University of Virginia Library

EDWARD MOLTON TO GEORGE STAFFORD.

(In continuation.)

The next picture that I will attempt a description of,
dear Stafford, is the Passage of the Delaware, by
Mr. Sully, of whom I spoke the other day, in enumerating
some of our portrait painters.

It is a spirited and beautiful conception, rapidly and
confidently wrought out; but was never meant for a downright
historical picture. It is rather a Portrait of Washington,
where the subordinate figures, and filling up, are not
sufficiently subordinate, than The Passage of the Delaware:
and the history of it is not a little amusing. Mr. Sully
was employed by the corporation of Charleston to paint

a portrait of Washington, after his own fashion: the
price was limited, and the space of unoccupied wall assigned,
beyond which, he could not trespass. Mr. S.
began his work; and, full of his natural enthusiasm
and fire, generated this picture, without any regard to
the paltry sum ($500, I believe,) which he was promised
for it. It was nearly finished, when, after some troublesome
correspondence; and some revolution in the city
government, he had the mortification to find that this
picture, like that of the family of Wakefield, was altogether
too big for the house. But, let us go back to the
time, when the proposal was made to him. What was
to be done? His profession was portrait painting;---he
had a large family to support; and, passionately desirous,
as he was, to employ his power upon the historical department;
to evolve the passions in all their shadowing
---to call up the apparitions of the past,---give immortality
to the present---and summon, from the untenanted
chambers of futurity, the bodiless forms that are there:---
clothe them with flesh and muscle---infuse into them
meaning and passion---and give to them the noblest of
all expression---dramatick individuality: it was putting his
very existence at hazard, even to trespass, for a day, upon
the historical department. Once over the barrier, it would
break his heart to return; and yet, if he were not paid
for his labour, he would be oblige to return, at the peril
of starvation to a large family. Much as he panted
for adventure---these were reasons to deter him from it.
Yet---the time might come, he thought, when he could
loosen the bands that bound him, and unfetter his genius
---it might!---and where would be the peril, if he ventured
abroad, a little, to feel the publick, in this portrait of
Washington, without actually invading the great territories
of history. There would be some peril, to be sure,
in the hazardous ordeal, to which he would have to expose
it, before a cold hearted, mercenary people; a people
essentially ignorant of the art; and boastful of their
very ignorance. Yet---he resolved to encounter it all.
He made a noble picture. He threw in, with a confident
heart, a good quantity of bold, simple colouring; enough
of finish for the occasion; powerful association; and great
attitude---capital drawing---and that kind of repose in
the expression, which makes the heart of a man thoughtful,
in looking at the picture, as if himself were on the
precipice of some great adventure. He did this---stepped
aside, and withdrew the curtain. Some people went
to see the Passage of the Delaware; and some a PORTRAIT
of George Washington, at full length. Both
came away dissatisfied. It wanted the singleness, the
unity, and imposing reality of a portrait. And there
were not enough great features uniting, at once, in one
great expression, for historical painting. It was a little
crowded, they said. (By they, I mean that class of
criticks, whom you may see, at exhibitions, looking solemnly
through their own hands—at portraits)—much too
crowded. True—but he was painting an embarkation:
and men are not very regular and formal, at such a season.
The manner of Washington, said they, is too full
of poetry; he is too youthful. Ah!—thought I—these people
forget that Washington was only about forty years old
at the time. They compare him with Stuart's Washington,
who was twenty years older. These, with a multitude
of other opinions, quite as ridiculous, went their
round for a time; and few even took the trouble to ask
themselves what had been the object of the painter. Had
they, they would have found that he had done all that he
attempted. And what more could any man do?

After learning from the Charleston gentry that they
had made a mistake, in giving the dimensions, Mr. Sully,
as Mr. West had done before him, thought it right to
make a publick exhibition of the picture; for, in a country
like ours, such a picture would never sell for a quarter
of its value; and, unless an artist were rich enough to
amuse himself, by painting pictures to give away; or, wise
enough to exhibit them for money, there would be no encouragement
for him to labour here. But I doubt if he
has been even tolerably rewarded for it.

It would interest you, dear Stafford, to know something
of his character, countenance, and history. Such
a knowledge gives value and interest to whatever a man

does. It is like going behind a curtain of creation; and studying
the machinery of the universe. It is looking into
the elements of the human heart, before they are compounded
or embroiled. Mr. Sully is a small, but remarkably
active, well-made man; with a countenance expressive of
a fiery spirit, pretty well subdued—courteous, mild, and
unassuming in his manner; and has, I do believe, one of the
kindest hearts in the world. His history—I wish I
were at liberty to tell you;---but, while it is infinitely
honourable to him, and no matter of confidence among
those who know him; yet, as it was communicated to me,
by a man, when his heart ran over, I do not feel myself
authorized to speak of it—except in very general terms.
From other sources, I have learnt this,—that his passion
for painting showed itself early; and that, when quite a
boy, he was on the point of abandoning it, forever, with a
feeling of discouragement and mortification; and was only
prevented by a letter which he found, by accident,
just as he was about to embark, for a place, where he
meant to go into the naval service of this country. About
the same time, he left off miniature painting—upon which
he began; and, in which he had made some proficiency, in
consequence of meeting with an oil picture of Angelica
Koffman's. He placed it upon a table—stood before it
—studied it—felt the inspiration that he had waited for
so long, flooding his whole heart, like a fountain, suddenly
unsealed in a barren place. From that moment, he
devoted himself to oil portraits;—and, not long after,
an event occurred to him, so honourable to human nature,
that, I must tell it. We have a tragedian here,
named Cooper. You have heard of him, perhaps. He
is a countryman of yours, by birth; but his education has
been with us. He is an ambitious man; full of heroick
and sublime movement upon the stage; and, from the
fact which I am about to communicate, I am as ready to
believe, as full of high hearted and generous feeling, off
the stage. He met Mr. Sully in a small city at the
South, and urged him to go to New-York. How shall
I go?—said Mr. Sully. I am employed here—and—

“How are you off for cash?” said Mr. C. without any
circumlocution.

“Rather low,” was the reply—“a few dollars, and but
a few.”

“Well, then—give yourself no trouble about that. Go
to New-York. I will answer for your success; and, as
far as one thousand dollars will be of use to you, they
are at your service.”

What was a proud, high-spirited fellow, full of ambition
and passionate love, for his art, to do, in such a
case?

Mr. Sully accepted the offer—went to New York—
succeeded;—and was, soon after, sent out to London, by
subscription, to copy certain paintings of the ancient
masters. And here, another anecdote occurs to me, alike
honourable to another man; nay, to the whole species,
for it makes us think better of ourselves, and of all mankind,
when we find such beings about us. We are proud of
our relationship to such men. A gentleman, whom he met
at dinner, about the time of his departure for England,
in the course of a conversation, over the wine, with Mr.
S. begged him, if he were ever in the way of using it, to
draw on him, to the amount of five thousand dollars, (I
believe.) Mr. S. thanked the gentleman for his kindness,
and thought no more of it; but the next day, the
same person, (I forget his name—but he had been a man
of fortune—and is now, I believe, in the East Indies,
whence he will never return, until he be a man of fortune
again,) called upon him. “It was an offer,” said
he, “made of a Sunday; and at a dinner table. But, it
was not the less serious, for that—and I have come to
repeat it. I am not rich; but your drafts, to that amount,
shall be honoured.”

Are not these things worthy of record, dear Stafford?
Should they ever be forgotten? It is to such men—the
noble of heart—the free and frank—that a country is indebted,
for its reputation. Theirs is the truest munificence.
It is the opulence of the heart.

There is another fact, in the history of this artist, that
you could not listen to; you, who are so romantick and
sublimated, in your conceptions of virtue and self-denial,
without locking your hands, and gasping for breath;—

but I am not at liberty to relate it—and I can only say,
that it was a deed of his own, and one of the most heroick,
unostentatious, and truly noble acts, that I have ever
heard of. That, alone, were enough to establish the
character of the man, forever, in my estimation.

Let us now look in upon Mr. Trumbull. You have
seen his Sortie of Gibraltar; and nothing that I
could say of it now, would be of any avail, to elevate it
in your opinion. It is his best picture. Indeed, his
Death of Montgomery; Battle of Lexington; Bunker
Hill, and all of his late pictures, are, altogether, not
worth so much as that—so vigorous, and so full of action,
as it is.

His Declaration of Independence, is a plain,
substantial affair, with an aspect of inveterate reality
about it; but exhibiting not one feature of sublimity, or
grandeur. The countenances are strong and varied;—
but the awful gravity of wisdom and legislation; the moment
of tremendous passiveness, when the travail is all
over; and the thought of liberty has become a Declararation
of Independence—that is not to be found in the
picture. There is no passion—no majesty---no emotion;
and no especial seriousness, except in the sculptured
face of Samuel Adams; not so much, as you will see at
any long dinner table, when the dishes are all uncovered,
at once. You stand before it, without any feeling of awe
or delight. You see the interiour of an old-fashioned
apartment, with the light coming through the windows
behind---and a number of figures, seated and standing,
like men that think it about time to break up, and go
home to a comfortable bed. I wish, heartily, that I
could say something in favour of the picture; but I cannot---it
does not deserve it. It is only a collection of
strongly painted portraits; assembled together, without
any common feeling or expression; but, as if by accident,
and just as well behaved-men may come together, any
where, without design.

The next is the Surrender of Cornwallis. On the
right of the picture, running off to a point, is a litter of
American troops; and, on the left, diminishing in the

same way, as if to make the perspective correspond, is
another litter of Frenchmen. They are all of a family.
All of his strong men, are strong with the same expression.
You are struck with a strange family likeness in the
whole. The first four or five faces, seem to be brothers,
at least, if not different views of the same head.

In the centre, is general Lincoln, mounted on a beautiful
white horse, sitting to receive the sword, that a
British officer, general O'Hara, surrenders. The common
notion is, that Washington, himself, received the
sword from the hands of Cornwallis. But neither Washton
nor Cornwallis, was on the ground. General Lincoln
was appointed to receive it, in the name of Washington,
from the representative of Lincoln's haughty
conquerour, Cornwallis; for, not long before, the latter
had meted to the brave Lincoln, a full measure of unsparing
and bitter humiliation, at the south; and this
was the hour of retribution.

The first thing that strikes the eye, forcibly, is this—
the unpleasant continuity of the lines; and the amazing
variety of attitudes, into which Mr. Trumbull has
thrown his horses' heads. One has a nose in the air—
the next, his a little lower—and the third, a little lower
yet—while a fourth, is biting his own knee, with his leg
advanced, and held, as if he had the cramp. This was
done, undoubtedly, to break the line; and to give more action
to the picture; but the design is too evident. We
see the art—it does not deceive us for a moment. Here
and there, too, are sundry ricketty and ill-formed horses,
that, as I live, Stafford, reminded me of nothing, except
the wooden cuts, in Geoffry Gambado's lessons for grown
horsemen. There is not one good horse in the picture,
except that in the centre; and his left fore hoof, is so
turned in, upon a spot in the canvass, of the same colour,
that it looks deformed and almost pointed; but the heads
of the horses are admirable. A singular defect—one
that will make you smile, is apparent in all—they are
all too low in the shoulder; their fore-legs are too short,
in almost every case.

His Surrender of Burgoyne, I lately saw. As I
live, Stafford, I begin to be ashamed of my countryman.
When I look at these three national pictures, for which
Congress have paid twenty-four thousand dollars; and
think of their being shown in the capitol, at Washington,
I could almost weep with shame and vexation. They
are, altogether, a reproach to the country; and—I say
it deliberately, Stafford—were I in congress, I would
move for their being set fire to, before the great front of
the building, which they help to make ridiculous. I cannot
trust myself to speak of this last picture, as I feel.
It is execrable. The heads are too big for the bodies.
There is neither dignity nor character in it. It looks
like bad tapestry, where a patch-work landscape is made
up of fragments, picked out of different pieces; where
the heads, cut out of old pictures, are pasted to bodies—
and the bodies grouped by different people, each with a
design of his own. Col. Morgan, the rifleman, looks
like a target; and a captain from Connecticut, mounted,
for the purpose of showing his profile, has been made to
break his own neck; and general Burgoyne is tilting
over upon his nose.