University of Virginia Library

MOLTON TO STAFFORD, IN CONTINUATION.

I am altogether better to day, dear Stafford, than I
have been for a whole week; better in health, and better

in spirits. I am thinking to pay you a visit soon—perhaps
before the winter is fairly set in.

Let me commence then with the paintings of our country,
just as they occur to me.

At Faneuil Hall, Boston, I remember having seen a
noble picture of Washington, full length, with his horse,
and perhaps a negro, by Stuart. There was little to
astonish one in it—except that it was Stuart's.

And not long after, there was a picture called the
Landing of the Fathers,” painted by a Col. Sargeant of
that place. I saw it---but I was a boy then, and the only
recollection I have now of it is, that all the faces appeared
to have been taken from the same study. It is now
destroyed, by some accident, I am told; or, such at least
is the impression upon my mind---I cannot pretend to
judge of it from such a recollection; for I was then too
young and too ignorant to know whether there was any
merit in it or not---but the same artist has just painted a
piece called the DINNER PARTY, after the manner of the
“Capuchin Chapel,” which I am told, is so admirable as
to deceive dogs; or, at least, one dog. The creature, it
is said, had been taught to stand upon its hind legs, and
beg, when it came near the table; and that, when it entered
the room, where this picture was exhibited, deceived
probably by an admirable painted imitation of the smell
of roast beef---it arose as usual, and stood on its hind
legs. I have not seen the picture, but have heard that it
is a singularly spirited and effectual delusion.[1] You remember
the curtain and fruit. Do you believe the story?
I can tell you something like it, within my own experience.
An old maid lived in my mother's family---who
had a mortal antipathy to cats, and took snuff in such

quantities, that, when she hung any of her clothes out in
the wind, it would set the whole neighborhood a sneezing:---nay,
although she has been buried many years, yet,
it is said to be impossible to go by the grave to this day,
without saluting it with the same noise. She had her
picture painted. It stood upon a chair, in a room dimly
lighted. In the next room she had found a young kitten,
which she whipped out of her presence with her
snuffy pocket handkerchief. The poor kitten ran, for her
life, half blinded and choking, into this room---there
she paused, for a single moment, to recover herself,
when, happening to see the picture, she squawled out,
jumped up, all four of her feet from the floor, and darted
by it, like a devil.

But—seriously, dear Stafford—seriously—I must take
up the subject, more magisterially.

At New-York, I know of nothing worth attention
—in the way of painting, except a painting of Trumbull's,
whose least pictures are always the greatest. But when
you get to Philadelphia, there are several pictures, by
Mr. West himself. The first is Ophelia—a tame, badly
contrived, feeble thing. The next is Lear in the Tempest;
a grand conception, with some gigantick features
in it;—but crowded and encumbered to such a degree, as
to make you feel uncomfortably, while standing before
it. The drapery is beautiful; nay, it is more than beautiful;
it is magnificent—but heavy and unnaturally voluminous.
About the old King's legs are wrapped and
muffled such a weight of it, as, you are sure, no mortal
man could support. Yet it is kingly—there is no denying
that. The character is well developed in Lear's
face; and his attitude is full of wrath, terrour, dominion
and madness. But the features are all marvellous—
preternatural—and the hands too large,—and the folds
of heavy cloth, swelling in the wind, are contradictory;
for example, there is a garment of blood colour, swaying
off from one of the left hand figures, as if the tempest
blew from the right;—yet, over the head of the same person,
another fold is blown, by the wind, in a direction exactly
opposite---as if the wind came from the left.

The next thing that I remember there, is “Christ
healing he sick.” To judge of it, you must read
the beautiful criticism which I enclose to you. It is
printed in a pamphlet form; and given to every visitor
—for twelve and a half cents. This picture is the pride
of Philadelphia, and almost of America: and it would be
thought little better than blasphemy for one to imagine
any fault in it. Yet some how---it were difficult to tell
why---perhaps, in the mere spirit of contradiction; for it
is our nature, when we see people at one extreme, to fly
exactly to the opposite one, that our rebuke, of their extavagance,
may be the more forcibly felt—I could see
little to wonder at in this marvellous pictures. I happened
to visit it, while it was the fashion to be in raptures---at
anything, and every thing, with that cold hearted, calculating
people. A gentleman---exceedingly pretty-behaved---rhetorical
and travelled too, I found, was holding
forth, to the utter discomfiture of many that knew more
than he, of painting, to a circle of women. Nobody interrupted
him---nobody contradicted him;---and every
one that heard him, seemed to echo his thought. This
put me to thinking. He was noisy. I was silent. His
countenance---it was really a fine one---was breaking
out into continual sunshine---but his heart was unaffected.
He had come to declaim, not to criticise---to play off
the connoisseur, not to feel. I had just finished reading
the pamphlet. He approached me---for there was an air
of discontent, I am sure, in my countenance; and, as I
had been one of the most patient of his listeners---he
felt somewhat flattered. What a pity, I thought, that
he cannot read my heart, at this moment.

“Is'nt it the finest thing in the world, sir!” said he---
“I see that you have studied it, with attention--an amateur
---an artist---if I may be so bold, sir---I---pray—
a---a—.”

I looked at the man---very calmly---and he stopped,
where he was, with a low bow—; yet, unwilling to be
utterly disconcerted, he prepared to carry it off, with the
air of one, that was only amusing himself with another.
“Sir,” said I---“you have put me to it. I shall speak as

plainly as you. That is not a great picture. It is full of
faults---and the critick, he who wrote that book, never
saw the picture. I am sure of it. Somebody, the artist
himself perhaps, employed him, and described his own
intention. Hear me for a moment.---The criticism is
beautiful, very vigorous and original---but see here. The
critick says, that the brightest ray of light, issues between
that index finger and thumb;---and that the light
passes off from that, into the chiaro oscuro. It is false.---
There is the brightest ray of light,---exactly where it
ought not to be,---about the golden candlestick. The
critick says, that the power of Mr. West, is to be seen
chiefly in his daring exhibition of contrast;---and that,
he has opposed the beautiful neck of a youthful woman, to
the emaciated and shrunken aspect of an old man, her
father, whom she supports. Look at it—is that a beautiful
neck? Is it not cadaverous, wasted,—unlovely—
and properly so—for, has not the daughter been watching
by the bed side of her poor sick father? Thus then,
that neck is not beautiful—nor should it be so. But turn
your eyes there, to the left;—and there you see one of the
most beautiful necks in the world—contrasted with the
hand of an old man, resting upon the daughter's head.—
That was the contrast, of which the artist gave the critick
notice—but the critick, never having seen the picture,
committed that ridiculous blunder. And here too
—he speaks of the appearance of returning life, in the
extremities of the sick man, as they are approaching the
Saviour. A beautiful thought, I confess—but I look in
vain for the appearance. Can you see anything of it?
I cannot, I confess.”

“Again—the critick dwells, with singular emphasis,
upon the sublime conception, and desperate courage of
Mr. West, in opposing the light, which flows from the
head of the Saviour, to that which flows from the golden
candlestick, the holy of holies. An ordinary man would
never have thought of this, says the critick, and most
assuredly would never have risked them together. But
observe the thought. The holy of holies, is an emblem
of the Jewish dispensation. The light, from it, is faint

and dying. But, the lustre that escapes, like a vapour,
from the head of Christ, is made to overpower and darken
the lustre of the former; showing, thereby, that, in the
light of the new dispensation, all the ritual of the old,
even in its brightness, waned and darkened. This would
be all very well—very well, indeed; but the misfortune
is, that it is not true;—nay, that the truth is exactly the
reverse. Instead of the light from the Saviour's head,
overpowering that from the candlestick—the latter overpowers
the former! so that, it resembles more the sickly
splendour of corruption, than, the raying of divinity.
Now I object at once, and decidedly, to that notion of
encompassing Christ's head, or the head of an apostle,
or martyr, with a halo, or a glory. It is—as if one should
write under it, “Here is a saint—” or, “Here is a Christ.”
The power and beauty of Christ, must appear in his countenance,
and deportment; and not, in the foolish conceit
of a glory.”

“Look at his face, too. Is it Jewish? No.—It is the
face of a handsome young Englishman. Look at the
balancing of his hands. Where is the benignity and
composure; the serenity and sweetness; or, the awful
beauty and grandeur of Christ, of which you have heard
so much? Not in that picture, I am sure. It is crowded
too, to suffocation; the integrity, wholeness, and singleness
of the piece, is broken up. Where is the principal
figure?—where does the eye seek, naturally, to repose?
Upon the centurion. What think you of him?
the anatomy—the attitude?—Is it natural? Look at
the colouring—that dirty blue dress, of the Saviour—is
that what it should be?—But why need I trouble you with
these opinions? You are a Philadelphian; and, though I
am sure that they are making their impression, even
while that smile is upon your lip; and that, when I am
away, you will probably change your opinion of the picture;
and, probably, see some of the very faults that
I have pointed out, yet, I cannot hope that you will acknowledge
any of them now—and in this place—in this
company.”

“But do you know the history of that painting?—It is

a failure—a miserable failure, for Benjamin West;—
and the cause is a natural one. He was weary of the
subject. This was the third time that he had painted it;
and, in worrying himself for improvement, he has spoiled
the unity of design. His first attempt was a mere
sketch—but was wonderful. It was the astonishment
and delight of Europe.—It was only done up, in the
heat and vehemence of the conception, with brown and
white. But, after many years, he copied it, for the purpose
of presenting it to the Pennsylvania hospital, as the
tribute of one, who was under some unaccountable obligation
to that, or to the state—I do not exactly know
which. He finished it; but the Royal Academy offered
him three thousand guineas for it.[2] and a compliment into
the bargain. That was irresistable. They were unwilling
to part with it—they wanted it as a perpetual study,
for the youthful; they did not pretend to offer three thousand
guineas as its value; but, merely, as all that the
funds of the society would admit.—So—that picture,
which was worth a dozen of this, was sold to the Egyptians.
But his word had been given—and Mr. West,
as an honest man, felt obliged to redeem it. He therefore
attempted to copy;—but, he so altered, and qualified,
and diluted the spirit and simplicity of the second,
which was greatly inferior to the first—that his third is
—just what you see there.—Good morning, sir.—
Ladies, I wish you a very good morning.”

There, dear Stafford—it is bed time—and I shall take
up the subject again, soon.—Good night.