was deemed necessaryto extend that knowledge which an indifferent education at school hadleft him in want of. He read, studied, and the Academy gave him itssupport; acknowledgment smiled on him, a greater and more spiritualsphere lay open to him. 

A portrait figure stands now before us; it is that of a Dane, thelearned and severe Zoega, to whom the young artist is speciallyrecommended, but who only sees in him a common talent; whose words areonly those of censure, and whose eye sees only a servile imitation ofthe antique in his works. Strictly honest in his judgment, accordingto his own ideas, is this man, who should be Thorwaldsen's guide. 

We let three years glide away after the arrival of Thorwaldsen, andask Zoega what he now says of Albert, or, as the Italians call him, Alberto, and the severe man shakes his head and says: "There is muchto blame, little to be satisfied with, and diligent he is not!" Yet hewas diligent in a high degree; but genius is foreign to a foreignmind. "The snow had just then thawed from my eyes, " he has himselfoften repeated. The drawings of the Danish painter Carstens formed oneof those spiritual books that shed its holy baptism over that growinggenius. The little _atelier_ looked like a battle-field, forroundabout were broken statues. Genius formed them often in themidnight hours; despondency over their faults broke them in the day. 

The three years, for which he had received a _stipendium_, were as ifthey had flown away, and as yet he had produced nothing. The time forhis return drew nigh. One work, however, he must complete, that itmight not with justice be said in Denmark, "Thorwaldsen has quitewasted his time in Rome. " Doubting his genius just when it embracedhim most affectionately; not expecting a victory, while he alreadystood on its open road, he modelled "Jason who has Gained the GoldenFleece. " It was this that Thorwaldsen would have gained in the kingdomof arts, and which he now thought he must resign. The figure stoodthere in clay, many eyes looked carelessly on it, and--he broke it topieces!

It was in April, 1801, that his return home was fixed, in company withZoega. It was put off until the autumn. During this time "Jason"occupied all his thoughts. A new, a larger figure of the hero wasformed, an immortal work; but it had not then been announced to theworld, nor understood by it. "Here is something more than common!" wassaid by many. Even the man to whom all paid homage, the illustriousCanova, started, and exclaimed: "Quest' opera di quel giovane Danese èfatta in uno stilo nuovo, e grandioso!" Zoega smiled. "It is bravelydone!" said he. The Danish songstress, Frederikke Brunn, was then inRome and sang enthusiastically about Thorwaldsen's "Jason. " Sheassisted the artist, so that he was enabled to get this figure cast inplaster; for he himself had no more money than was just sufficient forhis expenses home. 

The last glass of wine had been already drunk as a farewell, the boxespacked, and the _vetturino's_ carriage was before the door at daybreak;the boxes were fastened behind. Then came a fellow-traveller--thesculptor, Hagemann, who was returning to his native city, Berlin. Hispassport was not ready. Their departure must be put off until the nextday; and Thorwaldsen promised, although the _vetturino_ complained andabused him, to remain so long. He stayed--stayed to win an immortal nameon earth, and cast a lustre over Denmark. 

Though forty years resident in Rome, rich and independent, he livedand worked with the thought of once returning home to Denmark, thereto rest himself; unaccustomed to the great comforts of other richartists in Rome, he lived a bachelor's life. Was his heart, then, nolonger open to love since his first departure from Copenhagen? Athousand beautiful Cupids in marble will tell us how warmly that heartbeat. Love belongs to life's mysteries. 

We know that Thorwaldsen left a daughter in Rome, whose birth heacknowledged; we also know that more than one female of quality wouldwillingly have given her hand to the great artist. The year before hisfirst return to Denmark he lay ill at Naples, and was nursed by anEnglish lady who felt the most ardent affection for him; and, fromthat feeling of gratitude which was awakened in him, he immediatelyconsented to their union. When he had recovered and afterward returnedto Rome, this promise preyed on his mind, he felt that he was not nowformed to be a husband, acknowledged that gratitude was not love, andthat they were not suited for each other; after a long combat withhimself, he wrote and informed her of his determination. Thorwaldsenwas never married. 

The following trait is as characteristic of his heart as of his wholepersonality. One day, while in Rome, there came a poor countryman tohim, an artisan, who had long been ill. He came to say farewell, andto thank him for the money that he and others of his countrymen hadsubscribed together, with which he was to reach home. 

"But you will not walk the whole way?" said Thorwaldsen. 

"I am obliged to do so, " replied the man. 

"But you are still too weak to walk--you cannot bear the fatigue, normust you do it!" said he. 

The man assured him of the necessity of doing so. 

Thorwaldsen went and opened a drawer, took out a handful of _scudi_and gave them to him, saying, "See, now you will ride the whole way!"

The man thanked him, but assured him that his gift would not be morethan sufficient to carry him to Florence. 

"Well!" said Thorwaldsen, clapping him on the shoulder, as he went asecond time to the drawer and took out another handful. The man wasgrateful in the highest degree, and was going. "Now you can ride thewhole way home and be comfortable on the way, " said he, as he followedthe man to the door. 

"I am very glad, " said the man. "God bless you for it! but to ride thewhole way requires a little capital. "

"Well, then, tell me how great that must be, " he asked, and lookedearnestly at him. The man in a modest manner named the requisite sum, and Thorwaldsen went a third time to the drawer, counted out the sum, accompanied him to the door, pressed his hand, and repeated, "But nowyou will ride, for you have not strength to walk!"

Our artist did not belong to the class of great talkers; it was onlyin a small circle that he could be brought to say anything, but thenit was always with humor and gayety. A few energetic exclamations ofhis are preserved. A well-known sculptor, expressing himself one daywith much self-feeling, entered into a dispute with Thorwaldsen, andset his own works over the latter's. "You may bind my hands behindme, " said Thorwaldsen, "and I will bite the marble out with my teethbetter than you can carve it. "

Thorwaldsen possessed specimens in plaster of all his works; these, together with the rich marble statues and bas-reliefs which he hadcollected of his own accord, without orders, and the number ofpaintings that he every year bought of young artists, formed atreasure that he wished to have in his proper home, Copenhagen. Therefore, when the Danish government sent vessels of war to theMediterranean, in order to fetch the works that were ready for thepalace or the churches, he always sent a number of his own things withthem. Denmark was to inherit these treasures of art; and, in order tosee them collected in a place worthy of them, a zeal was awakened inthe nation to build a museum for their reception. A committee of hisDanish admirers and friends sent out a requisition to the people, thateveryone might give their mite; many a poor servant-girl and many apeasant gave theirs, so that a good sum was soon collected. FrederickVI. Gave ground for the building, and the erection thereof wascommitted to the architect, Bindesbol. 

Thorwaldsen, in 1838, had attained universal fame. The frigate Rotawas dispatched to bring a cargo of his works to Copenhagen, and he wasto arrive at the same time, perhaps to remain in Denmark. Close toPresto Bay, surrounded by wood-grown banks, lies Nysöe, the principalseat of the barony of Stampenborg, a place which, through Thorwaldsen, has become remarkable in Denmark. The open strand, the beautiful beechwoods, even the little town seen through the orchards, at some fewhundred paces from the mansion, make the place worthy of a visit onaccount of its truly Danish scenery. Here Thorwaldsen found his besthome in Denmark; here he seemed to increase his fame, and here aseries of his last beautiful bas-reliefs were produced. 

Baron Stampe was one of nature's noblest-minded men; his hospitalityand his lady's daughterly affection for Thorwaldsen opened a home forhim here, a comfortable and good one. A great energetic power in thebaroness incited his activity; she attended him with a daughter'scare, elicited from him every little wish, and executed it. Directlyafter his first visit to Nysöe, a short tour to Moen's chalk cliffswas arranged, and during the few days that were passed there, a little_atelier_ was erected in the garden at Nysöe, close to the canal whichhalf encircles the principal building; here, and in a corner room ofthe mansion, on the first floor facing the sea, most of Thorwaldsen'sworks, during the last years of his life, were executed: "ChristBearing the Cross, " "The Entry into Jerusalem, " "Rebecca at the Well, "his own portrait-statue, Oehlenschlæger's and Holberg's busts, etc. Baroness Stampe was in faithful attendance on him, lent him a helpinghand, and read aloud for him from Holberg. Driving abroad, weeklyconcerts, and in the evenings his fondest play, "The Lottery, " werewhat most easily excited him, and on these occasions he would say manyamusing things. He has represented the Stampe family in twobas-reliefs: in the one, representing the mother, the two daughters, and the youngest son, is the artist himself; the other exhibits thefather and the two eldest sons. 

All circles sought to attract Thorwaldsen; he was at every greatfestival, in every great society, and every evening in the theatre bythe side of Oehlenschlæger. His greatness was allied to a mildness, astraightforwardness, that in the highest degree fascinated thestranger who approached him for the first time. His _atelier_ inCopenhagen was visited daily; he therefore felt himself morecomfortable and undisturbed at Nysöe. Baron Stampe and his familyaccompanied him to Italy in 1841, when he again visited that country. The whole journey, which was by way of Berlin, Dresden, Frankfort, theRhine towns, and Munich, was a continued triumphal procession. Thewinter was passed in Rome, and the Danes there had a home in whichthey found a welcome. 

The following year Thorwaldsen was again in Denmark, and at hisfavorite place, Nysöe. On Christmas eve he here formed his beautifulbas-relief, "Christmas Joys in Heaven, " which Oehlenschlægerconsecrated with a poem. The last birthday of his life was celebratedhere; the performance of one of Holberg's vaudevilles was arranged, and strangers invited; yet the morning of that day was the homeliest, when only the family and the author of this memoir, who had written amerry song for the occasion, which was still wet on the paper, placedthemselves outside the artist's door, each with a pair of tongs, agong, or a bottle on which they rubbed a cork, as an accompaniment, and sung the song as a morning greeting. Thorwaldsen, in his morninggown, opened the door, laughing; he twirled his black Raphael's cap, took a pair of tongs himself, and accompanied us, while he dancedround and joined the others in the loud "hurra!"

A charming bas-relief, "The Genius of Poetry, " was just completed; itwas the same that Thorwaldsen, on the last day of his life, bequeathedto Oehlenschlæger, and said, "It may serve as a medal for you. "

On Sunday, March 24, 1844, a small party of friends were assembled atthe residence of Baron Stampe, in Copenhagen. Thorwaldsen was thereand was unusually lively, told stories, and spoke of a journey that heintended to make to Italy in the course of the summer. Cahn's tragedyof "Griseldis" was to be performed for the first time that evening atthe theatre. Tragedy was not his favorite subject, but comedy, andparticularly the comedies of Holberg; but it was something new that hewas to see, and it had become a sort of habit with him to pass theevening in the theatre. About six o'clock, therefore, he went to thetheatre alone. The overture had begun; on entering he shook hands witha few of his friends, took his usual seat, stood up again to allow oneto pass him, sat down again, bent his head, and was no more! The musiccontinued. Those nearest to him thought he was only in a swoon, and hewas borne out; but he was numbered with the dead. 

The mournful intelligence of his death soon spread through the countryand through all lands; funeral dirges were sung and funeral festivalswere arranged in Berlin and Rome; in the Danish theatre, whence hissoul took its flight to God there was a festival; the place where hesat was decorated with crape and laurel wreaths, and a poem by Heibergwas recited, in which his greatness and his death were alluded to. 

The day before Thorwaldsen's death the interior of his tomb wasfinished, for it was his wish that his remains might rest in thecentre of the court-yard of the museum; it was then walled round, andhe begged that there might be a marble edge around it, and a fewrose-trees and flowers planted on it as his monument. The wholebuilding, with the rich treasures which he presented to hisfatherland, will be his monument; his works are to be placed in therooms of the square building that surrounds the open court-yard, andwhich, both internally and externally, are painted in the Pompeianstyle. His arrival in the roads of Copenhagen and landing at thecustom-house form the subjects depicted in the compartments under thewindows of one side of the museum. Through centuries to come willnations wander to Denmark; not allured by our charming green islands, with their fresh beech-woods alone--no, but to see these works andthis tomb. 

There is, however, one place more that the stranger will visit, thelittle spot at Nysöe where his _atelier_ stands, and where the treebends its branches over the canal to the solitary swan which he fed. The name of Thorwaldsen will be remembered in England by his statuesof Jason and Byron; in Switzerland, by his "recumbent lion;" inRoeskilde, by his figure of Christian the Fourth. It will live inevery breast in which a love of art is enkindled. 

JEAN-FRANÇOIS MILLET[6]

 [Footnote 6: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(1814-1875)

[Illustration: Jean-François Millet. ]

We read that on one occasion, when a picture by some Dutch artist, representing peasants at their sports, was shown to Louis XIV. , heangrily exclaimed, "Take away those vermin!" Such subjects had neverbeen chosen by French artists, nor indeed had they been seen anywherein Europe before the Dutch artists began to paint them in theseventeenth century. The Italian painters of the early and the laterRenaissance, working almost exclusively for the churches, or for thepalaces of pleasure-loving princes, did not consider the peasant orthe laboring man, by himself, a proper subject for his art. If he wereintroduced at any time into picture or bas-relief, it was only as anecessary actor in some religious story, such as "The Adoration of theShepherds, " or in the representations of the months or the seasons, asin the Fountain of the Public Square at Perugia, where we see thepeasant engaged in the labors of the farm or vineyard: cutting thewheat, gathering in the grapes, and treading out the wine, and, inthe later season, dressing the hog he has been killing; for in thoseless sophisticated times, Art, no more than Poetry, despised the ruderside of rustic life. 

The German artists of the sixteenth century introduced peasants andpeasant-life into their designs whenever the subject admitted. AlbertDürer was especially given to this, and it often gives a particularsavor, sometimes a half-humorous expression, to his treatment of evenreligious subjects; as where, in his design, "The Repose in Egypt, " heshows Joseph, the foster-father of Jesus, making a water-trough out ofa huge log, and a bevy of cherub-urchins about him gathering up thechips. Mary, meanwhile, as the peasant mother, sits by, spinning androcking the cradle of the Holy Child with her foot. 

But these examples only serve to make clearer the fact that in theearlier times there was no place found in art for the representationof the laboring man, whether in the field or in the shop, except as anillustration of some allegorical or religious theme. Nor in the Dutchpictures that Louis XIV. Despised, and that our own time finds sovaluable for their artistic qualities, was there anything outside oftheir beauty or richness of tone or color to redeem their coarsenessand vulgarity. There was no poetry in the treatment, nor any sympathywith anything higher than the grossest guzzling, fighting, andhorseplay. The great monarch, who, according to his lights, was a manof delicacy and refinement, was certainly right in contemning suchsubjects, and it is perhaps to his credit that he did not care enoughfor "Art for Art's sake" to excuse the brutality of the theme for thesake of the beauty of the painting. 

The next appearance of the peasant in art was of a very differentsort, and represented a very different state of social feeling fromthe "peasants" of the Dutch painters. In the Salon of 1850 thereappeared a picture called "The Sower" and representing a young peasantsowing grain. There was nothing in the subject to connect itparticularly with any religious symbolism--not even with the Parableof the Sower who went forth to sow; nor with any series ofpersonifications of the months. This was a simple peasant of theNorman coast, in his red blouse and blue trousers, his legs wrapped instraw, and his weather-beaten hat, full of holes. He marches with therhythmic step made necessary by his task, over the downs that top thehigh cliffs, followed by a cloud of crows that pounce upon the grainas he sows it. At first sight there would seem to be nothing in thispicture to call for particular notice; but the public, the artists, the critics, were with one accord strongly drawn to it. Something inthe picture appealed to feelings deeper than mere curiosity, and aninterest was excited such as did not naturally belong to a picture ofa man sowing a field of grain. The secret was this: that a man bornand bred in the midst of laboring people, struggling with the hardnecessities of life--himself a laborer, and one who knew by experienceall the lights and shades of the laborer's life--had painted thispicture out of his own deep sympathy with his fellows, and to pleasehimself by reproducing the most significant and poetical act in thelife of the farmer. 

The painter of this picture, the first man of our time to give thelaborer in the fields and on the farm a place in art, and to setpeople to thinking about him, as a man, not merely as an illustrationof some sacred text, or an image in a book of allegories, wasJean-François Millet, known as the peasant painter of peasants. 

He was born at Gruchy, a small hamlet on the coast of Normandy, wherehis family, well known in the region for several generations, lived bythe labor of their hands, cultivating their fields and exercising thesimple virtues of that pastoral life, without ambition and withoutdesire for change. This content was a part of the religion of thecountry and must not be looked upon as arguing a low state ofintelligence or of manners. Of their neighbors we have no account, butthe Millet household contained many of the elements that go to sustainthe intellectual no less than the spiritual life. If there was plainliving, there was high thinking; there were books and of the best, andmore than one member of the circle valued learning for its own sake. Millet owed much to his grandmother, a woman of great strength ofcharacter and of a deeply religious nature. As his godmother she gavehim his name, calling him Jean, after his father, and François, afterSaint Francis of Assisi. As is usual in Catholic countries, the boywas called after the name of his patron saint, and in the case ofMillet, Saint Francis, the ardent lover of nature, the friend of thebirds and of all the animate creation, was well chosen as the guardianof one who was to prove himself, all his life, the passionate lover ofnature. 

The boyhood of Millet was passed at home. He had no schooling exceptsome small instruction in Latin from the village priest and from aneighboring curate, but he made good use of what he learned. He workedon the farm with his father and his men, ploughing, harrowing, sowing, reaping, mowing, winnowing--in a word, sharing actively andcontentedly in all the work that belongs to the farmer's life. And inthe long winter evenings or in the few hours of rest that the dayafforded, he would hungrily devour the books that were at hand--the"Lives of the Saints, " the "Confessions of Saint Augustine, " the "Lifeof Saint Jerome, " and especially his letters, which he read andre-read all his life. These and the philosophers of Port Royal, withBossuet, and Fénelon, with the Bible and Virgil, were his mental food. Virgil and the Bible he read always in the Latin; he was so familiarwith them both that, when a man, his biographer, Sensier, says henever met a more eloquent translator of these two books. When the timecame, therefore, for Millet to go up to Paris, he was not, as has beensaid by some writer, an ignorant peasant, but a well-taught man whohad read much and digested what he had read, and knew good books frombad. The needs of his narrow life absorbed him so seriously that theseeds of art that lay hid in his nature found a way to the light withdifficulty. But his master-passion was soon to assert itself, and, asin all such cases, in an unexpected manner. 

Millet's attempts at drawing had hitherto been confined to studiesmade in hours stolen from rest. He had copied the engravings found inan old family Bible, and he had drawn, from his window, the garden, the stable, the field running down to the edge of the high cliff, andwith the sea in the horizon, and he had sometimes tried his hand atsketching the cows and sheep in the pasture. But he was now to take astep in advance. Coming home one day from church, he walked behind anold man bent with age and feebleness, painfully making his way. Theforeshortening and the movement of the man's figure struck the boyforcibly, and in a flash he discovered the secret of perspective andthe mystery of planes. He ran quickly home, got a pencil and drew frommemory a picture of the old man, so lively in its resemblance that assoon as his parents saw it, they recognized it and fell a-laughing. Talk with his boy revealed to the father his son's strong desire to bean artist; but before such a serious step could be taken, it wasnecessary to consult with some person better able to judge than anyone in the Millet household. Cherbourg, the nearest large town, wasthe natural place where to seek advice; thither Millet and his fatherrepaired, the boy with two drawings under his arm that he had made forthe occasion, and these were submitted to the critical eye of Mouchel, an old pupil of David, who eked out the scanty living he got bypainting by giving lessons in drawing. When the two drawings made byyoung Millet were shown him he refused to believe they were the workof the lad of fifteen. The very subjects chosen by the boy showedsomething out of the common. One was a sort of home idyl: twoshepherds were in a little orchard close, one playing on the flute, the other listening; some sheep were browsing near. The men wore theblouse and wooden shoes of Millet's country; the orchard was one thatbelonged to his father. The other drawing showed a starry night. A manwas coming from the house with loaves of bread in his hand which hegave to another man who eagerly received them. Underneath, in Latin, were the words from St. Luke: "Though he will not rise and give himbecause he is his friend, yet because of his importunity he will riseand give him as many as he needeth. " A friend of Millet's, who sawthese drawings thirty years after, said they were the work of a manwho already knew the great significance of art, the effects it wascapable of, and what were its resources. 

Mouchel consented to receive Millet as a pupil, but, as it proved, hecould do little for him in the way of direct teaching. He left the boyfree to follow his own devices. He said to him: "Do whatever you wish;choose whatever model you find in my studio that pleases you, andstudy in the Museum. " This might not be the course to follow withevery boy, but Mouchel had the artist's penetration and knew with whomhe had to deal. 

The death of Millet's father interrupted his studies and he returnedhome for awhile to help his mother on the farm. But it was thoughtbest that he should keep on with the work he had begun. Thegrandmother urged his return: "My François, " she said, "we must acceptthe will of God. Thy father, my son, Jean-Louis, said that you were tobe a painter; obey him, and go back to Cherbourg. "

Millet did not need persuasion from his family. Friends in Cherbourgurged him to come back, promised him commissions, and assured him aplace in the studio of Langlois, a painter of a higher grade thanMouchel, who had recently set up his easel in the town. Once moreestablished at Cherbourg Millet continued his studies after the sameeasy fashion with Langlois as with his former master. Langlois, whowas as much impressed by his pupil's talent as Mouchel had been andwilling to serve him, made a personal appeal to the mayor and council, asking that Millet, as a promising young artist and one likely to docredit to the town, might be assisted in going to Paris to study underbetter advantages than he could enjoy at home. 

On the strength of this appeal, the council of Cherbourg agreed toallow Millet an annuity of four hundred francs, equal to eightydollars. With this small sum, and the addition of two hundred francsgiven him at parting by his mother and grandmother, making one hundredand twenty dollars in all, Millet left his quiet life in Normandybehind him and set out for Paris, where, as his biographer, Sensier, says, he was to pass as a captive the richest years of his life. 

Millet was twenty-two years old when he went first to Paris and heremained there, with occasional visits to Gruchy and Cherbourg, forthe next thirteen years. Paris was, from the first, more thandistasteful to him. He was thoroughly unhappy there. Outside theLouvre and the studios of a few artist-friends, he found nothing thatappealed to what was deepest in him. His first experiences wereunusually bitter. The struggle with poverty was hard to bear, butperhaps a more serious drawback was his want of an aim in art, of asubstantial reason, so to speak, for the profession he had chosen, leading him to one false move after another in search of a subject. Unformed and unrecognized in his mind lay the desire to express in artthe life he had left behind him in Normandy; but it was long before hearrived at the knowledge of himself and of his true vocation. He seemsto have had no one in Paris to guide or direct him, and he ratherstumbled into the studio of Delaroche, than entered it deliberately. He made but a brief stay there, and although he won the respect of hismaster, who would willingly have retained him as pupil and assistant, he was conscious that he learned nothing from Delaroche; andaccordingly, in company with another pupil, Marolles, who had taken agreat liking to him, he left the studio without much ceremony; and thetwo friends improvised a studio and a lodging for themselves in agarret in a poor quarter of the city, and began their search for ameans of pleasing the public. But the way was not opened to either ofthem; they could not sell what they painted, and they were reduced toserious straits. It was not the fault of the public. Marolles was butan indifferent painter at any time, and Millet would not have blamedthe public for its indifference to subjects in which he himself tookno real interest. 

Millet was at a loss what to do for bread. His mind ran backcontinually to his rural life at Gruchy. "What if I should paint menmowing or winnowing?" he said to Marolles; "their movements arepicturesque!" "You could not sell them, " replied his friend. "Well, then, what do you say to fauns and dryads?" "Who in Paris cares forfauns and dryads?" "What shall I do, then?" said Millet in despair. "What does the public like?" "It likes Boucher's Cupids, Watteau'sPastorals, nudities, anecdotes, and copies of the past. " It was hardfor Millet, but hunger drove him. He would not appeal to his family, life was as difficult for them as for him. But before yielding hewould make one more trial, painting something from his own fancy. Hemade a small picture representing "Charity"--a sad-faced womancherishing three children in her arms. He carried it to the dealers:not one of them would buy it. He came back to Marolles. "Give me asubject, " he said, "and I will paint it. "

To this time belong the pictures for which Millet has been muchcriticised by people who did not appreciate his position. Some of themrecall Watteau, others Boucher, but they have a charm, a grace oftheir own; they are far from being copies of these men. Others werefanciful subjects to which Marolles gave names likely to attract thenotice of picture-buyers in search of a subject. But all was in vain. The dealers were obstinate: the public unsympathetic. The highestprice that was offered was never above twenty francs, or five dollars. Yet with this in his pocket, Millet deemed himself already on the highroad to fortune, and saw the day not distant when he could paint athis pleasure the rustic subjects, memories of his home, that hadalways been in his mind. 

Several times in the course of this hard novitiate, Millet had escapedfrom Paris for a visit to his own country. At one time he had remainedfor a year at Cherbourg, where he painted portraits for such smallsums as he could get, and here he and one of his sitters, a young girlof Cherbourg, falling in love with one another, were married. Themarriage only added, as might have been foreseen, to Millet'stroubles: his wife's health was always delicate; after her marriage itbecame worse, and she died four years after in Paris. Not long afterher death Millet married again, and this proved a fortunate venture. His wife came with him to Paris, and the struggle with life begananew. The turning-point in the long period of Millet's uncertaintiesand disappointments with himself came in 1849, when the politicaltroubles of the time, and the visit of the cholera, combined to drivehim and his family from Paris. They took refuge at Barbizon, a smallhamlet on the outskirts of the Forest of Fontainebleau, and here, inthe place that was to be forever associated with his name and work, Millet passed, with few interruptions, the remaining years of hislife. 

The phrase so often heard to-day, "The Barbizon School, " is ratherwider than a strict interpretation would warrant, since Millet andRousseau were the only ones of the group who lived in the village. Corot was not acquainted with Millet. Decamps was never in Millet'shouse except as a rare visitor to his studio. Diaz lived in Paris. Jacque, the painter of sheep, was a friend of Millet, and for a timeat least lived at Barbizon in the house where he lodged before heprocured a home of his own. The artistic relationship between theseartists is slight, except in the case of Rousseau and Diaz, and eventhere it is only occasionally to be detected. All these men, withDupré, Courbet and Delacroix, were counted heretics in art by theAcademy and the official critics, and as Millet was the most markedfigure in the group and was greatly admired and respected by all whocomposed it, it was perhaps natural that they should be considered bythe public as disciples of the peasant painter of Barbizon. 

Here, then, at Barbizon, Millet lived for the remaining twenty-sevenyears of his life, dividing his day between the labors of his farm inthe morning hours, painting in his studio in the afternoon--he alwayspreferred the half-light for painting--and in the evening enjoying thesociety of his wife and children and of such friends as might join thecircle. Occasional visits to Paris, to the galleries, and to thestudios of his artist-circle, kept him in touch with the world towhich he belonged. His books, too, were his unfailing companions, though he never cared to stray far beyond the circle of his youthfulfriendships, Homer, and Virgil, and especially the Bible, which helooked upon as the book of painters, the inexhaustible source of thenoblest and most touching subjects, capable of expression in thegrandest forms. 

But it was in the rural life about him, the life in which he activelyshared, that he found the world wherein he could pour all histhoughts, feelings, and experiences with the certainty of seeing thememerge in forms answering to his conception. It was not until he cameto Barbizon that he began truly to live the artist-life as heunderstood it, where the work is a faithful reflection of the onlythings a man really cares for--the things he knows by heart. In thepictures painted at Barbizon, and in the multitude of slight sketchesfor subjects never painted, with finished drawings and pastels, Millethas composed a series of moral eclogues well worthy of a place withthose of Virgil and Theocritus. All the world knows them; all theworld loves them: the "Mother Feeding Her Children, " "The PeasantGrafting, " "The First Step, " "Going to Work, " "The Sower, " "TheGleaners, " "The Sheep-Shearing, " "The Angelus"--even to name themwould carry us far beyond our limits. They made the fame of Milletwhile he still lived, although the pecuniary reward of his labors wasnot what they deserved nor what it would have been had he earlierfound his true way or had his life been prolonged to the normal limit. He died in 1875 at the age of sixty-one. Since his death more than oneof his pictures has been sold at a price exceeding all that he earnedduring his whole lifetime. Seen from the world's side, there was muchin his life that was sad and discouraging, but from the spiritual sidethere was far more to cheer and uplift. His private life was honorableand happy, his friends were many and among the chosen ones of thetime, and he had the happiness of seeing his work accepted and ratedat something like its true worth before he left it. 

[Signature of the author. ]

MEISSONIER[7]

 [Footnote 7: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(1813-1891)

[Illustration: Meissonier. ]

Among the many beautiful paintings collected in the MetropolitanMuseum of Art of New York, there is one that always attracts a crowd, on the free-days and holidays when the general public finds admission. This is the picture called simply, "Friedland: 1807, " and representingthe soldiers of Napoleon saluting the emperor at the battle ofFriedland. It was painted by Jean Louis Meissonier for the late A. T. Stewart, of New York, who paid for it what seemed a very large sum, $60, 000; but when Mr. Stewart died, and his pictures were sold atauction, this painting brought the still larger sum of $66, 000, showing that a great many people admired the work, and were willing topay a good price for it. The picture was bought by Judge Hilton, ofNew York, and was presented by him to the Metropolitan Museum as amemorial of the long friendship that had existed between himself andMr. Stewart. No doubt the facts of the high price paid for thepicture, and that a gift of such value should be made to the Museum, have caused a great many people to look at the painting with moreinterest than they would, had the circumstances been less uncommon. But a great many more people find this picture interesting for its ownsake; they are moved rather by the spirited way in which it tells itsstory, and find their curiosity excited by the studious accuracy shownby the artist in the painting of every detail. 

The scene of the action is a field that has been planted with grainwhich now lies trampled under the feet of men and horses. Theturning-point in the battle has been reached, and in the joy of comingvictory, the body-guard of the emperor, spurring their jaded horses tothe hillock where he sits on his white charger surrounded by hismounted staff, salute him with loud cries as they rush madly by him. Napoleon, calm and self-possessed, returns the salute, but it is plainhis thoughts are busier with the battle that is raging in the distancethan with these demonstrations of his body-guard's loyalty. Thispicture was the favorite work of the artist; he calls it, "the lifeand joy of my studio, " and he is said to have worked on it atintervals during fifteen years. 

[Illustration: Meissonier's Atelier. ]

Somebody has said that "genius" means nothing but "taking pains. " Inthat case, Meissonier must have been a man of genius, for, withwhatever he painted, were it small or great, he took infinite pains, never content until he had done everything in his power to show thingsexactly as they were. Thus, in the picture we have just beendescribing, we may be sure that we know, from looking at it, exactlyhow Napoleon was dressed on the day of Friedland, and also how eachmember of his military staff was dressed; not a button, nor a strap, nor any smallest detail but has been faithfully copied from the thingitself, while every head in the group is a trustworthy portrait. Whenit was not possible to get the actual dress worn by the person he waspainting, Meissonier spared no pains nor money to obtain an exactcopy. How it was in the case of the "Friedland, " we do not know, butwhen he painted the "March to Paris, " Meissonier borrowed from theMuseum, in Paris, where relics of all the kings of France are kept(the _Musée des Souverains_), the famous "little gray riding-coat"worn by Napoleon at the battle of the Pyramids and in otherengagements. This coat, Meissonier had copied by a tailor, with theminutest accuracy, and it was then worn by the model while he waspainting the picture. The same pains were taken with the cuirassierswho are dashing across the front of the picture in the "Friedland. " Aswill be seen on looking closely, one model served for all the men inthe front rank, but as the uniform was the same it was only necessaryto vary the attitude. The uniform and all the accoutrements werecarefully reproduced by workmen from originals of the time, borrowedby Meissonier for the purpose, and the model was then mounted on ajointed wooden horse and made to take the attitude required: theaction of the horse was as carefully studied from that of the livinganimal. By the time that Meissonier came to paint this picture, he wasso famous an artist, and had gained such a place in the world, that hecould have almost anything he asked for to aid him in his work. So, when, with the same desire for accuracy that he had shown in paintingother parts of the picture, he came to paint the trampled grain, theGovernment, or so we are told, bought the use of a field of ripe grainand lent Meissonier the services of a company of cuirassiers who wereset to dashing about in it until they had got it into propercondition. We can see that the cost of all this accuracy would, in theend, amount to a considerable sum, and when we reckon the time of anartist so distinguished as Meissonier, it is not so surprising as itmay have appeared at first, that his picture should have brought somuch money. 

Of course, Meissonier did not come all at once to fame and prosperity. The rewards he gained were such as are earned only by hard andconstant labor. When he came to Paris about the year 1832, from Lyons, where he was born, he was about nineteen years old. His parents werein humble circumstances, and would seem to have been able to donothing to advance the lad, who arrived in Paris with little money inhis pocket, and with no friends at hand. He had, however, thematerials out of which friends and money are made: health, a generousspirit, energy, and a clear purpose, and with these he went to work. We do not hear much about his early life in Paris. When he firstappears in sight, he is working in the same studio with Daubigny, thelandscape-painter, the two painting pictures for a dollar the squareyard, religious pictures probably, and probably also copies, to besent into the country and hung up in the parish churches. Althoughthis may have seemed like hardship at the time, yet there is no doubtit was good practice, for among artists we are told it is an accepteddoctrine that in order to paint on a small scale really well, you mustbe able to paint on a larger. And it is said that Meissonier was inthe habit all his life of making life-size studies in order to keephis style from falling into pettiness. So, after all, the painting ofthese big pictures may have been a useful ordeal for the artist whofor the next sixty years was to reap fame by painting small ones. 

While he was earning a scanty living by this hack-work, Meissonierfound time to paint two pictures which he sent to the Salon of 1836. One of these attracted the attention of a clever artist, TonyJohannot, who introduced him to Léon Cogniet, with whom he studied fora time, but from whom he learned but little. The mechanism of his arthe had pretty well mastered already, as was shown by the Salonaccepting his early pictures, and the chief advantage he gained fromhis stay in Cogniet's studio was a wider acquaintance with the worldof artists; for Cogniet was a favorite teacher, and had a great manypupils, not a few of whom became distinguished painters. But his styleof painting was not one to attract Meissonier, who was ambitious topaint like the old Dutch artists, Terburg, Metzu, Mieris, and others, who have the charm that their pictures are finished with the mostexquisite minuteness, and yet treated in such a large way that, afterawhile, we forget the microscopic wonder of the performance and thinkonly of the skill the artist has shown in painting character. Meissonier was the first artist to bring back into favor the Dutchschool of painting of the seventeenth century. Louis XIV. , who set thefashion in everything in his day, had set the fashion of despising theDutch painters, and the French people had never unlearned the lesson. It was Meissonier who brought back the taste, and taught the public toadmire these small panels where interest in the subject is for themost part lost in the exquisite beauty of the painting and where theDutch painters of similar subjects are successfully met on their ownground and equalled in every respect except in the charm of color. 

There is an old saying: "Imitation is the sincerest mode of flattery;"and Meissonier's immediate success with the public was the signal fora bevy of imitators to try to win a like success by like methods. Someof these artists were very clever, but an imitator is but an imitatorafter all, and is more apt to call attention to his model than tohimself. It must be admitted that Meissonier himself has sufferedsomewhat in the same way: the evident fact that his methods ofpainting were inspired by the study of the Dutch masters has led tohis being called an imitator, and his pictures are often compared, andnot to their advantage, with those of his models. Meissonier is, however, very much more than an imitator; he was inspired by the Dutchpainters, but he soon found a way of his own, and he has put so muchof himself into his work, that the charge of imitation long sinceceased to be brought against him. 

While he was still not much known to the public, the Duke of Orleansbought of him, for six hundred francs, a picture that to-day is worththirty thousand francs. As is usual in such affairs, the purchase wasmade, not by the duke in person, but by an agent: in this case, it washis secretary, M. Adaline, who bought the picture from Meissonier, whoas an acknowledgment of the service gave the secretary a water-colordrawing which, to-day, like everything coming from the hand ofMeissonier, would bring the owner a good round sum if offered forsale. 

In 1865, Meissonier's son Charles, himself a very good painter, wentto a costume-ball dressed like a Fleming of the seventeenth centuryand looking as if he had stepped out of a picture by Terburg. Thecostume had been made with the greatest accuracy, and Meissonier wasso pleased with his son's appearance that he made a study and sold itfor two thousand francs. Twenty years after, in 1884, hearing that itwas to be sold at auction, and desiring, out of affection for his son, to have the study back again, he asked his friend, M. Petit, to buy itfor him, at whatever cost. A rich Parisian, M. Secretan, who had acollection of pictures since become famous--it was to him thatMillet's "L'Angelus" belonged--and who had such an admiration forMeissonier and his work that he had paid no less than four hundredthousand francs for his picture "Les Cuirassiers, " hearing from M. Petit of Meissonier's desire for the portrait of his son, bought thepicture for twenty-five thousand francs and presented it to theartist. These stories are told only as illustrations of the growth ofMeissonier's reputation and of the increased number of people whodesire to have an example of his work. The rise in value of a smallsketch of a single figure, from $500 to $5, 000, in fifteen years, isno greater in proportion than has happened in the case of every one ofMeissonier's pictures, drawings, studies, and even his slightsketches, on some of which originally he would have placed no value atall. Yet everything he left behind him, even unconsidered trifles, arefound to be of value, and the sale of the contents of his studio justended in Paris brought nearly five hundred thousand francs, althoughthe collection contained not a single finished picture of importance, but was made up almost entirely of unfinished studies and of sketches. 

Meissonier's industry was constant and untiring. It is told of himthat he rarely had the pencil or the brush out of his hand when in thehouse, and that when he called at a friend's house and was keptwaiting he used the spare minutes in sketching upon the first piece ofpaper that he found at hand. One of his friends, who knew of thishabit, collected in the course of many visits he received from theartist enough of these scraps to fill a small album; while it is toldof another of his friends that he instructed his servant to put besideMeissonier's coffee-cup after dinner a number of bits of paper of thesize of cigarette-papers but of better quality on which Meissonier inhis absent way would fall to drawing as he chatted with hiscompanions. After dinner these jottings remained as a valuablememorial of his visit. Perhaps if they were all collected, theseslight affairs might bring enough at auction to pay for all thedinners to which the prudent host had invited the artist. 

The world of subjects included in Meissonier's art was a very narrowone, and was not calculated to interest men and women in general. Thenearest that he came to striking the popular note was in his Napoleonsubjects, and beside the excellence of the painting, these picturesreally make a valuable series of historical documents by reason oftheir accuracy. But the greater number of the pictures which he leftbehind him are chiefly interesting from the beautiful way in whichthey are painted: we accept the subject for the sake of the art. Theworld rewarded him for all this patient labor, this exquisiteworkmanship, by an immense fortune that enabled him to live insplendor, and to be generous without stint. From the humble lodgingsof his youth in the Rue des Ecouffes, he passed, in time, to thepalace in the Place Malsherbes where he spent the latter half of hislong life in luxurious surroundings: pictures and statues, richfurniture, tapestries and armor and curiosities of art from everyland. But the visitor, after passing through all this splendor, cameupon the artist in a studio, ample and well lighted indeed, butfurnished only for work, where, to the end of his life, he pursued hisindustrious calling with all the energy and ardor of youth. He died in1891, and was buried by the government with all the honors thatbefitted one of her most illustrious citizens. 

[Signature of the author. ]

ROSA BONHEUR[8]

 [Footnote 8: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(BORN 1822)

A girl of something over ten, of sturdy build, with a dark complexion, deep blue eyes, and strong features crowned by a head of clusteringcurls, is sitting in the window of a plainly furnished room, high upin an apartment-house in Paris. In a cage at her side is a parrot, which, with its head on one side, is gravely calling out the lettersof the alphabet, while the child as gravely repeats them, interruptingthe lesson every now and then by a visit to the other side of theroom, where a pet lamb greets its young mistress with a friendlybleat. 

This is our first glimpse of Rosalie, known now to all the world asRosa Bonheur, the painter of "The Horse Fair" and of many anotherpicture, which have earned for her the distinction of the bestanimal-painter of her time. 

Her father's family belonged to Bordeaux. Raymond Bonheur had gone upas a youth to Paris to study art. After the usual apprenticeship toprivation which art exacts from her servants, he had become moderatelysuccessful, when the condition of his parents, now old andpoorly-off, moved him to return to Bordeaux and do what he could tomake their life easier. As the chances for a professional artist weresmall, he adopted the modest employment of drawing-teacher. His skillsoon brought him pupils; among them a young lady from Altona, betweenwhom and her teacher a mutual interest sprang up which led to theirmarriage. Raymond Bonheur brought his wife home to his father's house, where she was welcomed as a daughter, and for the brief term of herlife all went well. What the husband earned by his drawing-lessons, the wife supplemented by her lessons in music; but this happiness wasnot to last. The parents of Raymond Bonheur died, and then, after notmore than twelve years of marriage, the wife died, leaving behind herfour children, Rosalie, Francois-Auguste, Jules-Isidore, and Juliette. 

[Illustration: Rosa Bonheur. ]

Rosalie is the best known of these four children of Raymond Bonheur;but each of them has honorably connected his name with the art ofmodern France. Francois-Auguste has a reputation as an animal-painteralmost equal to that of his sister Rosa. A fine picture painted byhim, "Cattle in the Forest of Fontainebleau, " was once the property ofthe late A. T. Stewart. His merit secured him the Cross of the Legionof Honor in 1867. He died in 1880. The other brother, Jules-Isidore, has gained distinction as a sculptor of animals; most of his work ison a small scale, but he has designed some large pieces that decoratehis sister's château near Fontainebleau. Juliette Bonheur married a M. Peyrol, and joining her family-name to his, is known in the art-worldas Mme. Peyrol Bonheur. It is thus she signs her pictures, mostlystill-life and animal subjects, which have gained for her a goodposition among the minor artists of France. 

Rosa, the eldest of the family, born in 1822, was ten years old whenher mother died. Not long after, Raymond Bonheur decided to leaveBordeaux and to return to Paris, where the chances for professionalsuccess were better than in a provincial town, and where there weregreater opportunities for the education of his young children. Thechange proved very distasteful, however, to the little ones. Accustomed to the comparative freedom of the town in which they hadbeen brought up, and where their family had been so long rooted thattheir circle of friends and relatives gave them playmates andcompanions in plenty, they found themselves very lonely in Paris, where they were reduced for a good part of the time to such amusementas they could find in the narrow quarters of their rooms on the sixthfloor of an apartment-house. It is not the custom in Paris for thechildren, even of the poor, to make a playground of the street, andour little ones had nobody to walk out with them but an old servantwho had come with them from Bordeaux, and who was ill-fitted, for allher virtues, to take a mother's place to the children. She was honestand faithful, but like all of her class, she liked routine and order, and she could make no allowances for the restlessness of herbright-minded charge. Rosa was her especial torment; the black sheepof the brood. Household tasks she despised, and study, as it waspursued in the successive schools to which her despairing father senther, had no charms for her. Her best playmates were animals; thehorses and dogs she saw in the streets and which she fearlesslyaccosted; the sheep that found itself queerly lodged on the top floorof a city house; and the parrot which, as we have seen, was not onlyher playmate but her schoolmaster. 

There came a time when the charge of such a child, so averse to rulesand so given to strange ways of passing her time, became too much forthe old servant with her orthodox views of life, and she persuadedRosa's father to put her as a day-scholar with the nuns at Chaillot, asmall suburb of Paris. How it happened that she was allowed to go backand forth alone, between home and school, we do not know; but it isnot to be wondered at if she were irregular in her hours; if, one day, she set the nuns wondering why she did not appear at school-opening, and another day put the old servant into a twitter because she did notcome home in season. The truth was, she had found that there wassomething better in Paris than streets and shops and tall houses; shehad discovered a wood there, a veritable forest, with trees, and poolsof water, and birds, and wild flowers, and though this enchanted spotwhich citizens called the Bois de Boulogne--not then a formal park asit is to-day--was off the road to Chaillot, yet it was not so far thatshe need fear getting lost in going there or in coming back. Nowonder, then, if, once this way discovered of escape from tiresomeschool duties, it was travelled so often by Rosalie, and that herschool-work became in consequence so unsatisfactory that at length thepatient nuns remonstrated. They advised Rosa's father, since sheneither would nor could learn anything from books, that it would bebetter to put her to some useful trade by which she might earn herliving; and the good sisters suggested--dressmaking! The wisdom ofthese ladies, who could not see that they were dealing with the lastwoman in the world to whom dressmaking could be interesting, wasmatched by that of the father, who showed himself so blind to thecharacter of his daughter that he resolved to act at once upon theadvice of the nuns; and without consulting the wishes of poor Rosaliehe apprenticed her straightway to a Parisian dressmaker. The docilegirl allowed the yoke to be slipped over her head without complaint, but the confinement wore upon her health and spirits, and after ashort trial the experiment had to be abandoned. Her father yielded toher entreaties and took her home. 

[Illustration: Rosa Bonheur. ]

The girl was long in coming to a knowledge of herself. Although shewas to be, in time, a famous artist, the familiar legend of thebiographers is wanting in her case; we read nothing about scribbledbooks or walls defaced by childish sketches, nor does she appear tohave handled a pencil or a brush until she was a girl well grown. Her father's means were not sufficient to give Rosa or his otherchildren an education such as he could wish; but an expedientsuggested itself in his perplexity over this latest experiment inproviding for his eldest daughter: he proposed to the principal of ayoung ladies' school where he taught drawing, that his services shouldbe accepted in payment of Rosa's education. The offer was accepted, and in the regular course of study Rosa became a member of herfather's drawing-class. It was not long before she surpassed all herschool-fellows in that department, and found herself for the firsttime in her life in possession of the key to that happiness whichconsists in knowing what we can do, and feeling the strength within usto do it. Some of the biographers of Rosa's life speak of unhappy daysat this school: the richer girls made sport of the dress of thedrawing-master's daughter, and of her independent, awkward ways. Herprogress in drawing, too, was counterbalanced by her slowness in herother studies; in fact her new accomplishment was such a delight toher, that in her devotion to it she became less and less interested inher books; and as for dress--that it should be clean and suited bothto her means and to the work she was doing, was all that concernedher, then or since!

At the end of her first year in school, Rosa obtained her father'spermission to give up her other studies and to enter his studio aspupil and assistant. From that time, though as yet she had not foundthe reason of her vocation, yet her true life had begun. She workeddiligently under the direction of a master she loved, and her father, in his turn, delighted at the discovery of a talent so long hid, redoubled his efforts to advance his pupil and to make up for losttime. 

Rosa worked for some months at copying in the Louvre, but though sheworked with such diligence and skill as to win the praise of thedirector, she came, after a time, to feel that the mere copying of theworks of other men, however great, was not the goal she was strivingafter; so one day she took a sudden determination, left the Louvre, packed up her painting materials, and started off for one of the ruralsuburbs of Paris, where she sat herself down to sketch from nature. Her love of animals, hitherto an aimless pleasure, now took on a newphase as she saw her beloved cows and sheep in their place in naturegiving life and animation to the landscape. 

In the winter season, when work out-of-doors was no longer pleasant orprofitable, Rosa made what use she could of the few opportunitiesParis had to offer for the study of animals. She spent what time shecould spare from work at the horse-market; she visited theslaughter-houses, and the suburban fairs where cattle and horses, sheep and pigs compete for prizes, and in these places she filled herportfolios with sketches. 

In 1840 she sent her first picture to the Salon, and as it wasaccepted and well received, she continued to send her work every year;but, up to 1849, her pictures were small, and had little more interestthan belongs to simple studies from nature; 1849 was a memorable yearto her, as it was to France. In this year her father died of cholera, just as he had been appointed director of the School of Design forYoung Girls. Rosa was appointed to succeed him with the title ofHonorary Directress, and her sister Juliette was made a teacher in theschool. In the same year she exhibited the picture that may be said tohave made her reputation with the artists and amateurs, as well aswith the general public. This was her "Oxen of Cantal, " a picture thatcombined with no little feeling for landscape the most admirablepainting of cattle in repose. Its high qualities were immediatelyrecognized. Horace Vernet, in the name of the Provisional Government, presented her with a handsome vase of Sèvres porcelain, and the goldmedal for painting. In 1851, the jury selected for exhibition at theWorld's Fair in London another picture by Rosa, "Ploughing in theNivernais, " which made the artist's name known to England, where thenational love of animals secured for her no end of praise and ofsubstantial reward. In 1856 Rosa painted her most popular picture, "The Horse Fair, " now in the Metropolitan Museum. This painting wentfrom Paris to London, where it was bought for rising £1, 500, andcreated such an interest in the artist's personality as would haveturned the head of any ordinary woman; but Rosa Bonheur's whole lifeproves her no ordinary woman. 

For many years Mlle. Bonheur lived in Paris in a house surrounded by alarge garden where she kept a number of animals, partly for thepleasure of their companionship, partly for the opportunity it gaveher of studying their habits, and using them as models. She nowresides in the Château By, near Fontainebleau, where she leads thesame industrious life in her advancing years that she did in thebeginning of her career. She rises early, and works at her paintingall day, and often spends the evening in drawing: for she takes butlittle interest in what is called society, and cares only for thecompanionship of her intimate friends, which she can enjoy withoutdisarranging her life, or neglecting the studies she loves. Shedresses with great simplicity at all times, and even when she acceptsinvitations, makes no concessions to the caprices of fashion. In herstudent-days, when visiting the abattoirs, markets, and fairs, sheaccustomed herself to wear such a modification of man's dress as wouldpermit her to move about among rough men without compromising her sex. But, beside that her dignity was always safe in her own keeping, shebears testimony to the good manners and the good dispositions of themen she came in contact with. Rosa Bonheur has always been an honor toart and an honor to her sex. At seventy-two she finds herself in theenjoyment of many things that go to make a happy life. She has awell-earned fame as an artist; an abundant fortune gained by her ownindustry and used as honorably as it has been gained; and she hastroops of friends drawn to her by her solid worth of character. 

Of the great number of pictures Rosa Bonheur has painted, by far themost are of subjects found in France, but a few of the best werepainted in Scotland. She has received many public honors in medals anddecorations. In 1856, after painting the "Horse Fair, " the EmpressEugénie visited her at her studio and bestowed upon her the Cross ofthe Legion of Honor, fastening the decoration to the artist's dresswith her own hands. When the invading army of Prussia reached Paris, the Crown Prince gave orders that the studio of Rosa Bonheur should berespected. But though she, no doubt, holds all these honors at theirworth, yet she holds still more dear the art to which she owes, notonly these, but all that has made her life a treasury of happyremembrances. 

[Signature of the author. ]

GÉRÔME[9]

 [Footnote 9: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(BORN 1824)

[Illustration: Gérôme. ]

In the Paris Salon of 1847, a small picture appeared, representing aGreek boy and girl stirring up two game-cocks to fight. Although itwas the work of an unknown painter, and had to contend with anunusually brilliant display of pictures, many of them by men alreadyfamous, yet it strongly attracted the general public, partly by thenovelty of the subject, and partly by the careful and finished mannerof the painting. It delighted the critics as well, and one of the mostdistinguished of them, Théophile Gautier, wrote: "A new Greek is bornto us, and his name is Gérôme!"

This picture, which was to prove the first leaf in a laurel-crown tobe awarded the painter in his lifetime, and not, as is so often thecase, by the tardy hand of Death, was the work of Jean-Léon Gérôme, ayoung man of twenty-three. He had been for six years under theteaching of Paul Delaroche, part of the time in Italy, but most of itin Paris. He was born at Vesoul, a small, dull town in the Departmentof Haute-Saône, in 1824. His father was a goldsmith, who, like mostFrench fathers in his rank of life, had hoped to bring up his son tosucceed him in his business. The boy did for a time, we believe, workin his father's shop, but he had a stronger natural bent for painting;something perhaps in the occupation fostered, or even created, thistaste--for not a few distinguished painters have been apprenticed tothe goldsmith's trade--and his father, like a wise man, instead ofopposing his son's wishes, did what he could to further them. Hebought him painting-materials; and instead of sending him to a "schoolof design, " or putting him under the tutelage of some third-ratedrawing-master, such as is commonly found in country towns, he boughthim a picture by Decamps, an artist since become famous, but then justin the dawn of his fame, and put it before his son as a model. YoungGérôme made a copy of this picture, and an artist from Paris, whohappened to be passing through Vesoul, saw it, and discerning theboy's talent, gave him a letter to Paul Delaroche, encouraging him togo to Paris and there to take up the study of art as a profession. Atseventeen years of age, with his father's consent and $250 in hispocket, Gérôme went up to Paris, and presenting his letter toDelaroche, was well received by him, and entered the School of FineArts (École des Beaux-Arts) as his pupil. 

He had been with Delaroche three years and had proved himself one ofthe most loyal and diligent of his pupils, when an event occurred, insignificant in itself, but which was to have an important influenceupon his life and give a new direction to his talent. 

French studios are not as a rule very orderly places. The young menwho frequent them are left pretty much to themselves, with no one togovern them or to oversee them. The artist they are studying undermakes, at the most, a brief daily visit, going the round of theeasels, saying a word or two to each pupil, although it often happensthat he says nothing, and then departs for his proper work, leavinghis pupils to their own devices. The students are for the most partlike young men everywhere, a turbulent set, full of animal spirits, which sometimes carry them beyond reasonable bounds. It was aboisterous outbreak of this sort, but far wilder than common, thatoccurred in the studio of Delaroche, and which brought about thecrisis in Gérôme's life to which we have alluded. Fortunately for him, the incident took place while Gérôme was on a visit to his parents atVesoul, so that he was in no way implicated in the affair. He cameback to find the studio closed; Delaroche, deeply disturbed, haddismissed all his pupils and announced his intention to visit Italy. His studio was to be taken during his absence, by Gleyre, and headvised those of his pupils in whom he took a personal interest, tocontinue their studies under his successor. Gérôme was one of those towhom he gave this advice, but Gérôme was too much attached to hismaster to leave him for another, and bluntly announced his purpose offollowing him to Rome. A few of the other pupils of Delaroche were ofthe same mind, and they all set out for Italy together. Arrived inRome, Gérôme, always a hard worker, threw himself energetically intohis studies; drawing the ancient buildings, the Capitol, theColosseum; sketching in the Forum and on the Campagna; copying thepictures and the statues, saturating his mind in the spirit of antiqueart, and schooling his hand in its forms, until he had laid up a richstore of material for use in future pictures. On his return to Parishe worked for a while in Gleyre's studio, but when Delaroche came backfrom Italy, Gérôme again joined him and renewed his old relation aspupil and assistant--working, among other tasks, on the painting of"Charlemagne Crossing the Alps, " a commission given to Delaroche bythe Government, for the _Grande Galerie des Batailles_ at Versailles:a vast apartment lined with pictures of all the victories of theFrench from Soissons to Solferino. 

Such work as this, however, had little interest for Gérôme. His mindat this time was full of the Greeks and Romans; his enthusiasm forNapoleon, which later was to give birth to so many pictures, had notyet awakened; nor did he care for the subjects from the histories ofFrance and England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, thathad provided his master, Delaroche, with so many tragic themes for hispencil: "The Death of the Duke of Guise, " "The Children of Edward, "the "Death of Queen Elizabeth, " "The Execution of Lady Jane Grey, ""Cromwell at the Coffin of Charles I. , " and others of the same strain. 

Gérôme's visit to Italy had awakened in him a strong interest in thelife of the antique world, and this would naturally be strengthened byall that he would hear and see of the growing interest of the publicin the same subject: an interest kindled by the discoveries ofarchaeologists in classic soil: in Greece and Italy, in Assyria andEgypt. These discoveries had filled the museums and the cabinets ofprivate collectors with beautiful and interesting fragmentsillustrating the external life of the past, and illuminating itspoetry; and it is no wonder that some of the younger artists rejoicedin the new world of anecdote and story that opened so richly beforethem. 

However it came about--whether his own interest in the antique lifecommunicated itself to his fellows, or whether they, all together, simply shared in the interest taken in the subject by the world aboutthem--Gérôme and some of his companions in Delaroche's studio showedsuch a predilection for classic themes, that they were nicknamed bythe critics "The New Greeks. " Among Gérôme's fellow-pupils were twoyoung men, Hamon and Aubert, who later gained no small applause bytheir playful and familiar way of treating classic themes. They arewell known to us by engravings from their pictures, which are in allour shops. Hamon's "My Sister is not at home, " and Aubert's variouspretty fancies of nymphs and cupids, while they are not great works ofart, are reasonably sure of a long life, due to their innocentfreshness and simplicity. 

Delaroche's pupils were working all together in friendly competitionfor the grand Roman prize which was to give the fortunate one theright to four years' study in Rome at the expense of the state. Gérôme's studio was shared by his friends Picou and Hamon. Hamon, writing in later years about his youthful days, says: "Companions andrivals at the same time, we were all working together for the GrandPrix de Rome. Gérôme inspired us all with the love of hard work, andof hard work to the accompaniment of singing and laughing. "

But in the intervals of his hard work for the prize, Gérôme was alsoworking on a picture which he hoped to have accepted for the Salon. This was the picture we spoke of in the beginning of this notice: "TwoYoung Greeks stirring-up Game-cocks to fight. " When it was finishedGérôme showed it to his master with many misgivings; but Delarocheencouraged him to send it to the Salon. It was accepted, and as wehave seen, won for Gérôme a great success with the public. The nextyear, 1848, he again exhibited, but the impression he made was lessmarked than on the first occasion. His former picture had a subjectsuch as it was, of his own devising. The "Cock-fight" was not anillustration of any passage in Greek poetry, and in spite of itsantique setting, it had a modern air, and to this, no doubt, itspopularity was largely due. But in 1848 he essayed an illustration ofthe Greek poet, Anacreon, translating into picture the poem that tellshow, one winter evening, sitting by his fire, the old poet wassurprised by a sound of weeping outside his door, and opening it, found Cupid wet and shivering and begging for a shelter from the cold. The man takes the pretty, dimpled mischief to his bosom, warms hisfeet and hands at the fire, dries his bow and arrows, and lets him sipwine from his cup. Then, when Cupid is refreshed and warmed, he trieshis arrows, now here, now there, and at last aims one straight at hisbenefactor's heart, and laughing at the jest, flies out at the opendoor. Gérôme's picture was in three panels. The first showed the poetopening the door to the sobbing Cupid, with his bedraggled wings anddripping curls; in the next, the rosy ingrate wounds his benefactor;in the third, the poet sits disconsolate by his hearth, musing overthe days when Love was his guest, if but for an hour. As the story wasan old one, so many an artist before Gérôme had played with it as asubject for a picture. Jean-François Millet himself, another pupil ofDelaroche, though earlier than Gérôme, had tried his hand atillustrating Anacreon's fable before he found his proper field of workin portraying the occupations of the men and women about him, thepeasants among whom he was born and bred. 

Gérôme's picture did nothing to advance his fortunes with the public. 1848 was a stormy time in France and in all Europe, and people werenot in the mood to be amused with such trifles as Anacreon and hisCupid. The pictures in that year's Salon that drew the public incrowds about them were Couture's "The Romans of the Decline of theEmpire, " in which all Paris saw, or thought it saw, thehandwriting-on-the-wall for the government of Louis-Philippe; and the"Shipwrecked Sailors in a Bark, " of Delacroix, a wild and stormy sceneof terror that seemed to echo the prophecies of evil days at hand forFrance with which the time was rife. 

Gérôme's next picture, however, was to bring him once more before thepublic, and to carry his name beyond his native France even as far asAmerica. Leaving for the nonce his chosen field of antiquity, whereyet he was to distinguish himself, he looked for a subject in theParis of his own day. "The Duel after the Masquerade" opens for us acorner of the Bois de Boulogne--the fashionable park on the outskirtsof Paris--where in the still dawn of a winter's day, a group of menare met to witness a duel between two of their companions who havequarrelled at a masked ball. The ground is covered with a light fallof snow; the bare branches of the trees weave their network across thegray sky, and in the distance we see the carriages that have broughtthe disputants to the field. The duel is over. One of the men, dressedin the costume of Pierrot, the loose white trousers and slippers, thebaggy white shirt, and white skull-cap, falls, mortally wounded, intothe arms of his second: the pallor of coming death masked by thewhite-painted face. The other combatant, a Mohawk Indian (once astaple character at every masked-ball in Paris: curious survival ofthe popularity of Cooper's novels), is led wounded off the field by afriend dressed as Harlequin. Gérôme in this striking picture showedfor the first time that talent as a story-teller to which he is solargely indebted for his reputation. Whatever his subject may be, itis always set forth in the clearest manner, so that everyone mayunderstand the story without the need of an interpreter. 

Leaving out of view the few pictures he painted illustrating passagesin Napoleon's career, it may be said that Gérôme's taste led him awayfrom scenes of modern life; for even his many oriental subjects sorelate to forms of life belonging in reality to the past, that theymake no exception to the statement. He did not therefore follow up"The Duel" with other comments on the follies of modern society--forin the temper of that time this picture, like Couture's "Roman Orgie"and Millet's "Man with the Hoe, " was looked upon as a satire and awarning, and owed its popularity as much to this conviction on thepart of the public as to its pictorial merits--but returned to antiquetimes, and showed in his treatment of themes from that source anequal, if not a greater power to interest the public. 

Gérôme's two pictures, the "Ave Cæsar! Morituri te Salutant, " "Hail, Cæsar! Those about to die, salute Thee, " and "The Gladiators, " are souniversally known as to need no description. Whatever criticism may bemade upon them, they will always remain interesting to the world atlarge; from their subject, from the way in which the discoveries ofarchæology are made familiar, and, not least, from the impression theymake of the artist's own strong interest in what he had to say. Inboth pictures he succeeded in showing the Colosseum as no longer aruin, but as, so to speak, a living place peopled by the swarm of theRoman populace, with the emperor and his court, and the College of theVestal Virgins, and, for chief actors, the hapless wretches who are"butchered to make a Roman holiday. " Another picture that greatlyincreased Gérôme's reputation, was his "Death of Julius Cæsar, " thoughit must be confessed there was a touch of the stage in the arrangementof the scene, and in the action of the body of senators andconspirators leaving the hall with brandished swords and as if singingin chorus, that was absent from the pictures of the amphitheatre. There was also less material for the curiosity of the lovers ofarchæology; no such striking point, for instance, as the reproductionof the gladiators' helmets and armor recently discovered inHerculaneum; but the body of the dead Cæsar lying "even at the base ofPompey's statue" with his face muffled in his toga, was a masterlyperformance; some critic, moved by the grandeur of the lines, said itwas not a mere piece of foreshortening, it was "a perspective. " Gérômemade a life-size painting of the Cæsar in this picture. It is in theCorcoran Gallery at Washington. 

Gérôme painted several other pictures from classic subjects, but noneof them had the interest for the general public of those we havedescribed. In 1854 he exhibited a huge canvas, called "The Age ofAugustus, " a picture suggested, perhaps, by the "Hemicycle" of hismaster Delaroche, on which he himself had painted. It representedheroes, poets, sages, of the Augustan age, grouped about the cradle ofthe infant Christ; it procured for Gérôme the red ribbon of the Legionof Honor, and is now, as the artist himself jestingly says, "the'greatest' picture in the Museum of Amiens. " In the same year Gérômewent to Egypt for the first time; since then he has more than oncevisited it, but it is doubtful if he could renew the pleasure of hisyouthful experience. "I set out, " he says, "with my friends, I thefifth, all of us lightly furnished with money, but full of youthfulenthusiasm. Life was then easy in Egypt; we lived at a very moderaterate; we hired a boat and lived four months upon the Nile, hunting, painting, fishing by turns, from Damietta to Philæ. We returned toCairo and remained there four months longer in a house in the olderpart of the town, belonging to Soleman Pasha. As Frenchmen, he treatedus with cordial hospitality. Happy period of youth, of freedom fromcare! Hope and the future opened bright before us; the sky was blue!"

Gérôme's pictures of Eastern life make a gallery by themselves. A fewof them are historic, such as his "Cleopatra visiting Cæsar, " but themost of them are simply scenes and incidents drawn from the daily lifeof the modern inhabitants of Cairo and the desert, illustrating theirmanners and customs. The mere titles would fill up a large part of ourspace. Many of the best of them are owned in this country, and allhave been reproduced by engraving or by photography. 

In another field Gérôme won great distinction, painting scenes fromthe history of France in the reign of Louis XIV. ; subjects drawn fromwhat may be called the high comedy of court-life, and treated byGérôme with remarkable refinement and distinction. Among thesepictures the best known are: "Molière Breakfasting with Louis XIV. , "illustrating the story of the king's rebuke to his courtiers whoaffected to despise the man of genius; "Père Joseph, " the priest whounder the guise of humility and self-abnegation reduces the greatestnobles to the state of lackeys; "Louis XIV. Receiving the GreatCondé, " and "Collaboration, " two poets of Louis XIV. 's time workingtogether over a play. Among his accomplishments as an artist we mustnot forget the talent that Gérôme has shown as a sculptor. He hasmodelled several figures from his own pictures, with such admirableskill as to prove that he might easily have made sculpture aprofession had he not chosen to devote himself to painting. 

[Signature of the author. ]

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI[10]

 [Footnote 10: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By EDMUND GOSSE

(1828-1882)

[Illustration: Dante Gabriel Rossetti. ]

Those whose privilege it was to meet the late Mr. Gabriel Rossetti, atonce in the plenitude of his powers and in the freshness of their ownimpressions, will not expect to be moved again through life by somagnetic a presence. In his dealings with those much younger thanhimself, his tact and influence were unequalled; he received a shy butardent youth with such a noble courtesy, with so much sympathy yetwith no condescension, with so grand an air and yet so warm a welcome, that his new acquaintance was enslaved at the first sentence. Thisseems to me to have been in a certain sense the key-note of the man. He was essentially a point of fire; not a peripatetic in any sense, not a person of wide circumference, but a nucleus of pure imaginationthat never stirred or shifted, but scintillated in all directions. Thefunction of Gabriel Rossetti, or at least his most obvious function, was to sit in isolation, and to have vaguely glimmering spiritspresented to him for complete illumination. He was the most prompt insuggestion, the most regal in giving, the most sympathetic inresponse, of the men I have known or seen; and this without a singletouch of the prophetic manner, the air of such professional seers asColeridge or Carlyle. What he had to give was not mystical orabstract; it was purely concrete. His mind was full of practicalartistic schemes, only a few of which were suited to his own practicein painting or poetry; the rest were at the service of whoever wouldcome in a friendly spirit and take them. I find among his letters tome, which I have just been reading once again, a paper of delightfulsuggestions about the cover of a book of verse; the next youth whowaited upon him would perhaps be a painter, and would find that thegreat genius and master did not disdain the discussion ofpicture-frames. This was but the undercurrent of his influence; as weshall see more and more every year as the central decades of thiscentury become history, its main stream directed the two great arts ofpainting and poetry into new channels, and set a score of diversetalents in motion. 

But, as far as anything can be seen plainly about Rossetti at present, to me the fact of his immovability, his self-support, his curiousreserve, seems to be the most interesting. He held in all things tothe essential and not to the accidental; he preferred the dry grain ofmusk to a diluted flood of perfume. An Italian by birth and deeplymoved by all things Italian, he never visited Italy; a lover of ritualand a sympathizer with all the mysteries of the Roman creed, he neverjoined the Catholic Church; a poet whose form and substance alikeinfluenced almost all the men of his generation, he was more thanforty years of age before he gave his verse to the public; a painterwho considered the attitude of the past with more ardor and faith thanalmost any artist of his time, he never chose to visit the churches orgalleries of Europe. It has been said, among the many absurd thingswhich his death has provoked, that he shrank from publicity fromtimidity, or spurned it from ill-temper. One brilliant journalist hasdescribed him as sulking like Hector in his tent. It used to beAchilles who sulked when I was at school; but it certainly never wasGabriel Rossetti. Those who only knew him, after his constitution hadpassed under the yoke of the drug which killed him, cannot judge ofhis natural reserve from that artificial and morbid reserve whichembittered the last years of his life. The former was not connectedwith any objection to new faces or dislike of cordial society, butwith the indomitable characteristic of the man, which made him giveout the treasures of the spirit, and never need to receive them. Sofar from disliking society, it is my impression that he craved it as anecessity, although he chose to select its constituents and narrow itsrange. 

He was born in 1828. The story of his parentage is well known, and hasbeen told in full detail since his death. He was born in London andchristened Gabriel Charles Rossetti; it was not, I am told, until hewas of age to appreciate the value of the name that he took uponhimself the cognomen which his father had borne, the Dante by whichthe world, though not his friends, have known him. Living with hisfather in Charlotte street, with two sisters and a brother no lessardently trained in letters than himself, he seems to have been turnedto poetry, as he was afterward sustained in it, by the interior flame. The household has been described to me by one who saw it in 1847: thefather, titular professor of Italian literature, but with noprofessional duties, seated the livelong day, with a shade over hiseyes, writing devotional or patriotic poetry in his native tongue; thegirls reading Dante aloud with their rich maiden voices; Gabrielburied here in his writing, or darting round the corner of the streetto the studio where he painted. From this seclusion he wrote to thefriend who has kindly helped me in preparing these notes, and whosememories of the poet extend over a longer period than those of anysurvivor not related to him. 

Mr. W. B. Scott, now so well known in more arts than one, had thenbut just published his first book, his mystical and transcendentalpoem of "The Year of the World. " This seems to have fallen underRossetti's notice, for on November 25, 1847, he wrote to the author, aperfect stranger to himself, a letter of warm sympathy andacknowledgment. Mr. Scott was living in Newcastle, and, instead ofmeeting, the young poets at first made acquaintance with each other bycorrespondence. Rossetti soon mentioned, of course, his own schemesand ambitions, and he sent, as a sample of his powers, his poems of"The Blessed Damozel, " and "My Sister's Sleep, " which he had writtenabout eighteen months before. 

Mr. Scott tells me that his first feeling on receiving these poems, written in English by an Italian boy of eighteen, was one ofamazement. I cannot wonder at it. If the "Blessed Damozel, " when itwas published a quarter of a century later, seemed a masterpiece tothose who had, in the meanwhile, read so much that was vaguelyinspired by it, what must it have been in 1846? Certain pieces inTennyson's "Poems, " of 1842, and a few fragments of Browning's "Bellsand Pomegranates" were the only English poems which can be supposed tohave given it birth, even indirectly. In its interpretation ofmystical thoughts by concrete images, in its mediæval fervor andconsistence of fancy, in its peculiar metrical facility, it wasdistinctly new--original as few poems except those by the acknowledgedmasters of the craft can ever be. 

 "The sun was gone now; the curled moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the clear weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. "

This was a strange accent in 1846. Miss Barrett and Mr. Tennyson werethen the most accepted poets. Mr. Browning spoke fluently andpersistently, but only to a very little circle; Mr. Horne's "Orion"and Mr. Bailey's "Festus" were the recent outcomes of Keats andGoethe; the Spasmodic School, to be presently born of much unwisestudy of "Festus, " was still unknown; Mr. Clough, Mr. Matthew Arnold, and Mr. Patmore were quite unapparent, taking form and voice insolitude; and here was a new singer, utterly unlike them all, pouringout his first notes with the precision and independence of thenew-fledged thrush in the woodland chorus. 

In painting, the process was somewhat different. In this art, no lessthan in poetry, Rossetti understood at once what it was that he wishedto do himself, and what he desired to see others doing; but thedifficulties of technique were in his way. He had begun to write inchildhood, but he had taken up design late in his youth, and he hadundergone no discipline in it. At the present day, when every studenthas to pass a somewhat stringent examination in design, Rossetti, ateighteen, could not have entered the schools of the Royal Academy. Hedid so, however, yet without ever advancing to the Life School. Thesoul of art, at this early period, interested him far more than thebody, especially such a substance as he found under the presidency ofSir Martin Shee and the keepership of George Jones. Let us not forget, meanwhile, that it is easy to sneer at the incompetence of manneredold artists, and yet hard to over-estimate the value of discipline ina school, however conventional. Rossetti was too impatient to learn todraw, and this he lived to regret. His immediate associates, the youngmen whom he began to lead and impress, were better draughtsmen thanhe. His first oil picture, I believe, was a portrait of his father, now in possession of the family. But, as far as can be now made out, he did not begin to paint seriously till about January, 1848, when hepersuaded another Royal Academy student, W. Holman Hunt, to take alarge room close to the paternal house in Charlotte street, and makeit their studio. Here Mr. Scott visited them in the early spring ofthat year; he describes to me the large pictures they were strugglingupon, Hunt, on his "Oath of Rienzi, " and Rossetti, on his "Girlhood ofMary Virgin. " The latter was evidently at present but poorly equipped;the painting was timid and boyish, pale in tone, and with no hint orpromise of that radiant color which afterward became Rossetti's maincharacteristic. But the feeling was identical with that in his farmore accomplished early poems. The very pulse and throb of mediævaladoration pervaded the whole conception of the picture, and Mr. Scott's first impression was that, in this marvellous poet andpossible painter, the new Tractarian movement had found its expositorin art. Yet this surely was no such feeble or sentimental echo as hadinspired the declared Tractarian poets of eight or nine years earlier;there was nothing here that recalled such a book as the "CherwellWater Lily" of Father Faber. This contained the genuine fleshlymysticism, bodily presentment of a spiritual idea, and intimateknowledge of mediæval sentiment without which the new religious fervorhad no intellectual basis. This strong instinct for the forms of theCatholic religion, combined with no attendance on the rites of thatchurch, fostered by no study of ecclesiastical literature orassociation with teachers or proselytes, but original to himself andself-supported, was at that time without doubt the feature inRossetti's intellectual character which demands our closest attention. Nor do I believe that this passion for the physical presentation of amystical idea was ever entirely supplanted by those other views oflife and art which came to occupy his maturer mind. In his latestpoems--in "Rose Mary, " for instance--I see this first impulsereturning upon him with more than its early fascination. In his youth, however, the mysticism was very naïve and straightforward. It wasfostered by one of the very few excursions which Rossetti ever took--atour in Belgium in October, 1849. I am told that he and thepainter-friend who accompanied him were so purely devoted to themediæval aspect of all they saw, that, in walking through thegalleries, they turned away their heads in approaching modernpictures, and carefully closed their eyes while they were passingRubens's "Descent from the Cross. " In Belgium, or as the result of histour there, Rossetti wrote several curious poems, which were so harshand forced that he omitted them from his collection when he firstpublished his "Poems, " in 1870. 

The effort in these early pieces is too marked. I remember oncehearing Rossetti say that he did not mind what people called him, ifonly they would not call him "quaint. " But the fact was that, ifquaintness be defined as the inability to conceal the labor of an art, there is no doubt that both his poems and his designs occasionallydeserved this epithet. He was so excessively sincere an artist, sodetermined not to permit anything like trickiness of effect ormeaningless smoothness to conceal the direct statement of an idea, that his lack of initial discipline sometimes made itself felt in acurious angular hardness. 

And now it would be necessary, if I were attempting a complete studyof Gabriel Rossetti's intellectual career, to diverge into adescription of what has so much exercised popular curiosity, thepre-Raphaelite movement of 1848. But there is no reason why, in a fewnotes on character, I should repeat from hearsay what several of theseven brothers have reported from authoritative memory. It isadmitted, by them and by all who have understood the movement, thatGabriel Rossetti was the founder and, in the Shakespearian sense, "begetter" of all that was done by this earnest band of young artists. One of them, Mr. Millais, was already distinguished; two others, Mr. Holman Hunt and Mr. Woolner, had at that time more training andtechnical power than he; but he was, nevertheless, the brain and soulof the enterprise. What these young men proposed was excellentlypropounded in the sonnet by "W. M. R. , " which they prefixed to theirlittle literary venture, the "Germ, " in 1850. Plainly to think even alittle thought, to express it in natural words which are native to thespeaker, to paint even an insignificant object as it is, and not asthe old masters or the new masters have said it should be painted, topersevere in looking at truth and at nature without the smallestprejudice for tradition, this was the whole mystery and cabal of theP. R. B. They called themselves "preraphaelite, " because they found inthe wings of Lippi's angels, and the columbines of Perugino's gardensthat loving and exact study of minute things which gave to them asense of sincerity, and which they missed in the breadth and ease oflater work. They had no ambition to "splash as no one splashed beforesince great Caldasi Polidore;" but they did wish to draw a flower or acloud so that it should be a portrait of that cloud or flower. In thisambition it would be curious to know, and I do not think that I haveever heard it stated, how far they were influenced by Mr. Ruskin andhis "Modern Painters. " I should not expect to find Rossetti influencedby any outside force in this any more than in other instances, but atall events Mr. Ruskin eagerly accepted the brotherhood as practicalexponents of the theories he had pronounced. None of them, I think, knew him personally when he wrote the famous letter to the _Times_ in1851, defending Mr. Millais and Mr. Holman Hunt from the abuse ofignorant critics, who, he said, had failed to perceive the veryprinciples on which these "two young men" were proceeding. Somebodywrote to him to explain that there were "three young men, " and Mr. Ruskin wrote a note to Gabriel Rossetti, desiring to see his work, andthus the acquaintance of these two remarkable men commenced. 

Meanwhile, although the more vigorous members of the brotherhood hadshown no special sympathy for Rossetti's religious mysticism, afeebler artist, himself one of the original seven, had taken it upwith embarrassing effusion. This was the late James Collinson, whoseprincipal picture, "St. Elizabeth of Hungary, " finished in 1851, produced a sort of crisis in Rossetti's career. This paintingout-mystified the mystic himself; it was simply maudlin andhysterical, though drawn with some feeling for grace, and in a veryearnest spirit. Rossetti, with his strong good sense, recognized thatit would be impossible ever to reach the public with art of thisunmanly character, and from this time forth he began to abandon thepractice of directly sacred art. 

For some little time after abandoning the directly sacred field inpainting, Rossetti seems to have passed through a disconsolate anddubious period. I am told that he worked for many months over a largepicture called "Kate the Queen, " from some well-known words byBrowning. He made no progress with this, seemed dissatisfied with hisown media, felt the weight of his lack of training, and passed, inshort, through one of those downcast moods, which Shakespeare has somarvellously described in "Tired with all these, " and which areincident, sooner or later, to every man of genius. While his touch inpoetry grew constantly more sure and masterly, his power as adraughtsman threatened to leave him altogether. He was to have drawnone of the frontispieces in the "Germ, " but, although he toiled with adesign, he could not make it "come right. " At last a happy accidentput him on the true track, and revealed his proper genius to himself. He began to make small drawings of poetical subjects inwater-colors--most of those which I have seen are not more than twentyinches by twelve--over which he labored, and into which he poured hisexquisite sense of color, inspired without doubt by the glass ofmediæval church windows. He travelled so very little, that I do notknow whether he ever saw the treasures of radiant jewel-work whichfret the gloom of Chartres or of Bourges; but if he never saw them, hedivined them, and these are the only pieces of color which in theleast degree suggest the drawings of this, Rossetti's second period. As far as one can gather, his method was, first, to becomeinterpenetrated with the sentiment of some ballad or passage ofemotional poetry, then to meditate on the scene till he saw it clearlybefore him; then--and this seems to have always been the difficult andtedious part--to draw in the design, and then with triumphant ease tofill in the outlines with radiant color. He had an almost insuperabledifficulty in keeping his composition within the confines of the paperupon which he worked, and at last was content to have a purelyaccidental limit to the design, no matter what limbs of the _dramatispersonæ_ were sheered away by the frame. It would not be the act of atrue friend to Rossetti's memory to pretend that these drawings, ofwhich for the next ten or fifteen years he continued to produce agreat number, were without faults of a nature which any coxcomb couldperceive, or without eccentricities which an untrained eye mighteasily mistake for faults; but this does not in the least militateagainst the fact that in two great departments of the painter'sfaculty, in imaginative sentiment and in wealth of color, they havenever been surpassed. They have rarely, indeed, been equalled in thehistory of painting. A Rossetti drawing of this class hung withspecimens of other art, ancient or modern, simply destroys them. I donot mean that it is better or worse than they are, but that it killsthem as the electric light puts out a glow-worm. No other man's colorwill bear these points of ruby-crimson, these expanses of deepturquoise-blue, these flagrant scarlets and thunderous purples. Hepaints the sleeve of a trumpeter; it is such an orange as the eye canscarce endure to look at. He paints the tiles of a chimney-corner;they are as green as the peacock's eyes in the sunshine. 

The world is seldom ready to receive any new thing. These drawings ofRossetti's were scarcely noticed even by those who are habitually onthe watch for fresh developments in art. But when the painter nextemerges into something like publicity we find him attended by abrilliant company of younger men, all more or less influenced by histeaching and attracted by his gifts. The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhoodhad been a very ephemeral institution; in three years, or four at themost, it had ceased to exist; but its principles and the energy of itsfounder had left their mark on the whole world of art. In 1849Rossetti had exhibited his picture, "The Girlhood of Mary Virgin, " atthe Portland Gallery, an exhibition in rivalry of the Royal Academy, which existed but a very short time. As far as I can discover, he didnot exhibit again in London until 1856, when he and his friends openeda collection of their pictures at 4 Russell Place, Fitzroy Square. Wewould rather have seen that little gallery than see most of theshow-exhibitions of Europe. In it the fine art of the Anglo-Saxon racewas seen dawning again after its long and dark night. Rossetti himselfwas the principal exhibitor, but his two earliest colleagues, nowfamous painters, Mr. Millais and Mr. Holman Hunt, also contributed. And here were all the new talents whom Rossetti had attracted aroundhim during the last seven years: Mr. Madox Brown, with his fine geniusfor history; Mr. J. D. Watson, with his strong mediæval affinities;Mr. Boyce, with his delicate portraiture of rustic scenes; Mr. Brett, the finest of our students of the sea; Mr. W. B. Scott himself;besides one or two others, Mr. Charles Collins, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Halliday, Mr. Martineau, whom death or adverse fortune removed beforethey had quite fulfilled their promise. Gabriel Rossetti contributedto this interesting and historic exhibition five or six of thosemarvellous drawings of which mention has just been made. "Dante'sDream, " the famous vision of June 9, 1290, with its counterpart, "TheAnniversary of the Dream, " in 1291, were the most prominent of these. A "Mary Magdalene" was perhaps the most moving and exciting. Thisextremely original design showed the Magdalene pursued by her lovers, but turning away from them all to seek Jesus in the house of Simon thePharisee. The architecture in this drawing was almost childish; thewall of Simon's house is not three inches thick, and there is not roomfor a grown-up person on the stairs that lead to it; but the tenderimagination of the whole, the sweet persuasiveness of Christ, wholooks out of a window, the passion of the awakened sinner, who tearsthe roses out of her hair, the curious novelty of treatment in theheads and draperies, all these combine to make it one of those works, the moral force and directness of which appeal to the heart at once. Perhaps the most brilliant piece of color at the Russell Place Gallerymay have been Rossetti's "Blue Closet, " a picture which eitherillustrated or, as I should rather suppose, suggested Mr. Morris'swonderful poem published two years later. 

The same year that displayed him to the public already surrounded by abrilliant phalanx of painter-friends, discovered him also, to thejudicious, as a centre of poetic light and heat. The circumstancesconnected with Rossetti's visit to Oxford a little earlier than thisare too recent, are fresh in the memories of too many living personsof distinction, to be discussed with propriety by one who was notpresent. But certain facts are public, and may be mentioned. TheOxford Union still shows around the interior of its cupola strange, shadowy frescoes, melting into nothingness, which are the work of sixmen, of whom Rossetti was the leader. These youths had enjoyed nopractical training in that particularly artificial branch of art, mural painting, and yet it seems strange that Rossetti himself, atleast, should not have understood that a vehicle, such as yolk of eggmixed with vinegar, was absolutely necessary to tempera, or that itwas proper, in fresco-painting, to prepare the walls, and paint in thefresh wet mortar. They used no vehicle, they fixed their colors in nocoat of plaster, but they threw their ineffectual dry paint on thenaked brick. The result has been that their interesting boyish effortsare now decayed beyond any chance of restoration. It is impossible, however, to ascend the gallery of the Oxford Union and examine theghostly frescoes that are fading there, without great interest andeven emotion. Of the young men who painted there under GabrielRossetti's eye, all have become greatly distinguished. Mr. EdwardBurne-Jones, Mr. William Morris, and Mr. Spencer Stanhope wereundergraduates at Oxford. Mr. Valentine Prinsep and Mr. Arthur Hughes, I believe, were Royal Academy students who were invited down byRossetti. Their work was naïve and queer to the last degree. It isperhaps not fair to say which one of them found so much difficulty inpainting the legs of his figures that he drew an impenetrable covertof sunflowers right across his picture, and only showed the faces ofhis heroes and heroines between the golden disks. 

The _Oxford and Cambridge Magazine_, which also dates from the year1856, is a still more notable expression of budding genius than thedome of the Oxford Union. It was edited by Mr. Godfrey Lushington, allits articles were anonymous, and it contrived to exist through twelveconsecutive monthly numbers. A complete set is now rare, and theperiodical itself is much less known than befits such a receptacle ofpure literature. It contains three or four of Rossetti's finest poems;a great many of those extraordinary pieces, steeped in mediævalcoloring, which Mr. William Morris was to collect in 1858 into hisbewitching volume, called "The Defence of Guenevere;" severaldelightful prose stories of life in the Middle Ages, also by Mr. Morris, which, like certain prose romances by Mr. Burne-Jones, havenever been publicly claimed or reprinted by their author; and not alittle else that was as new as it was notable. A little later Mr. William Morris's first book was dedicated "To my Friend Dante GabrielRossetti, Painter, " and in 1860 Mr. Swinburne followed with a likeinscription of his first-fruits, his tragic drama of "TheQueen-Mother. " Thus in the course of a little more than ten years, Rossetti had become the centre and sun of a galaxy of talent in poetryand painting, more brilliant perhaps than any which has everacknowledged the beneficent sway of any one Englishman of genius. 

But all this while the world outside knew nothing of the matter. Oneby one the younger men stepped forward on the public stage and securedthe plaudits of the discerning, and ascended the slow incline ofgeneral reputation. But Rossetti remained obstinately recluse, farpreferring to be the priest and confessor of genius to acting himselfa public part. To this determination several outward things engagedhim still further. He married quite early in life; and his wife, whowas herself an artist of rare, if somewhat wild and untrained talent, bore him a son who died at birth, and then shortly after died herself. During his brief married months Rossetti had collected the MSS. Of hispoems, and thought to publish them; but when he lost his wife, in aparoxysm of grief he placed the sheets of his poems in her coffin, andwould hear no more a suggestion of publication. In 1861 he presentedthe world with a very learned and beautiful anthology of early Italianpoetry, and proposed as early as that year to print his originalpoems. It was his scheme to name the little volume "Dante in Verona, and other Poems;" but it came to nothing. About 1867 the scheme ofpublication again took possession of him. I have been told that asudden sentiment of middle age, the fact that he found himself in hisfortieth year, led him to conquer his scruples, and finally arrangehis pieces. But he was singularly fastidious; the arrangement wouldnever please him; the cover must be cut in brass, the paper at thesides must bear a special design. These niceties were rarer twelveyears ago than they are now, and the printers fatigued him with theirpersistent obstinacy. It was not till early in 1870 that the "Poems"in stately form first appeared, and were hailed with a shout ofadmiration which was practically universal. 

It was about Christmas in that same year, 1870, that he who writesthese lines was first presented to Gabriel Rossetti. The impression onmy mental eye is as fresh as if it had been made yesterday, instead oftwelve years ago. He was a man of average height, commonly looselyclad in black, so as to give one something of the notion of an abbé;the head very full, and domed like that of Shakespeare, as it was thenusual to say--to my thinking more like that of Chaucer--in any case ahead surcharged with imagination and power, strongly Italian in colorand cast. The eyes were exceedingly deep set, in cavernous sockets;they were large, and black, and full of a restless brilliance, apiercing quality which consoled the shy novice by not beingstationary. Lastly, a voice of bell-like tone and sonority, a voicecapable of expressing without effort every shade of emotion from rageand terror to the most sublime tenderness. I have never heard a voiceso fitted for poetical effect, so purely imaginative, and yet, in itsabsence of rhetoric, so clear and various, as that of GabrielRossetti. I retain one special memory of his reading in his ownstudio the unfinished MS. Of "Rose Mary, " in 1873, which surpassed inthis direction any pleasure which it has been my lot to enjoy; and onvarious occasions I have listened to his reading of sonnets, his ownand those of others, with a sense that his intonation revealed abeauty in the form of that species of verse which it had never beenseen to possess before. I have already spoken of his wonderfulcourtliness to a new acquaintance, his bewitching air of sympathy; ona closer intimacy this stately manner would break up into wild fits ofmirth, and any sketch of Rossetti would be incomplete that did notdescribe his loud and infectious laughter. He lived very much apartfrom the every-day life of mankind, not ostentatiously, but from agenuine lack of interest in passing events. An old friend tells methat during the French Revolution he burst into Rossetti's studio withthe incredible news, "Louis-Philippe has landed in England!" "Has he?"said Rossetti, calmly. "What has he come for?" That certain politicalevents, in which he saw a great symbolic significance, could move himdeeply, is easily proved by such sonnets as the noble "On the Refusalof Aid between Nations, " and "Czar Alexander II. " But such glances outof window into the living street were rare, and formed nocharacteristic part of his scheme of life. 

As a poet in these great years he possessed rare gifts of passionateutterance, and harmony of vision and expression. Mr. Swinburne hascharacterized these qualities in words which leave no latercommentator the chance of distinguishing himself. But it would betotally unjust, even in so cursory and personal a sketch as this, toallow the impression to go undisputed that Rossetti preferred theexternal form to the inward substance of poetry. This charge wasbrought against him, as it has always been brought against earneststudents of poetic art. I will rather quote a few words from a letterof Rossetti to me, written in 1873, when he was composing his own_magnum opus_ of "Rose Mary. " I have always felt them to be verysalutary, none the less because it is obvious that the writer did notat all times contrive, or perhaps desire, to make them true in his ownwork:

"It seems to me that all poetry, to be really enduring, is bound to beas _amusing_ (however trivial the word may sound) as any other classof literature; and I do not think that enough amusement to keep italive can ever be got out of incidents not amounting to events, or outof travelling experiences of an ordinary kind however agreeably, observantly, or even thoughtfully treated. I would eschew in writingall themes that are not so trenchantly individualized as to leave nomargin for discursiveness. "

During the last eight years of his life, Rossetti's whole being wasclouded by the terrible curse of an excitable temperament--sleeplessness. To overcome this enemy, which interfered with his powers of work andconcentration of thought, he accepted the treacherous aid of the newdrug, chloral, which was then vaunted as perfectly harmless in itseffect upon the health. The doses of chloral became more and morenecessary to him, and I am told that at last they became so frequent andexcessive that no case has been recorded in the annals of medicine inwhich one patient has taken so much, or even half so much, chloral asRossetti took. Under this unwholesome drug his constitution, originallya magnificent one, slipped unconsciously into decay, the more stealthilythat the poison seemed to have no effect whatever on the powers of thevictim's intellect. He painted until physical force failed him; he wrotebrilliantly to the very last, and two sonnets dictated by him on hisdeath-bed are described to me as being entirely worthy of his maturepowers. There is something almost melancholy in such a proof of thesuperior vitality of the brain. If the mind had shared the weakness ofthe body, the insidious enemy might perhaps have been routed in time tosecure the elastic rebound of both. But when the chloral was stoutly metat last, it was too late. 

So at the age of fifty-four we have lost a man whom we should haveretained, in the nature of things, for twenty years longer in theplentitude of his powers, but for a mistake in hygiene--a medicalexperiment. His work of inspiring the young, of projecting his fieryoriginality along the veins of others, was perhaps completed; it isdoubtful whether this can ever be continued with advantage throughmore than two generations. The prophet is apt at last to become atyrant, and from this ill apotheosis Rossetti was spared. But therewas no reason why he should not, for at least a score of years, haveproduced noble pictures and have written gorgeous poems, emphasizing apersonal success which he would have extended, though he hardly couldhave raised it. Yet he was always a melancholy man; of late years hehad become almost a solitary man. Like Charles of Austria, he haddisbanded his body-guard, and had retired to the cloister. Perhaps alonger life would not have brought much enjoyment with it. But theseare idle speculations, and we have rather to call to our remembrancethe fact that one of the brightest and most distinguished of our race, a man whose very existence was a protest against narrowness of aim andfeebleness of purpose, one of the great torch-bearers in theprocession of English art, has been called from us in the prime oflife, before the full significance of his genius had been properlyfelt. He was the contemporary of some mighty names older than his, yetthere scarcely was to be found among them all a spirit more thoroughlyoriginal; and surely, when the paltry conflicts of passing taste arelaid to rest forever, it will be found that this man has written hissignature indelibly on one of the principal pages of the register ofour intellectual history. 

[Signature of the author. ]

GUSTAVE DORÉ[11]

 [Footnote 11: Reprinted by permission, from the "Nation. "]

By KENYON COX

(1832-1883)

[Illustration: Gustave Doré. ]

It is now eleven years since Gustave Doré died. He was an officer ofthe Legion of Honor, had attained considerable wealth, and wasprobably more widely known than any other artist of his day. His namewas a household word in two continents. Yet he died a disappointed andembittered man, and is proclaimed by his friends as a neglected andmisunderstood genius. He was known the world over as the mostastonishingly prolific illustrator of books that has ever lived; hewished to be known in France as a great painter and a great sculptor, and because the artists and critics of France never seriouslyrecognized his claims to this glory, he seems to have become a victimof the mania of persecution, and his naturally sunny nature wasover-clouded with moroseness and suspicion. Hailed by some as theemulator and equal of the great names of the Italian Renaissance, andconsidered a great moral force--a "preacher painter"--by others he hasbeen denounced as "designer in chief to the devil, " and described as aman wallowing in all foulness and horror, a sort of demon of frightfulpower. Both these extreme judgments are English. The late BlanchardJerrold, an intimate friend and collaborator of the artist, takes thefirst view. Mr. Ruskin and Mr. Hamerton have taken the second. Doré'sown countrymen have never accepted either. Just where, between them, the truth lies, as we see it, we shall endeavor to show in thisarticle. 

The main facts of Doré's life may be dismissed very briefly. He wasborn with a caul on January 6, 1832, in the Rue Bleue at Strasbourg, near the Cathedral. About 1841 his father removed to Bourg, in theDepartment of Ain, where he was chief government engineer of thedepartment. These two residences of the young artist are supposed toaccount for the mastery of Gothic architecture and of mountain scenerywhich his admirers find in his mature work. He showed very early inlife a passion for drawing, and, as a small child, had always a pencilin his hand, which he begged to have "sharpened at both ends, " that hemight work longer without interruption. His father intended him for anengineer, but he was determined from the first to be an artist. He wasof a gay and jovial disposition, given to pranks and practical jokes, and of an athletic temperament. Théophile Gautier afterward called hima "gamin de génie. " In 1847, when he was fifteen years old, being inParis with his parents, he called upon Phillippon, the publisher, andshowed him some of his sketches. M. Phillippon looked at them, andsent a letter to Doré's parents, persuading them to allow the boy toremain in Paris, and promising them to begin using his work at onceand to pay for it. Thus, without any study of art whatever, he beganhis career, and in a few years had produced a prodigious quantity ofwork, and was a celebrated man before he was twenty. No one knows howmany drawings he made. He "lived like an Arab, " worked early and late, and with astonishing rapidity made thousands of drawings for the comicpapers, besides early beginning the publication of independent books. One estimate, which Mr. Jerrold thinks excessive, credits him withhaving published forty thousand drawings before he was forty! Mr. Jerrold himself reckons two hundred and sixty-six drawings done in oneyear. His "Labors of Hercules" was brought out in 1848, when he wassixteen, and before he was twenty-seven he had published his "HolyRussia, " his "Wandering Jew, " his illustrations to Balzac's "ContesDrôlatiques, " to Rabelais, and many other authors. His best work wasdone at an age when most artists are painfully acquiring the rudimentsof their art. We all know the books that followed. 

Meanwhile he was determined to be known as a great painter, and, whileflooding the market with his countless illustrations, was working atgreat canvases of Biblical subjects, which, though the French wouldnot accept them, were hugely admired in the Doré Gallery of London. Later he tried sculpture also, and his last work was a monument toAlexandre Dumas, which he made at his own expense, and presented tothe city of Paris. He died in the beginning of the year 1883, worn outwith excessive production--a great name, but an unsatisfied man. 

Mr. Jerrold has divided his book into two parts, dealing first withDoré the illustrator, and then with Doré the painter and sculptor. Itis an eminently natural arrangement, and, in our effort to arrive atDoré's true position in art, we cannot do better than to follow it. 

Doré's earliest work was frankly that of a caricaturist. He had aquick eye, no training, and a certain extravagant imagination, andcaricature was his inevitable field. He was, however, as Mr. Jerroldhimself remarks, "a caricaturist who seldom raises a laugh. " Nothearty fun, still less delicate humor, was his. In the higherqualities of caricature his contemporaries, Daumier and Gavarni, werevastly his superiors. An exuberance of grotesque fancy and arecklessness of exaggeration were his dominant notes. His earlierwork, up to and including the Rabelais, is not really funny--to manyminds it is even painful--but it is unmistakably caricature of adashing, savage sort. To our mind it remains his best work, and thatby which he is most likely to live. At least it is the work thatformed him and fixed his characteristics, and an understanding of itis essential to any judgment of him. The qualities and the defects ofhis later work--that which is most praised and most blamed in hisproduction--are inherent in the work of this period, and are bestexplained by a reference to the latter. 

Take, for instance, what has been denounced as his love of horrors andof foulness, his delight in blood and massacre. He is scored for thisas if he were one of that modern French school, beginning, perhaps, with Regnault, who have revelled in the realistic presentation ofexecutions and battles, and have sought to effect by sheersensationalism what they could not by gentler means. It is surprisingthat his critics have not seen that Doré's battles are always, even tothe end, the battles of a caricaturist. His decapitated trunks, clovenheads, smoking hearts, arms still fighting though severed from theirbodies, are simply a debauch of grim humor. There is never theslightest attempt to realize carnage--only to convey, by thecaricaturist's exaggeration, an idea of colossally impossiblebloodthirstiness. One may not enjoy this kind of fun, but to take itseriously, as the emanation of a gloomy and diabolic genius, isabsurd. 

The same test is equally destructive of much of the praise Doré hasreceived. He is constantly spoken of, even by severe critics of hispainting, as a great illustrator who identified himself with the mindsof one great writer after another. But Doré identified himself with noone; he was always Doré. Even in these early drawings he cannot keepto the spirit of the text, though the subjects suited him much betterthan many he tried later. There is a great deal of broad gayety and"Gallic wit" in the "Contes Drôlatiques, " but it was not broad enoughfor Doré, and he has converted its most human characters intoimpossible grotesques. 

Another thing for which Doré is praised is his wonderful memory. Mr. Jerrold repeats more than once Doré's phrase, "I have lots ofcollodion in my head, " and recounts how he could scarcely be inducedto make sketches from nature, but relied upon his memory. He alsospeaks of Doré's system of dividing and subdividing a subject, andnoting the details in their places, so that he could reproduce thewhole afterward. This question of work from memory is one of the mostvital for an understanding of Doré, and one of general interest in allmatters of art, and is worth attention. Of course, a man who madehundreds of drawings every year could not work much from nature, andcame to rely upon his memory. But what is the nature of artisticmemory, and how does it perform its task? We think the truth is, thatthe artist who habitually works from memory, fills in his details, notfrom memory of the object, but from memory of the way he has formerlydrawn similar objects. He reverts to a series of formulæ that he hasgradually accumulated. This man must have a cloak. This is the way acloak is done. A hand? Nothing can be easier; the hand formula isready. The stock in trade of the professional illustrator andcaricaturist is made up of a thousand such formulæ--methods ofexpression that convey the idea readily enough to the spectator, buthave little relation to fact. So it is that Doré never learned, in thetrue sense, to draw. He had made for himself a sort of artisticshorthand, which enabled him to convey his superabundant ideas quicklyand certainly to his public, but his drawing is what is calledmannered in the extreme. It is not representation of nature at all, but pure formula and chic. He is said to be a master of drapery, buthe never drew a single fold correctly. He is said to show greatknowledge of Gothic architecture, but he never drew well a singlecolumn or finial. In his later years he studied anatomy with greatperseverance, and advocated the necessity of dissection, saying, "Ilfaut fourrer la main dedans" (You must stick your hand in it); but themanner was formed, and he never drew a leg with a bone in it. 

With this equipment he illustrated Don Quixote, Dante, the Bible. Isit strange that he shows no sympathy with the grand simplicity ofDante, or the subtle humor of Cervantes, and that we can only bethankful that he never completed his projected illustrations toShakespeare? Doré, the illustrator, was fecund beyond precedent, possessed a certain strange drollery, had a wonderful flow of ideas, but was superficial, theatrical, and mannered, and as far fromexpressing real horror as from expressing real fun. What shall we sayof Doré the painter and sculptor?

Mr. Jerrold reports a discussion between Doré and Théophile Gautier, in which the roles of artist and man of letters are strangelyreversed. "Gautier and Doré, " he says, "disagreed fundamentally on theaims and methods of art. Gautier loved correctness, perfect form--thetechnique, in short, of art; whereas Doré contended that art whichsaid nothing, which conveyed no idea, albeit perfect in form andcolor, missed the highest quality and raison d'être of art. " What isplain from this is, that Gautier was an artist and cared first of allfor art, while Doré was never an artist, properly speaking, at all, and never understood the artist's passion for perfection. To Doré, what was necessary was to express himself anyhow--who cared if thestyle was defective, the drawing bad, the color crude? The idea wasthe thing. His admirers can defend him only on this ground, and theyadopt of necessity the Philistine point of view. The artists of Doré'stime and country were very clear in their opinion. "The painters, "says Mr. Jerrold, "said he could not paint. "

The sculptors admitted that he had ideas in his groups, but he was notsculpturesque. His friends protest against this judgment, andattribute it, _ad nauseam_, to "malevolence" and "envy. " What if histechnique was less brilliant than that of Hals, they say; what if hisshadows are less transparent than those of Rembrandt (and they willmake no meaner comparison)? He is "teeming with noble thoughts, " andthese will put his work "on a level with the masterpieces of theItalian masters of the sixteenth century. " It is the conception, thecreation--not the perfect painting of legs and arms and heads, theharmonious grouping, the happy and delicate combination of color--bywhich the observer is held spell bound. All these qualities, whichhis admirers grudgingly admit that Doré had not, are classed as "meredexterity, " and are not considered worth a second thought. 

This is the true literary gospel of art, but it is one that no artist, and no critic who has any true feeling of art, has ever accepted orwill ever accept. Thoughts, ideas, conceptions, may enhance the valueof a work of art, provided it is first of all a piece of beautiful artin itself, but they have never preserved, and never will preserve fromoblivion bad painting or bad sculpture. The style is the artist, ifnot the man; and of the two, beautiful painting with no idea at all(granting, for the sake of argument, that it exists), will ever beinfinitely more valuable to the world than the lame expression of thenoblest thoughts. What may be the real value of Doré's thoughts istherefore a question with which we have no concern. As painter andsculptor, his lack of education and his great technicalimperfections--his bad drawing, false light and shade, and crudecolor--relegate him forever to a rank far below mediocrity. Suchreputation as he has is the result of the admiration of thosealtogether ignorant of art, but possessed of enough literary abilityto trumpet abroad their praises of "great conceptions, " and will assurely fade away to nothing as the reputation of such simple paintersas Van Der Meer or Chardin will continue to grow, while painting as anart is loved and understood. 

COMPOSERS

HANDEL

By C. E. BOURNE

(1685-1759)

George Frederick Handel, of whom Haydn once reverently said, "He isthe master of us all, " was born at Halle, in Lower Saxony, on February23, 1685. His father was a surgeon, and sixty-three years of age atthe time of his birth--a terribly severe old man, who, almost beforehis son was born, had determined that he should be a lawyer. Thelittle child knew nothing of the fate before him, he only found thathe was never allowed to go near a musical instrument, much as hewanted to hear its sweet sounds, and the obstinate father even tookhim away from the public day-school for the simple reason that themusical gamut was taught there in addition to ordinary reading, writing, and arithmetic. 

But love always "finds out the way, " and his mother or nurse managedto procure for him the forbidden delights; a small clavichord, or dumbspinet, with the strings covered with strips of cloth to deaden thesound, was found for the child, and this he used to keep hidden in thegarret, creeping away to play it in the night-time, when everyone wasasleep, or whenever his father was away from home doctoring hispatients. 

[Illustration: Handel. ]

But, at last, when George Frederick was seven years of age, the oldman was compelled to change his views. It happened in this way. He setout one day on a visit to the court of the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels, where another son by a former marriage was a page. George Frederickhad been teasing his father to let him go with him to see his elderbrother, whom he had not yet met, but this was refused. When oldHandel started by the stagecoach the next morning, the persistentlittle fellow was on the watch; he began running after it, and atlength the father was constrained to stop the coach and take the boyin. So, though at the expense of a severe scolding, the child had hisway and was allowed to go on to Saxe-Weissenfels. When there, thechapel, with the beautiful organ, was the great attraction, and GeorgeFrederick, as indomitable then as he was in after-life, found his wayinto the organ loft, and when the regular service was over, contrivedto take the organist's place, and began a performance of his own; andstrange to say, though he had not had the slightest training, a melodywith chords and the correct harmonies was heard. The duke had not leftthe chapel, and noticing the difference in style from that of theordinary organist, inquired as to the player, and when the little boywas brought to him he soon discovered, by the questions he put, thegreat passion for music which possessed the child. The duke, asensible man, told the father it would be wrong to oppose theinclination of a boy who already displayed such extraordinary genius;and old Handel, either convinced, or at any rate submitting to theduke's advice, promised to procure for his son regular musicalinstruments. Handel never afterward forgot the debt of gratitude heowed to the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels for this intercession. 

On his return to Halle he became the pupil of Zachau, the organist ofthe cathedral there. This man was an excellent teacher and a soundmusician. Before the pupil was nine years old his instructor used toset him to write fugues and motets as exercises, and before long theboy was allowed to play the organ at the cathedral services on Sunday, whenever the elder musician was inclined to linger over his breakfastor to take a holiday. At last, when young Handel was nine years old, the master honestly confessed that his pupil knew more music than hehimself did, and advised that he should be sent to Berlin for a courseof further study there. Thither he accordingly went in the year 1696. 

In Berlin the boy of eleven years was soon recognized as a prodigy. There he met two Italian composers of established reputation, Bononcini and Attilio Ariosti, both of whom he was to encounter inafter-life, though under very different circumstances, in London. Bononcini, who was of a sour and jealous disposition, soon conceiveda dislike for the gifted little fellow, and attempted to injure him bycomposing a piece for the harpsichord full of the most extraordinarydifficulties, and then asking him to play it at sight. The boy, however, at once executed it without a mistake, and thus the maliciousschemer was foiled by his own device. Attilio was of a differentdisposition; he praised the young musician to the skies, and was neverweary of sitting by his side at the organ or harpsichord, and hearinghim improvise for hours. The Elector of Brandenburg also conceived agreat admiration for the boy's talents, and offered to send him toItaly. On old Handel being consulted, however, he pleaded that he wasnow an old man, and wished his son to remain near him. In consequenceof this, probably much to the boy's disappointment, he was broughtback to Halle, and there set to work again under his old master, Zachau. 

Soon after this return his father died, in 1697, leaving hardlyanything for his family, and young Handel had now to seriously bestirhimself to make a living. With this object he went to Hamburg, wherehe obtained a place as second violin in the Opera-house. Soon afterarriving there, the post of organist at Lübeck became vacant, andHandel was a candidate for it. But a peculiar condition was attachedto the acceptance of the office; the new organist must marry thedaughter of the old one! And, as Handel either did not approve of thelady, or of matrimony generally (and in fact he never was married), hepromptly retired from the competition. At first, no one suspected theyouth's talents, for he amused himself by pretending to be anignoramus, until one day the accompanyist on the harpsichord (then themost important instrument in an orchestra) was absent, and youngHandel took his place, astonishing everybody by his masterly touch. Probably this discovery aroused the jealousy of some of hisbrother-artists, for soon afterward a duel took place between him andMatheson, a clever composer and singer, who one night, in the midst ofa quarrel on leaving the theatre, gave him a box on the ear; swordswere drawn, and the duel took place there and then under the porticoof the theatre. Fortunately Matheson's weapon was shivered by comingin contact with a metal button on his opponent's coat. Explanationswere then offered, and the two adversaries became friends--indeed, close friends--afterward. "Almira, Queen of Castile, " Handel's firstopera, was brought out in Hamburg in 1705, and was followed by twoothers, "Nero, " and "Daphne, " all received with great favor, andfrequently performed. 

[Illustration: Handel's River-Concert for George I. ]

But the young musician determined to visit Italy as soon as possible, and after staying in Hamburg three years, and having, besides themoney he sent his mother, saved two hundred ducats for travellingexpenses, he was able to set off on the journey, then one of the greatevents in a musician's lifetime. He visited Florence, Venice, Rome, and Naples, in almost every city writing operas, which we are toldwere produced with the most brilliant success. At Venice an opera wassought for from him, and in three weeks he had written "Agrippina. "When produced, the people received it with frantic enthusiasm, thetheatre resounding with shouts of "Viva il caro Sassone!" (Long livethe dear Saxon!) The following story illustrates the extraordinaryfame he so quickly acquired in Italy. He arrived at Venice duringthe middle of the carnival, and was taken to a masked ball, and thereplayed the harpsichord, still keeping on his mask. Domenico Scarlatti, the most famous harpsichord player of his age, on hearing him, exclaimed, "Why, it's the devil, or else the Saxon whom everyone istalking about!" In 1709 he returned to Hanover, and was appointed bythe Elector George of Brunswick, afterward King George I. , of England, his Court Capellmeister. 

Handel's wanderings next led him to England, where he was treated withso much honor that he showed no great hurry to return to Hanover, and, in fact, he remained in England and coolly ignored his engagement asCapellmeister. But an awkward piece of retribution was at hand. TheElector of Hanover, on the death of Queen Anne, came to England as thenew king, and Handel, his delinquent Capellmeister, could hardlyexpect to receive any share of the royal favor in future. With thehelp of a friend of his, Baron Kilmanseck, he determined, however, tomake an attempt to conciliate the king, and accordingly he wrotetwenty-five short concerted pieces of music, and made arrangements forthese to be performed by musicians in a boat following the royal bargeon the Thames, one day when the king went on an excursion up the riverfor a picnic. The king recognized the composer at once by his style, and spoke in terms of approbation of the music, and the news wasquickly conveyed by his friend to the anxious musician. This is thestory of the origin of the famous "Water Music. " Soon afterward theking allowed Handel to appear before him to play the harpsichordaccompaniments to some sonatas executed by Geminiani, a celebratedItalian violinist, and finally peace was made between them, Handelbeing appointed music-master to the royal children, and receiving anadditional pension of £200. In 1726 a private Act of Parliament waspassed, making George Frederick Handel a naturalized Englishman. 

In the year 1720 a number of noblemen formed themselves into a companyfor the purpose of reviving Italian opera in London, at the HaymarketTheatre, and subscribed a capital of £50, 000. The king himselfsubscribed £1, 000, and allowed the society to take the name of theRoyal Academy of Music, and at first everything seemed to promise themost brilliant success. Handel was appointed director of the music. Bononcini and Attilio Ariosti, his old acquaintances in Berlin, werealso attracted by this new operatic venture to London, and theirarrival was followed by a competition of a very novel character. Thelibretto of a new opera, "Muzio Scævola, " was divided between thethree composers. Attilio was to put the first act to music, Bononcinithe second, and Handel the third. We need hardly wonder that thevictory is said to have rested with the last and youngest of the trio, although at this time the cabals against him, which afterward were todo him such grievous harm, had already commenced. 

Handel still clung to the operatic speculation; and when he had toleave the Haymarket Theatre, which was given up to another Italiancompany with the famous Farinelli, from Lincoln's Inn Fields, undauntedly he changed to the Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, and therecommenced again. More operas were produced, with the one unvaryingtale of fiasco, and at last, in 1737, having lost the whole of hishardly earned money, Handel was compelled to close the theatre, and, worse than all, to suspend payment for a time. Happily he now turnedhis thoughts to oratorio. "Saul" and "Israel in Egypt" were composedin quick succession; the last gigantic work being written in thealmost incredibly short space of twenty-seven days. How great it iseveryone now knows, but, at the time the colossal choruses wereactually considered a great deal too heavy and monotonous; and Handel, always quick in resource, at the second performance introduced anumber of operatic songs to make them go down better, and after thethird performance the piece was withdrawn altogether. Fortunately, opinions have changed since then. These works were followed by hisfine setting of Dryden's "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day, " and Milton's"L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso;" but it cannot be said that hispecuniary affairs were materially improved by their production. 

The first performance of his greatest oratorio, the "Messiah, " tookplace at Neale's Music Hall, in Dublin, on April 18, 1742, at mid-day, and, apropos of the absurdities of fashion, it may be noticed that theannouncements contained the following request: "That ladies who honorthis performance with their presence, will be pleased to come withouthoops, as it will greatly increase the charity by making room for morecompany. " The work was gloriously successful, and £400 were obtainedthe first day for the Dublin charities. Handel seems always to havehad a special feeling with regard to this masterpiece of his--as if itwere too sacred to be merely used for making money by, like his otherworks. He very frequently assisted at its performance for the benefitof the Foundling Hospital, and he left the score as a precious gift tothe governor of that institution. This work alone brought no less asum than £10, 299 to the funds of the hospital. In this connection afine saying of his may be repeated. Lord Kinnoul had complimented himon the noble "entertainment" which by the "Messiah" he had latelygiven the town. "My Lord, " said Handel, "I should be sorry if I onlyentertained them--I wish to make them better. " And when someonequestioned him on his feelings when composing the "Hallelujah Chorus, "he replied in his peculiar English, "I did think I did see all heavenbefore me, and the great God himself. " What a fine saying that was ofpoor old George III. , in describing the "pastoral symphony" in thisoratorio--"I could see the stars shining through it!"

The now constant custom of the audience to rise and remain standingduring the performance of this chorus, is said to have originated inthe following manner: On the first production of the work in London, "the audience were exceedingly struck and affected by the music ingeneral; but when that chorus struck up, 'For the Lord God Omnipotent'in the 'Hallelujah, ' they were so transported that they all together, with the king (who happened to be present), started up and remainedstanding till the chorus ended. " "This anecdote I had from LordKinnoul. " So says Dr. Beattie, the once famous poet, in one of hisletters. 

The "Messiah" was commenced on August 22, 1741, finished on September12th, and the orchestration filled up two days afterward--the wholework thus being completed in twenty-three days. Handel was fifty-sixyears old at the time. 

The next ten years of the life of the "Goliath of Music, " as he hasbeen called, are marked by some of the most splendid achievements ofhis genius. "Samson, " the "Dettingen Te Deum, " "Joseph, " "Belshazzar, ""The Occasional Oratorio, " "Judas Maccabeus, " "Joshua, " "Solomon, "and, "Theodora, " being composed by him during this time, when, alreadyan old man, it might have been thought that he would have taken somerepose after the labors of so toilsome and troubled a life. But, oak-like, he was one of those who mature late; like Milton, hisgreatest works were those of his old age. 

But a terrible misfortune was approaching--his eyesight was failing. The "drop serene, " of which Milton speaks so pathetically, had fallenon his eyes, and at the time when, in February, 1752, he was composinghis last work, "Jephtha" (the one containing "Deeper and DeeperStill, " and "Waft her, Angels"), the effort in tracing the lines is, in the original MS. , very painfully apparent. Soon afterward hesubmitted to three operations, but they were in vain, and henceforthall was to be dark to him. His sole remaining work was now toimprovise on the organ, and to play at performances of his oratorios. There is a pathetic story told of an incident that occurred on oneoccasion, when "Samson" was given. While the magnificent air, Total eclipse! no sun, no moon! All dark, amidst the blaze of noon. O glorious light! no cheering ray To glad my eyes with welcome day. Why thus deprived thy prime decree? Sun, moon, and stars are dark to me--

was being sung by Beard, the tenor, the blind old man, seated at theorgan, was seen to tremble and grow pale, and then, when he was ledforward to the audience to receive their applause, tears were in theeyes of nearly everyone present at the sight. It was like the scenethat is described in Beethoven's life on the occasion of thatcomposer's appearance, when almost totally deaf, to conduct his greatChoral Symphony at Vienna. 

One night, on returning home from a performance of the "Messiah" atCovent Garden, Handel was seized with sudden weakness and retiredhurriedly to bed, from which he was never to rise again. He prayedthat he might breathe his last on Good Friday, "in hope of meeting hisGod, his sweet Lord and Saviour on the day of his resurrection. " Andstrangely enough his wish was granted, for on Good Friday, April 13, 1759, he quietly passed away from this life, being then seventy-fouryears of age. His remains were laid in Poets' Corner in WestminsterAbbey, and the place is marked by a statue by Roubilliac, representinghim leaning over a table covered with musical instruments, his handholding a pen, and before him is laid the "Messiah, " open at thewords, "I know that my Redeemer liveth. "

MOZART

By C. E. BOURNE

(1756-1791)

[Illustration: Mozart. ]

Leopold Mozart was a violinist in the band of Archbishop Sigismund, the reigning Prince of Salzburg, and it was probably in compliment tohis master that he bestowed on the youngest of his seven children thename of Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Sigismundus. Bornon January 27, 1756, this child was destined to make the name ofMozart famous wherever music is known; and surely no more beautifullife--beautiful in itself and in the works of immortal beauty which inits short course were produced--has ever been lived by anyone of thoseto whom the crown of inspired singers and an enduring monument in thetemple of art has been given. "Look around, " was the epitaph on agreat architect. "Listen, " is the most fitting tribute to thewonderful genius of a Mozart. 

Infant prodigies very often turn out to be nobodies in after-life. ButMozart was an exception; and though he might well have been called"the marvellous boy, " his latest works--and he died at the early ageof thirty-five--were undoubtedly his grandest and most perfect. Hebegan very early to compose. One of these first attempts was aconcerto so difficult that no one could play it; but the childundauntedly said, "Why, that's the very reason why it is called aconcerto; people must practise it before they can play it perfectly. "

Wolfgang and his sister, Nannerl, as he used to call her, had beentaken by their father, in 1762, to Vienna, where the children playedthe piano before the Empress Maria Theresa and her husband. LittleWolfgang was here, as everywhere, perfectly at his ease, with asimplicity and childish grace that won every heart. When he had beenplaying for some time, he jumped without ceremony on the lap of theempress, and kissed her heartily for being so good to him. LittleMarie Antoinette, her daughter, afterward the ill-fated wife of LouisXVI. , and then about the same age as Wolfgang, he treated in almostthe same way. He had slipped on the polished floor, to which he wasunaccustomed, and the little princess had hurried forward to raise himup, on which he promptly said, "You are good; I will marry you. " Theempress asked why he wished this, to which he answered, "Out ofgratitude; she was kind, while her sister took no notice of me" (shehad not come forward to help him). After returning to Salzburg, Leopold Mozart, in the spring of 1763, took his children on a morelengthy tour to Munich, Paris, London, and The Hague, and everywheretheir playing, especially Wolfgang's performances on the organ, whichhe had now learned, were listened to with delight and astonishment. AtHeidelberg the priest of the Church of the Holy Ghost engraved on theorgan the boy's name and the date of his visit, in remembrance of"this wonder of God, " as he called the child. At London, old Mozartsays, they were received, on April 27th, by King George III. And QueenCaroline, at the palace, and remained from six to nine o'clock. Theking placed before the boy compositions of Bach and Handel, all ofwhich he played at sight perfectly; he had also the honor ofaccompanying the queen in a song. "On leaving the palace, " the carefulfather says, "we received a present of 24 guineas. "

A great delight was now before him, for his father had resolved on ajourney to Italy, then far more than now the land of music. How muchthis visit did for the young maestro it is impossible to say; he hasnot, like Mendelssohn, left us an "Italian Symphony, " recording theimpressions which that sunny spot of classic beauty had made upon him, but there can be little doubt of the great influence it had on thewhole of his after-life. There are some significant words which hewrote eight years later to his father from Paris: "You must faithfullypromise to let me see Italy again in order to refresh my life. I doentreat of you to confer this happiness upon me. " In Mantua, Milan, Bologna (where he had the good fortune to meet the learned PadreMartini, one of the soundest musicians of his age, and for whom heever afterward maintained a warm attachment), Florence, Rome, andNaples, the young genius was received everywhere with enthusiasm bythe crowds who came to hear him. In Naples the superstitious peoplebelieved that there was magic in his playing, and pointed to a ring onhis left hand as the cause of his wonderful dexterity; and it was onlywhen he had taken this off, and gone on playing just the same, thatthey had to acknowledge it was simply the perfection of art. 

There is something sad in contrasting these brilliant early days withthe anxious times that came later on, when the great Mozart wascompelled to wait in the ante-chambers of the great, dine with theirlacqueys, give lessons to stupid young countesses, and write beggingletters to his friends; yet, in reality, those later days, when "DonGiovanni, " "Die Zauberflöte, " and the "Requiem, " were composed, werethe truly brilliant ones. And it may be that the very greatness came, in some measure, from the sorrow and pain; that Mozart, like so manyothers of the world's great singers, "learnt in suffering what hetaught in song. "

On his return to Munich, after composing a comic opera in the Italianstyle, "La Finta Giardiniera, " which had a great success, youngMozart, who had been very shabbily treated by ArchbishopHieronymus--of whose spiteful conduct we shall hear morehereafter--the successor of Sigismund, determined to resign hissituation in the court band, and to set out on his travels again, giving concerts from place to place, and everywhere looking out forsome suitable appointment that might afford him a permanent income. This time his father was refused permission to travel, and, as on hisexertions depended the support of the whole family, he remainedbehind, while Frau Mozart, the mother, accompanied young Wolfgang. In1777, now a young man of twenty-one, he set out upon his second greatartistic tour, buoyant with hope, and with all the beautiful audacityof young genius determined to conquer the world. This time it was notthe infant prodigy whom men listened to, but the matured musician andthe composer of melodies sweeter than men had ever listened to before. But the tale is changed now. True, there are triumphs to be spoken of, flattery from the great, and presents sent in recompense for hismarvellous playing (he tells one day of his chagrin in receiving froma certain prince a gold watch, instead of money that he sorelywanted--and, besides, he had five watches already!); but rebuffs, intrigues, and all sorts of petty machinations against him, make thetale a sadder one; and so it continued to be to the end. 

From Munich--where it had been hoped that the elector would have givenhim an appointment at court, but he was only told to go to Italy andbecome famous, "it was too early yet to think about becoming aCapellmeister"--he went to Augsburg, spending some pleasant days therein the society of a cousin, Marianne, nicknamed by him Bäsle, a merry, open-hearted girl of nineteen. 

Thence, he went on to Mannheim, a town that is memorable as the placewhere he first met the Webers, and made the acquaintance of HerrCannabich, the director of the music at the elector's court, and onewho proved a stanch friend through everything to the young composer. Cannabich had a daughter named Rosa, a girl of thirteen, exceedinglypretty and clever, and Wolfgang appears to have admired her very much, and perhaps for a time to have flirted and been in love with her. Hewrote her a sonata, and was delighted with the way in which she playedit; the andante, he said, he had composed to represent her, and whenit was finished he vowed she was just what the andante was. But thislittle love affair, if it existed, soon was forgotten in a moreserious one with Aloysia Weber. Her father was a theatre copyist inpoor circumstances. There were a number of children, and she was abeautiful girl of fifteen, with a magnificent voice. She was cousin, by the way, to Weber, afterward composer of the "Freischütz. " Mozartwas so charmed with her voice that he undertook to give her lessons, and we soon hear of him composing airs for her and meditating aconcert tour in Italy in company with her, and her father and sister. In writing of it to his own father he sets out the advantages to begained by co-partnership, and very prosaically says: "Should we staylong anywhere, the eldest daughter [Josepha, afterward Frau Hofer, forwhom Mozart wrote the part of Astrafiammente in the "Zauberflöte"]would be of the greatest use to us; for we could have our own ménage, as she understands cooking. " But papa Mozart decidedly objected. "Yourproposal to travel about with Herr Weber--N. B. , two daughters--hasdriven me nearly wild, " and he straightway orders his son off toParis, whither, with a parting present of a pair of mittens knittedfor him by Mlle. Weber, he reluctantly sets out in company with hismother. 

His stay in Paris during the next year was not very eventful, and asymphony produced at the Concerts Spirituels seems to have been hismost successful work at this time. It was clever and lively, full ofstriking effects, and was most warmly applauded. He says: "The momentthe symphony was over I went off in my joy to the Palais Royal, whereI took a good ice, told my beads, as I had vowed, and went home, whereI am happiest and always shall be happiest. " A great sorrow came tohim here in the death of his mother. Owing to the great expense ofliving in Paris, they had been compelled to live together in a small, dark room, so cramped for space that there was not even room for theindispensable piano. Here she was taken ill, and though for fourteendays Wolfgang most devotedly attended to her wants, she died in hisarms. The letters in which he breaks the news to his father and sisterare full of the most beautiful tenderness and forgetfulness of his owngrief in solicitude for theirs. Things did not indeed prosper with himin Paris; he tried to give lessons, but the ladies whom he taught paidhim very shabbily, and the labor of getting from one part of the cityto another to teach was so great that he found it difficult to givethe time he wished to composition. 

Music in Paris, just then, was at a low ebb. Vapidly pretty Italianoperas were in fashion, and Piccinni was the favorite composer. It wassome years afterward that the great contest between the Piccinnistsand Gluckists culminated in the victory of the latter, though"Alceste, " had already been produced, and "Iphigenia" was soon tofollow. Mozart was a fervent admirer of Gluck, and the music of theolder master had evidently an important influence on that of theyounger and more gifted composer. 

Once more his thoughts were turned to Salzburg, for two of the leadingmusicians there having died, the Archbishop Hieronymus offered theirposts to the Mozarts, father and son, at a salary of a thousandflorins for the two. The father anxiously entreated his son to returnand accept this offer, mentioning as a further bait, that AloysiaWeber would probably be engaged to sing in Salzburg. Much as Wolfganghated Salzburg, or rather the people living there, his love for hisfather and sister prevailed over his aversion; and though with nopleasure at all in the prospect of seeing the hateful archbishopagain, he set out from Paris, travelling to Salzburg in very leisurelyfashion via Strasbourg, Mannheim, and Munich. At Strasbourg he wasinduced to give several concerts, but they were not pecuniarysuccesses, and he did not make by any one more than three louis d'or. But how the artist peeps out in every line of the letters in which hedescribes these! After saying how few were present, and how cold itwas, he proceeds: "But I soon warmed myself, to show the Strasbourggentlemen how little I cared, and played to them a long time for myown amusement, giving a concerto more than I had promised, and at theclose extemporizing. It is now over, but at all events I gained honorand fame. "

At Munich a great shock awaited him. He visited the Webers, and beingin mourning for his mother, wore, after the French fashion, a red coatwith black buttons. When he appeared, Aloysia hardly seemed torecognize him, and her coldness was so marked, that Mozart quietlyseated himself at the piano, and sang in a loud voice, "Ich lass dasMädchen gern das mich nicht will" (I gladly give up the girl whoslights me). It was all over, and he had to bear the loss of thefickle girl as best he might. There is a significant line in one ofhis letters at this time to his father: "In my whole life I neverwrote worse than I do to-day, but I really am unfit for anything; myheart is so full of tears. " After two years' absence he returned hometo Salzburg, where he was warmly welcomed back. Here he remained for alittle while, and wrote his first serious opera, "Idomeneo, " to thetext of an Abbe Varesco, a Salzburger. This opera Beethoven thoughtthe finest of all that Mozart wrote. It was brought out at Munich inJanuary, 1781, and was brilliantly successful. In the March following, an order was received from the archbishop to follow him to Vienna, where he wished to appear with all the full pomp and brilliant retinueof a prince of the church; and as one of this retinue Mozart had tofollow him, little thinking at the time that he should never return toSalzburg, but that Vienna henceforth was to be his home. 

In Vienna he found that he had to live in the archbishop's house, andwas looked upon there as one of the ordinary servants. He says, "Wedine at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, unluckily rather too early anhour for me. Our party consists of the two valets, the comptroller, Herr Zetti, the confectioner, the two cooks, Cecarilli, Brunetti (twosingers), and my insignificant self. N. B. --The two valets sit at thehead of the table. I have, at all events, the honor to be placed abovethe cooks; I almost believe I am back to Salzburg. "

Mozart was a true gentleman, with no foolish false pride, but with thehonorable self-respect that every gentleman must possess, and it wasvery galling to him to have to suffer such odious treatment from themean-spirited archbishop. Indeed, it was only for his father's sakethat he submitted to the continued contumely and petty slights towhich the archbishop delighted in subjecting him. At last the openrupture came. The archbishop called him a knave and dissolute fellow, and told him to be off; and when Mozart waited upon Count Arco, theprincipal official, to obtain the regular dismissal that wasnecessary, the fellow poured abuse upon him, and actually kicked himout of the room. Poor Mozart was in a state of violent excitementafter this outrage, and for some days was so ill that he could notcontinue his ordinary work. But now at least he was free, and thoughhis father, like a timid, prudent old man, bewailed the loss of thestipend which his son had been receiving, Mozart himself knew that therelease was entirely for the best. 

In 1782 appeared "Die Entführung aus dem Serail, " his first reallyimportant opera, full of beautiful airs, which at once becameenormously popular with the Viennese. The Emperor Joseph II. Knew verylittle about music, but, as frequently happens in such cases, considered that he possessed prodigious taste. On hearing it he said, "Much too fine for our ears, dear Mozart; and what a quantity ofnotes!"

The bold reply to this was, "Just as many notes as are necessary, your Majesty. "

Much of the delight which Mozart felt in the success of the operaarose from the fact that it enabled him seriously to contemplatemarriage. Aloysia Weber had been faithless to him, but there wasanother sister--with no special beauty save that of bright eyes, acomely figure, and a cheerful, amiable disposition--Constanze, whom henow hoped to make his wife. His father objected to all of the Weberfamily, and there was some difficulty in obtaining the paternalconsent; but at last the marriage took place, on August 4, 1782. Howtruly he loved his wife from first to last, his letters abundantlyshow; her frequent illnesses were afterward a great and almostconstant source of expense to him, but he never ceased to write to herwith the passionate ardor of a young lover. He says: "I found that Inever prayed so fervently, or confessed so piously, as by her side;she felt the same. " And now for some time everything went smoothly inthe modest little ménage in Vienna. Mozart had plenty of lessons togive, but none of the commissions for operas which he would havewished. 

Passing over a visit to Leipsic--where he studied with the keenestdelight a number of the unpublished works of the great SebastianBach--and to Berlin, he returned to Vienna, and at once set to workupon some quartets which the King of Prussia had ordered from him. "Cosi fan tutte, " a comic opera, with the beautifully flowing musicthat only Mozart could write, but with a stupid plot that hasprevented its frequent repetition in later times; and the glorious"Zauberflöte, " written to assist a theatrical manager, Schikaneder, were his next works. At this time a strange melancholy began to showitself in his letters--it may be that already his overwrought brainwas conscious that the end was not far distant. Such lines as these, pathetic and sad in their simple and almost childlike expression, occur in a letter he wrote during a short absence from his wife, atFrankfort, in 1790: "I am as happy as a child at the thought ofreturning to you. If people could see into my heart I should almostfeel ashamed--all there is cold, cold as ice. Were you with me, Ishould possibly take more pleasure in the kindness of those I meethere, but all seems to me so empty. " On his return to Vienna pecuniarywant was rather pressingly felt; his silver plate had to be pawned, and a perfidious friend, Stadler, made away with the tickets, and thesilver was never redeemed. On one occasion Joseph Deiner, the landlordof the "Silberne Schlange, " chanced to call upon him, and wassurprised to find Mozart and his wife Constanze dancing round theroom. The laughing explanation was that they had no firewood in thehouse, and so were trying to warm themselves with dancing. Deiner atonce offered to send in firewood, Mozart promising to pay as soon ashe could. 

That grand work, the "Zauberflöte, " had just been completed when astrange commission was given him. One day a tall, haggard-looking man, dressed in gray, with a very sombre expression of countenance, calledupon Mozart, bringing with him an anonymous letter. This lettercontained an inquiry as to the sum for which he would write a mass forthe dead, and in how short a time this could be completed. Mozartconsulted his wife, and the sum of fifty ducats was mentioned. Thestranger departed, and soon returned with the money, promising Mozarta further sum on completion, and also mentioned that he might as wellspare the trouble of finding out who had given this commission, for itwould be entirely useless. We now know that the commission had reallybeen given by Count Walsegg, a foolish nobleman, whose wife had died, and who wanted, by transcribing Mozart's score, to pass it off as hisown composition--and this he actually did after the composer's death. Poor Mozart, in the weak state of health in which he now was, withnerves unstrung and over-excited brain, was strangely impressed bythis visit, and soon the fancy took firm possession of him that themessenger had arrived with a mandate from the unseen world, and thatthe "Requiem" he was to write was for himself. Not the less did heardently set to work on it. Hardly, however, was it commenced than hewas compelled to write another opera, "La Clemenza di Tito, " for whicha commission had been given him by the Bohemian Estates, forproduction on the occasion of the Emperor Leopold's coronation intheir capital. This was accomplished in the short space of eighteendays, and though it does not contain the best music, yet the overtureand several of the numbers are full of a piquant beauty and livelinesswell suiting the festival of a people's rejoicing. But a far greaterwork, the "Zauberflöte, " was produced in Vienna shortly afterward. Itdid not take very well at first, but subsequent performances wentbetter. 

[Illustration: Mozart Singing his Requiem. ]

His labors in bringing out the "Zauberflöte" over, Mozart returned tothe "Requiem" he had already commenced, but while writing he often hadto sink back in his chair, being seized with short swoons. Too plainlywas his strength exhausted, but he persisted in his solemn work. Onebright November morning he was walking with Constanze in the Prater, and sadly pointing out to her the falling leaves, and speaking ofdeath, with tears in his eyes, he added; "I well know I am writingthis 'Requiem' for myself. My own feelings tell me that I shall notlast long. No doubt some one has given me poison--I cannot get rid ofthis thought. " With these gloomy fancies haunting his mind, he rapidlygrew worse, and soon could not leave his room. The performances of the"Zauberflöte" were still going on, and extraordinarily successful. Hetook the greatest interest in hearing of them, and at night would takeout his watch and note the time--"Now the first act is over, now isthe time for the great Queen of Night. " The day before his death hesaid to his wife, "Oh, that I could only once more hear my 'FlautoMagico!'" humming, in scarcely audible voice, the lively bird-catchersong. The same day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, he called hisfriends together, and asked for the score of his nearly completed"Requiem" to be laid on his bed. Benedict Schack sang the soprano; hisbrother-in-law, Hofer, the tenor; Gerl, the bass; and Mozart himselftook the alto in a weak but delicately clear voice. They had gotthrough the various parts till they came to the "Lacrymosa, " whenMozart burst into tears, and laid the score aside. The next day(Sunday), he was worse, and said to Sophie, his sister-in-law, "I havethe taste of death on my tongue, I smell the grave, and who cancomfort my Constanze, if you don't stay here?" In her account of hislast moments, she says: "I found Süssmayer sitting by Mozart's bed. The well-known 'Requiem' was lying on the coverlet, and Mozart wasexplaining to Süssmayer the mode in which he wished him to completeit after his death. He further requested his wife to keep his deathsecret until she had informed Albrechtsberger of it, 'for thesituation of assistant organist at the Stephen Church ought to be hisbefore God and the world. ' The doctor came and ordered coldapplications on Mozart's burning head. . . . The last movement of hislips was an endeavor to indicate where the kettledrums should be usedin the 'Requiem. ' I think I still hear the sound. "

HAYDN

By C. E. BOURNE

(1732-1809)

[Illustration: Haydn. ]

No composer has ever given greater or purer pleasure by hiscompositions than is given by "papa" Haydn; there is an unceasing flowof cheerfulness and lively tone in his music, even in the most solemnpieces, as in his Masses, the predominant feeling is that of gladness;as he once said to Carpani: "At the thought of God my heart leaps forjoy, and I cannot help my music doing the same. " But it is not aloneas the writer of graceful and beautiful music that Haydn has a claimon our remembrance; he has been truly called the "father of thesymphony. " Mozart once said: "It was from Haydn that I first learnedthe true way to compose quartettes;" and "The Creation, " which mustever be counted one of the masterpieces of oratorio music, was hiswork. 

His family were of the people, his father being a master wheelwrightat Rohrau, a small Austrian village on the borders of Lower Austriaand Hungary and his mother having been employed as a cook in thecastle of Count Harrach, the principal lord of the district. JosephHaydn was born on March 31, 1732 the second child of his parents; andas ten brothers and sisters afterward came into the world, it caneasily be understood that his lot was not a very luxurious one. Hisparents were simple, honest people of the laboring class, veryignorant, but, like most German peasants, with a certain love for andfacility in music, not quite so common in this country. Haydn's fatherhad a good voice, and could sing well, accompanying himself on theharp, though he did not know a single note of written music. Thenthere was the village schoolmaster, who could actually play theviolin, and whom little Joseph watched with wondering eyes, extractingthose marvellously sweet sounds from his wooden instrument, until, with the child's spirit of imitation, as his parents sang their"Volkslieder, " the little fellow, perched on a stone bench, gravelyhandled two pieces of wood of his own as if they were bow and fiddle, keeping exact time, and flourishing the bow in the approved fashion ofthe schoolmaster. From this very little incident came an importantchange in his life; for a relation, Johann Mathias Frankh, ofHainburg, happened to be present on one occasion, and, thinking he sawan aptitude for music in the boy, offered to take him into his ownschool at Hainburg, where accordingly young Haydn went at the age ofsix years. 

There he remained for two years, making rapid progress in singing andin playing all sorts of instruments, among others the clavier, violin, organ, and drum. He said afterward, with the unaffected piety, farremoved from cant, that was characteristic of him: "Almighty God, towhom I render thanks for all his unnumbered mercies, gave me suchfacility in music that, by the time I was six years old, I stood uplike a man and sang masses in the church choir, and could play alittle on the clavier and violin. " Of Frankh, a very strict, butthorough and most painstaking teacher, he also said afterward: "Ishall be grateful to that man as long as I live for keeping me so hardat work, though I used to get more flogging than food;" and in Haydn'swill he remembered Frankh's family, leaving his daughter a sum ofmoney and a portrait of Frankh himself, "my first instructor inmusic. "

For some years he seems to have lived a miserable, struggling life, giving lessons, playing the organ in churches, and studying when andwhere he could. He had a few pupils at the moderate remuneration oftwo florins a month, and he had contrived to obtain possession of anold worm-eaten clavier, on which he used diligently to practise in thegarret in the Kohlmarkt, where he lived. A pitiable description isgiven of the lodging he then occupied. It was on the sixth story, in aroom without stove or window. In winter his breath froze on his thincoverlet, and the water, that in the morning he had to fetch himselffrom the spring for washing, was frequently changed into a lump of icebefore his arrival in that elevated region. Life was indeed hard; buthe was constantly at work, and, having made a precious "find" on anold bookstall one day of Fux's "Gradus ad Parnassum, " in a verydilapidated condition, but very cheap, he was ardently preparinghimself for the life--he now vowed should be his--of a composer. 

About this time Haydn received a commission from Felix Kurz, a comicactor of the Stadt-Theatre, to put a farce of his, "Der neue krummeTeufel, " to music. This farce, of which the words still remain, thoughthe music has been lost, was very successful, and was played inVienna, Prague, Berlin, and a number of other towns. The well-knownstory of Haydn's "Tempest Music" is connected with this. In one partof this piece a terrible storm was supposed to be raging, and theaccompanying music must of course be suitably descriptive; but thedifficulty was that Haydn had never seen the sea: therefore had notthe slightest notion of what a storm at sea was like. Kurz tries todescribe the waves running mountains high, the pitching and tossing, the roll of thunder, and the howling of the wind; and Haydn producesall sorts of ugly, jerky, and noisy music, but none of it is in theremotest degree like a storm at sea, or anywhere else. At last, afterKurz had become hoarse with his nautical disquisitions, and Haydn'sfingers were tired of scrambling all over the piano, the littlemusician in a rage crashed his hands down on the two extremes of theinstrument, exclaiming: "Let's have done with this tempest!"

"Why, that's it; that's the very thing!" shouted the clown, jumping upand embracing him; and with this crash and a run of semitones to thecentre of the piano this troublesome tempest was most satisfactorilyrepresented. 

When, many years afterward, Haydn was crossing the Straits of Dover toEngland, amid his sufferings he could not help laughing at theludicrous recollections of this early experience of his. 

Things still went on improving, and Haydn, who was always lucky in thepatrons he secured (at least according to the notion about patronsthat then prevailed), was invited to the country-house of Herr vonFürnberg, a wealthy amateur, to stay there and compose quartettes forhim--a style of music for which von Fürnberg had an especial liking. To his prompting it is that we owe the lovely series of quartetteswhich Haydn wrote--still as fresh and full of serene beauty as whenfirst tried over by the virtuosi of Weinzirl. The next piece of goodfortune was Haydn's appointment as director of the band and composerto Count Ferdinand Morzin at Lukaver near Pilsen; and here, in 1759, his first symphony was written. His salary was very small, only 200florins a year (or £20), with board and lodgings; but on the strengthof it he unfortunately determined on the serious step of embarking inmatrimony. A barber, named Keller, is said to have been very kind tohim in the days of his poverty, and out of gratitude Haydn gavemusic-lessons to his daughters. One of them, the youngest, was verypretty, and Haydn fell in love with her. But she became a nun; and thefather then prevailed upon Haydn to marry the elder one, who was threeyears older than he--a sour-tempered, bigoted, and abominably selfishwoman, who contributed little to the happiness of his life, and wasalways bringing priests and friars to the house and worrying hergood-tempered husband to compose masses and other church music forthese men. 

Count Morzin was compelled to give up his band in 1761; but Haydn didnot remain long without employment, as Prince Esterhazy, who had heardhis symphonies at Morzin's house, engaged him to assist Werner, hisCapellmeister. As director of Prince Esterhazy's band, Haydn was fatedto remain for many years living at Esterház, the prince'scountry-seat, composing there nearly all his operas and songs, andmany of his symphonies. 

In 1785 Haydn received a commission which showed the wide reputationhe had then gained. The Chapter of Cadiz Cathedral requested him towrite some instrumental music for performance on Good Friday. "TheSeven Words of our Saviour on the Cross" was in consequence written byhim. 

Several invitations had been sent from England for Haydn to pay avisit there; but it was only after Prince Esterhazy was dead that hewas prevailed on by Salomon to cross the sea. A characteristicconversation between him and Mozart--which took place before heundertook this, in those days, really formidable journey--is recorded. 

"Papa, " said Mozart, "you have no training for the great world, andyou speak too few languages. "

Haydn replied: "My language is understood by all the world. "

He set out on December 15, 1790, and did not return to Vienna tillJuly, 1792. In London, where he wrote and conducted a number ofsymphonies for Salomon, he was the "lion" of the season, being inconstant request for conducting concerts and paying visits to thenobility. Of these symphonies Salomon once said to him: "I am stronglyof opinion that you never will surpass this music. "

"I never mean to try, " was the answer. 

But this must not be taken to mean that Haydn had given up strivingafter the truest perfection in his art, and it probably meant no morethan that for the time he was satisfied with his work. Far more likethe genuine expression of the feeling of the great artist was hisutterance, just before he died, to Kalkbrenner: "I have only justlearned in my old age how to use the wind-instruments; and now that Ido understand them, I must leave the world. "

[Illustration: Haydn Composing his "Creation. "]

Great as the work accomplished in his youth and early manhoodunquestionably was, it remained for his old age to accomplish hisgreatest work, and that by which he is best known--the oratorio of"The Creation. " It is said that the first ideas for this came to himwhen, in crossing the English Channel, he encountered a terrificstorm. Soon after his leaving London, where the words had been givenhim by Salomon, Haydn set about composing the music. "Never, " he says, "was I so pious as when composing 'The Creation. ' I knelt down everyday and prayed God to strengthen me for my work. " It was firstproduced on March 31, 1799, his 67th birthday, at the NationalTheatre, Vienna, and was at once accorded an extraordinary share ofpopular favor. There is a pathetic story of the last performance ofthe work, at which Haydn, in extreme old age, in 1808, was present, when Salieri conducted. He was carried in an arm-chair into the hall, and received there with the warmest greeting by the audience. At thesublime passage, "And there was light!" Haydn, quite overcome, raisedhis hand, pointing upward and saying, "It came from thence. " Soonafter this his agitation increased so much that it was thought betterto take him home at the end of the first part. The people crowdedround him to take leave, and Beethoven is said to have reverentlykissed his hand and forehead. After composing "The Creation, " Haydnwas prevailed upon to write another work, of somewhat similarcharacter, to words adapted from Thomson's poem, and entitled "TheSeasons. " This, though containing some fine descriptive music andseveral choruses of great beauty, is not at all equal to the earlierwork, though at the time its success was quite as complete. But theexertion of writing two such great works, almost without rest betweenthem, was too great, and he himself said: "'The Seasons' gave me thefinishing stroke. " The bombardment of Vienna by the French in 1809greatly disturbed the poor old man. He still retained some of his oldhumor, and during the thunder of the cannons called out to hisservants: "Children, don't be frightened; no harm can happen to youwhile Haydn is by!" He was now no longer able to compose, and to hislast unfinished quartette he added a few bars of "Der Greis, " as aconclusion:

 "Hin ist alle meine Kraft: Alt und schwach bin ich. --JOSEPH HAYDN. "

"Gone is all my strength: old and weak am I. " And these lines hecaused to be engraved, and sent on a card to the friends who visitedhim. The end was indeed now near. On May 26, 1809, he had his servantsgathered round him for the last adieus; then, by his desire, he wascarried to the piano, where he played three times over the "Emperor'sHymn, " composed by him. Then he was taken to his bed, where five daysafterward he died. 

BEETHOVEN

By C. E. BOURNE

(1770-1827)

[Illustration: Beethoven. ]

In one of his letters to Frau von Streicher, at Baden, Beethovenwrites: "When you visit the ancient ruins, do not forget thatBeethoven has often lingered there; when you stray through the silentpine-forests, do not forget that Beethoven often wrote poetry there, or, as it is termed, composed. " He was always fond of claiming thetitle "Ton-dichter, poet in music;" and surely of all the greatgeniuses who have walked the earth, to none can the glorious name of"poet" more truly be given than to Ludwig von Beethoven. 

He was born at Bonn, on December 17, 1770. His father, Johann vonBeethoven, was a tenor singer in the Electoral Chapel of theArchbishop of Cologne, at Bonn, and his mother, Maria Magdalena, was adaughter of the head cook at the castle of Ehrenbreitstein. TheBeethoven family originally came from Louvain, in Belgium; but thecomposer's grandfather had settled in Bonn, first as a singer, andafterward as Capellmeister to the court. Musicians were not held ofmuch account in those days, and the marriage of a singer with thedaughter of a cook was not at all considered a mésalliance. Johann wasa sad drunken scapegrace, and his poor wife, in bringing up her familyupon the small portion of his earnings which she could save from beingsquandered at the tavern, had a pitiably hard and long struggling lifeof it. 

Johann soon discovered the extraordinary musical endowments of hischild and at once set to work to make a "prodigy" of him, as Handel, Bach, and Mozart had been before; for in this way the father hoped tosecure a mine of wealth and lazy competence for himself. So the boy, when only a few years old, was kept for long weary hours practisingthe piano, and one of the earliest stories of his life is of thefive-year-old little child made to stand on a bench before the pianolaboring over the notes, while the tears flowed fast down his cheeksat the cold and aching pain, from which his hard taskmaster would notrelease him. Besides his father, a clever musician who lodged in thehouse, Pfeiffer, an oboist at the theatre, gave him lessons. Beethovenused afterward to say that he had learnt more from this Pfeiffer thanfrom any one else; but he was too ready to abet the father in histyranny, and many a time, when the two came reeling home late at nightfrom drinking bouts at the tavern, they would arouse the little fellowfrom his sleep and set him to work at the piano till daybreak. 

His next instructor was Neefe, the organist of the Archbishop'sprivate chapel, a really skilful and learned musician, who predictedthat the boy would become a second Mozart. Under him Beethoven studiedfor several years, and in 1782, when he was hardly twelve years old, we find him acting as organist in Neefe's place during the absence ofthe latter on a journey. The next year three sonatas composed by youngBeethoven, and dedicated to the Elector in fulsome language, which wasprobably his father's production, were printed. Soon afterward the boyobtained the appointment of assistant-organist to the Elector, with asalary of a hundred thalers, no inconsiderable addition to theresources of his poor mother, who, with her family of three children, Ludwig, Carl, and Johann, and the more and more frequent visits of herne'er-do-well of a husband to the tavern, was often grievously hardput to it for money. Young Ludwig had little play time in his life, and little opportunity for education; but amid his hard work someindications of a mischievous boyish spirit are to be found. 

In the year 1791, the Elector, as head of the Teutonic Order, had tobe present at a grand conclave at Mergentheim, and thither he resolvedto take his musical and theatrical staff. Two ships were chartered toconvey these gentlemen down the Rhine and Maine, and a very pleasantexcursion, with all sorts of frolics and high revellings, they had ofit. Lux, a celebrated actor, was chosen king of the expedition, and wefind Beethoven figuring among the scullions. 

In the autumn of the year following, a visit was paid by Haydn to Bonnon his return from his second journey to London. The musicians of thetown gave a breakfast at Godesberg in his honor, and here Beethovensummoned up courage to show the veteran musician a cantata which hehad recently composed. This was warmly praised by Haydn, and probablyabout this time arrangements were made for Beethoven to be receivedas a pupil by the older master. It is in this period that we mustplace a well-known anecdote. The young musician, already famous in hisown neighborhood, was composing, as his custom was, in the woodoutside the city, when a funeral cortége passed him. The priest, seeing him, instantly checked the dirge which was being chanted, andthe procession passed in solemn silence, "for fear of disturbing him. "In the beginning of November, 1792, the young musician left Bonn forVienna, and, as it happened, he never afterward returned to thefamiliar scenes of his birthplace. 

Beethoven was never a very easy man to get on with, and hisintercourse with Haydn, who used to call him the "Great Mogul, " doesnot seem to have been the most friendly. He was dissatisfied with theinstruction given him, and suspicions were awakened in his mind thatthe elder musician was jealous of him, and did not wish him toimprove. These thoughts were strengthened by the result of a chancemeeting one day, as he was walking home with his portfolio under hisarm, with Johann Schenk, a scientific and thoroughly accomplishedmusician. Beethoven complained to him of the little advance he wasmaking in counterpoint, and that Haydn never corrected his exercisesor taught him anything. Schenk asked to look through the portfolio, and see the last work that Haydn had revised, and on examining it hewas astonished to find a number of mistakes that had not been pointedout. It is difficult to understand Haydn's conduct in this matter, forthe perfidious treatment suspected by Beethoven is quite at variancewith the ordinarily accepted character of the old man, and I cannothelp fancying that the only foundation for Beethoven's suspicion wasthat Haydn did not quite understand the erratic genius of the youthtill some time afterward. Beethoven dedicated his three pianofortesonatas, Op. II. , to Haydn, and when the latter suggested that heshould add on the title page "Pupil of Haydn, " the "Great Mogul"refused, bluntly saying "that he had never learnt anything from him. "After Haydn, Albrechtsberger and Salieri were for a time his teachers, but Beethoven got on no better with them, and Albrechtsberger said, "Have nothing to do with him; he has learnt nothing, and will never doanything in decent style. " Perhaps not in your pedant's style, O greatcontrapuntist!

Beethoven cannot be said to have been unfortunate in his friends. Hehad many true and faithful ones throughout his life, and though hesuffered from pecuniary troubles, caused by the conduct of hisbrothers, he was never in such a state of grinding poverty as someother artists, such as Schubert, have been--never compelled to wasteprecious years of his life in producing "pot-boilers"--working not forart so much as for mere food and shelter. In 1794 Prince KarlLichnowski, who had been a pupil of Mozart, and who, as well as hiswife Christiane, was _fanatico per la musica_, proposed that Beethovenshould come and live at his palace. They had no children; a suite ofrooms was placed at the musician's disposal; no terms were proposed;the offer was the most delicate and friendly imaginable, and wasaccepted by Beethoven in the spirit in which it was made. For tenyears he resided with the Lichnowskis, and these were probably theyears of purest happiness in the great composer's life, although earlyin their course the terrible affliction of deafness began to be feltby him. He at this time freely frequented the salons of the Viennesenobility, many of whom were accomplished virtuosi themselves, and wereable to appreciate the great genius of the new-comer, rough andbearish as oftentimes he must have appeared to them--a great contrastto the courtly Haydn and Salieri, who might be seen sitting side byside on the sofa in some grandee's music-room, with their swords, wigs, ruffles, silk stockings, and snuff-boxes, while theinsignificant-looking and meanly dressed Beethoven used to standunnoticed in a corner. Here is a description of his appearance givenby a Frau von Bernhard: "When he visited us, he generally put his headin at the door before entering, to see if there were any one presenthe did not like. He was short and insignificant-looking, with a redface covered with pock-marks. His hair was quite dark. His dress wasvery common, quite a contrast to the elegant attire customary in thosedays, especially in our circles. . . . He was very proud, and I haveknown him refuse to play, even when Countess Thun, the mother ofPrincess Lichnowski, had fallen on her knees before him as he lay onthe sofa to beg him to. The Countess was a very eccentric person. . . . At the Lichnowskis' I saw Haydn and Salieri, who were then veryfamous, while Beethoven excited no interest. "

It was in the year 1800 that Beethoven at last was compelled toacknowledge to himself the terrible calamity of almost total deafnessthat had befallen him. He writes to his friend Wegeler, "If I had notread somewhere that man must not of his own free will depart thislife, I should long ere this have been no more and that through my ownact. . . . What is to be the result of this the good God alone knows. Ibeg of you not to mention my state to any one, not even to Lorchen[Wegeler's wife]. But, " he continues, "I live only in my music, and nosooner is one thing completed than another is begun. In fact, as atpresent, I am often engaged on three or four compositions at onetime. "

[Illustration: An Anecdote about Beethoven. ]

But at first all was not gloom; for Beethoven was in love--not thelove of fleeting fancy that, like other poets, he may have experiencedbefore, but deeply, tragically, in love; and it seems that, for a timeat least, this love was returned. The lady was the Countess JuliaGuicciardi; but his dream did not last long, for in the year 1801 shemarried a Count Gallenberg. Hardly anything is known of this loveaffair of Beethoven's. A few letters full of passionate tenderness, and with a certain very pathetic simple trustfulness in her loverunning through them all--on which her marriage shortly afterward is astrange comment; the "Moonlight Sonata, " vibrating, as it isthroughout, with a lover's supremest ecstasy of devotion, these arethe only records of that one blissful epoch in the poor composer'slife; but how much it affected his after life, how it mingled in thedreams from which his loveliest creations of later years arose, it isimpossible now to say. In a letter to Wegeler, dated November 16, 1801, he says, "You can hardly realize what a miserable, desolate lifemine has been for the last two years; my defective hearing everywherepursuing me like a spectre, making me fly from every one, and appear amisanthrope; and yet no one in reality is less so! This change [to ahappier life] has been brought about by a lovely and fascinatinggirl who loves me and whom I love. After the lapse of two years Ihave again enjoyed some blissful moments, and now for the first time Ifeel that marriage can bestow happiness; but alas! she is not in thesame rank of life as myself. . . . You shall see me as happy as I amdestined to be here below, but not unhappy. No, that I could not bear. I will grasp Fate by the throat; it shall not utterly crush me. Oh, itis so glorious to live one's life a thousand times!" No misanthropythis, surely; he could not always speak the speech of common men, orcare for the tawdry bravery of titles or fine clothes in which theystrutted, but what a heart there was in the man, what a wondrousinsight into all the beauty of the world, visible and invisible, around him! The most glorious lovesong ever composed, "Adelaide, " waswritten by him; but Julia Guicciardi preferred a Count Gallenberg, keeper of the royal archives in Vienna, and Beethoven, to the end ofhis days, went on his way alone. 

It was at this time that he composed his oratorio, "The Mount ofOlives, " which can hardly be reckoned among his finest works; and hisone opera--but such an opera--"Fidelio. " The greater part of theseworks was composed during his stay, in the summer months, atHetzendorf, a pretty, secluded little village near Schönbrunn. Hespent his days wandering alone through the quiet, shady alleys of theimperial park there, and his favorite seat was between two boughs of avenerable oak, at a height of about two feet from the ground. For sometime he had apartments at a residence of Baron Pronay's, near thisvillage; but he suddenly left, "because the baron would persist inmaking him profound bows every time that he met him. " Like a truepoet, he delighted in the country. "No man on earth, " he writes, "loves the country more. Woods, trees, and rock give the responsewhich man requires. Every tree seems to say, 'Holy, holy. '"

In 1804 the magnificent "Eroica" symphony was completed. This hadoriginally been commenced in honor of Napoleon Bonaparte, then FirstConsul, who, Beethoven--throughout his life an ardent Republican--thenbelieved was about to bring liberty to all the nations of Europe. Whenthe news of the empire came the dream departed, and Beethoven, in apassionate rage, tore the title page of the symphony in two, and, witha torrent of imprecations against the tyrant, stamped on the tornfragments. 

"My hero--a tyrant!" he shrieked, as he trampled on the poor page. Onthis page the inscription had been simply, "Bonaparte--Luigi v. Beethoven". For some years he refused to publish the work, and, whenat last this was done, the inscription read as follows: "SinfoniaEroica per festigiari il sovvenire d'un grand' uomo" (Heroic symphony, to celebrate the memory of a great man). When Napoleon died, in 1821, Beethoven said, "Seventeen years before I composed the music for thisoccasion;" and surely no grander music than that of the "FuneralMarch" was ever composed for the obsequies of a fallen hero. This isnot the place to enter into a description of the marvellous successionof colossal works--symphonies, concertos, sonatas, trios, quartets, etc. , culminating in the "Choral Symphony, " his ninth, andlast--which, through those long years of a silent life, imprisonedwithin himself, the great master put forth. His deafness prevented hisappearing in public to conduct, although, with the natural desire of acomposer to be present at the production of his own work, he longstruggled to take his part in the first performances of symphonies andconcertos. 

When the great choral symphony was first performed he attempted toconduct, but in reality another conductor was stationed near him togive the right time to the band. After the majestic instrumentalmovements had been played came the final one, concluding withSchiller's "Hymn to Joy. " The chorus breaks forth, thundering out inconcert with all the instruments. At the words "Seid umschlunger, Millionen, " the audience could no longer restrain their exciteddelight, and burst into tremendous applause, drowning the voices ofsingers and the sounds of strings and brass. The last notes are heard, but still Beethoven stands there absorbed in thought--he does not knowthat the music is ended. This was the first time that the peoplerealized the full deprivation of hearing from which he suffered. Fraulein Unger, the soprano, gently takes his arm and turns him roundto front the acclaiming multitude. There are few in that crowd who, while they cheer, do not feel the tears stealing down their cheeks atthe sight of the poor lonely man who, from the prison-house of hisaffliction, has brought to them the gladness of thought so divine. Unmoved, he bowed his acknowledgment, and quietly left the building. 

His later years were embittered with troubles about his nephew Carl, ayouth to whom he was fondly attached, but who shamefully repaid thelove of the desolate old man. Letters like the following, to theteacher in whose house the boy lived, show the constant thought andaffection given to this boy: "Your estimable lady is politelyrequested to let the undersigned know as soon as possible (that I maynot be obliged to keep it all in my head) how many pairs of stockings, trousers, shoes, and drawers are required, and how many yards ofkerseymere to make a pair of black trousers for my tall nephew. "

His death was the result of a cold which produced inflammation of thelungs. On the morning of March 24, 1827, he took the sacrament andwhen the clergyman was gone and his friends stood round his bed, hemuttered. "_Plaudite amici, comedia finita est. _" He then fell into anagony so intense that he could no longer articulate, and thuscontinued until the evening of the 26th. A violent thunder-stormarose; one of his friends, watching by his bedside when the thunderwas rolling and a vivid flash of lightning lit up the room, saw himsuddenly open his eyes, lift his right hand upward for someseconds--as if in defiance of the powers of evil--with clenched fistand a stern, solemn expression on his face; and then he sank back anddied. 

PAGANINI

(1784-1840)

[Illustration: Paganini. ]

Nicolo Paganini, whose European fame as a violinist entitles him to anotice here, was born at Genoa in 1784. His father, a commission-broker, played on the mandolin; but fully aware of the inferiority of aninstrument so limited in power, he put a violin into his son's hands, and initiated him in the principles of music. The child succeeded sowell under parental tuition, that at eight years of age he played threetimes a week in the church, as well as in the public saloons. At thesame period he composed a sonata. In his ninth year he was placed underthe instruction of Costa, first violoncellist of Genoa; then had lessonsof Rolla, a famous performer and composer; and finally studiedcounterpoint at Parma under Ghiretti and the celebrated maestro Paer. Henow took an engagement at Lucca, where he chiefly associated withpersons who at the gaming-table stripped him of his gains as quickly ashe acquired them. He there received the appointment of director oforchestra to the court, at which the Princess Elisa Bacciochi, sister ofNapoleon I. , presided, and thither invited, to the full extent of hermeans, superior talent of every kind. In 1813 he performed at Milan;five years after, at Turin; and subsequently at Florence and Naples. In1828 he visited Vienna, where a very popular violinist and composer, Mayseder, asked him how he produced such new effects. His reply wascharacteristic of a selfish mind: "_Chacun a ses secrets_" In thatcapital, it is affirmed, he was imprisoned, being accused of havingmurdered his wife. He challenged proofs of his ever having been married, which could not be produced. Then he was charged with having poignardedhis mistress. This he also publicly refuted. The fact is that he knewbetter how to make money than friends, and he raised up enemies whereverhis thirst for gold led him. Avarice was his master-passion; and, secondto this, gross sensuality. 

The year 1831 found Paganini in Paris, in which excitable capital heproduced a sensation not inferior to that created by the visit ofRossini. Even this renowned composer was so carried away, either bythe actual genius of the violinist or by the current of popularenthusiasm, that he is said to have wept on hearing Paganini for thefirst time. He arrived in England in 1831, and immediately announced aconcert at the Italian Opera House, at a price which, if acceded to, would have yielded £3, 391 per night; but the attempt was tooaudacious, and he was compelled to abate his demands, though hesucceeded in drawing audiences fifteen nights in that season at theordinary high prices of the King's Theatre. He also gave concerts inother parts of London, and performed at benefits, always taking atthese a large proportion of the proceeds. He visited most of the greattowns, where his good fortune still attended him. He was asked to playat the Commemoration Festival at Oxford, in 1834, and demanded 1, 000guineas for his assistance at three concerts. His terms were of courserejected. 

Paganini died at Nice, in 1840, of a diseased larynx ("phthisielaryngée"). By his will, dated 1837, he gave his two sisters legaciesof 60, 000 and 70, 000 francs; his mother a pension of 1, 200; the motherof his son Achillino (a Jewess of Milan) a similar pension; and therest of his fortune, amounting to 4, 000, 000 francs, devolved on hisson. These and other facts before related, we give on the authority ofthe "Biographie Universelle. "

Paganini certainly was a man of genius and a great performer, butsacrificed his art to his avarice. His mastery over the violin wasalmost marvellous, though he made an ignoble use of his power byemploying it to captivate the mob of pretended amateurs by featslittle better than sleight-of-hand. His performance on a singlestring, and the perfection of his harmonics, were very extraordinary;but why, as was asked at the time, be confined to one string whenthere are four at command that would answer every musical purpose somuch better? His tone was pure, though not strong, his strings havingbeen of smaller diameter than usual, to enable him to strain them atpleasure; for he tuned his instrument most capriciously. He could be avery expressive player; we have heard him produce effects deeplypathetic. His arpeggios evinced his knowledge of harmony, and some ofhis compositions exhibit many original and beautiful traits. 

[Illustration: Paganini in Prison. ]

MENDELSSOHN

By C. E. BOURNE

(1809-1847)

Mendelssohn's lot in life was strikingly different from that of allthe musicians of whom I have hitherto written; he never knew, likeSchubert, what grinding poverty was, or suffered the long worries thatMozart had to endure for lack of money. His father was a Jewish bankerin Berlin, the son of Moses Mendelssohn, a philosopher whose writingshad already made the name celebrated throughout Europe. The composer'sfather used to say, with a very natural pride, after his own son hadgrown up, "Formerly I was the son of my father, and now I am thefather of my son!"

Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy was born on February 3, 1809. Hisparents were neither of them trained musicians, though bothappreciated and loved music, and it was from his mother that youngFelix received his first music-lessons. When he had made some advance, Ludwig Berger became his tutor for the piano, and Zelter, a verylearned and severe theorist, for counterpoint. At the age of nineyears Felix had attained such proficiency that we find him taking thepianoforte part in a trio at a public concert of a Herr Gugel's, andwhen twelve years old he began to compose, and actually wrote a trio, some sonatas, a cantata, and several organ pieces. His home life wasin the highest degree favorable to his musical development. Onalternate Sundays musical performances were regularly given with asmall orchestra in the large dining-room, Felix or his sister Fanny, who also possessed remarkable musical gifts, taking the pianofortepart, and new compositions by Felix were always included in theprogramme. Many friends, musicians and others, used to be present, Zelter regularly among their number, and the pieces were always freelycommented on, Felix receiving then, as indeed he did all his life, thecriticisms expressed, with the utmost good-natured readiness. 

[Illustration: Mendelssohn. ]

In 1824 Moscheles, at that time a celebrated pianist, and residing inLondon, visited Berlin, and was asked to give Felix music-lessons. This is the testimony of Moscheles, an excellent and kind-hearted man, and a thoroughly skilled musician, after spending nearly every day forsix weeks with the family: "It is a family such as I have never knownbefore; Felix, a mature artist, and yet but fifteen; Fanny, extraordinarily gifted, playing Bach's fugues by heart and withastonishing correctness--in fact, a thorough musician. The parentsgive me the impression of people of the highest cultivation;" and onthe subject of lessons he says: "Felix has no need of lessons; if hewishes to take a hint from me as to anything new, he can easily doso. " But it is very pleasant to find Mendelssohn afterward referringto these lessons as having urged him on to enthusiasm, and, in thedays in London when his own fame had far outstripped that of the oldermusician, acknowledging himself as "Moscheles's pupil. " The elderMendelssohn was by no means carried away by the applause which theboy's playing and compositions had gained, and in 1825 he took his sonto Paris to obtain Cherubini's opinion as to his musical abilities, with a view to the choice of a profession; for he had by no means madeup his mind that Felix should spend his whole life as a musician. However, the surly old Florentine, who was not always civil orappreciative of budding genius (_teste_ Berlioz), gave a decidedlyfavorable judgment on the compositions submitted to him, and urgedthe father to devote his son to a musical career. And, indeed, onlistening to the pieces which were dated this year, especially abeautiful quartet in B minor, an octet for strings, the music to anopera in two acts, "Camacho's Wedding, " and numerous pianofortepieces, it is difficult to realize that the composer was then onlysixteen years of age, or that anyone could question the artisticvocation that claimed him. But the next year a work was written, thescore of which is marked "Berlin, August 6, 1826, " when it must beremembered that he was seventeen years of age, which of itself wassufficient to rank him among the immortals--the overture to the"Midsummer Night's Dream. " Full of lovely imaginings, with a wonderfulfairy grace all its own, and a bewitching beauty, revealing not onlythe soul of the true poet, but also the musician profoundly skilled inall the art of orchestral effect, it is hard to believe that it is thework of a boy under twenty, written in the bright summer days of 1826, in his father's garden at Berlin. 

Passing over the intermediate years with a simple reference to the"Meeresstille, " "Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, " which was thencomposed, and a fine performance of Bach's "Passion Music, " for whichhe had been long drilling the members of the Berlin Singakademie, thenext event is a visit to England in 1829, where he was received withextraordinary warmth, playing at the Philharmonic Concerts, conductinghis C minor Symphony, which he dedicated to the Philharmonic Society, they in their turn electing him one of their honorary members; goingto dinners, balls, and the House of Commons, and enjoying himself mosthugely. His letters from England at this time are brimming over withfun and graphic description; there is one especially amusing, in whichhe describes himself with two friends going home from a late dinner atthe German Ambassador's, and on the way buying three German sausages, going down a quiet street to devour them, with all the while joyouslaughter and snatches of part songs. There is also a little incidentof this time showing the wonderful memory he possessed. After aconcert on "Midsummer Night, " when the "Midsummer Night's Dream" hadvery appropriately been played, it was found that the score had beenlost in a hackney-coach as the party were returning to Mr. Attwood's. "Never mind, " said Mendelssohn, "I will make another, " which he did, and on comparison with the separate parts not a single difference wasfound in it. 

At the beginning of December he was at home again, and that winter hewrote the "Reformation Symphony, " intended to be produced at thetercentenary festival of the "Augsburg Confession" in the followingJune. This symphony, with which Mendelssohn was not entirelysatisfied, was only once performed during his lifetime, but since hisdeath it has frequently been performed, and though not one of his mostperfect works, is recognized as a noble monument in honor of a greatevent. The next spring he again set out on his travels, this timesouthward to Italy. 

In 1833 Mendelssohn accepted an official post offered him by theauthorities of Düsseldorf, by which the entire musical arrangements ofthe town, church, theatre, and singing societies were put under hiscare. Immermann, the celebrated poet, being associated with him in thedirection of the theatre. Things, however, did not go on very smoothlythere. Mendelssohn found all the many worries of theatricalmanagement--the engagement of singers and musicians, the dissensionsto be arranged, the many tastes to be conciliated--too irksome, and hedid not long retain this appointment; but the life among his friendsat Düsseldorf was most delightful, and the letters written at thistime are exceedingly lively and gay. It was here that he received thecommission from the Cæcilia-Verein of Frankfort for, and commenced, his grand oratorio "St. Paul. " The words for this, as also for the"Elijah" and "Hymn of Praise" afterward, he selected himself with thehelp of his friend Schubung, and they are entirely from the Bible--ashe said, "The Bible is always the best of all. " Circumstancesprevented the oratorio being then produced at Frankfort, and the firstpublic performance took place at the Lower Rhine Festival atDüsseldorf, in May, 1836. 

But his visits to Frankfort had a very important result in anotherway. Mendelssohn there met Mademoiselle Cécile Jeanrenaud, thedaughter of a pastor of the French Reformed Church, and, though he hadfrequently indulged in the admiration of beautiful and cleverwomen--which is allowable, and indeed an absolute necessity for apoet!--now for the first time he fell furiously in plain unmistakableand downright love. But it is more characteristic of the staid Teutonthan the impulsive musician, that before plighting his troth to her hewent away for a month's bathing at Scheveningen, in Holland, for thepurpose of testing the strength of his affection by this absence. Onhis return, finding his amatory pulse still beating satisfactorily, heproposed to the young lady, and, as it must be presumed that she hadalready made up her own mind without any testing, he was accepted. OnMarch 28, 1837, they were married, and the wedded life that then beganwas one of pure, unclouded happiness to the very end. CécileMendelssohn was a beautiful, gentle-hearted, and loving wife, just theone to give a weary and nervous artist in the home-life, with herselfand the children near him, the blessed solace of rest and calm that heso needed. It is thus that Edward Devrient, the great German actor, and one of Mendelssohn's most intimate friends, describes her: "Cécilewas one of those sweet womanly natures whose gentle simplicity, whosemere presence, soothed and pleased. She was slight, with features ofstriking beauty and delicacy; her hair was between brown and gold, butthe transcendent lustre of her great blue eyes, and the brilliantroses of her cheeks, were sad harbingers of early death. She spokelittle, and never with animation, in a low, soft voice. Shakespeare'swords, "My gracious silence, " applied to her no less than to the wifeof Coriolanus. "

After giving up his official position at Düsseldorf, in 1835, Mendelssohn was invited to become the conductor of the now famousGewandhaus concerts at Leipsic, a post which he gladly accepted, andwhich, retained by him for many years, was to be one of the greatestdelights of his artistic life. Not only was he loved and appreciatedin Leipsic--far more than in Berlin, his own city--but he had here anopportunity of assisting many composers and _virtuosi_, who otherwisewould have sought in vain for a hearing. Thus, after Liszt, whenvisiting the town, had been first of all received with great coldness, owing to the usual prices of admission to the concerts having beenraised, Mendelssohn set everything straight by having a soirée in hishonor at the Gewandhaus, where there were three hundred and fiftypeople, orchestra, chorus, punch, pastry, Meeresstille Psalm, Bach'sTriple Concerto, choruses from St. Paul, Fantasia on Lucia, the ErlKing, the Devil and his Grandmother, the latter probably a mildsatirical reference to Liszt's stormy and often incoherent playing. Itis also pleasant to find how cordially Mendelssohn received Berliozthere, as told in the "Memoirs" of the latter, spending ungrudginglylong days in aiding in rehearsals for his "Romeo et Juliette, " thoughMendelssohn never sympathized much with Berlioz's eccentric muse. 

The "Lobgesang, " or "Hymn of Praise, " a "symphonie-cantata, " as hecalled it, was his next great work, composed in 1840, together withother music, at the request of the Leipsic Town-Council, for afestival held in that town in commemoration of the invention ofprinting, on June 25th. None who have heard this work can forget thefirst impression produced when the grand instrumental movements withwhich it commences are merged in the majestic chorus, "All men, allthings, praise ye the Lord, " or the intensely dramatic effect of therepeated tenor cry, "Watchman, will the night soon pass?" answered atlast by the clear soprano message of glad tidings, "The night isdeparting, the day is at hand!" This "watchman" episode was added sometime afterward, and, as he told a friend, was suggested to thecomposer during the weary hours of a long sleepless night, when thewords, "Will the night soon pass?" again and again seemed to berepeated to him. But a greater work even than this was now inprogress; the "Elijah" had been begun. 

In 1841 began a troublesome and harassing connection with Berlin, acity where, except in his home life, Mendelssohn never seems to havebeen very fortunate. At the urgent entreaty of the king, he went toreside there as head of the new Musical Academy. But disagreementsarose, and he did not long take an active part in the management. Theking, however, was very anxious to retain his services, and a sort ofgeneral office seems to have been created for him, the duties of whichwere to supply music for any dramatic works which the king took itinto his head to have so embellished. And, though it is to this thatwe owe the noble "Antigone, " "Oedipus, " "Athalie, " "Midsummer Night'sDream, " and other music, this work to dictation was very worrying, andone cannot think without impatience of the annoyances to which he wassubjected. The king could not understand why he shrank from writingmusic to the choruses of Æschylus's "Eumenides. " Other composers woulddo it by the yard, why not he?

Passing rapidly over the intervening years filled with busy work, bothin composition and as one of the principals of a newly startedConservatorium in Leipsic, we come to 1846, when his great work"Elijah" was at last completed and performed. On August 26th, at theBirmingham Festival, the performance went splendidly. Staudigl tookthe part of the prophet, and a young tenor, Lockey, sang the air, "Then shall the righteous, " in the last part, as Mendelssohn says, "sovery beautifully, that I was obliged to collect myself to prevent mybeing overcome, and to enable me to beat time steadily. " Rarely, indeed, has a composer so truly realized his own conception asMendelssohn did in the great tone-picture which he drew of the Prophetof Carmel and the wilderness. 

"I figured to myself, " he says, "Elijah as a grand, mighty prophet, such as might again reappear in our own day, energetic and zealous, stern, wrathful, and gloomy, a striking contrast to the courtmyrmidons and popular rabble--in fact, in opposition to the wholeworld, and yet borne on angel's wings!" Nothing can be finer thanthis, with that exquisite touch in the last words, "_in opposition tothe whole world, and yet borne on angel's wings_. "

After returning to Germany he was soon busily employed in recastingsome portions of "Elijah" with which he was not satisfied; he had alsoanother oratorio on even a grander scale, "Christus, " alreadycommenced; and at last, after all his life-long seeking in vain for agood libretto for an opera, he had begun to set one written by Geibel, the German poet, "Loreley, " to music. But his friends now noticed howworn and weary he used oftentimes to look, and how strangely irritablehe frequently was, and there can hardly be a doubt that some form ofthe cerebral disease from which his father and several of hisrelations had died, was already, deep-seated and obscure, disquietinghim. The sudden announcement of the death of his sister, Fanny Hensel, herself a musical genius, to whom he was very fondly attached, on hisreturn to Frankfort from his last visit to England in May, 1847, terribly affected him. He fell to the ground with a loud shriek, andit was long before he recovered consciousness. 

Indeed, it may be said that he never really recovered from this shock. In the summer he went with his wife and children, and in company withhis brother Paul and his family, on a tour in Switzerland, where hehoped that complete idleness as regards music, life in the open air, sketching, and intercourse with chosen friends, might once more givestrength to his enfeebled nerves. And for a time the beauty of themountains and the lakes seemed to bring him rest, and again he beganto work at his oratorio "Christus;" but still his friends continuedanxious about him. He looked broken down and aged, a constantagitation seemed to possess him, and the least thing would oftenstrangely affect and upset him. 

In September he returned to Leipsic; he was then more cheerful, andable to talk about music and to write, although he could not resumethe conductorship of the Gewandhaus concerts. He again had projects inview. Jenny Lind was to sing in his "Elijah, " at Vienna, whither hewould go and conduct, and he was about to publish some new songs. Oneday in October he went to call upon his friend, Madame Frege, a giftedlady who, he said, sang his songs better than anyone else, to consulther about some new songs. She sang them over to him several times, andthen, as it was getting dark, she went out of the room for a fewminutes to order lights. When she returned he was lying on the sofa, shivering with cold, and in agonizing pain. Leeches were applied, andhe partially recovered; but another attack followed, and this was thelast. 

FRANZ LISZT

By Rev. HUGH R. HAWEIS, M. A. 

(1811-1886)

[Illustration: Liszt. ]

Franz Liszt was born in 1811. He had the hot Hungarian blood of hisfather, the fervid German spirit of his mother, and he inherited thelofty independence, with none of the class prejudices, of the oldHungarian nobility from which he sprang. Liszt's father, Adam, earneda modest livelihood as agent and accountant in the house of CountEsterhazy. In that great musical family, inseparably associated withthe names of Haydn and Schubert, Adam Liszt had frequent opportunitiesof meeting distinguished musicians. The prince's private band hadrisen to public fame under the instruction of the venerable Haydnhimself. The Liszts, father and son, often went to Eisenstadt, wherethe count lived; there they rubbed elbows with Cherubini and Hummel, apupil of Mozart. 

Franz took to music from his earliest childhood. When about five yearsold he was asked what he would like to do. "Learn the piano, " said thelittle fellow. Soon afterward his father asked him what he would liketo be; the child pointed to a print of Beethoven hanging on the wall, and said, "Like him. " Long before his feet could reach the pedals orhis fingers stretch an octave, the boy spent all his spare timestrumming, making what he called "clangs, " chords and modulations. Hemastered scales and exercises without difficulty. 

Czerny at once took to Liszt, but refused to take anything for hisinstruction. Salieri was also fascinated, and instructed him inharmony; and fortunate it was that Liszt began his course under twostrict mentors. He soon began to resent Czerny's method--thought heknew better and needed not those dry studies of Clementi and thatirksome fingering by rule--he could finger anything in a half-a-dozendifferent ways. There was a moment when it seemed that master andpupil would have to part, but timely concessions to genius paved theway to dutiful submission, and years afterward the great masterdedicated to the rigid disciplinarian of his boyhood his "Vingt-quatreGrandes Études" in affectionate remembrance. 

Such a light as Liszt's could not be long hid; all Vienna, in 1822, was talking of the wonderful boy. "_Est deus in nobis_, " wrote thepapers, profanely. The "little Hercules, " the "young giant, " the boy"virtuoso from the clouds, " were among the epithets coined tocelebrate his marvellous renderings of Hummel's "Concerto in A, " and afree "Fantasia" of his own. The Vienna Concert Hall was crowded tohear him, and the other illustrious artists--then, as indeed they havebeen ever since forced to do wherever Liszt appeared--effacedthemselves with as good a grace as they could. 

It is a remarkable tribute to the generous nature as well as to theconsummate ability of Liszt, that, while opposing partisans havefought bitterly over him--Thalbergites, Herzites, Mendelssohnites_versus_ Lisztites--yet few of the great artists who have, one afteranother, had to yield to him in popularity have denied to him theiradmiration, while most of them have given him their friendship. 

Liszt early wooed, and early won Vienna. He spoke ever of his dearViennese, and their resounding city. A concert tour on his way toParis brought him before the critical public of Stuttgart and Munich. Hummel, an old man, and Moscheles, then in his prime, heard him anddeclared that his playing was equal to theirs. But Liszt was bent uponcompleting his studies in the celebrated school of the French capital, and at the feet of the old musical dictator, Cherubini. The Erards, who were destined to owe so much to Liszt, and to whom Lisztthroughout his career owed so much, at once provided him with amagnificent piano; but Cherubini put in force a certain by-law of theConservatoire excluding foreigners, and excluded Franz Liszt. 

This was a bitter pill to the eager student. He hardly knew how littlehe required such patronage. In a very short time "_le petit Liszt_"was the great Paris sensation. The old _noblesse_ tried to spoil himwith flattery, the Duchesse de Berri drugged him with bonbons, theDuke of Orleans called him the "little Mozart. " He gave privateconcerts, at which Herz, Moscheles, Lafont, and De Beriot, assisted. Rossini would sit by his side at the piano, and applaud. He was a"miracle. " The company never tired of extolling his "nerve, fougue etoriginalité, " while the ladies who petted and caressed him after eachperformance, were delighted at his simple and graceful carriage, theelegance of his language, and the perfect breeding and propriety ofhis demeanor. 

He was only twelve when he played for the first time at the ItalianOpera, and one of those singular incidents which remind one ofPaganini's triumphs occurred. At the close of a _bravura cadenza_, theband forgot to come in, so absorbed were the musicians in watching theyoung prodigy. Their failure was worth a dozen successes to Liszt. Theball of the marvellous was fairly set rolling. Gall, the inventor ofphrenology, took a cast of the little Liszt's skull; Talma, thetragedian, embraced him openly with effusion; and the misanthropicMarquis de Noailles became his mentor, and initiated him into the artof painting. 

In 1824 Liszt, then thirteen years old, came with his father toEngland; his mother returned to Austria. He went down to Windsor tosee George IV. , who was delighted with him, and Liszt, speaking of himto me, said: "I was very young at the time, but I remember the kingvery well--a fine, pompous-looking gentleman. " George IV. Went toDrury Lane on purpose to hear the boy, and commanded an encore. Lisztwas also heard in the theatre at Manchester, and in several privatehouses. 

On his return to France, people noticed a change in him. He was nowfourteen, grave, serious, often pre-occupied, already a little tiredof praise, and excessively tired of being called "le petit Liszt. " Hisvision began to take a wider sweep. The relation between art andreligion exercised him. His mind was naturally devout. Thomas à Kempiswas his constant companion. "Rejoice in nothing but a good deed;""Through labor to rest, through combat to victory;" "The glory whichmen give and take is transitory, " these and like phrases were alreadydeeply engraven on the fleshly tablets of his heart. Amid all hisglowing triumphs he was developing a curious disinclination to appearin public; he seemed to yearn for solitude and meditation. 

In 1827 he again hurried to England for a short time, but his father'ssudden illness drove them to Boulogne, where, in his forty-seventhyear, died Adam Liszt, leaving the young Franz for the first time inhis life, at the early age of sixteen, unprotected and alone. Rousinghimself from the bodily prostration and torpor of grief into which hehad been thrown by the death of his father, Franz, with admirableenergy and that high sense of honor which always distinguished him, began to set his house in order. He called in all his debts, sold hismagnificent grand "Erard, " and left Boulogne for Paris with a heavyheart and a light pocket, but not owing a sou. 

He sent for his mother, and for the next twelve years, 1828-1840, thetwo lived together, chiefly in Paris. There, as a child, he had been anine days' wonder, but the solidity of his reputation was now destinedto go hand in hand with his stormy and interrupted mental and moraldevelopment. Such a plant could not come to maturity all at once. Nodrawing-room or concert-room success satisfied a heart for which theworld of human emotion seemed too small, and an intellect piercingwith intuitive intelligence into the "clear-obscure" depths ofreligion and philosophy. 

But Franz was young, and Franz was poor, and his mother had to besupported. She was his first care. Systematically, he labored to putby a sum which would assure her of a competency, and often with histender genial smile he would remind her of his own childish words, "God will help me to repay you for all that you have done for me. "Still he labored, often woefully against the grain. "Poverty, " hewrites, "that old mediator between man and evil, tore me from mysolitude devoted to meditation, and placed me before a public on whomnot only my own but my own mother's existence depended. Young andover-strained, I suffered painfully under the contact with externalthings which my vocation as a musician brought with it, and whichwounded me all the more intensely that my heart at this time wasfilled entirely with the mystical feelings of love and religion. "

[Illustration: Franz Liszt. ]

Of course the gifted young pianist's connection grew rapidly. He gothis twenty francs a lesson at the best houses; he was naturally awelcome guest, and from the first seemed to have the run of highParisian society. His life was feverish, his activity irregular, hishealth far from strong; but the vulgar temptations of the gay capitalseemed to have little attraction for his noble nature. His heartremained unspoiled. He was most generous to those who could notafford to pay for his lessons, most pitiful to the poor, mostdutiful and affectionate to his mother. Coming home late from somegrand entertainment, he would sit outside on the staircase tillmorning, sooner than awaken, or perhaps alarm, her by letting himselfin. But in losing his father he seemed to have lost a certain methodand order. His meals were irregular, so were his lessons; more so werethe hours devoted to sleep. 

At this time he was hardly twenty; we are not surprised anon to hearin his own words, of "a female form chaste, and pure as the alabasterof holy vessel, " but he adds: "Such was the sacrifice which I offeredwith tears to the God of Christians!"

I will explain. Mlle. Caroline St. Cricq was just seventeen, lithe, slender, and of "angelic" beauty, with a complexion like a lilyflushed with roses, open, "impressionable to beauty, to the world, toreligion, to God. " The countess, her mother, appears to have been acharming woman, very partial to Liszt, whom she engaged to instructMademoiselle in music. The lessons went not by time, but byinclination. The young man's eloquence, varied knowledge, ardent loveof literature, and flashing genius won both the mother and daughter. Not one of them seemed to suspect the whirlpool of grief and death towhich they were hurrying. The countess fell ill and died, but notbefore she had recommended Liszt to the Count St. Cricq as a possiblesuitor for the hand of Mademoiselle. 

The haughty diplomat, St. Cricq, at once put his foot down. Thefuneral over, Liszt's movements were watched. They were innocentenough. He was already an _enfant de la maison_, but one night helingered reading aloud some favorite author to Mademoiselle a littletoo late. He was reported by the servants, and received his politedismissal as music master. In an interview with the count his ownpride was deeply wounded. "Difference of rank!" said the count. Thatwas quite enough for Liszt. He rose, pale as death, with quiveringlip, but uttered not a word. As a man of honor he had but one course. He and Caroline parted forever. She contracted later an uncongenialmarriage; he seems to have turned with intense ardor to religion. Hisgood mother used to complain to those who came to inquire for him thathe was all day long in church, and had ceased to occupy himself, as heshould, with music. 

It was toward the close of 1831 that Liszt met Chopin in Paris. Fromthe first, these two men, so different, became fast friends. Chopin'sdelicate, retiring soul found a singular delight in Liszt's strong andimposing personality. Liszt's exquisite perception enabled himperfectly to live in the strange dreamland of Chopin's fancies, whilehis own vigor inspired Chopin with nerve to conceive those mightyPolonaises that he could never properly play himself, and which he sogladly committed to the keeping of his prodigious friend. Lisztundertook the task of interpreting Chopin to the mixed crowds which herevelled in subduing, but from which his fastidious and delicatelystrung friend shrank with something like aversion. 

From Chopin, Liszt and all the world after him got that _temporubato_, that playing with the duration of notes without breaking thetime, and those arabesque ornaments which are woven like fineembroidery all about the pages of Chopin's nocturnes, and lift what inothers are mere casual flourishes into the dignity of interpretativephrases and poetic commentaries on the text. 

People were fond of comparing the two young men who so often appearedin the same salons together--Liszt with his finely shaped, long, ovalhead and _profil d'ivoire_, set proudly on his shoulders, his stiffhair of dark blonde thrown back from the forehead without a parting, and cut in a straight line, his _aplomb_, his magnificent and courtlybearing, his ready tongue, his flashing wit and fine irony, his genial_bonhomie_ and irresistibly winning smile; and Chopin, also, with darkblonde hair, but soft as silk, parted on one side, to use Liszt's ownwords, "An angel of fair countenance, with brown eyes from whichintellect beamed rather than burned; a gentle, refined smile, slightlyaquiline nose; a delicious, clear, almost diaphanous complexion, allbearing witness to the harmony of a soul which required no commentarybeyond itself. "

Nothing can be more generous or more true than Liszt's recognition ofChopin's independent support. "To our endeavors, " he says, "to ourstruggles, just then so much needing certainty, he lent us the supportof a calm, unshakable conviction, equally armed against apathy andcajolery. " There was only one picture on the walls of Chopin's room;it hung just above his piano. It was a head of Liszt. 

It is no part of my present scheme to describe the battle whichromanticism in music waged against the prevalent conventionalities. Weknow the general outcome of the struggle culminating, after the mostprodigious artistic convulsions, in the musical supremacy of RichardWagner, who certainly marks firmly and broadly enough the greateststride in musical development made since Beethoven. 

In 1842 Liszt visited Weimar, Berlin, and then went to Paris; he wasmeditating a tour in Russia. Pressing invitations reached him from St. Petersburg and Moscow. The most fabulous accounts of his virtuosityhad raised expectation to its highest pitch. He was as legendary evenamong the common people as Paganini. His first concert at St. Petersburg realized the then unheard-of sum of £2, 000. The roads werecrowded to see him pass, and the corridors and approaches to the GrandOpera blocked to catch a glimpse of him. The same scenes were repeatedat Moscow, where he gave six concerts without exhausting the popularexcitement. 

On his return to Weimar he accepted the post of Capellmeister to theGrand Duke. It provided him with that settled abode, and above allwith an orchestra, which he now felt so indispensable to meet hisgrowing passion for orchestral composition. But the time of rest hadnot yet come. 

In 1844 and 1845 he was received in Spain and Portugal with incredibleenthusiasm, after which he returned to Bonn to assist at theinauguration of Beethoven's statue. With boundless liberality, he hadsubscribed more money than all the princes and people of Germany puttogether, to make the statue worthy of the occasion and the occasionworthy of the statue. 

The golden river which poured into him from all the capitals ofEurope now freely found a new vent in boundless generosity. Hospitals, poor and needy, patriotic celebrations, the dignity and interests ofart, were all subsidized from his private purse. His transcendentvirtuosity was only equalled by his splendid munificence; but hefound--what others have so often experienced--that great personalgifts and prodigious _éclat_ cannot possibly escape the poison of envyand detraction. He was attacked by calumny; his gifts denied andridiculed; his munificence ascribed to vainglory, and his charity topride and ostentation; yet none will ever know the extent of hisprivate charities, and no one who knows anything of Liszt can beignorant of the simple, unaffected goodness of heart which promptedthem. 

Still he was wounded by ingratitude and abuse. It seemed to check andparalyze for the moment his generous nature. Fétis saw him at Coblenzsoon after the Bonn festival, at which he had expended such vast sums. He was sitting alone, dejected and out of health. He said he was sickof everything, tired of life, and nearly ruined. But that mood neverlasted long with Liszt; he soon arose and shook himself like a lion. His detractors slunk away into their holes, and he walked forthvictorious to refill his empty purse and reap new laurels. 

His career was interrupted by the stormy events of 1848. He settleddown for a time at Weimar, and it was then that he began to take thatwarm interest in Richard Wagner which ended in the closest and mostenduring of friendships. 

He labored incessantly to get a hearing for the "Lohengrin" and"Tannhäuser. " He forced Wagner's compositions on the band, on thegrand-duke; he breasted public opposition and fought nobly for theeccentric and obscure person who was chiefly known as a politicaloutlaw and an inventor of extravagant compositions which it wasimpossible to play or sing, and odiously unpleasant to listen to. Butyears of faithful service, mainly the service and immense _prestige_and authority of Liszt, procured Wagner a hearing, and paved the wayfor his glorious triumphs at Bayreuth in 1876, 1882, and 1883. 

I have preferred to confine myself in this article to the personality ofLiszt, and have made no allusion to his orchestral works and oratoriocompositions. The "Symphonic Poems" speak for themselves--magnificentrenderings of the inner life of spontaneous emotion--but subject-matterwhich calls for a special article can find no place at the fag-end ofthis, and at all times it is better to hear music than to describe it. As it would be impossible to describe Liszt's orchestration intelligiblyto those who have not heard it, and unnecessary to those who have, Iwill simply leave it alone. 

I saw Liszt but six times, and then only between the years 1876 and1881. I heard him play upon two occasions only, and then he playedcertain pieces of Chopin at my request and a new composition byhimself. I have heard Mme Schumann, Bülow, Rubenstein, Menter, andEsipoff, but I can understand that saying of Tausig, himself one ofthe greatest masters of _technique_ whom Germany has ever produced:"No mortal can measure himself with Liszt. He dwells alone upon asolitary height. "

RICHARD WAGNER

By FRANKLIN PETERSON, Mus. Bac. 

(1813-1883)

[Illustration: Wagner. ]

Richard Wagner's personality has been so overshadowed by and almostmerged in the great controversy which his schemes of reform in operaraised, that his life and character are often now sorelymisjudged--just as his music long was--by those who have not the time, the inclination, or the ability to understand the facts and theissues. Before briefly stating then the theories he propounded andtheir development, as shown in successive music dramas, it will bewell to summarize the story of a life (1813-83) during which he wascalled to endure so much vicissitude, trial and temptation, sufferingand defeat. 

Born in Leipsic, on May 22, 1813, the youngest of nine children, Wilhelm Richard was only five months old when his father died. Hismother's second marriage entailed a removal to Dresden, where, at theKreuzschule, young Wagner received an excellent liberal education. Atthe age of thirteen the bent of his taste, as well as his diligence, was shown by his translation (out of school hours) of the first twelvebooks of the "Odyssey. " In the following year his passion for poetryfound expression in a grand tragedy. "It was a mixture, " he says, "ofHamlet and Lear. Forty-two persons died in the course of the play, and, for want of more characters, I had to make some of them reappearas ghosts in the last act. " Weber, who was then conductor of theDresden opera, seems to have attracted the boy both by his personalityand by his music; but it was Beethoven's music which gave him his realinspiration. From 1830 to 1833 many compositions after standard modelsare evidence of hard and systematic work and in 1833 he began his longcareer as an operatic composer with "Die Feen" which, however, neverreached the dignity of performance till 1888--five years afterWagner's death. After some time spent in very unremunerative routinework in Heidelberg, Königsberg, and Riga (where in 1836 he married), he resolved, in 1839, to try his fortune in Paris with "Rienzi, " a newopera, written on the lines of the Paris Grand Opera and with all itsgreat resources in view. From the month's terrific storm in the NorthSea, through which the vessel struggled to its haven, till the springof 1842, when Wagner left Paris with "Rienzi" unperformed, heartsickwith hope deferred, his lot was a hard and bitter one. Berlioz, insimilar straits, supported himself by singing in the chorus of asecond-rate theatre. Wagner was refused even that humble post. In 1842"Rienzi" was accepted at Dresden, and its signal success led to hisappointment as Capellmeister there (January, 1843). In the followingyear the "Flying Dutchman" was not so enthusiastically received, butit has since easily distanced the earlier work in popular favor. Thestory was suggested to his mind during the stormy voyage from Riga;and it is a remarkable fact that the wonderful tone-picture ofNorway's storm-beaten shore was painted by one who, till that voyage, had never set eyes on the sea. In 1845 his new opera, "Tannhäuser, "proved at first a comparative failure. The subject, one which had beenproposed to Weber in 1814, attracted Wagner while he was in Paris, andduring his studies for the libretto he found also the firstsuggestions of "Lohengrin" and "Parsifal. " The temporary failure ofthe opera led him to the consideration and self-examination whichresulted in the elaborate exposition of his ideal (in "Opera andDrama, " and many other essays). "I saw a single possibility beforeme, " he writes, "to induce the public to understand and participate inmy aims as an artist. " "Lohengrin" was finished early in 1848, andalso the poem of "Siegfried's Tod, " the result of Wagner's studies inthe old Nibelungen Lied; but a too warm sympathy with some of the aimsof the revolutionary party (which reigned for two short days behindthe street barricades in Dresden, May, 1849) rendered his absence fromSaxony advisable, and a few days later news reached him in Weimar thata warrant was issued for his arrest. With a passport procured by Liszthe fled across the frontier, and for nearly twelve years thebitterness of exile was added to the hardships of poverty. It is thisperiod which is mainly responsible for Wagner's polemical writings, sobiting in their sarcasm, and often unfair in their attacks. He was agood hater; one of the most fiendish pamphlets in existence is the"Capitulation" (1871), in which Wagner, safe from poverty (thanks tothe kindness of Liszt and the munificence of Ludwig II. , of Bavaria), and nearing the summit of his ambition, but remembering only hismisfortunes and his slights, gloated in public over the horrors whichwere making a hell of the fairest city on earth. There is excuse atleast, if not justification, to be found for his attacks on Meyerbeerand others; there are considerations to be taken into account whileone reads with humiliation and pity the correspondence between Wagnerand his benefactor, Liszt; but it is sad that an affectionate, humane, intensely human, to say nothing of an artistic, nature, could soblaspheme against the first principles of humanity. 

In 1852 the poem of the "Nibelungen Ring Trilogy" was finished. In1854 "Rheingold" (the introduction of "Vorabend") was ready, and "DieWalküre" (Part I. ) in 1856. But "tired, " as he said, "of heaping onesilent score upon another, " he left "Siegfried" unfinished, and turnedto the story of "Tristan. " The poem was completed in 1857, and themusic two years later. At last, in 1861, he received permission toreturn to Germany, and in Vienna he had the first opportunity ofhearing his own "Lohengrin. " For three years the struggle with fortuneseems to have been harder than ever before, and Wagner, in brokenhealth, had practically determined to give up the unequal contest, when an invitation was sent him by Ludwig II. , the young King ofBavaria--"Come here and finish your work. " Here at last was salvationfor Wagner, and the rest of his life was comparatively smooth. In 1865"Tristan und Isolde" was performed at Munich, and was followed threeyears later by a comic opera, "Die Meistersinger, " the first sketchesof which date from 1845. "Siegfried" ("Nibelungen Ring, " Part II. ) wascompleted in 1869, and in the following year Wagner married Cosima, the daughter of Liszt, and formerly the wife of Von Bülow. His firstwife, from whom he had been separated in 1861, died at Dresden in1866. 

A theatre built somewhere off the main lines of traffic, and speciallyconstructed for the performance of Wagner's later works, must haveseemed the most impracticable and visionary of proposals in 1870; andyet, chiefly through the unwearying exertions of Carl Tausig (and, afterhis death, of the various Wagner societies), the foundation-stone of theBaireuth Theatre was laid in 1872, and in 1876, two years after thecompletion of the "Götterdämmerung" ("Nibelungen Ring, " Part III. ), itbecame an accomplished fact. The first work given was the entire"Trilogy;" and in July, 1882, Wagner's long and stormy career wasmagnificently crowned there by the first performance of "Parsifal. " Afew weeks later his health showed signs of giving way, and he resolvedto spend the winter at Venice. There he died suddenly, February 13, 1883, and was buried in the garden of his own house, Wahnfried, atBaireuth. [12]

 [Footnote 12: Our illustration represents him at Wahnfried in company with his wife Cosima, her father Franz Liszt, who was his lifelong friend, and Herr von Wolzogen. ]

Wagner's life and his individuality are of unusual importance inrightly estimating his work, because, unlike the other great masters, he not only devoted all his genius to one branch of music--theopera--but he gradually evolved a theory and an ideal which heconsciously formulated and adopted, and perseveringly followed. It maybe asked whether Wagner's premises were sound and his conclusionsright; and also whether his genius was great enough to be the worthychampion of a cause involving such revolutions. Unless Wagner'soperas, considered solely as music, are not only more advanced instyle, but worthy in themselves to stand at least on a level with thegreatest efforts of his predecessors, no amount of proof that thesewere wrong and he right will give his name the place his admirersclaim for it. It is now universally acknowledged that Wagner can onlybe compared with the greatest names in music. His instrumentation hasthe advantage in being the inheritor of the enormous development ofthe orchestra from Haydn to Berlioz, his harmony is as daring andoriginal as Bach's, and his melody is as beautiful as it is differentfrom Beethoven's or Mozart's. (These names are used not in order toinstitute profitless comparisons, but as convenient standards;therefore even a qualification of the statement will not invalidatethe case. )

[Illustration: Wagner and his Friends. ]

His aim (stated very generally) was to reform the whole structure ofopera, using the last or "Beethoven" development of instrumental musicas a basis, and freeing it from the fetters which conventionality hadimposed, in the shape of set forms, accepted arrangements, andtraditional concessions to a style of singing now happily almostextinct. The one canon was to be dramatic fitness. In this "Art Workof the Future, " as he called it, the interest of the drama is todepend not entirely on the music, but also on the poem and on theacting and staging as well. It will be seen that Wagner's theory isnot new. All or most of it is contained in the theories of Gluck andothers, who at various periods in the development of opera consciouslystrove after an ideal music drama. But the times were not ripe, andtherefore such music could not exert its proper influence. The twinarts of music and poetry, dissociated by the rapid advance ofliterature and the slow development of music, pursued their severalpaths alone. The attempt to reunite them in the end of the sixteenthcentury was futile, and only led to opera which never needed, andtherefore did not employ, great poetry. In Germany music was developedalong instrumental lines until the school arrived at its culminationin Beethoven; and when an opera composer stopped to think on theeternal verities, the result must always have been such a prophecy ofWagner's work as we find in Mozart's letters:

"_October, 1781. _--Verse indeed is indispensable for music, but rhymeis bad in its very nature. . . . It would be by far the best if a goodcomposer, understanding the theatre and knowing how to produce apiece, and a clever poet, could be united in one. . . . "

Other but comparatively unimportant features in the Wagner music dramaare, _e. G. _, the use of the _Leitmotiv_, or leading motive--foundoccasionally in Gluck, Mozart, Weber, etc. , but here first adoptedwith a definite purpose, and the contention for mythological ratherthan historical subjects--now largely admitted. But all Wagner'sprinciples would have been useless without the energy and perseverancewhich directed his work, the loving study which stored his memory withall the great works of his predecessors, and, above all, the geniuswhich commands the admiration of the musical world. 

Wagner's works show a remarkable and progressive development. "Rienzi"is quite in the grand opera style of Meyerbeer, Spontini, etc. The"Flying Dutchman" is a deliberate departure from that style, and inromantic opera strikes out for itself a new line, which, followedstill further in "Tannhäuser, " reaches its stage of perfection in"Lohengrin. " From this time dates the music drama, of which "Tristan"is the most uncompromising type, and by virtue of wonderfulorchestration, and the intense pathos of the beautifully written poem, the most fascinating of all. The "Trilogy" ("Walküre, " "Siegfried, ""Götterdämmerung, " with the "Rheingold" as introduction) is a veryunequal work. It is full of Wagner's most inspired writing and mostmarvellous orchestration; but it is too long and too diffuse. The plotalso is strangely confused and uninteresting, and fails alike as astory and as a vehicle of theories, morals, or religion. "Parsifal, "with its sacred allegory, its lofty nobility of tone, and its puremysticism, stands on a platform by itself, and is almost abovecriticism, or praise, or blame. The libretto alone might have wonWagner immortality, so original is it and perfect in intention; andthe music seems to be no longer a mere accessory to the effect, butthe very essence and fragrance of the great conception. 

GIUSEPPE VERDI

(BORN 1813)

[Illustration: Verdi. ]

Giuseppe Verdi, the last and most widely successful of the school ofItalian opera proper, was born at Roncole, near Busseto, October 9, 1813. At ten years he was organist of the small church in his nativevillage, the salary being raised after a year from £1 8_s. _ 10_d. _ to£1 12_s. _ per annum. At the age of sixteen he was provided with fundsto prosecute his studies at the Conservatorium at Milan; but at theentrance examination he showed so little evidence of musical talentthat the authorities declined to enroll him. Nothing daunted, hepursued his studies with ardor under Lavigna, from 1831 to 1833, when, according to agreement, he returned to Busseto to take the place ofhis old teacher Provesi, now deceased. 

After five unhappy years in a town where he was little appreciated, Verdi returned to Milan. His first opera, "Oberto, " is chieflyindebted to Bellini, and the next, "Un Giorno di Regno" (whichfulfilled its own title, as it was only once performed), has beenstyled "Un Bazar de Reminiscences. " Poor Verdi had just lost his wifeand two children within a few days of each other, so it is hardly tobe wondered at that a comic opera was not a very congenial work, norsuccessfully accomplished. 

"Nabucodonosor" (1842) was his first hit, and in the next year "ILombardi" was even more successful--partly owing to the revolutionaryfeeling which in no small degree was to help him to his future highposition. Indeed, his name was a useful acrostic to the revolutionaryparty, who shouted "Viva Verdi, " when they meant "Viva VittorioEmanuele Re D' Italia. " "Ernani, " produced at Venice in 1844, alsoscored a success, owing to the republican sentiment in the libretto, which was adapted from Victor Hugo's "Hernani. " Many works followed inquick succession, each arousing the enthusiasm of the audiences, chiefly when an opportunity was afforded them of expressing theirfeelings against the Austrian rule. Only with his sixteenth opera didVerdi win the supremacy when there were no longer any livingcompetitors; and "Rigoletto" (1851), "Il Trovatore, " and "LaTraviata" (1853) must be called the best, as they are the last of theItalian opera school. "I Vespri Siciliani" (1855) and "SimonBoccanegra" (1857) were not so successful as "Un Ballo in Maschera"(1859); and none of them, any more than "La Forza del Destino" (1862)or "Don Carlos" (1867), added anything to the fame of the composer of"Il Trovatore. "

Only now begins the interest which the student of musical historyfinds in Verdi's life. Hitherto he had proved a good man, strugglingwith adversity and poverty, a successful composer ambitious to succeedto the vacant throne of Italian opera. But the keen insight intodramatic necessity which had gradually developed and had given suchforce to otherwise unimportant scenes in earlier operas, also showedhim the insufficiency of the means hitherto at the disposal of Italiancomposers, and from time to time he had tried to learn the lessonstaught in the French Grand Opera School, but with poor success. Now alonger interval seemed to promise a more careful, a more ambitiouswork, and when "Aïda" was produced at Cairo (1871), it was at onceacknowledged that a revolution had taken place in Verdi's mind andmethod, which might produce still greater results. The influence ofWagner and the music-drama is distinctly to be felt. 

But Verdi was apparently not yet satisfied. For sixteen years thesuccessful composer maintained absolute silence in opera, whenwhispers of a great music-drama roused the expectation of musicalEurope to an extraordinary pitch; nor were the highest expectationsdisappointed when "Otello" was produced at Milan in 1887. Thesurrender of Italian opera was complete, and Verdi took his rightplace at the head of the vigorous new school which has arisen inItaly, and which promises to regain for the "Land of Song" some of herancient preeminence in music. A comic opera by Verdi, "Falstaff, " wasannounced in 1892: it has well sustained his previous reputation. 

DRAMATIC AND LYRIC ARTISTS

DAVID GARRICK

By SAMUEL ARCHER

(1716-1779)

This celebrated actor was the son of Peter Garrick, who had acaptain's commission in the army, but who generally resided atLichfield. He was born at Hereford, when his father was on arecruiting party there, and was baptized in the Church of All-Saints, in that city, on February 20, 1716. Young Garrick received part ofhis education at the grammar school there, but he did not applyhimself to his books with much assiduity. He had conceived a veryearly passion for theatrical representation, from which nothing couldturn him aside. When he was a little more than eleven years of age, heformed the project of getting a play acted by young gentlemen andladies. After he had made some trial of his own and his companions'abilities, and prevailed upon the parents to give their consent, hepitched upon the "Recruiting Officer, " for the play. He assembled hislittle company in a large room, the destined place of representation. There we may suppose our young boy distributed the several charactersaccording to the merits of the performer. He prevailed on one of hissisters to play the part of the chambermaid. Sergeant Kite, acharacter of busy intrigue and bold humor, he chose for himself. 

[Illustration: Garrick. ]

The play was acted in a manner so far above the expectation of theaudience, that it gave general satisfaction, and was much applauded. The ease, vivacity, and humor of Kite are still remembered withpleasure at Lichfield. The first stage attempt of our English Rosciuswas in 1727. 

Not long after, he was invited to Lisbon by an uncle, who was aconsiderable wine merchant in that city, but his stay there was veryshort, for he returned to Lichfield the year following. It is imaginedthat the gay disposition of the young gentleman was not very suitableto the old man's temper, which was, perhaps, too grave and austere torelish the vivacities of his nephew. 

However, during his short stay at Lisbon, young Garrick made himselfagreeable to all who knew him, particularly to the English merchantswho resided there, with whom he often dined. After dinner they usuallydiverted themselves by placing him upon the table, and calling uponhim to repeat verses and speeches from plays, which he did with greatreadiness, and much to the satisfaction of the hearers. SomePortuguese young gentlemen of the highest rank, who were of his ownage, were also much delighted with his conversation. 

He afterward returned to Lichfield, and in 1737 came up to town incompany with Samuel Johnson, who was to make so conspicuous a figurein the literary world, and of whose life we have already given anaccount. 

Soon after his arrival in London, Garrick entered himself at Lincoln'sInn, and he also put himself under the tuition of Mr. Colson, aneminent mathematician at Rochester. But as he applied himself littleto the study of the law, his proficiency in mathematics and philosophywas not extensive. His mind was theatrically led, and nothing coulddivert his thoughts from the study of that to which his genius sopowerfully prompted him. He had £1, 000 left him by his uncle atLisbon, and he engaged for a short time in the wine trade, inpartnership with his brother, Mr. Peter Garrick; they hired vaults inDurham Yard, for the purpose of carrying on the business. The unionbetween the brothers was of no long date. Peter was calm, sedate, andmethodical; David was gay, volatile, impetuous, and perhaps not soconfined to regularity as his partner could have wished. To preventthe continuance of fruitless and daily altercation, by theinterposition of friends the partnership was amicably dissolved. Andnow Garrick prepared himself in earnest for that employment which heso ardently loved, and in which nature designed he should eminentlyexcel. 

He was frequently in the company of the most eminent actors; he gothimself introduced to the managers of the theatres, and tried histalent in the recitation of some particular and favorite portions ofplays. Now and then he indulged himself in the practice of mimicry, atalent which, however inferior, is never willingly resigned by him whoexcels in it. Sometimes he wrote criticisms upon the action andelocution of the players, and published them in the prints. Thesesudden effusions of his mind generally comprehended judiciousobservations and shrewd remarks, unmixed with that illiberality whichoften disgraces the instructions of stage critics. 

Garrick's diffidence withheld him from trying his strength at firstupon a London theatre. He thought the hazard was too great, andembraced the advantage of commencing his noviciate in acting with acompany of players then ready to set out for Ipswich, under thedirection of Mr. William Gifford and Mr. Dunstall, in the summer of1741. 

The first effort of his theatrical talents was exerted as Aboan, inthe play of "Oroonoko, " a part in which his features could not beeasily discerned. Under the disguise of a black countenance, he hopedto escape being known, should it be his misfortune not to please. Though Aboan is not a first-rate character, yet the scenes of patheticpersuasion and affecting distress in which that character is involved, will always command the attention of the audience when represented bya judicious actor. Our young player's applause was equal to his mostsanguine desires. Under the assumed name of Lyddal, he not only acteda variety of characters in plays, particularly Chamont, in the"Orphan;" Captain Brazen, in the "Recruiting Officer;" and Sir HarryWildair; but he likewise gave such delight to the audience, that theygratified him with constant and loud proofs of their approbation. Thetown of Ipswich will long boast of having first seen and encouraged sogreat a genius as Garrick. 

His first appearance as an actor in London, was on October 19, 1741, when he performed the part of Richard III. , at the playhouse inGoodman's Fields. His easy and familiar, yet forcible, style inspeaking and acting, at first threw the critics into some hesitationconcerning the novelty, as well as propriety, of his manner. They hadbeen long accustomed to an elevation of the voice, with a suddenmechanical depression of its tones, calculated to excite admiration, and to intrap applause. To the just modulation of the words, andconcurring expression of the features from the genuine works ofnature, they had been strangers, at least for some time. But after hehad gone through a variety of scenes, in which he gave evident proofsof consummate art and perfect knowledge of character, their doubtswere turned into surprise and astonishment, from which they relievedthemselves by loud and reiterated applause. They were more especiallycharmed when the actor, after having thrown aside the hypocrite andpolitician, assumed the warrior and the hero. When news was brought toRichard that the Duke of Buckingham was taken, Garrick's look andaction, when he pronounced the words

 "----Off with his head! So much for Buckingham!"

were so magnificent and important, from his visible enjoyment of theincident, that several loud shouts of approbation proclaimed thetriumph of the actor and satisfaction of the audience. Richard's dreambefore the battle, and his death, were accompanied with the loudestgratulations of applause. 

Such was the universal approbation which followed our young actor, that the more established theatres of Drury Lane and Covent Gardenwere deserted. Garrick drew after him the inhabitants of the mostpolite parts of the town: Goodman's Fields were full of the splendorof St. James' and Grosvenor Square; the coaches of the nobility filledup the space from Temple Bar to Whitechapel. He had so perfectlyconvinced the public of his superior accomplishments in acting, thatnot to admire him would not only have argued an absence of taste, butthe grossest stupidity. Those who had seen and been delighted with themost admired of the old actors, confessed that he had excelled theablest of them in the variety of the exhibitions, and equalled themall in their must applauded characters. 

Alexander Pope was persuaded by Lord Orrery to see him in the firstdawn of his fame. That great man, who had often seen and admiredBetterton, was struck with the propriety and beauty of Mr. Garrick'saction; and as a convincing proof that he had a good opinion of hismerit, he told Lord Orrery that he was afraid the young man would bespoiled, for he would have no competitor. 

Mr. Garrick shone forth like a theatrical Newton; he threw new lighton elocution and action; he banished ranting, bombast, and grimace;and restored nature, ease, simplicity, and genuine humor. 

In 1742 he entered into stated agreements with Fleetwood, patentee ofDrury Lane, for the annual income of £500. His fame continued toincrease at the royal theatre, and soon became so extended that adeputation was sent from Ireland, to invite him to act in Dublinduring the months of June, July, and August, upon very profitableconditions. These he embraced, and crossed the seas to the metropolisof Ireland in June, 1742, accompanied by Mrs. Woffington. 

[Illustration: Garrick as Richard III. ]

His success at Dublin exceeded all imagination, though much wasexpected from him; he was caressed by all ranks of people as a prodigyof theatrical accomplishment. During the hottest days in the year theplay-house was crowded with persons of fashion and rank, who werenever tired with seeing and applauding the various essays of hisskill. 

The excessive heat became prejudicial to the frequenters of thetheatre; and the epidemical distemper, which seized and carried offgreat numbers, was nicknamed the _Garrick fever_. Satisfied with theemoluments arising from the summer campaign, and delighted with thegenerous encouragement and kind countenance which the nobility andgentry of Ireland had given him, and of which he always spoke in thestrongest terms of acknowledgment and gratitude, he set out forLondon, to renew his labors and to receive the applause of the mostcritical, as well as most candid, audience in Europe. 

Such an actor as Garrick, whose name when announced in the play-billoperated like a charm and drew multitudes to the theatre, ofconsequence considerably augmented the profits of the patentee. But atthe time when all without doors was apparently gay and splendid, andthe theatre of Drury Lane seemed to be in the most flourishingcondition, by the strange and absurd conduct of the manager the wholefabric was absolutely running into certain destruction. 

His behavior brought on a revolt of the principal actors, with Mr. Garrick and Mr. Macklin at their head, and for some time they secededfrom the theatre. They endeavored to procure a patent for a newtheatre, but without success; and Garrick at length accommodated hisdispute with the manager, Mr. Fleetwood, by engaging to play again fora salary of six or seven hundred pounds. 

In 1744, Garrick made a second voyage to Dublin, and becamejoint-manager of the theatre there with Mr. Sheridan. They met withgreat success; and Garrick returned again to London, in May, 1746, having considerably added to his stock of money. In 1747 he becamejoint-patentee of Drury Lane Theatre with Mr. Lacy. Mr. Garrick andMr. Lacy divided the business of the theatre in such a manner as notto encroach upon each other's province. Mr. Lacy took upon himself thecare of the wardrobe, the scenes, and the economy of the household;while Garrick regulated the more important business of treating withauthors, hiring actors, distributing parts in plays, superintending ofrehearsals, etc. Besides the profits accruing from his half-share, hewas allowed an income of £500 for his acting, and some particularemoluments for altering plays, farces, etc. 

In 1749, Mr. Garrick was married to Mademoiselle Violetti, a younglady who (as Mr. Davies says), to great elegance of form and manypolite accomplishments, joined the more amiable virtues of the mind. In 1763, 1764, and 1765, he made a journey to France and Italy, accompanied by Mrs. Garrick, who, from the day of her marriage tillthe death of her husband, was never separated from him for twenty-fourhours. During his stay abroad his company was desired by manyforeigners of high birth and great merit. He was sometimes invited togive the company a taste of that art in which he was known so greatlyto excel. Such a request he very readily consented to, for indeed hiscompliance cost him nothing. He could, without the least preparation, transform himself into any character tragic or comic, and seizeinstantaneously upon any passion of the human mind. He could make asudden transition from violent rage, and even madness, to the extremesof levity and humor, and go through the whole circle of theatricevolution with the most surprising velocity. 

On the death of Mr. Lacy, joint patentee of Drury Lane with Mr. Garrick, in 1773, the whole management of that theatre devolved on Mr. Garrick. But in 1776, being about sixty years of age, he sold hisshare of the patent, and formed a resolution of quitting the stage. Hewas, however, determined, before he left the theatre, to give thepublic proofs of his abilities to delight them as highly as he hadever done in the flower and vigor of his life. To this end hepresented them with some of the most capital and trying characters ofShakespeare; with Hamlet, Richard, and Lear, besides other parts whichwere less fatiguing. Hamlet and Lear were repeated; Richard he actedonce only, and by the king's command. His Majesty was much surprisedto see him, at an age so advanced, run about the field of battle withso much fire, force, and agility. 

He finished his dramatic race with one of his favorite parts, withFelix, in "The Wonder a Woman Keeps a Secret. " When the play wasended, Mr. Garrick advanced toward the audience, with much palpitationof mind, and visible emotion in his countenance. No premeditationwhatever could prepare him for this affecting scene. He bowed--hepaused--the spectators were all attention. After a short struggle ofnature, he recovered from the shock he had felt, and addressed hisauditors in the following words:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: It has been customary with persons under mycircumstances to address you in a farewell epilogue. I had the sameintention, and turned my thoughts that way; but indeed, I found myselfthen as incapable of writing such an epilogue, as I should be now ofspeaking it. 

"The jingle of rhyme and the language of fiction would but ill suit mypresent feelings. This is to me a very awful moment; it is no lessthan parting forever with those from whom I have received the greatestkindness and favors, and upon the spot where that kindness and thosefavors were enjoyed. " [Here he was unable to proceed till he wasrelieved by a shower of tears. ]

"Whatever may be the changes of my future life, the deepest impressionof your kindness will always remain here" (putting his hand on hisbreast) "fixed and unalterable. I will very readily agree to mysuccessors having more skill and ability for their station than Ihave; but I defy them all to take more sincere, and more uninterruptedpains for your favor, or to be more truly sensible of it, than is yourhumble servant. "

After a profound obeisance, he retired, amid the tears andacclamations of a most crowded and brilliant audience. 

He died on Wednesday morning, January 20, 1779, at eight o'clock, without a groan. The disease was pronounced to be a palsy in thekidneys. On Monday, February 1st, the body of David Garrick wasconveyed from his own house in the Adelphi, and most magnificentlyinterred in Westminster Abbey, under the monument of his belovedShakespeare. He was attended to the grave by persons of the firstrank; by men illustrious for genius, and famous for science; by thosewho loved him living, and lamented his death. 

EDWIN FORREST[13]

 [Footnote 13: Reprinted by permission of The Cassell Publishing Company, from "Actors and Actresses of Great Britain and the United States. "]

By LAWRENCE BARRETT

(1806-1872)

[Illustration: Edwin Forrest. ]

Edwin Forrest was born in the city of Philadelphia, March 9, 1806, hisfather, a Scotchman, having emigrated to America during the last yearof the preceding century. The boy, like many others of his profession, was designed for the ministry, and before the age of eleven the futureChanning had attracted admiring listeners by the music of his voiceand the aptness of his mimicry. His memory was remarkable, and hewould recite whole passages of his preceptor's sermons. Perched upon achair or stool, and crowned with the proud approval of family andfriends, the young mimic filled the hearts of his listeners withfervent hopes of his coming success in the fold of their belovedchurch. These hopes were destined to be met with disappointment. Thebias of the future leader of the American stage was only faintlyoutlined as yet; his hour of development was still to come. 

He must have learned early the road to the theatre, permitted to go bythe family, or going, perhaps, without the knowledge or consent of hisseniors in the overworked household; for, before he had passed histenth year, our young sermonizer was a member of a Thespian club, andbefore he was eleven he had made his appearance at one of the regulartheatres in a female character, but with most disastrous results. Hesoon outgrew the ignominy of his first failure, however, and again andagain sought to overcome its disgrace by a fresh appearance. To hisappeals the irate manager lent a deaf ear. The sacred portal thatleads to the enchanted ground of the stage was closed against youngForrest, the warden being instructed not to let the importunate boypass the door. At last, in desperation, he resolved to storm thecitadel, to beat down the faithful guard and to carry war into theenemy's camp. One night he dashed past the astonished guardian of thestage entrance just as the curtain fell upon one of the acts of aplay. He emerged before the footlights, eluding all pursuit, dressedas a harlequin, and, before the audience had recovered from itsastonishment at this scene not set down in the bills, the baffled, butnot subdued, aspirant had delivered the lines of an epilogue in rhymewith so much effect that, before he could be seized by the astoundedstage-manager and hurled from the theatre, he had attracted publicnotice, successfully won his surprised audience, and not only securedimmunity from punishment for his temerity, but actually gained thatrespect in the manager's estimation which he had so long and so vainlystriven to acquire. 

At last Forrest was promised an appearance at the Walnut Street house, then one of the leading theatres of the country. He selected YoungNorval in Home's tragedy of "Douglas, " and on November 27, 1820, thefuture master of the American stage, then fourteen years of age--a boyin years, a man in character--announced as "A Young Gentleman of thisCity, " surrounded by a group of veteran actors who had for many yearsshared the favor of the public, began a career which was as auspiciousat its opening as it was splendid in its maturity. At his entrance hewon the vast audience at once by the grace of his figure and themodest bearing that was natural to him. Something of that magnetismwhich he exercised so effectively in late years now attracted all whoheard him, and made friends even before he spoke. 

He was allowed to reappear as Frederick in "Lovers' Vows, " repeatinghis first success; and on January 8, 1821, he benefited as Octavian inthe "Mountaineers, " a play associated with the early glories of EdmundKean. In this year, also, he made his first and only venture as amanager, boldly taking the Prune Street Theatre, Philadelphia, andgiving a successful performance of "Richard III. , " which not onlypleased the audience, but brought him a few dollars of profit. He mademany attempts to secure a regular engagement in one of the Westerncircuits, where experience could be gained; and at last, after manydenials, he was employed by Collins and Jones to play leading juvenileparts in their theatres in Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, and Lexington. Thus, at the age of sixteen or eighteen, Edwin Forrest enrolledhimself as a regular member of a theatrical company, and broke loosefrom trade forever. 

Of his professional progress here we have but poor accounts. He seemsto have been very popular, and to have had an experience larger thanhe had heretofore enjoyed. He played with the elder Conway, and wasaffected by the grandeur of that actor's Othello, a study which servedForrest well when in late years he inherited the character. 

Jane Placide, who inspired the first love of Edwin Forrest, was anactress who combined talent, beauty, and goodness. Her character wouldhave softened the asperities of his, and led him by a calmer path tothose grand elevations toward which Providence had directed hisfootsteps. Baffled in love, however, and believing Caldwell to be hisrival and enemy, he challenged him; but was rebuked by the silentcontempt of his manager, whom the impulsive and disappointed lover"posted. "

The hard novitiate of Edwin Forrest was now drawing near its close. Securing a stock engagement with Charles Gilfert, manager of theAlbany Theatre, he opened there in the early fall, and played for thefirst time with Edmund Kean, then on his second visit to America. Themeeting with this extraordinary man and the attention he received fromhim were foremost among the directing influences of Forrest's life. Tohis last hour he never wearied of singing the praises of Kean, whosegenius filled the English-speaking world with admiration. Two men moreunlike in mind and body can scarcely be imagined. Until now Forresthad seen no actor who represented in perfection the impassioned schoolof which Kean was the master. He could not have known Cooke, even inthe decline of that great tragedian's power, and the little giant wasindeed a revelation. He played Iago to Kean's Othello, Titus to hisBrutus, and Richmond to his Richard III. 

In the interval which preceded the opening of the Bowery Theatre, NewYork, Forrest appeared at the Park for the benefit of Woodhull, playing Othello. He made a pronounced success, his old manager sittingin front, profanely exclaiming, "By God, the boy has made a hit!" Thiswas a great event, as the Park was then the leading theatre ofAmerica, and its actors were the most famous and exclusive. 

He opened at the Bowery Theatre in November, 1826, as Othello, andmade a brilliant impression. His salary was raised from $28 to $40 perweek. From this success may be traced the first absolute hold made byEdwin Forrest upon the attention of cultivated auditors andintelligent critics. The Bowery was then a very different theatre fromwhat it afterward became, when the newsboys took forcible possessionof its pit and the fire-laddies were the arbiters of public taste inits neighborhood. 

An instance of Forrest's moral integrity may be told here. He had beenapproached by a rival manager, after his first success, and urged tosecede from the Bowery and join the other house at a much largersalary. He scornfully refused to break his word, although his owninterests he knew must suffer. His popularity at this time was sogreat that, when his contract for the season had expired, he wasinstantly engaged for eight nights, at a salary of two hundred dollarsa night. 

The success which had greeted Forrest on his first appearance in NewYork, was renewed in every city in the land. Fortune attended fame, and filled his pockets, as the breath of adulation filled his heart. He had paid the last penny of debt left by his father, and had seen afirm shelter raised over the head of his living family. With apatriotic feeling for all things American, Forrest, about this time, formed a plan for the encouragement or development of an Americandrama, which resulted in heavy money losses to himself, but producedsuch contributions to our stage literature as the "Gladiator, " "JackCade, " and "Metamora. "[14] After five years of constant labor he feltthat he had earned the right to a holiday, and he formed his plansfor a two years' absence in Europe. A farewell banquet was tenderedhim by the citizens of New York, and a medal was struck in honor ofthe occasion. Bryant, Halleck, Leggett, Ingraham and otherdistinguished men were present. This was an honor which had neverbefore been paid to an American actor. 

 [Footnote 14: Of Forrest's performance of Metamora, in the play of that name, W. R. Alger says, "Never did an actor more thoroughly identify and merge himself with his part than Forrest did in 'Metamora. ' He was completely transformed from what he appeared in other characters, and seemed Indian in every particular, all through and all over, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. "]

He had been absent about two years when he landed in New York inSeptember, 1836. On his appearance at the Walnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, he was received with unprecedented enthusiasm. He gavesix performances only, on this occasion, and each saw a repetition ofthe scene at the beginning of the engagement. The receipts were thelargest ever known in that house. 

On September 19, 1836, Forrest embarked once more for the mothercountry, this time with serious purpose. After a speedy and uneventfulpassage he reached England, and at once set about the preliminarybusiness of his British engagement, which began October 17, 1836. Hewas the first really great American actor who had appeared in Londonas a rival of the English tragedians; for Cooper was born in England, though always regarded as belonging to the younger country. Hisopening part was Spartacus in the "Gladiator. " The play was condemned, the actor applauded. In Othello, in Lear, and in Macbeth, he achievedinstant success. He began his engagement October 17th and closedDecember 19th, having acted Macbeth seven times, Othello nine, andKing Lear eight. A dinner at the Garrick Club was offered andaccepted. Here he sat down with Charles Kemble and Macready; SergeantTalfourd was in the chair. 

It was during this engagement he met his future wife, Miss CatherineSinclair. In the latter part of June, 1837, the marriage took place inSt. Paul's Church, Covent Garden. Mr. And Mrs. Forrest soon afterembarked for America. The tragedian resumed his American engagementsNovember 15, 1837, at the old Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia. Presented to his friends, his wife at once made a deep and lastingimpression. Her native delicacy of mind and refinement of mannersenchanted those who hoped for some such influence to be exerted insoftening the rough vigor and democratic downrightness of the man. Domestic discord came too soon, however, and in an evil hour forhimself, in an evil hour for his art and for the struggling drama inAmerica, Edwin Forrest threw open the doors of his home to thescrutiny of the world, and appealed to the courts to remove theskeleton which was hidden in his closet. With the proceedings of thattrial, which resulted in divorce, alimony, and separation, this memoirhas nothing to do. 

[Illustration: Forrest as Metamora. ]

Edwin Forrest, leaving the court-room a defeated man, was instantlyraised to a popularity with the masses beyond anything even he hadbefore experienced. He began an engagement soon after at the BroadwayTheatre, opening as Damon. The house was crowded to suffocation. Theengagement of sixty nights was unparalleled in the history of theAmerican drama for length and profit. But despite the flatteringapplause of the multitude, life never again had for him the smilingaspect it had so often worn before. The applause which filled hisears, the wealth which flowed in upon him could not improve thattemper which had never been amiable, and all the hard stories of hislife belong to this period. 

On September 20, 1852, he reappeared at the Broadway Theatre, NewYork. In February, 1853, "Macbeth" was produced in grand style, withnew scenery and appointments. The tragedy was played on twentyconsecutive nights, then by far the longest run of any Shakespeareanplay in America. The cast was very strong. It included Conway, Duff, Davenport, Pope, Davidge, Barry, and Madame Ponisi. 

On September 17, 1860, after an absence of nearly four years, EdwinForrest appeared again on the stage. He was engaged by James Nixon, and began his contract of one hundred nights at Niblo's Garden, NewYork, in the character of Hamlet. The long retirement only increasedthe curious interest which centred round his historic name. Upon hisopening night the seats were sold at auction. His success inPhiladelphia rivalled that of New York. In Boston the vast auditoriumof the grandest theatre in America was found too small to contain thecrowds he drew. 

Severe attacks of gout were beginning to tell upon that herculeanform, sapping and undermining it; and in 1865, while playing Damon atthe Holiday Street Theatre, in Baltimore, the weather being very coldand the theatre open to draughts, he was seized with a sudden illness, which was followed by very serious results. Suffering the most intenseagony, he was able to get to the end of the part; but when his robeswere laid aside and physicians summoned, it was found to his horrorthat he had suffered a partial paralysis of the sciatic nerve. In aninstant the sturdy gait, the proud tread of the herculean actor wasforever gone; for he never regained complete control of his limb, aperceptible hobble being the legacy of the dreadful visitation. Hisright hand was almost powerless, and he could not hold his sword. 

In 1866 he went to California, urged by the manager in San Francisco. His last engagement in New York took place in February, 1871. Heplayed Lear and Richelieu, his two greatest parts. On the night ofMarch 25, 1872, Forrest opened in "Lear" at the Globe Theatre, Boston. "Lear" was played six nights. During the second week he was announcedfor Richelieu and Virginius; but he caught a violent cold on Sunday, and labored sorely on Monday evening through the part of Richelieu. OnTuesday he repeated the performance, against the advice of friends andphysicians. Rare bursts of his old power lighted up the play, but helabored piteously on against his illness and threatened pneumonia. When stimulants were offered he rejected them, declaring "that if hedied to-night, he should still be his old royal self. "

Announced for Virginius the following evening, he was unable toappear. A severe attack of pneumonia developed itself. He was carriedto his hotel, and his last engagement was brought to an abrupt andmelancholy end. As soon as he was able to move, he left Boston for hishome in Philadelphia, resting on his way only a day in New York. Asthe summer passed away, the desire for work grew stronger andstronger, and he decided to re-enter public life, but simply as areader of the great plays in which he had as an actor been sosuccessful. The result was a disappointment. On December 11, 1872, hewrote to Oakes his last letter, saying sadly, but fondly: "God blessyou ever, my dear and much-beloved friend. "

When the morning of December 12th came, his servant, hearing no soundin his chamber at his general hour of rising, became alarmed, openedhis master's door, and found there, cold in death upon his bed, theform of the great tragedian. His arms were crossed upon his bosom, andhe seemed to be at rest. The stroke had come suddenly. With littlewarning, and without pain, he had passed away. 

The dead man's will was found to contain several bequests to oldfriends and servants, and an elaborate scheme by which his fortune, inthe hands of trustees, was to be applied to the erection and supportof a retreat for aged actors, to be called "The Edwin Forrest Home. "The idea had been long in his mind, and careful directions were drawnup for its practical working; but the trustees found themselvespowerless to realize fully the hopes and wishes of the testator. Asettlement had to be made to the divorced wife, who acted liberallytoward the estate; but the amount withdrawn seriously crippled it, asit was deprived at once of a large sum of ready money. Other legaldifficulties arose. And thus the great ambition of the tragedian to bea benefactor to his profession was destined to come almost to naught. Of this happily little he recks now. He has parted with all the caresof life, and has at last found rest. 

Forrest's greatest Shakespearean parts were Lear, Othello, andCoriolanus. The first grew mellow and rich as the actor grew in years, while it still retained much of its earlier force. His Othellosuffered with the decline of his faculties, although his clearconception of all he did was apparent to the end in the acting ofevery one of his parts. Coriolanus died with him, the last of all theRomans. He was greatest, however, in such parts as Virginius, WilliamTell, and Spartacus. Here his mannerisms of gait and utterance wereless noticeable than in his Shakespearean characters, or wereoverlooked in the rugged massiveness of the creation. Hamlet, Richard, and Macbeth were out of his temperament, and added nothing to hisfame; but Richelieu is said to have been one of his noblest and mostimpressive performances. He was in all things marked and distinctive. His obtrusive personality often destroyed the harmony of the portraithe was painting; but in his inspired moments, which were many, histouches were sublime. He passed over quiet scenes with littleelaboration, and dwelt strongly upon the grand features of thecharacters he represented. His Lear, in the great scenes, rose to amajestic height, but fell in places almost to mediocrity. His art wasunequal to his natural gifts. He was totally unlike his greatcontemporary and rival, Macready, whose attention to detail gave toevery performance the harmony of perfect work. 

This memoir may fitly close with an illustrative anecdote of the greatactor. Toward the end of his professional career he was playing anengagement at St. Louis. He was very feeble in health, and hislameness was a source of great anxiety to him. Sitting at a latesupper in his hotel one evening, after a performance of "King Lear, "with his friend J. B. McCullough, of the _Globe-Democrat_, thatgentleman remarked to him: "Mr. Forrest, I never in my life saw youplay Lear so well as you did to-night. " Whereupon the veteran almostindignantly replied, rising slowly and laboriously from his chair tohis full height: "Play Lear! What do you mean, sir? I do not playLear! I play Hamlet, Richard, Shylock, Virginius, if you please, butby God, sir, I _am_ Lear!"

Nor was this wholly imaginative. Ingratitude of the basest kind hadrent his soul. Old friends were gone from him; new friends were buthalf-hearted. His hearthstone was desolate. The public, to whom he hadgiven his best years, was becoming impatient of his infirmities. Theroyalty of his powers he saw by degrees torn from his decaying form. Other kings had arisen on the stage, to whom his old subjects nowshowed a reverence once all his own. The mockery of his diadem onlyremained. A wreck of the once proud man who had despised all weakness, and had ruled his kingdom with imperial sway, he now stood alone. Broken in health and in spirit, deserted, forgotten, unkinged, hemight well exclaim, "_I am Lear!_"

CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN

By DUTTON COOK

(1816-1876)

[Illustration: Charlotte Cushman. ]

The Pilgrim Fathers figure in American pedigrees almost as frequentlyand persistently as Norman William and his followers appear at thetrunk of our family-trees. Certainly, the Mayflower must have carriedvery many heads of houses across the Atlantic. It was not in theMayflower, however, but in the Fortune, a smaller vessel, offifty-five tons, that Robert Cushman, Nonconformist, the founder ofthe Cushman family in America, sailed from England, for the betterenjoyment of liberty of conscience and freedom of religion. In theseventh generation from Robert Cushman appeared Elkanah Cushman, whotook to wife Mary Eliza, daughter of Erasmus Babbit, Jr. , lawyer, musician, and captain in the army. Of this marriage was born CharlotteSaunders Cushman, in Richmond Street, Boston, July 23, 1816, and otherchildren. 

Charlotte Cushman says of herself: "I was born a tom-boy. " She had apassion for climbing trees and for breaking open dolls' heads. Shecould not make dolls' clothes, but she could manufacture theirfurniture--could do anything with tools. "I was very destructive totoys and clothes, tyrannical to brothers and sister, but very social, and a great favorite with other children. Imitation was a prevailingtrait. " The first play she ever saw was "Coriolanus, " with Macready inthe leading part; her second play was "The Gamester. " She became notedin her school for her skill in reading aloud. Her competitorsgrumbled: "No wonder she can read; she goes to the theatre!" Untilthen she had been shy and reserved, not to say stupid, about readingaloud in school, afraid of the sound of her own voice, and unwillingto trust it; but acquaintance with the theatre loosened her tongue, asshe describes it, and gave opportunity and expression to a facultywhich became the ruling passion of her life. At home, as a child, shetook part in an operetta founded upon the story of "Bluebeard, " andplayed Selim, the lover, with great applause, in a large attic chamberof her father's house before an enthusiastic audience of young people. 

Elkanah Cushman had been for some years a successful merchant, amember of the firm of Topliffe & Cushman, Long Wharf, Boston. Butfailure befell him, "attributable, " writes Charlotte Cushman'sbiographer, Miss Stebbins, "to the infidelity of those whom he trustedas supercargoes. " The family removed from Boston to Charlestown. Charlotte was placed at a public school, remaining there until she wasthirteen only. Elkanah Cushman died, leaving his widow and fivechildren with very slender means. Mrs. Cushman opened a boarding-housein Boston, and struggled hard to ward off further misfortune. It wasdiscovered that Charlotte possessed a noble voice of almost tworegisters, "a full contralto and almost a full soprano; but the lowvoice was the natural one. " The fortunes of the family seemed to restupon the due cultivation of Charlotte's voice and upon her future as asinger. "My mother, " she writes, "at great self-sacrifice gave me whatopportunities for instruction she could obtain for me; and then myfather's friend, Mr. R. D. Shepherd, of Shepherdstown, Va. , gave metwo years of the best culture that could be obtained in Boston at thattime, under John Paddon, an English organist and teacher of singing. "When the English singer, Mrs. Wood--better known, perhaps, as MissPaton--visited Boston in 1835 or 1836, she needed the support of acontralto voice. Charlotte Cushman was sent for, and rehearsed duetswith Mrs. Wood. The young beginner was advised to prepare herself forthe operatic stage; she was assured that such a voice would "lead herto any height of fortune she coveted. " She became the articled pupilof Mr. Maeder, the husband of Clara Fisher, actress and vocalist, andthe musical director of Mr. And Mrs. Wood. Instructed by Maeder, MissCushman undertook the parts of the Countess in "The Marriage ofFigaro" and Lucy Bertram in the opera of "Guy Mannering. " These wereher first appearances upon the stage. 

Mrs. Maeder's voice was a contralto; it became necessary, therefore, to assign soprano parts to Miss Cushman. Undue stress was thus laidupon her upper notes. She was very young, and she felt the change ofclimate when she went on with the Maeders to New Orleans. It islikely that her powers as a singer had been tried too soon and tooseverely; her operatic career was brought to a sudden close. Her voicefailed her; her upper notes departed, never to return; she was leftwith a weakened and limited contralto register. Alarmed and wretched, she sought counsel of Mr. Caldwell, the manager of the chief NewOrleans theatre. "You ought to be an actress, and not a singer, " hesaid, and advised her to take lessons of Mr. Barton, his leadingtragedian. Her articles of apprenticeship to Maeder were cancelled. Soon she was ready to appear as Lady Macbeth on the occasion ofBarton's benefit. 

The season ended, she sailed for Philadelphia on her way to New York. Presently she had entered into a three years' engagement with Mr. Hamblin, the manager of the Bowery Theatre, at a salary of twenty-fivedollars a week for the first year, thirty-five for the second year, and forty-five for the third. Mr. Hamblin had received excellentaccounts of the actress from his friend, Mr. Barton, of New Orleans, and had heard her rehearse scenes from "Macbeth, " "Jane Shore, ""Venice Preserved, " "The Stranger, " etc. To enable her to obtain asuitable wardrobe, he became security for her with his tradespeople, deducting five dollars a week from her salary until the debt wassatisfied. All promised well; independence seemed secure at last. Mrs. Cushman was sent for from Boston; she gave up her boarding-house andhastened to her daughter. Miss Cushman writes: "I got a situation formy eldest brother in a store in New York. I left my only sister incharge of a half-sister in Boston, and I took my youngest brother withme. " But rheumatic fever seized the actress; she was able to act for afew nights only, and her dream of good fortune came to a disastrousclose. "The Bowery Theatre was burned to the ground, with all mywardrobe, all my debt upon it, and my three years' contract ending insmoke. " Grievously distressed, but not disheartened, with her familydependent upon her exertions, she accepted an engagement at theprincipal theatre in Albany, where she remained five months, actingall the leading characters. In September, 1837, she entered into anengagement, which endured for three years, with the manager of thePark Theatre, New York. She was required to fulfil the duties of"walking lady" and "general utility" at a salary of twenty dollars aweek. 

During this period of her career she performed very many characters, and toiled assiduously at her profession. It was then the custom toafford the public a great variety of performances, to change the playsnightly, and to present two and sometimes three plays upon the sameevening. The actors were forever busy studying new parts, and, whenthey were not performing, they were rehearsing. "It was a time of hardwork, " writes Miss Stebbins, "of ceaseless activity, and of hard-wonand scantily accorded appreciation. " Miss Cushman had no choice ofparts; she was not the chief actress of the company; she sustainedwithout question all the characters the management assigned to her. Her appearance as Meg Merrilies (she acquired subsequently great favorby her performance of this character) was due to an incident--theillness of Mrs. Chippendale, the actress who usually supported thepart. It was in the year 1840; the veteran Braham was to appear asHenry Bertram. A Meg Merrilies had to be improvised. The obscure"utility" actress was called upon to take Mrs. Chippendale's place. She might read the part if she could not commit it to memory butpersonate Meg Merrilies after some sort she must. She had neverespecially noticed the part; but as she stood at the side scene, bookin hand, awaiting her moment of entrance, her ear caught the dialoguegoing on upon the stage between two of the gypsies, "conveying theimpression that Meg was no longer to be feared or respected--that shewas no longer in her right mind. " This furnished her with a clew tothe character, and led her to present it upon the stage as the weirdand startling figure which afterward became so famous. Of course, thefirst performance was but a sketch of her later portrayals of MegMerrilies, yet she made a profound impression. "I had not thought thatI had done anything remarkable, " she wrote, "and when a knock came atmy dressing-room door, and I heard Braham's voice, my first thoughtwas, 'Now what have I done? He is surely displeased with me aboutsomething. ' Imagine my gratification, when Mr. Braham said, 'MissCushman, I have come to thank you for the most veritable sensation Ihave experienced for a long time. I give you my word, when I saw youin that first scene I felt a cold chill run all over me. Where haveyou learned to do anything like that?'"

During her visits to England, Miss Cushman personated Meg Merriliesmore often than any other character. In America she was also famousfor her performance of Nancy, in a melodrama founded upon "OliverTwist;" but this part she did not bring with her across the Atlantic. She had first played Nancy during her "general utility" days at thePark Theatre, when the energy and pathos of her acting powerfullyaffected her audience, and the tradition of her success in the partlong "lingered in the memory of managers, and caused them, ever andanon, as their business interests prompted, to bring great pressure tobear upon her for a reproduction of it. " Mr. George Vandenhoffdescribes Nancy as Miss Cushman's "greatest part; fearfully natural, dreadfully intense, horribly real. "

In the winter of 1842 Miss Cushman undertook the management of theWalnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, which was then in rather a fallenstate. Under her energetic rule, however, the establishment recoveredits popularity. "She displayed at that day, " writes Mr. GeorgeVandenhoff--who "starred at the Walnut Street Theatre for six nightsto small audiences"--"a rude, strong, uncultivated talent. It was nottill after she had seen and acted with Mr. Macready--which she did thenext season--that she really brought artistic study and finish to herperformances. " Macready arrived in New York in the autumn of 1843. Henotes: "The Miss Cushman, who acted Lady Macbeth, interested me much. She has to learn her art, but she showed mind and sympathy with me--anovelty so refreshing to me on the stage. " She discerned theopportunity for study and improvement presented by Macready's visit, and underwent the fatigue of acting on alternate nights inPhiladelphia and New York during the term of his engagement at thePark Theatre. Her own success was very great. She wrote to her motherof her great reception: of her being called out after the play; of the"hats and handkerchiefs waved to me; flowers sent to me, " etc. InOctober, 1844, she sailed for England in the packet-ship Garrick. Shehad little money with her. A farewell benefit taken in Boston, hernative city, had not proved very productive, and she had been obliged"to make arrangements for the maintenance of her family during herabsence. " And with characteristic prudence she left behind her acertain sum, to be in readiness for her, in case failure in Englandshould drive her promptly back to America. 

No engagement in London had been offered her; but she received, uponher arrival, a letter from Macready, proposing that she should join acompany then being formed to give representations in Paris. Shethought it prudent to decline this proposal, however, so as to avoidentering into anything like rivalry with Miss Helen Faucit, theleading actress of the troupe. She visited Paris for a few days, butonly to sit with the audience of the best French theatres. Shereturned to her dull lodgings in Covent Garden, "awaiting herdestiny. " She was fond, in after years, of referring to the strugglesand poverty, the hopes and the despair, of her first sojourn inLondon. Her means were nearly exhausted. Sally, the dresser, used torelate: "Miss Cushman lived on a mutton-chop a day, and I alwaysbought the baker's dozen of muffins for the sake of the extra one, andwe ate them all, no matter how stale they were, and we never sufferedfrom want of appetite in those days. " She found herself reduced to herlast sovereign, when Mr. Maddox, the manager of the Princess'sTheatre, came to her with a proposal. The watchful Sally reported thathe had been walking up and down the street for some time early in themorning, too early for a visit. "He is anxious, " said Miss Cushman. "Ican make my own terms. " He wished her to appear with Forrest, theAmerican tragedian, then visiting the London stage for the second andlast time. She stipulated that she should have her opportunity first, and "alone. " If successful, she was willing to appear in support ofForrest. So it was agreed. 

Her first appearance upon the English stage was made on February 14, 1845; she assumed the character of Bianca, in Dean Milman's ratherdull tragedy of "Fazio. " Her triumph was indisputable. Her intensityand vehemence completely carried away the house. As the pit rose atKean's Shylock, so it rose at Charlotte Cushman's Bianca. She wrote toher mother in America: "All my success put together, since I have beenupon the stage, would not come near my success in London. " The criticsdescribed, as the crowning effort of her performance, the energy andpathos and abandonment of her appeal to Aldabella, when the wifesacrifices her pride, and sinks, "huddled into a heap, " at the feet ofher rival, imploring her to save the life of Fazio. Miss Cushman, speaking of her first performance in London, was wont to relate howshe was so completely overcome, not only by the excitement of thescene, but by the nervous agitation of the occasion, that she lost forthe moment her self-command, and was especially grateful for thelong-continued applause which gave her time to recover herself. Whenshe slowly rose at last and faced the house again, the spectacle ofits enthusiasm thrilled and impressed her in a manner she could neverforget. The audience were standing; some had mounted on the benches;there was wild waving of hats and handkerchiefs, a storm of cheering, great showering of bouquets. 

Her second character in London was Lady Macbeth, to the Macbeth ofEdwin Forrest; but the American actor failed to please, and theaudience gave free expression to their discontent. Greatly disgusted, Forrest withdrew, deluding himself with the belief that he was thevictim of a conspiracy. Miss Cushman's success knew no abatement. Sheplayed a round of parts, assisted by James Wallack, Leigh Murray, andMrs. Stirling, appearing now as Rosalind, now as Juliana in "TheHoneymoon, " as Mrs. Haller, as Beatrice, as Julia in "The Hunchback. "Her second season was even more successful than her first. After along provincial tour she appeared in December, 1845, as Romeo at theHaymarket Theatre, then under the management of Mr. Webster, hersister Susan assuming the character of Juliet. She had sent for herfamily to share her prosperity, and had established them in afurnished house at Bayswater. 

Her success as Romeo was very great. The tragedy was played for eightynights. Her performance won applause even from those most opposed tothe representation of Shakespeare's hero by a woman. For a time herintense earnestness of speech and manner, the passion of herinterviews with Juliet, the fury of her combat with Tybalt, thedespair of her closing scenes, bore down all opposition, silencedcriticism, and excited her audience to an extraordinary degree. Sheappeared afterward, but not in London, as Hamlet, following anunfortunate example set by Mrs. Siddons; and as Ion in Talfourd'stragedy of that name. 

In America, toward the close of her career, she even ventured toappear as Cardinal Wolsey, obtaining great applause by her exertionsin the character, and the skill and force of her impersonation. Buthistrionic feats of this kind trespass against good taste, do violenceto the intentions of the dramatists, and are, in truth, departuresfrom the purpose of playing. Miss Cushman had for excuse--in the firstinstance, at any rate--her anxiety to forward the professionalinterests of her sister, who, in truth, had little qualification forthe stage, apart from her good looks and her graces of manner. Thesisters had played together in Philadelphia in "The Genoese"--a dramawritten by a young American--when, to give support and encouragementto Susan in her personation of the heroine, Charlotte undertook thepart of her lover. Their success prompted them to appear in "Romeo andJuliet. " Other plays, in which both could appear, were afterwardselected--such, for instance, as "Twelfth Night, " in which Charlotteplayed Viola to the Olivia of Susan--so that the engagement of onemight compel the engagement of the other. Susan, however, quitted thestage in 1847, to become the wife of Dr. Sheridan Muspratt, ofLiverpool. 

[Illustration: Charlotte Cushman as Mrs. Haller. ]

Charlotte Cushman called few new plays into being. Dramas, entitled"Infatuation, " by James Kenny, in 1845, and "Duchess Elinour, " by thelate H. F. Chorley, in 1854, were produced for her, but were summarilycondemned by the audience, being scarcely permitted indeed a secondperformance in either case. Otherwise, she did not add to herrepertory. For many years she led the life of a "star, " fulfillingbrief engagements here and there, appearing now for a term in London, and now travelling through the provinces, playing some half a dozencharacters over and over again. Of these Lady Macbeth, Queen Katherineand Meg Merrilies were perhaps the most frequently demanded. Her fameand fortune she always dated from the immediate recognition sheobtained upon her first performance in London. But she made frequentvisits to America; indeed, she crossed the Atlantic "upward of sixteentimes, " says her biographer. In 1854 she took a house in Bolton Row, Mayfair, "where for some years she dispensed the most charming andgenial hospitality, " and, notably, entertained Ristori on her firstvisit to England in 1856. Several winters she passed in Rome, occupying apartments in the Via Gregoriana, where she cordiallyreceived a host of friends and visitors of all nations. In 1859 shewas called to England by her sister's fatal illness; in 1866 she wasagain summoned to England to attend the death-bed of her mother. In1860 she was playing in all the chief cities of America. Three yearslater she again visited America, her chief object being to act for thebenefit of the Sanitary Commission, and aid the sick and woundedvictims of the civil war. During the late years of her life sheappeared before the public more as a dramatic reader than as anactress. There were long intervals between her theatrical engagements;she seemed to quit her profession only to return to it after aninterval with renewed appetite, and she incurred reproaches because ofthe frequency of her farewells, and the doubt that prevailed as towhether her "last appearances" were really to be the "very last. " Itwas not until 1874, however, that she took final leave of the New Yorkstage, amid extraordinary enthusiasm, with many poetic and otherceremonies. She was the subject of addresses in prose and verse. Mr. Bryant, after an eloquent speech, tendered her a laurel wreath boundwith white ribbon resting upon a purple velvet cushion, with asuitable inscription embroidered in golden letters; a torchbearers'procession escorted her from the theatre to her hotel; she wasserenaded at midnight, and in her honor Fifth Avenue blazed withfireworks. After this came farewells to Philadelphia, Boston and othercities, and to these succeeded readings all over the country. It is tobe said, however, that incessant work had become a necessity with her, not because of its pecuniary results, but as a means of obtainingmental relief or comparative forgetfulness for a season. During thelast five or six years of her life she was afflicted with an incurableand agonizing malady. Under most painful conditions she toiledunceasingly, moving rapidly from place to place, and passing days andnights in railway journeys. In a letter to a friend, she writes: "I doget so dreadfully depressed about myself, and all things seem sohopeless to me at those times, that I pray God to take me quickly atany moment, so that I may not torture those I love by letting them seemy pain. But when the dark hour passes, and I try to forget byconstant occupation that I have such a load near my heart, then it isnot so bad. " She died almost painlessly at last on February 18, 1876. 

Charlotte Cushman may assuredly be accounted an actress of genius inright of her originality, her vivid power of depicting emotion, thevehemence and intensity of her histrionic manner. Her best successeswere obtained in tragedy, although she possessed a keen sense ofhumor, and could deliver the witty speeches of Rosalind or of Beatricewith excellent point and effect. Her Meg Merrilies will probably beremembered as her most impressive achievement. It was really, as sheplayed it, a character of her own invention; but, in truth, it taxedher intellectual resources far less than her Bianca, her QueenKatherine, or her Lady Macbeth. Her physical peculiarities no doubtlimited the range of her efforts, hindered her advance as an actress, or urged her toward exceptional impersonations. Her performanceslacked femininity, to use Coleridge's word; but in power to stir anaudience, to touch their sympathies, to kindle their enthusiasm, andto compel their applause, she takes rank among the finest players. Itonly remains to add that Miss Stebbins' fervid and affecting biographyof her friend admirably demonstrates that the woman was not lessestimable than the actress; that Charlotte Cushman was of noblecharacter, intellectual, large and tenderhearted, of exemplary conductin every respect. The simple, direct earnestness of her manner uponthe mimic scene, characterized her proceedings in real life. She wasat once the slave and the benefactress of her family; she wasdevotedly fond of children; she was of liberal and generous nature;she was happiest when conferring kindness upon others; her careerabounded in self-sacrifice. She pretended to few accomplishments, tolittle cultivation of a literary sort; but she could write, as MissStebbins proves, excellent letters, now grave, now gay, nowreflective, now descriptive, always interesting, and altogetherremarkable for sound sense and for force and skill of expression. Herdeath was regarded in America almost as a national catastrophe. AsMiss Stebbins writes, "The press of the entire country bore witness toher greatness, and laid their tributes upon her tomb. "

 * * * * *

The following letter of good counsel from Miss Cushman to young Mr. Barton is reprinted, by permission of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , from the "Life and Letters of Charlotte Cushman. "

"I think if you have to wait for a while it will do you no harm. Youseem to me quite frantic for immediate work; but teach yourself quietand repose in the time you are waiting. With half your strength Icould bear to wait and labor with myself to conquer _fretting_. Thegreatest power in the world is shown in conquest over self. More lifewill be worked out of you by fretting than all the stage-playing inthe world. God bless you, my poor child. You have indeed troubleenough; but you have a strong and earnest spirit, and you have thetrue religion of labor in your heart. Therefore I have no fears foryou let what will come. Let me hear from you at your leisure, and besure you have no warmer friend than I am and wish to be. "

RACHEL

By DUTTON COOK

(1821-1858)

[Illustration: Rachel. ]

It is told that Rachel Felix was born on March 24, 1821, at Munf, nearthe town of Aarau, in the Canton of Aargau, Switzerland; theburgomaster of the district simply noting in his books that upon theday stated, at the little village inn, the wife of a poor pedler hadgiven birth to a female child. The entry included no mention offamily, name, or religion, and otherwise the event was not registeredin any civil or religious record. The father and mother were AbrahamFelix, a Jew, born in Metz, but of German origin, and Esther Haya, hiswife. They had wandered about the continent during many years, seekinga living and scarcely finding it. Several children were born to themby the wayside, as it were, on their journeyings hither and thither:Sarah in Germany, Rebecca in Lyons, Dinah in Paris, Rachel inSwitzerland; and there were other infants who did not long survivetheir birth, succumbing to the austerities of the state of life towhich they had been called. For a time, perhaps because of theirnumerous progeny, M. And Madame Felix settled in Lyons. Madame Felixopened a small shop and dealt in second-hand clothes; M. Felix gavelessons in German to the very few pupils he could obtain. About 1830the family moved to Paris. They were still miserably poor. Thechildren Sarah and Rachel, usually carrying a smaller child in theirarms or wheeling it with them in a wooden cart, were sent into thestreets to earn money by singing at the doors of cafes and estaminets. A musical amateur, one M. Morin, noticed the girls, questioned them, interested himself about them, and finally obtained their admissioninto the Government School of Sacred Music in the Rue Vaugirard. Rachel's voice did not promise much, however; as she confessed, shecould not sing--she could only recite. She had received but thescantiest and meanest education; she read with difficulty; she wasteaching herself writing by copying the manuscript of others. Presently she was studying elocution under M. St. Aulaire, an oldactor retired from the Français, who took pains with the child, instructing her gratuitously and calling her "ma petite diablesse. "The performances of M. St. Aulaire's pupil were occasionally witnessedby the established players, among them Monval of the Gymnase andSamson of the Comédie. Monval approved and encouraged the youngactress, and upon the recommendation of Samson she entered the classesof the Conservatoire, over which he presided, with Michelot andProvost as his co-professors. 

At the Conservatoire Rachel made little progress. All her effortsfailed to win the good opinion of her preceptors. In despair sheresolved to abandon altogether the institution, its classes andperformances. She felt herself neglected, aggrieved, insulted. "Tartuffe" had been announced for representation by the pupils; shehad been assigned the mute part of Flipote, the serving-maid, whosimply appears upon the scene in the first act that her ears may besoundly boxed by Madame Pernelle. To this humiliation she would notsubmit. She hurried to her old friend, St. Aulaire, who consultedMonval, who commended her to his manager, M. Poirson. She entered intoan engagement to serve the Gymnase for a term of three years upon asalary of 3, 000 francs. M. Poirson was quick to perceive that she wasnot as so many other beginners were; that there was something new andstartling about the young actress. He obtained for her firstappearance, from M. Paul Duport, a little melodrama in two acts. Itwas called "La Vendéenne, " and owed its more striking scenes to "TheHeart of Midlothian. " After the manner of Jeanie Deans, Géneviève, theheroine of the play, footsore and travel-stained, seeks the presenceof the Empress Josephine to implore the pardon of a Vendéan peasantcondemned to death for following George Cadoudal. "La Vendéenne, "produced on April 24, 1837, and received with great applause, wasplayed on sixty successive nights, but not to very crowded audiences. The press scarcely noticed the new actress. The critic of the _Journaldes Débats_, however, while rashly affirming that Rachel was not aphenomenon and would never be extolled as a wonder, carefully notedcertain of the merits and characteristics of her performance. "She wasan unskilled child, but she possessed heart, soul, intellect. Therewas something bold, abrupt, uncouth about her aspect, gait, andmanner. She was dressed simply and truthfully in the coarse woollengown of a peasant-girl; her hands were red; her voice was harsh anduntrained, but powerful; she acted without effort or exaggeration; shedid not scream or gesticulate unduly; she seemed to perceiveintuitively the feeling she was required to express, and couldinterest the audience greatly, moving them to tears. She was notpretty, but she pleased, " etc. Bouffé, who witnessed thisrepresentation, observed: "What an odd little girl! Assuredly there issomething in her. But her place is not here. " So judged Samson also, becoming more and more aware of the merits of his former pupil. Shewas transferred to the Français to play the leading characters intragedy, at a salary of 4, 000 francs a year. M. Poirson did nothesitate to cancel her agreement with him. Indeed, he had beentroubled with thinking how he could employ his new actress. She wasnot an _ingénue_ of the ordinary type; she could not be classed amongsoubrettes. There were no parts suited to her in the light comedies ofScribe and his compeers, which constituted the chief repertory of theGymnase. 

It was on June 12, 1838, that Rachel, as Camille, in "Horace, " madeher first appearance upon the stage of the Théâtre Français. Thereceipts were but seven hundred and fifty francs; it was anunfashionable period of the year; Paris was out of town; the weatherwas most sultry. There were many Jews in the house, it was said, resolute to support the daughter of Israel, and her success wasunequivocal; nevertheless, a large share of the applause of the nightwas confessedly carried off by the veteran Joanny, who played Horace. On June 16th Rachel made her second appearance, personating Emilie inthe "Cinna, " of Corneille. The receipts fell to five hundred and fiftyfrancs. She repeated her performance of Camille on the 23d; thereceipts were only three hundred francs! the poorest house, perhaps, she ever played to in Paris. She afterward appeared as Hermione in"Andromaque, " Aménaide in "Tancrède, " Eriphile in "Iphigénie, " Monimein "Mithridate, " and Roxane in "Bajazet, " the receipts now graduallyrising, until, in October, when she played Hermione for the tenthtime, six thousand francs were taken at the doors, an equal amountbeing received in November, when, for the sixth time, she appeared asCamille. Paris was now at her feet. In 1839, called upon to play twoor three times per week, she essayed but one new part, Esther, inRacine's tragedy of that name. The public was quite content that sheshould assume again and again the characters in which she had alreadytriumphed. In 1840 she added to her list of impersonations Laodie andPauline in Corneille's "Nicomède" and "Polyeucte, " and Marie Stuart inLebrun's tragedy. In 1841 she played no new parts. In 1842 she firstappeared as Chimène in "Le Cid, " as Ariane, and as Frédégonde in awretched tragedy by Le Mercier. 

Rachel had saved the Théâtre Français, had given back to the stage themasterpieces of the French classical drama. It was very well forThackeray to write from Paris in 1839 that the actress had "onlygalvanized the corpse, not revivified. . . . Racine will never come tolife again and cause audiences to weep as of yore. " He predicted:"Ancient French tragedy, red-heeled, patched, and beperiwigged, liesin the grave, and it is only the ghost of it that the fair Jewess hasraised. " But it was something more than a galvanized animation thatRachel had imparted to the old drama of France. During her career oftwenty years, her performances of Racine and Corneille filled thecoffers of the Français, and it may be traced to her influence andexample that the classic plays still keep their place upon the stageand stir the ambition of the players. But now the committee of theFrançais had to reckon with their leading actress, and pay the priceof the prosperity she had brought them. They cancelled her engagementand offered her terms such as seemed to them liberal beyond allprecedent. But the more they offered, so much the more was demanded. In the first instance, the actress being a minor, negotiations werecarried on with her father, the committee denouncing in the bitterestterms the avarice and rapacity of M. Felix. But when Rachel becamecompetent to deal on her own behalf, she proved herself every whit asexacting as her sire. She became a _sociétaire_ in 1843, entitled toone of the twenty-four shares into which the profits of theinstitution were divided. She was rewarded, moreover, with a salary offorty-two thousand francs per annum; and it was estimated that by herperformances during her _congé_ of three or four months every year sheearned a further annual income of thirty thousand francs. She met withextraordinary success upon her provincial tours; enormous profitsresulted from her repeated visits to Holland and Belgium, Germany, Russia, and England. But, from first to last, Rachel's connection withthe Français was an incessant quarrel. She was capricious, ungrateful, unscrupulous, extortionate. She struggled to evade her duties, to doas little as she possibly could in return for the large sums shereceived from the committee. She pretended to be too ill to play inParis, the while she was always well enough to hurry away and obtaingreat rewards by her performances in the provinces. She wore herselfout by her endless wanderings hither and thither, her continuousefforts upon the scene. She denied herself all rest, or slept in atravelling carriage to save time in her passage from one countrytheatre to another. Her company complained that they fell asleep asthey acted, her engagements denying them proper opportunities ofrepose. The newspapers at one time set forth the acrimonious lettersshe had interchanged with the committee of the Français. Finally shetended her resignation of the position she occupied as _sociétaire_;the committee took legal proceedings to compel her to return to herduties; some concessions were made on either side, however, and areconciliation was patched up. 

The new tragedies, "Judith" and "Cléopatre, " written for the actressby Madame de Girardin, failed to please, nor did success attend theproduction of M. Romand's "Catherine II. , " M. Soumet's "Jeanne d'Arc, "in which, to the indignation of the critics, the heroine was seen atlast surrounded by real flames! or "Le Vieux de la Montagne" of M. Latour de St. Ybars. With better fortune Rachel appeared in the sameauthor's "Virginie, " and in the "Lucrèce" of Ponsard. Voltaire's"Oreste" was revived for her in 1845 that she might play Electre. Shepersonated Racine's "Athalie" in 1847, assuming long white locks, painting furrows on her face, and disguising herself beyondrecognition, in her determination to seem completely the character shehad undertaken. In 1848 she played Agrippine in the "Britannicus" ofRacine, and dressed in plain white muslin, and clasping thetri-colored flag to her heart, she delivered the "Marseillaise" toplease the Revolutionists, lending the air strange meaning and passionby the intensity of her manner, as she half chanted, half recited thewords, her voice now shrill and harsh, now deep, hollow, andreverberating--her enraptured auditors likening it in effect todistant thunder. 

To the dramatists who sought to supply her with new parts, Rachel wasthe occasion of much chagrin and perplexity. After accepting Scribe's"Adrienne Lecouvreur" she rejected it absolutely only to resume iteagerly, however, when she learned that the leading character was tobe undertaken by Mademoiselle Rose Chéri. His "Chandelier" having metwith success, Rachel applied to De Musset for a play. She was offered, it seems, "Les Caprices de Marianne, " but meantime the poet's"Bettine" failed, and the actress distrustfully turned away from him. An undertaking to appear in the "Medea" of Legouvé landed her in aprotracted lawsuit. The courts condemned her in damages to the amountof two hundred francs for every day she delayed playing the part ofMedea after the date fixed upon by the management for the commencementof the rehearsals of the tragedy. She paid nothing, however, for themanagement failed to fix any such date. M. Legouvé was only avenged inthe success his play obtained, in a translated form, at the hands ofMadame Ristori. In lieu of "Medea" Rachel produced "Rosemonde, " atragedy by M. Latour de St. Ybars, which failed completely. Otherplays written for her were the "Valéria" of MM. Lacroix and Maquet, inwhich she personated two characters--the Empress Messalina and herhalf sister, Lysisca, a courtesan; the "Diane, " of M. Augier, animitation of Victor Hugo's "Marion Delorme;" "Lady Tartuffe, " a comedyby Madame de Girardin; and "La Czarine, " by M. Scribe. She appearedalso in certain of the characters originally contrived forMademoiselle Mais, such as La Tisbe in Victor Hugo's "Angelo, " and theheroines of Dumas's "Mademoiselle de Belle Isle" and of "Louise deLignerolles" by MM. Legouvé and Dinaux. 

The classical drama of France has not found much favor in England andAmerica. We are all, perhaps, apt to think with Thackeraydisrespectfully of the "old tragedies--well-nigh dead, and full timetoo--in which half a dozen characters appear and shout sonorousAlexandrines for half a dozen hours;" or we are disposed to agree withMr. Matthew Arnold, that their drama, being fundamentally insufficientboth in substance and in form, the French, with all their gifts, havenot, as we have, an adequate form for poetry of the highest class. Those who remember Rachel, however, can testify that she breathed themost ardent life into the frigid remains of Racine and Corneille, relumed them with Promethean heat, and showed them to be instinct withthe truest and intensest passion--When she occupied the scene, therecould be no thought of the old artificial times of hair powder androuge, periwigs and patches, in connection with the characters sherepresented. Phèdre and Hermione, Pauline and Camille, interpreted byher genius, became as real and natural, warm and palpitating, asConstance or Lady Macbeth could have been when played by Mrs. Siddons, or as Juliet when impersonated by Miss O'Neill. Before Rachel came, ithad been thought that the new romantic drama of MM. Hugo and Dumas, because of its greater truth to nature, had given the _coup de grâce_to the old classic plays; but the public, at her bidding, turnedgladly from the spasms and the rant of "Angelo" and "Angèle, " "Antony"and "Hernani, " to the old-world stories, the formal tragedies of theseventeenth century poet-dramatists of France. The actress fairlywitched her public. There was something of magic in her very presenceupon the scene. 

None could fail to be impressed by the aspect of the slight, pallidwoman who seemed to gain height by reason of her slenderness, whomoved toward her audience with such simple natural majesty, who woreand conducted her fluent classical draperies with such admirable andperfect grace. It was as though she had lived always so attired intunic, peplum, and pallium--had known no other dress--not that she wasof modern times playing at antiquity, she was the muse of Greektragedy in person. The physical traditions of her race foundexpression or incarnation in her. Her face was of refined Judaicalcharacter--the thin nose slightly curved, the lower lip a trifle full, but the mouth exquisitely shaped, and the teeth small, white, andeven. The profuse black-brown hair was smoothed and braided from thebroad, low, white, somewhat over-hanging brow, beneath which in shadowthe keen black eyes flashed out their lightnings, or glowed luridlylike coals at a red heat. Her gestures were remarkable for theirdignity and appropriateness; the long, slight arms lent themselvessurprisingly to gracefulness; the beautifully formed hands, with thethin tapering fingers and the pink filbert nails, seemed alwaystremblingly on the alert to add significance or accent to herspeeches. But there was eloquence in her very silence and completerepose. She could relate a whole history by her changes of facialexpression. She possessed special powers of self-control; she wasunder subjection to both art and nature when she seemed to abandonherself the most absolutely to the whirlwind of her passion. Therewere no undue excesses of posture, movement, or tone. Her attitudes, it was once said, were those of "a Pythoness cast in bronze. " Hervoice thrilled and awed at its first note: it was so strangely deep, so solemnly melodious, until, stirred by passion as it were, it becamethick and husky in certain of its tones; but it was always audible, articulate, and telling, whether sunk to a whisper or raisedclamorously. Her declamation was superb, if, as critics reported, there had been decline in this matter during those later years of herlife, to which my own acquaintance with Rachel's acting is confined. Isaw her first at the Français in 1849, and I was present at her lastperformance at the St. James' Theatre in 1853, having in the intervalwitnessed her assumption of certain of her most admired characters. And it may be true, too, that, like Kean, she was more and moredisposed, as the years passed, to make "points, " to slur over the lessimportant scenes, and reserve herself for a grand outburst or avehement climax, sacrificing thus many of the subtler graces, refinements, and graduations of elocution, for which she had once beenfamous. To English ears, it was hardly an offence that she broke upthe sing-song of the rhymed tirades of the old plays and gave them amore natural sound, regardless of the traditional methods of speech ofClairon, Le Kain, and others of the great French players of the past. 

[Illustration: Rachel as the Muse of Greek Tragedy. ]

Less success than had been looked for attended Rachel's invasion ofthe repertory of Mlle. Mars, an actress so idolized by the Parisiansthat her sixty years and great portliness of form were not thoughthindrances to her personation of the youthful heroines of moderncomedy and drama. But Rachel's fittest occupation and her greatesttriumphs were found in the classical poetic plays. She, perhaps, intellectualized too much the creations of Hugo, Dumas, and Scribe;gave them excess of majesty. Her histrionic style was too exalted anideal for the conventional characters of the drama of her own time; itwas even said of her that she could not speak its prose properly ortolerably. She disliked the hair-powder necessary to AdrienneLecouvreur and Gabrielle de Belle Isle, although her beauty, for allits severity, did not lose picturesqueness in the costumes of the timeof Louis XV. As Gabrielle she was more girlish and gentle, pathetic, and tender, than was her wont, while the signal fervor of her speechaddressed to Richelieu, beginning, "Vous mentez, Monsieur le Duc, "stirred the audience to the most excited applause. 

Rachel was seen upon the stage for the last time at Charleston onDecember 17, 1856. She played Adrienne Lecouvreur. She had beentempted to America by the prospect of extravagant profits. It had beendinned into her ears that Jenny Lind, by thirty-eight performances inAmerica, had realized seventeen hundred thousand francs. Why might notshe, Rachel, receive as much? And then, she was eager to quit Paris. There had been strange worship there of Madame Ristori, even in therejected part of Medea. But already Rachel's health was in adeplorable state. Her constitution, never very strong, had sufferedseverely from the cruel fatigues, the incessant exertions, she hadundergone. It may be, too, that the deprivations and sufferings of herchildhood now made themselves felt as over-due claims that could be nolonger denied or deferred. She forced herself to play, in fulfilmentof her engagement, but she was languid, weak, emaciated; she coughedincessantly, her strength was gone; she was dying slowly but certainlyof phthisis. And she appeared before an audience that applauded her, it is true, but cared nothing for Racine and Corneille, knew little ofthe French language, and were urgent that she should sing the"Marseillaise" as she had sung it in 1848! It was forgotten, or it wasnot known in America, that the actress had long since renouncedrevolutionary sentiments to espouse the cause of the Second Empire. She performed all her more important characters, however, at New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. Nor was the undertaking commerciallydisappointing, if it did not wholly satisfy expectation. She returnedto France possessed of nearly three hundred thousand francs as hershare of the profits of her forty-two performances in the UnitedStates; but she returned to die. The winter of 1856 she passed atCairo. She returned to France in the spring of 1857, but herphysicians forbade her to remain long in Paris. In September she movedagain to the South, finding her last retreat in the villa Sardou, atCannet, a little village in the environs of Cannes. She lingered toJanuary 3, 1858. The Théâtre Français closed its doors when newsarrived of her death, and again on the day of her funeral. The bodywas embalmed and brought to Paris for interment in the cemetery ofPère la Chaise, the obsequies being performed in accordance with theJewish rites. The most eminent of the authors and actors of Francewere present, and funeral orations were delivered by MM. Jules Janin, Bataille, and Auguste Maquet. Victor Hugo was in exile; or, as Janinannounced, the author of "Angelo" would not have withheld the tributeof his eulogy upon the sad occasion. 

EDWIN BOOTH[15]

 [Footnote 15: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(1833-1893)

[Illustration: Edwin Booth. ]

The great actor who has lately left the world furnished, in his ownremarkable character and shining career, a striking exception to thepopular tradition that men of genius are the fathers of ordinary sons. The father of Edwin Booth was in his time one of the glories of theEnglish and American stage; but, even in his case the strict rulewavered, for his father, though not a genius, was yet a man ofexceptional character; one who marked out a clear path for himself inthe world, and walked in it to the end. 

How far back the line of the family can be traced, or what was itsorigin, we do not know; but it has lately been said that the familywas of Hebrew extraction, and came into England from Spain, where ithad been known by the Spanish name, Cabana. The branch of the familythat left Spain to live in England translated the name into thelanguage of their new home, and from "Cabana, " a shepherd's cabin, made the English equivalent, Booth. 

However it may have been in this case, it was quite in the order ofthings that this change of name should be made. It has been doneeverywhere in Europe since very early times, and is doing to-day inthis country by new comers from all parts of the old world. 

The first of the Booths we read of in England was a silversmith, living in Bloomsbury, London, in the latter half of the last century. He had a son, Richard, who was bred to the law, but who was so imbuedwith the republican ideas rife at the time that he actually came toAmerica to fight in the cause of Independence! He was taken prisoner, and carried back to England, where, not without some struggles, heagain applied himself to the practice of the law, and in time made afortune. He did not, however, forget America, and we are told that hehad, hanging in his house, a portrait of Washington, which he expectedall his visitors to salute. 

One of the ways in which the republicans of that time showed wheretheir sympathies lay, was in naming their children after the heroes ofGreece and Rome; and accordingly we find Richard Booth calling hiseldest son, Junius Brutus Booth, after the Roman patriot. This son wasborn in London, in 1796. His father was a man of scholarly tastes, andgave the boy a classical education, but it was long before he showed amarked inclination for any particular walk in life. He tried his handat painting, sculpture, and poetry; and for a while studied law withhis father. But, when the time came to choose, he gave his voice forthe navy, and would have joined the brig Boxer, then fitting out forNova Scotia. But, as war threatened between England and America, hewas induced, by the strong persuasions of his father, not to run therisk of being forced to fight against America. He then decided to goupon the stage, and, in spite of his father's remonstrances, carriedout his purpose. After some unimportant essays he at last succeeded inattracting public attention, and before long showed such unmistakableability in dealing with difficult parts, that the public, till thattime undivided in its enthusiasm for Kean, awoke to the fact that adangerous rival threatened the security of their idol's throne. In themidst of his successes, however, Booth married and left England withhis wife for a honeymoon trip to the West Indies. He had intended toreturn at once to England, but he was persuaded to prolong his journeyand to visit New York. After playing a successful engagement there hewent to Richmond, where he was no less prosperous. He next visited NewOrleans and acquired such facility in speaking French that he playedparts in French plays more than acceptably, and distinguished himselfby acting Orestes in Racine's "Andromaque, " to the delight of theFrench-speaking population. His accent is said to have been remarkablefor its purity. Returning to New York, he acted Othello to Forrest'sIago; but, in the midst of his successes, the death of two of hischildren produced a temporary insanity, and this was made worse by thenews of the death of his favorite son, Henry Byron, in London, ofsmall-pox. This grievous loss was, however, to be made up to him byhis son, Edwin, in whom he was to find the counterpart of himself, softened, refined, ennobled, while between father and son was to growa strong attachment, a bond of mutual affection to last as long aslife should endure. 

Edwin Thomas Booth was born at Bel Air, Maryland, November 12, 1833. He was named Edwin, after his father's friend, Edwin Forrest, andThomas, after Thomas Flynn, the actor, whom the elder Booth had knownintimately in London. His son dropped the name of Thomas, later inlife, and was only known to the public by the name of Edwin Booth. Owing to his father's wandering life Edwin had few advantages ofeducation, but he made the most of his opportunities, and indeed was astudent of good letters all his life, turning the light of all helearned from books and experience upon his art. His youth is describedas reticent, and marked by a strong individuality, with a deepsympathy for his father, early manifested; his father, a muchenduring, suffering man, strongly in need of sympathy, knowing torepay it, too, in kind. 

Edwin Booth made his first appearance on the stage in 1849 at theBoston Museum in the youthful part of Tressil, in Colley Cibber'sversion of Shakespeare's "Richard III. " It had been against hisfather's wishes that he had adopted the stage as a profession; but, as his father had done in a like case before him he persevered, andsoon had the satisfaction of convincing his parent that he had decidedwisely. He did not at once come to New York after his success inBoston, but went to Providence and to Philadelphia, acting Cassio in"Othello, " and Wilford in the "Iron Chest, " a part he soon made hisown and in which he made his first appearance in New York, playing atthe National Theatre in Chatham Street, in 1850. The next year heplayed Richard III. For the first time, taking the part unexpectedlyto fill the place of his father, who was suddenly ill. In 1852 he wentout with his father to San Francisco, where his brother, Junius BrutusBooth, Jr. , was the manager of a theatre; and the father and his twosons acted together. At Sacramento, we are told that the incidentoccurred which led Edwin Booth to think of acting Hamlet, a part whichwas to become as closely associated with his name as that of RichardIII. Was with his father. He was dressed for the part of Jaffier inOtway's play, "Venice Preserved, " when some one said to him "You looklike Hamlet, why not play it?" It was, however, some time before heventured to assume the part. In October, 1852, the father and sonparted, not to meet again. The elder Booth went to New Orleans, andafter playing for a week took passage in a steamboat on theMississippi, and catching a severe cold succumbed after a few days'illness and died. For a while after his father's death Edwin sufferedgreatly from poverty and from the hardships of his precarious life, unsustained as he now was by the affection and encouragement of afather who, with all his faults, and in all the misfortunes brought onby serious ill-health and some aberrations that were the effect ofill-health had always been an affectionate and true friend. But atalent such as Edwin Booth possessed, united to a high character, andto a dauntless spirit, could not long be hid, and in a short time hisname began to be heard of as that of one destined to great ends. In1854 he went to Australia as a member of Laura Keene's company. He hadmade a deep impression in California, acting such parts as RichardIII. , Shylock, Macbeth, and Hamlet, and on returning there fromAustralia that first impression was greatly strengthened. On leavingSan Francisco he received various testimonials showing the high esteemin which his acting was held by the educated part of the community;but throughout Edwin Booth's career, the interest he excited in thevast audiences that followed him was by no means confined to theself-styled "best people. " Though he never "played to the gallery, "the heart of the gallery was as much with him as the heart of theboxes, and he knew the value of its rapt silence as well as of itsstormy voices. 

In Boston, in 1857, he played Sir Giles Overreach, in Massinger's "ANew Way to Pay Old Debts, " and the profound impression he made in itconfirmed him in his purpose to devote himself to tragic acting. Thestory of an actor's life is seldom eventful, and Mr. Booth's history, after his first assured success, is the record of a long line oftriumphs without a failure. The most remarkable of these triumphs wasat the Winter Garden Theatre in New York, where he acted Hamlet tolarge and ever-increasing audiences for over one hundred successivenights, that is, from November 21, 1864, to March 24, 1865. On thisoccasion a gold medal was presented to the actor by friends andadmirers in New York; the list of subscribers including the names ofmany well-known citizens. The Winter Garden Theatre was managed byBooth and his brother-in-law, the clever actor, J. S. Clarke, untilBooth bought out Clarke and assumed the entire management himself. In1865 the terrible tragedy occurred which blighted Booth's wholeafter-life, and for a time drove him from the stage. He did not actagain until 1866; in 1867 the theatre was destroyed by fire, and in1868 the corner-stone of a new building, to be known as Booth'sTheatre, was laid, and in a short time New York was in possession, forthe first time, of a thoroughly appointed, comfortable, and handsometheatre. This building was made famous by a number of Shakespearianrevivals that for beauty, magnificence, and scenic poetry have, webelieve, never been equalled. We doubt if "Hamlet, " "Julius Cæsar, " or"Romeo and Juliet, " have ever been presented with more satisfyingcompleteness to the eye and to the imagination than in this theatre byMr. Booth and his company. Although the theatre was in existence forthirteen years, from 1868 to 1882, when it was finally closed, Mr. Booth's management lasted only about half that time. The speculationwas not a fortunate one for the actor; the expenses ate up all theprofits, and Mr. Booth was bankrupted by his venture. He paid all hisdebts, however, and went bravely to work to build up a new fortune. Hemade a tour of the South, which was one long ovation, and in a seasonof eight weeks in San Francisco he took in $96, 000. 

In 1880 he went to England and remained there two years. In 1882 hevisited Germany, acting in both countries with great success, and in1883 he returned home and made a tour of America, repeating everywherehis old triumphs, and winning golden opinions from all classes of hiscountrymen. 

Edwin Booth died in New York, June 7, 1893, at the Players' Club, where he had lived for the last few years of his life. This was abuilding erected by his own munificence, fitted up with luxuriouscompleteness, and presented to a society of his professional brethrenfor the use and behoof of his fellow-artists, reserving for himselfonly the modest apartment where he chose to live, in sympathetic touchwith those who still pursued the noble art he had relinquished. 

Mr. Booth was twice married. By his first wife, Miss Mary Devlin, whodied in 1863, he had one child, a daughter; by the second, MissMcVicker, he had no children. She died in 1881. 

[Signature of the author. ]

JOSEPH JEFFERSON[16]

 [Footnote 16: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess. ]

By CLARENCE COOK

(BORN 1829)

[Illustration: Joseph Jefferson. ]

Joseph Jefferson, distinguished, among his other brilliant successesas an actor, as the creator for this generation of the character ofRip Van Winkle in the play dramatized from the story in WashingtonIrving's "Sketch Book, " was the third of his name in a family ofactors. The first of the three was born at Plymouth, England, in 1774. He was the son of Thomas Jefferson, a comedian of merit, thecontemporary and friend of Garrick, and came to this country in 1795, making his first appearance in New York on February 10, 1796, in thepart of Squire Richard in "The Provoked Husband. " Dunlap says that, young as he was, he was already an artist, and that among the men ofthe company he held the first place. He lived in this country forthirty-six years, admired as an actor and respected as a man. He diedat Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, in 1832. 

Joseph Jefferson, the second, was born in Philadelphia in 1804. Heinherited the laughing blue eyes and sunny disposition of his father, but he had not his talent as an actor; he is said to have been best inold men's parts. His taste, however, led him to scene-painting ratherthan to acting; yet his skill in either direction was not enough towin success, and, in spite of well-meant efforts, he lived and died apoor man: ill luck pursuing him to the end of his days, when he wascarried off by yellow fever at Mobile in 1842, just as hisunprosperous skies were brightening a little. His son bearsaffectionate witness to the upright character of the man and to hisindomitable cheerfulness in the most adverse circumstances. He sparedno pains in bringing up his children in good ways, and he wasearnestly seconded by his wife, a heroic figure in her humble sphere, whose tact and courage not seldom saved the family bark when it wasdrifting in shoal water. Mrs. Jefferson came of French parents, andwas a Mrs. Burke, a widow with one child, a son, when she married Mr. Jefferson. Her son tells us that she had been one of the mostattractive stars in America, the leading prima donna of the country;but she bore her changed fortune, as the wife of an unsuccessful actorand manager, with no less dignity on the stage of real life, where noapplause was to be had but what came from those who loved her asmother, wife, and friend. 

This, then, was the family circle in which our Joseph Jeffersonpassed his earliest years, the formative period of his life. Therewere the kind-hearted, easy-going father, the practical, energeticmother, a sister, and the half-brother, Charles Burke, whoseafter-reputation as an actor lives in the pages of Jefferson'sautobiography enshrined in words of warm but judicious appreciation. "Although only a half-brother, " says Jefferson, "he seemed like afather to me, and there was a deep and strange affection between us. "Nor must mention be forgotten of one other member of the family: Mary, his foster-mother, as Jefferson affectionately calls her, "a faithful, loving, truthful friend, rather than a servant, with no ambition orthought for herself, living only for us, and totally unconscious ofher own existence. "

Joseph Jefferson, the third of the name, and in whom the talent of hisgrandfather was to reappear enriched with added graces of his own, wasborn in Philadelphia in 1829. He tells us that his earliestrecollections are connected with a theatre in Washington. This was arickety, old, frame-building adjoining the house in which his fatherlived as manager, the door at the end of the hall-way opening directlyupon the stage; and as a toddling little chap in a short frock he wasallowed full run of the place. Thus "behind the scenes" was his firstplayground; and here, "in this huge and dusty toy-shop made forchildren of a larger growth, " he got his first experience. He wasearly accustomed to face an audience; for, being the son of themanager and almost living in the theatre, he was always pressed intothe service whenever a small child was wanted, and "often went on thestage in long clothes as a property infant in groups of happypeasantry. " His first dim recollection of such a public appearance isas the "child, " in Kotzebue's play, "Pizarro, " who is carried acrossthe bridge by Rolla. His next appearance was in a new entertainment, called "Living Statues, " where he struck attitudes as "Ajax Defyingthe Lightning, " or "The Dying Gladiator. " At four years of age he madea hit by accompanying T. D. Rice, the original "Jim Crow, " as aminiature copy of that once famous character, and the first money heearned was the sum of $24 thrown upon the stage in silver from pit andgallery, to reward his childish dancing and singing on that occasion. 

Thus early wedded to the stage, Jefferson followed the fortunes of hisfamily, and led with them a wandering life for many years, growing, byslow degrees and constant, varied practice, to the perfection of hisprime. In 1838 his father led the flock to Chicago, just then grownfrom an Indian village to a thriving place of two thousandinhabitants, where he was to join his brother in the management of anew theatre, then building. Jefferson's account of the journey is astriking picture, at once amusing and pathetic, of the changes thathave been wrought by fifty years. The real privations and hardships ofthe trip are veiled in the actor's story by his quiet humor and hisdisposition to see everything in a cheerful light. Always quizzing hisown youthful follies, he cannot conceal from us by any mischievousanecdotes his essential goodness of nature, his merry helpfulness, hisunselfish devotion to the welfare of the others, or the pluck withwhich he met the accidents of this itinerant life. From Chicago, wheretheir success was not brilliant, the family went by stage toSpringfield, where, by a singular chance, they were rescued from thedanger that threatened them in the closing of the theatre by amunicipal law trumped up in the interest of religious revivalists, bythe adroitness of a young lawyer, who proved to be none other thanAbraham Lincoln. In Memphis, when bad business had closed the theatre, young Jefferson's pluck and ready wit saved the family purse fromabsolute collapse. A city ordinance had been passed, requiring thatall carts, drays, and public vehicles should be numbered; and the boy, hearing of this, called at the mayor's office, and, explaining thesituation that had obliged his father to exchange acting forsign-painting, applied in his name for the contract for painting thenumbers--and obtained it! The new industry furnished father and sonwith a month's work, and some jobs at sign-painting helped stillfurther to make life easier. 

From Memphis the family went to Mobile, where they hoped to rest aftertheir long wanderings, and where it was also hoped the children, Joseph and his sister, might be put to school. But the yellow feverwas raging in Mobile, and they had been in the city only a fortnightwhen Mr. Jefferson was attacked by the disease and died. In Mobile, too, the good Mary died, and Mrs. Jefferson was left alone to care forherself and her children as she could. She had no longer a heart foracting, and she decided to open a boarding-house for actors, whileJoseph and his sister earned a small stipend by variety work in thetheatre. 

More years of hardship followed--the trio of mother and childrenwandering over the country, south and west: in Mississippi and Mexico, seeing life in all its phases of ill luck and disappointment, withfaint gleams of success here and there, but meeting all with a spiritof such cheerful bravery as makes the darkest experience yield apleasure in the telling. Surely, it might soften the heart of thesourest enemy of the stage to read the spirit in which this family metthe long-continued crosses of their professional life. 

[Illustration: Joe Jefferson as Bob Acres. ]

Joseph Jefferson tells the story of his career so modestly, that it ishard to discover just when it was that success first began to turn asmiling face upon his efforts. Yet it would seem as if, for himself, the day broke when he created the part of Asa Trenchard in "OurAmerican Cousin. " He says that up to 1858, when he acted that part, hehad been always more or less a "legitimate" actor, that is, one whohas his place with others in a stock company, and never thinks ofhimself as an individual and single attraction--a star, as it iscalled. While engaged with this part, it suddenly occurred to him thatin acting Asa Trenchard he had, for the first time in his life on thestage, spoken a pathetic speech; up to that time all with him had beenpure comedy. Now he had found a part in which he could move hisaudience to tears as well as smiles. This was to him a delightfuldiscovery, and he looked about for a new part in which he could repeatthe experiment. One day in summer, as he lay in the loft of a barnreading in a book he well calls delightful, Pierre Irving's "Life andLetters of Washington Irving, " he learned that the great writer hadseen him act the part of Goldfinch, in Holcroft's "Road to Ruin, " andthat he reminded him of his grandfather, Joseph Jefferson, "in look, gesture, size, and make. " Naturally pleased to find himselfremembered and written of by such a man, he lay musing on thecompliment, when the "Sketch Book" and the story of Rip van Winklecame suddenly into his mind. "There was to me, " he writes, "magic inthe sound of the name as I repeated it. Why was not this the verycharacter I wanted? An American story by an American author was surelyjust the thing suited to an American actor. "

There had been three or four plays founded on this story, butJefferson says that none of them were good. His father and hishalf-brother had acted the part before him, but nothing that heremembered gave him any hope that he could make a good play out ofexisting material. He therefore went to work to construct a play forhimself, and his story of how he did it, told in two pages of hisbook, and with the most unconscious air in the world, reveals thewhole secret of Jefferson's acting: its humor and pathos subtlymingled, its deep humanity, its pure poetry--the assemblage ofqualities, in fine, that make it the most perfect as well as the mostoriginal product of the American stage. 

Yet the play, even in the form he gave it, did not satisfy him, nordid it make the impression in America that he desired. It was notuntil five years later that Dion Boucicault, in London, remade it forJefferson; and it was in that city it first saw the light in its newform, September 5, 1865. It was at once successful, and had a run ofone hundred and seventy-five nights. 

With his Asa Trenchard and his Rip van Winkle will ever be associatedin the loving memory of play-goers his Bob Acres in Sheridan's"Rivals, " thought by many to be his capital part--a personificationwhere all the foibles of the would-be man-of-the-world: hisself-conceit, his brag, his cowardice, are transformed into virtuesand captivate our hearts, dissolved in the brimming humor which yetnever overflows the just measure, so degenerating into farce. 

Between the two productions of Rip van Winkle in New York and inLondon, Jefferson had had many strange experiences. His wife died in1861, and he broke up his household in New York, and leaving three ofhis children at school in that city, he left home with his eldest sonand went to California. After acting in San Francisco, he sailed forAustralia, where he was warmly received; thence went to the otherBritish colonies in that region, touched on his return at Lima andCallao and Panama, at which place he took a sailing-packet for London, and after his great success in that city returned to America in 1866. In 1867 he married, in Chicago, Miss Sarah Warren, and since that timehis life has flowed on in an even stream, happy in all its relations, private and public, crowned with honors, not of a gaudy or brilliantkind, but solid and enduring. His art is henceforth part and parcel ofthe rich treasure of the American stage. 

[Signature of the author. ]

ADELINA PATTI

By FREDERICK F. BUFFEN

(BORN 1843)

[Illustration: Adelina Patti. ]

A consensus of opinion places this distinguished artiste at the headof all her compeers, for it may be truly said that she is thebrightest star which has dazzled the musical firmament during the pasthalf century, and, is still in the very zenith of her noondaysplendor. 

Regardful of the transcendent beauty of her voice, enhanced as this isby her other natural and attractive attributes, one might almostbelieve that nightingales have surrounded the cradle presided over byEuterpe, for never has bird sung so sweetly as the gifted subject ofmy memoir, and while the Fates smiled on the birth of their favorite, destined to become the unrivalled Queen of Song throughout thecivilized world, fanciful natures might conceive a poetical vision, and behold Melpomene with her sad, grave eyes breathing into her thespirit of tragedy, and Thalia, with her laughing smile, welcoming agifted disciple by whose genius her fire was to be rekindled in thefar future. 

In the year 1861 there arrived in England a young singer who, accompanied by her brother-in-law, took apartments in Norfolk Street, Strand. The young lady, then only seventeen, sought Mr. Frederick Gye, who was the lessee of the Royal Italian Opera, for his permission tosing at his theatre, volunteering to do so _for nothing_. The offerwas at first absolutely declined, but subsequently the young artistesucceeded, and made her first appearance on May 14, 1861, as Amina inBellini's opera of "La Sonnambula. " Unheralded by any previous notice, she was then totally unknown to the English public. Not a syllable hadreached that country of her antecedents or fame. I remember beingpresent on the occasion when this youthful cantatrice tripped lightlyon to the centre of the stage. Not a single hand was raised to greether, nor a sound of welcome extended to encourage the young artiste. The audience of Covent Garden, usually reserved, except toold-established favorites, seemed wrapped in more than theirconventional coldness on that particular evening. Ere long, however, indeed before she had finished the opening aria, a change manifesteditself in the feelings of all present. The _habitués_ looked round inastonishment, and people near me almost held their breath inamazement. The second act followed, and to surprise quickly succeededdelight, for when in the third act she threw all her vocal anddramatic power into the melodious wailing of "_Ah non credea_, " withits brilliant sequel, "_Ah non giunge_, " the enthusiasm of theaudience forgot all restriction, and burst into a spontaneous shoutof applause, the pent-up fervor of the assembly exploding in a ringingcheer of acclamation rarely heard within the walls of the RoyalItalian Opera House. The heroine of the evening was Adelina Patti, whothenceforward became the idol of the musical world. When I left thetheatre that evening, I became conscious that a course of fascinationhad commenced of a most unwonted nature; one that neither time norchange has modified, but which three decades have served only toenhance and intensify. 

At the conclusion of the performance, Mr. Gye went on to the stagefull of the excitement which prevailed in the theatre, and heimmediately concluded an engagement with Mlle. Patti on the termswhich had been previously agreed between them; these being that Mlle. Patti was to receive at the rate of _£_150 a month for three years, appearing twice each week during the season, or at the rate of about_£_17 for each performance. Mr. Gye also offered her the sum of _£_200if she would consent to sing exclusively at Covent Garden. 

Patti repeated her performance of Amina eight times during the season, and subsequently confirmed her success by her assumption of Lucia, Violetta, Zerlina, Martha, and Rosina. 

Having met with such unprecedented success throughout the Londonseason, Mlle. Patti was offered an engagement to sing at the ItalianOpera in Paris, where unusual curiosity was awakened concerning her. Everyone is aware that the Parisians do not admit an artist to be acelebrity until they have themselves acknowledged it. At Paris, afterthe first act, the sensation was indescribable, musicians, ministers, poets, and fashionable beauties all concurring in the general chorusof acclamation; while the genial Auber, the composer of so manydelightful operas, and one of the greatest authorities, by hisexperience and judgment, on all musical matters, was so enchanted thathe declared she had made him young again, and for several days hecould scarcely talk on any other subject but Adelina Patti and opera. The conquest she had achieved with the English public was thustriumphantly ratified by the exacting and critical members of musicalsociety in Paris. 

Adèle Juan Maria Patti, according to her own statement, which sherelated to the Queen Isabella of Spain, was born at Madrid, onFebruary 19, 1843, and is the youngest daughter of two famous Italiansingers, Signor Salvatore Patti and Signora Patti-Barili. The signorhaving placed her two sisters--Amalia, who subsequently marriedMaurice Strakosch, the well-known impresario, and Carlotta, also avocalist of remarkable powers--in a boarding-school at Milan, went toNew York with his wife and daughter, where they remained until Adelinareached sixteen. 

Adelina Patti had barely reached the age of three years when she washeard humming and singing the airs her mother sang. 

The child's voice was naturally so flexible that executivedifficulties were always easy to her, and, before she had attained herninth year she could execute a prolonged shake with fluency. Herfather not being prosperous at the time, it became a necessity forhim to look for support to his little Adelina, who had shown suchremarkable promise; and, accordingly, she began to take singinglessons--not, as is stated in Grove's "Dictionary of Musicians, " fromMaurice Strakosch, but from a French lady, subsequently studying withher step-brother, Ettore Barili, who was a famous baritone singer; butnature had been so prodigal of her gifts to the child that she neverundertook a serious course of study, but, as she herself says, herreal master was "le bon Dieu. " At a very early age she would sing andplay the part of Norma, and knew the whole of the words and music ofRosina, the heroine of Rossini's immortal "Il Barbiere di Seviglia. "She sang at various concerts in different cities, until she reachedthe age of twelve and a half, when her career was temporarilyinterrupted, for Maurice Strakosch, observing the ruinous effect thecontinuous strain upon her delicate voice was working, insisted uponher discontinuing singing altogether, which advice she happilyfollowed. After this interval of two years' silence, and havingemerged from the wonder-child to the young artiste, she recommencedher studies under M. Strakosch, and very soon afterward was engaged tosing on a regular stage. Strakosch travelled with her and Gottschalk, the pianist, through the United States, during the tour giving anumber of concerts with varying financial results; ultimatelyreturning to New York in 1859, where she appeared at a concert ofwhich _The New York Herald_ of November 28th gives the followingnotice: "One of the most remarkable events in the operatic history ofthe metropolis, or even of the world, has taken place during the lastweek at the Academy of Music. Mlle. Patti sang the mad scene fromLucia in such a superb manner as to stir up the audience to theheartiest demonstrations of delight. The success of this artiste, educated and reared among us, has made everybody talk of her. " In thefollowing year, Strakosch considered the time had arrived for her toappear in Europe. He accordingly brought his young protégée toEngland, with the result I have already attempted to describe. 

After singing in London and Paris, Patti was engaged to appear atBerlin, Brussels, Moscow, and St. Petersburg, at which latter cityenthusiasm reached its climax, when on one occasion she was calledbefore the curtain no fewer than forty times. One who was with herthere during her last visit, writes: "Having been witness of Adelina'smany triumphs and of outbursts of enthusiasm bordering upon madness, Idid not think that greater demonstrations were possible. I wasprofoundly mistaken, however, for the St. Petersburg public farsurpassed anything I have seen before. On Adelina's nightsextraordinary profits were made. Places for the gallery were sold forten roubles each, while stalls were quickly disposed of for a hundredroubles each. The emperor and empress, with the whole court, took partin the brilliant reception accorded to Patti, and flowers to theamount of six thousand roubles were thrown at her. "

That she has been literally worshipped from infancy upward is only anatural consequence of her unsurpassable gifts, and nowhere has thisfeeling manifested itself to such an extent as in Paris, and by nonemore so than by the four famous composers, Auber, Meyerbeer, Rossini, and Gounod. Auber, after hearing her sing Norina, in Donizetti's "DonPasquale, " offered her a bouquet of roses from Normandy, and in answerto her questions about her diamonds, said, "The diamonds you wear arebeautiful indeed, but those you place in our ears are a thousand timesbetter. " Patti was the pet of the gifted composer of "Guillaume Tell, "and no one was ever more welcome at Rossini's beautiful villa atPassy, well known as the centre of a great musical and artisticcircle. The genial Italian died in November, 1868, and Patti paid herlast tribute of respect to his memory by taking part in theperformance of his immortal "Stabat Mater, " which was given on theoccasion of Rossini's burial service. 

Gounod, always enthusiastic in his remarks upon her, said, "that untilhe heard Patti, all the Marguerites were Northern maidens, but Pattiwas the only Southern Gretchen, and that from her all future singerscould learn what to do and avoid. "

Although it is not the custom to bestow titles or honorificdistinctions upon artists of the fair sex, yet, in lieu of these, tosuch an extent have presents been showered upon Adelina Patti, thatthe jewels which she has been presented with from time to time aresaid to be of the enormous value of _£_100, 000. In the year 1885, whenshe appeared in New York as Violetta, the diamonds she wore on thatoccasion were estimated to be worth _£_60, 000. One of the handsomestlockets in her possession is a present from Her Majesty, QueenVictoria, and a splendid solitaire ring which she is in the habit ofwearing was given to her by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Of no lessthan twenty-three valuable bracelets, one of the most costly is thatpresented by the committee of the Birmingham festival. A magnificentcomb, set with twenty-three large diamonds, is the gift of the EmpressEugénie. The emperors of Germany, Austria, and Russia have vied witheach other in sending her jewels of the rarest value. 

When singing in Italy, King Victor Emmanuel each night visited theopera for the purpose of hearing her; and at Florence, where theenthusiastic Italians applauded to the very echo, Mario, prince ofItalian tenors, leaned from his box to crown her with a laurel wreath. A similar honor was bestowed upon her by the Duke of Alba at Madrid, who presented her with a laurel crown. At the opera house in that citynumbers of bouquets and poems were to be seen whirling through the airattached to the necks of birds. Queen Isabella of Spain, gave a largeamethyst brooch surrounded by forty enormous pearls, and the JockeyClub of Paris presented her with twelve laurel crowns. The citizens ofSan Francisco, upon the occasion of her last visit, presented her witha five-pointed star formed of thirty large brilliants, and from theQueen of Portugal she received a massive locket containing HerMajesty's portrait, enriched by an enormous oriental pearl encrustedin brilliants; and even at the present time scarcely a day passeswithout the "Diva" receiving some acknowledgment in recognition of hertranscendent powers. 

Adelina Patti's first husband was Henri, Marquis de Caux, an equerryto the Empress Eugénie, from whom she was separated and subsequentlydivorced; and, on June 10, 1886, she married Ernesto Nicolini, thefamous tenor singer. 

In appearance, Patti is still youthful, and really seems destined torival the celebrated French beauty, Ninon de l'Enclos, who was sobeautiful at sixty that the grandsons of the men who loved her in heryouth adored her with equal ardor. Patti's figure is still slim androunded, and not a wrinkle as yet is to be seen on her cheeks, or aline about her eyes, which are as clear and bright as ever, and which, when she speaks to you, look you straight in the face with her oldwinning smile. 

During her career Patti has earned upward of half a million sterling, and the enormous sums paid to her at the present time more than doublethe amounts which Jenny Lind received, and which in that day wereregarded as fabulous. 

On a natural plateau, surrounded by picturesque vales, and situated inthe heart of the very wildest and most romantic part of South Wales, between Brecon and Swansea, and at the base of the Rock of the Night, stands the Castle of Craig-y-nos. This is the nightingale's nest. Theprincely fortune which Patti has accumulated has enabled her so tobeautify and enlarge her home, that it now contains all the luxurieswhich Science and Art have enabled Fortune's favorites to enjoy; andso crowded is it with curios and valuables that it may best bedescribed as "the home of all Art yields or Nature can decree. "

Here, in picturesque seclusion, surrounded by a unique splendorcreated by her own exertions, lives this gifted and beautifulsongstress. She is the "Lady Bountiful" of the entire district, extending many miles around the castle, over which she presides withsuch hospitable grace. The number of grateful hearts she has won inthe Welsh country by her active benevolence is almost as great as isthe legion of enthusiastic admirers she has enlisted by the wonderfulbeauty of her voice and the series of artistic triumphs, which havebeen absolutely without parallel during the present century. 

SARAH BERNHARDT

By H. S. EDWARDS

(BORN 1844)

A little girl, as Sarcey relates, once presented herself at the ParisConservatoire in order to pass the examination for admission. All sheknew was the fable of the "Two Pigeons, " but she had no sooner recitedthe lines--

 "Deux pigeons s'aimaient d'amour tendre, L'un d'eux, s'ennuyant au logis"--

than Auber stopped her with a gesture. "Enough, " he said. "Come here, my child. " The little girl, who was pale and thin, but whose eyesgleamed with intelligence, approached him with an air of assurance. "Your name is Sarah?" he said. 

"Yes, sir. " was the reply. 

"You are a Jewess?"

"Yes, sir, by birth; but I have been baptized. "

"She has been baptized, " said Auber, turning to his colleagues. "Itwould have been a pity if such a pretty child had not. She said herfable of the 'Two Pigeons' very well. She must be admitted. "

[Illustration: Sarah Bernhardt. ]

Thus Sarah Bernhardt, for it was she, entered the Conservatoire. Shewas a Jewess of French and Dutch parentage, and was born at Paris in1844. Her father, after having her baptized, had placed her in aconvent; but she had already secretly determined to become an actress. In her course of study at the Conservatoire she so distinguishedherself that she received a prize which entitled her to a _début_ atthe Théâtre Français. She selected the part of Iphigénie, in which sheappeared on August 11, 1862; and at least one newspaper drew specialattention to her performance, describing her as "pretty and elegant, "and particularly praising her perfect enunciation. She afterwardplayed other parts at the Théâtre Français, but soon transferredherself from that house to the Gymnase, though not until she had madeherself notorious by having, as was alleged, slapped the face of asister-actress in a fit of temper. 

The director of the Gymnase did not take too serious a view of his newactress, who turned up late at rehearsals, and sometimes did not turnup at all. Nor did her acting make any great impression at theGymnase, where, it is true, she was only permitted to appear onSundays. At this theatre she lost no time in exhibiting thatindependence and caprice to which, as much as to her talent, she owesher celebrity. The day after the first representation of a piece byLabiche, "Un Mari qui Lance sa Femme, " in which she had undertaken animportant part, she stealthily quitted Paris, addressing to the authora letter in which she begged him to forgive her. 

After a tour in Spain, Sarah returned to Paris, and appeared at theOdéon. Here she created a certain number of characters, in such playsas "Les Arrêts, " "Le Drame de la Rue de la Paix, " and "Le Bâtard, " butchiefly distinguished herself in "Ruy Blas, " and in a translation of"King Lear. " Already she had riveted the attention of the public andthe press, who saw that a brilliant future lay before her. 

At the end of 1872 she appeared at the Comédie Française, and withsuch distinction that she was retained, first as a pensionnaire, at asalary of six thousand francs, and afterward as a _sociétaire_. Hersuccesses were rapid and dazzling, and whether she appeared in moderncomedy, in classic tragedy, or as the creator of characters inentirely new plays, the theatre was always crowded. Her melodiousvoice and pure enunciation, her singularly varied accents, herpathos, her ardent bursts of passion, were such that her audience, asthey hung upon her lips, forgot the caprices and eccentricities bywhich she was already characterized in private life. It seemed, however, that Sarah's ambition was to gain personal notoriety evenmore than theatrical fame; and by her performances of one kind oranother outside the theatre make herself the talk of society. Sheaffected to paint, to chisel, and to write; sent pictures to theSalon, published eccentric books, and exhibited busts. She wouldreceive her friends palette in hand, and in the dress of a maleartist. She had a luxurious coffin made for her, covered with velvet, in which she loved to recline; and she more than once went up in aballoon. 

Her caprice, whether in private or public, was altogether unrestrained. In 1880 Émile Augier's admirable comedy, "L'Aventurière, " was revived atthe Comédie Française, and the author confided the part of Clorinde toSarah Bernhardt. After the first representation, however, she was soenraged by an uncomplimentary newspaper criticism that she sent in herresignation to M. Émile Perrin, director of the theatre, quitted Paris, and went to England, where she gave a series of representations, and, appearing there for the first time, caused a veritable sensation inLondon society. Meanwhile, M. Perrin instituted against her, in the nameof the Comédie Française, a lawsuit for breach of contract, with damageslaid at three hundred thousand francs. It was at this juncture thatSarah accepted the offers of an enterprising manager for a tour inAmerica, where she achieved no less phenomenal successes than in Europe. 

A sensational account of this American tour was afterward published byone of her associates, Mlle. Marie Colombier, under the title of"Sarah Bernhardt en Amérique. " This was followed by a second volumefrom the same pen, entitled "Sarah Barnum. " The latter book, as itstitle suggests, was not intended as a compliment; and Sarah Bernhardtbrought an action against the writer, by which she was compelled toexpunge from her scandalous volume all that was offensive. 

The rest of Sarah's career is too recent to be traced in detail. Norcan the life of an actress of our own time be dealt with so freely asthat of a Sophie Arnould or an Adrienne Lecouvreur. 

From America Sarah returned to Paris, where she revived all her oldsuccesses, and where, in 1888, at the Odéon, she produced a one-actcomedy from her own pen, entitled "L'Aveu, " which met with a somewhatfrigid reception. She has appeared in several of Shakespeare's playswith great success, but her most ambitious and perhaps most admirableproductions of late years have been her Cleopatra, first produced inParis in 1890, and her Joan of Arc. 

Among her numerous eccentricities, Mlle. Bernhardt once got married;London, by reason of the facilities it affords for this species ofrecreation, being chosen as the scene of the espousals. The hero ofthe matrimonial comedy, which was soon followed by a separation, towhich, after many adventures on the part of both husband and wife, areconciliation succeeded, was M. Damala, a Greek gentleman, possessedof considerable histrionic talent, who died in 1880. 

AMONG THE SPECIAL CONTRIBUTORS TO THIS WORK ARE:

[Illustration: Signatures of the authors. ]

TERMS OF PUBLICATION. 

The work, "Great Men and Famous Women, " will be published insixty-eight parts, at twenty-five cents each; it will be printed onpaper made expressly for it: each part will contain three full-pageengravings, making a total of more than two hundred in the entirework, of which sixty-eight will be photogravures by Messrs. Goupil &Co. , of Paris, and other eminent makers. There will be twenty-fourpages of letterpress in each part. 

No subscriber's name is received for less than the entire set. And noorder can be cancelled after acceptance. The Publisher guarantees tocomplete the work in sixty-eight parts. 

The parts are payable only as delivered, the carrier not beingpermitted to receive money in advance nor to leave parts on credit. 

Subscribers who remove, or who are not regularly supplied, will pleaseaddress the Publisher by mail.