University of Virginia Library

I have just breakfasted; and the day is my own. Not
to be interrupted, I have darkened my windows, and denied
myself to all the world, but you, Stafford—for, with
you, I am happy.

Among our present artists, conspicuous for portrait
painting, are Stuart; Peale, (Rembrandt,) Sully:
Jarvis, and Wood, (remarkable for his small portraits
in water colour.) Their styles are all different, but well
characterised; and I will try to give you some notion of
each.

The manner of Mr. Stuart is careless, bold and confident.
He developes character like a magician. He
uses little or no material; is authority, in whatever he
does; disdains to palliate, or soothe; and nothing can
tempt him to paint a feeble face. The consequence is,
that his women are very bad; and that his likenesses of
men, are, in general, very striking, and very dignified.
He delights in broad and heavy transparent shadowing;
is never brilliant or showy; and there is no such thing
as romance, or enthusiasm, in his pictures: but great
soberness of mind, strength, and muscle.

That of Mr. Peale is peculiar. He seems never weary
of labour. His pictures are perfectly finished; and,
when he has a good subject, you may always look for a
very strong, beautiful, well-told portrait. His drapery
is, generally, capital; but too laboured;—his flesh, faithful;
and the expression, usually, very true. But, he is
too jealous and thoughtful of his reputation; and, in one
word, too honest a man to hazard much:—and the consequence
is, that his portraits never startle us. There
are no brilliant passages in them. They are rather profound
than amazing. He never lets one go out of his
hand, but as a piece of workmanship, which will always
be worth the money that he has been paid for it. This
has its disadvantage; for, were he to dash off his pictures,
with the vigour that is natural to him, the effect
would often be greater. Of any given number of portraits,
executed in this way, it is true, that there would

be more bad ones than there are now;—but then, there
would be a few, a very few, better than he ever produces
now. A beautiful picture, may be finished, no matter
how well;—but a great portrait, particularly of a man,
and a great man, is apt to lose its strength in finishing.
But then, this is to be considered; the first is always valuable,
as a manifestation of the art—the latter valuable
only for a season, and with those who know the likeness.
Of late, however, I have seen some bolder movements
in this artist;—a stronger, heartier, and less
anxious expression of power. Mr. Peale is not remarkable
for taste or spirit; but for composure, and beauty,
and dignity.

The next, of whom I am to give you some information,
is Mr. Sully. But, you are not to understand that
there is any design in the order, in which I have placed
their names. Each is superiour to all the others in some
particular, and inferiour in some other.

Mr. Sully, who, I am sorry to say, is an Englishman,
by birth, and seven years of education, infuses his own
character into all his portraits. He is one of the most
indefatigable men in the world—an enthusiast in his art.
He throws, like a poet, or a dramatist, or an actor,
somewhat of himself into all the workmanship of his
hands. His women, therefore, are full of fire, and instinct
with spirit, where it is possible for him to find
any justification for it. Their eyes, are the eyes of poetry,
deep and melancholy, or patient and timid; but
always, whatever be their expression, looking as if copied
at the critical moment of their extremest beauty.
Mr. Sully, too, is especially happy in his arrangement.
His pictures are never velvetty; no strange lights, or shadows—but
beautiful, and tranquil; or romantick, and
spirited. His characteristicks are elegance and taste.
He is not so remarkable for strength, or fidelity, or
workmanship;—but, in all of his drapery, there is a surpassing
gracefulness, and a careless unstudied richness.
His hair is wonderfully fine. It is always shining and luxuriant.
I should prefer Mr. Sully, I think, to any other

artist that I have known, if I wanted the portrait of a
youthful passionate, enthusiast, male or female;—but,
if I wanted the likeness of a sober-minded man or woman,
I would go to Mr. Peale;—and to Stuart, for whatever
was awful, and distinct, and real. But Stuart has
no poetry—Mr. Peale very little—and Mr. Sully, the
poetry only of romance, in his pictures. With the latter
all is picturesque, fanciful and wild—when he can have
his own way—with well-bred people. With the second,
all is sedateness, tranquillity, and goodness;—with the
former, there is, always, a bold, careless spirit, which,
you can see has wrought, knowing that, whatever it produced,
would be regarded as a prodigy.

But, by the way, your Sir Thomas Lawrence, whom
Mr. Sully greatly resembles—but only in the free, fine,
bold manner of Sir Thomas, and not in his late prettinesses
and fopperies—is the greatest coxcomb, notwithstanding
his high talent, that I know, among painters.
I have seen a noble picture of his, uniting, in itself, all
three of the manners, that every painter has during his
practice. Some parts were hard and cold, like a cautious
workman, finished by a painful and incessant comparison,
at every touch, with the original —after the first manner
of all painters, when they begin;—other parts were
boldly dashed out, like the work of a man, who looks at
his object, and then goes into another room—or waits
till another day—sets up the canvass—catches up the
paint—and throws it about, bravely, and at arm's length
—boldly—fearlessly;—the second manner of such men
as Stuart and Lawrence:—and other parts—the rest of
that same portrait, I have found laboriously finished
with a camel's hair pencil. What do you think of that,
for the third manner of such a man as Sir Thomas Lawrence?
Why is this? Poets fall into the same errour.
They lose their fire and boldness; and become timid,
cautious, and exact, as their blood grows old. Is it that
they are afraid to lose the reputation which they got, by
caring much less about it? Men get a name, by working
for bread—not for a name—and they lose their name,
the moment that they think of nothing but a name. Keep

them poor—comparatively unknown—and they are fearless,
desperate—having little to lose. After a while, they
have every thing to lose—little to gain: and they go back
to their earlier experiments, and renew them, in their
old age; forgetful, generally, of the disadvantages which
had attended them, and which had been the cause of their
abandoning them, in their youth. Do you know the
cause of his melancholy? I have heard a sad story about
it—enough to make the heart of any man bleed, inwardly,
all his life long—careless of fame, and every thing
else. He loved one of two sisters—both superiour women.
He was about to marry one, when he met the
other—loved her—struggled, and struggled—but to no
purpose—and then dealt, like a man, with the first. She
bore it proudly— neither trembled nor bent—but died of
a broken heart—extorting a promise, first, from her sister,
upon her death-bed, never to marry the wretched
man. The surviving sister kept her promise—and died
also. Heaven! what a fate for genius! Even our Alston,
too—his wife left him, in a strange land, just when the
skies were opening about him.

Mr. Jarvis—One of the greatest humourists of the
age; and, did I want the picture of a humourist—anything
happy, droll, and impossible for any other man to hit—
I would go to Jarvis. There is an air of jovial oddity,
or great strength, in all of his favourite pictures. He
works hard, and faithfully; but would not have it known.
Full of eccentricity and humour, he is the delight and
rallying point.—the nucleus, about which, all that is eccentrick
and humorous, within the sphere of his attraction,
delights to assemble. His manner is rich, diversified,
and daring;—that is, when he has a subject that
will bear him out—but a tame face, becomes the tamest
thing in the world, under the pencilling of Jarvis. One
would think, that he was fashioned for taking portraits,
only of such men as he knew, heart and soul; and loved
as heartily. He is one of the boldest, and most original
painters of the age; and is remarkable for the
strong individuality of his favourite heads---bold, natural
composition, manner, and attitude. Yet, as pictures,

there is too little merit in the work of Mr. Jarvis; and,
when the originals have passed away, and the memory
of them, too, the greater part of his portraits will never
be valued as pictures, and still less as paintings. If they
be preserved at all, it will be because they were painted
by Jarvis; and because they were, in other days, genuine
portraits—not because of their merit; for that merit
is mortal, and co-existent only with the originals. But
that merit, in his pictures, I confess, to of be the highest
order. Mr. Jarvis has painted some pictures, however;
and one, of himself, which will always be valuable; but
there are very few. He is lately doing miniatures, altogether
in his own way, off hand, and full of effect.

Mr. Wood—is the last of whom I shall now speak;
though there are some others, strongly entitled to your
notice—as Mr. Neagel, just coming out, very much in
the manner of Stuart, though undetermined—(very fine
talent,)—and Mr. Morse—but of him, more anon. Mr.
Wood paints in water-colours. He was once, and continues,
perhaps, to this hour, to be celebrated for his
miniatures; but there was a time, when he painted nothing
but miniatures. He was then associated with Mr.
Jarvis. But a change in affairs, led him to adopt a new
style of work, which he could afford at less price. It is
the last thing that an artist will, or ought, to consent to
—a reduction of price. He prefers giving some other
manner, though it be more troublesome and laborious,
for a less price. That prevents the disagreeable inference
always made from a falling price—that the fashion
of the ware is falling off. His first attempts were tolerable—barely
tolerable. He laboured diligently; but the
end of all his labour, was a hard, polished, flat, earthern
picture, strangely like the original, nevertheless. But
the spirit of the man waxed impatient. He struck into
a bolder path—and the result is, at this moment, that he
is unrivalled. His pictures are fuller of vivacity and
character, than any that I have ever seen, of the same
size. Now and then, it is true, I have seen some admirable
oil likenesses, on the same scale, that were, to the
full, as perfect; but they were not so full of spirit and ease.

Mr. Wood I would never trouble with the face of a woman,
particularly, if she were young and beautiful; or, if
there were deep feeling in her eyes, unless I wanted her
miniature. But, if she were a Catherine or Elizabeth;
or, had any other high minded, domineering, and distinctly-marked
countenance, I would trust him with it,
in preference to anybody that I know. So too, with
men. His Dandies and Delicates, are inexpressibly insipid—but
his men, are men.

There, my dear Stafford. Adieu for the present. I am
actually weary of the subject; yet, do not flatter yourself,
that I have relinquished it. No—I have much to
tell you yet, of our historical department; for, I assure
you, that, though we are Americans, we are getting to
make quite a figure in it.