University of Virginia Library

I have now done with Mr. Trumbull, lamenting that a
man of such strength, when young, should be, in his dotage,
or, if not in his dotage, that he should be contented with
such labour. There are now some other pictures, particularly
of Mr. Alston, Leslie, and Morse, of which, were I
a little better acquainted with them, I would speak at
large. They were all pupils of Mr. West; or, at least,
students in the Royal Academy; and all, I believe, have
carried off some prizes. Mr. Morse, I know, had one;
and would have obtained another, had he remained in
the country, with his picture; for the rules of the society
required that. But he could not. The subject had been
given out to sixteen pupils—and he could not feel very
certain of the gold medal, whatever were the merit of
his picture; and, beside that, his father had been pressing
him, with great earnestness, and for a long time, to

return home;—he did return, leaving his picture, which
Mr. West, himself, afterward wrote to him, would have
obtained the prize, had he remained. Mr. West has always
shown himself warmly disposed toward his young
countrymen; and all of them speak of him, with affection
and reverence. He it was, that influenced Mr. Sully to
abandon copying; and to begin manufacturing for himself,
while he was literally working, and starving himself
to death, in London for some of his American patrons.
Was he not right? A man might as well hope to
learn how to make a poem, by copying poems, as a picture,
by copying pictures.

Mr. Morse's prize was obtained for the Dying Hercules.
I have never seen it; but I have heard it spoken
of, as a bold and excellent piece of naked anatomy—but
with too much convulsion in the sinews and flesh, even
for Hercules. It was first modelled in clay, by Mr.
Morse;—nay, I believe that it was for that model, and
not for the painting, that he received the medal. But
his style is beautiful and warm; strong, rich, and fanciful.
His portraits, such as I have seen, were small, and
hastily done up; but they were excellent:—and one, making
a large picture, with some broken architecture, I
have dwelt upon, with great pleasure, again and again.
It was the portrait of a young girl of South Carolina,
where Mr. Morse has now gone to reside.

I have seen but two of Mr. Leslie's pictures—and only
one or two of Mr. Alston's; and that so long since, and so
hurriedly, that I have not the heart to speak of them.[1]
Mr. Alston stands in the very front rank of his profession;
and Mr. Leslie, when he first came out, was considered
a marvel, and a prodigy. He had made a series
of beautiful, and singularly spirited sketches of Cooper

and Cooke, the actors; in which, the likeness and character
of the men, were preserved with astonishing truth.
The people were mad about it; and he was sent abroad,
to become—a finished miracle. The result is, just what
might have been expected. He has ceased to astonish;
and, do what he will, he never can astonish again, unless
he shall first become contemptible. He has a fine
genius; and may become great, in the romantick and
pleasant departments of the art; but I doubt much, notwithstanding
all that has been said about him, whether
he have any peculiarity of genius for great painting. All of
his fmaily are addicted to it—and nothing is easier than
to deceive one's self, on such a subject. A child, of any
sensibility, is perpetually shifting in its movement. Today,
he is flying kites—to-morrow, chalking out men
and women, or horses, upon the fence—the next day,
whittling with his pen-knife—making houses of blocks
—and boats of chips—and so on, forever—until some
day, he is brought to manifest a decided preference for
some one of these amusements.

If he should chance to sing, then his parents recal the
shrieking and squalling of his infancy, as so many indications
of his genius for musick—if he turn to drawing,
it is the same. All the old books and papers of the
household, that have been accumulating for years, are
ransacked for the vestiges of this surprising talent, when
it was first struggling into existence, and trying its
wing. So, with all others. Be he “painter, poet, auctioneer”—when
a man, if he be distinguished as either,
there will be enough to remember that he was so, in his
boyhood.

Another fact.—A parent is fond of musick—he naturally
desires to have his child fond of it, too. The child
squalls—much as other children squall—but the father
finds a particular expression, tone, or meaning in it.—
The babe grows older; and the gamut is put into its little
hands—every sound is watched, commented on, encouraged
or reproached—he hears nothing praised, but
musick—nothing spoken of, but musicians. It is the
standard and touchstone of merit and virtue, for all men.

The child learns to ask, when he sees a stranger—not,
whether he be wise or good—but, on what instrument
he plays?—not, whether he have a good heart—but, whether
he have a good ear?—not whether he talk well—but,
whether he sing well?—and to regard an affirmative, as
sufficient to authorize any intimacy—a negative, as a
brand of vulgarity and insensibility. What wonder, if
the child become a musician, too?—and what wonder
that people say, that a gift for musick runs in this family;
and some other gift, in that? What nonsense! The
child is named, perhaps, after some musician or painter.
What wonder if it be taught to revere and imitate its
namesake?

I certainly have wandered, wide and far, dear Stafford;
but I am determined not to leave the subject now,
until it is exhausted.

One little anecdote, I would not omit, however, while
speaking of Mr. Alston. He is an amiable man, of indefatigable
labour; and a fine genius, rather than a bold
one. He is chaste and fine, but timid. This may be
seen as well in his poetry, as in his painting. There is
an artificial heat in both. He wants passion; and even
true greatness;—for there is too little evil in his heart
to help him in the generation of Greatness—a spirit that
is, always, of a troubled countenance, and appalling
expression, even in her repose. Yet, like all other men,
Mr. Alston is most anxious to appear what he is not.—
He would be thought a genius, and nothing but a genius;
a creature that can people the blank canvass with a
burning vision, even while the smoke is passing before
him, and he can see nothing but the bright eyes and
loose hair thereof;—for this purpose, he will toil all
night long, in secrecy and loneliness;—and then, lie abed
all day; or, till dinner time, with an affectation of carelessness
and indolence, that is very amusing. He wishes
it to be thought, that the labour, which is apparent in
every touch of the pencil, is the rapid handling of one,
agitated and thrilling with his subject!

You have heard of Mr. Peale; and you asked me, some
time ago, particularly, about his Court of Death, and

if he were not once in London, with the Mammoth. I am
now at leisure to answer you. I have enquired, and
found that he is the same man, who was in London; and
the reason of his going, is so creditable to his character,
as an artist, that you ought to know it.

Mr. Peale is of a family, who are all addicted to painting,
from their cradles. In the honest enthusiasm of
their hearts, they have been, for a long time, in the habit
of naming their children, male and female, after certain
eminent painters. Thus, this Mr. Peale, is named
Rembrandt; and, when in Paris, was called the American
Rembrandt, though his style has nothing of the sublime
vulgarity, or depth of Rembrandt; and he has brothers
named Titian, Rubens, Raphael,[2] Linnaeus, and
Franklin; and sundry relations, with equally significant
and unlucky names. It is a pity; for it almost always
forces the mind to institute some comparison—and the
result is usually discouraging.

This gentleman, it appears, was a portrait painter;
and, at a very early age, executed some portraits of singular
merit. At length, after being married, and having
some children, he determined to go abroad, and study
the art, in its birth-place and home—under the skies of
Europe. He returned, discouraged and dismayed; and
had almost resolved to abandon it, forever, and turn his
attention to agriculture. But the spirit that God had
kindled within him, was not to be so soon extinguished;—
nor ever, but by the hand that had kindled it. His family
had augmented—it was no light matter to venture
abroad, and leave them—and to carry them with him,
was perilous in the extreme. What would they do, helpless
and alone, in a land of strangers, were he to be taken
from them? Yet, disheartening as the thought was,
it did not intimidate him. The unappeasable spirit
would not be quieted within him;—he was haunted, day
and night, by the magnificent spectres of genius. He
went, again, with his whole family;—he painted a picture,
and exhibited it to the French people; and he was
warmly encouraged. The darkness vanished—the sun

shone out upon him—the mystery and wonder of the
art were laid open before him. He felt a new feeling—
one of inconceivable determination and strength, arising
within him. David and Gerard came to see him—some
senators sat to him. He studied the face of Napoleon;
and obtained a better likeness, as David, himself, acknowledged,
of the lower part, than had ever been painted
of him. He returned to Philadelphia; and, to convince
the people that he had learnt something abroad,
he painted Napoleon on horseback—a distinct, single,
and vigorous picture, with a sublimity in the countenance
of Napoleon, that I never saw excelled—it is absolutely
articulate and preternatural. It is the greatest
of his workmanship. He then—for the Philadelphians
were still in doubt; and some said that he had borrowed
the horse, and the rider, too, from David's Napoleon
passing the Alps—a picture like this in no particular
whatever—a daring and tumultuous affair—where a
heavy banner is breaking, like a thunder-cloud, over
the head of Napoleon:—He then copied Mr. West's Lear.
It was a pity. Yet he made a better picture than the
original; tempering its exaggeration, and qualifying its
perverseness;—but it was only a copy. The original is
now destroyed, I believe. Still there was nobody to cry,
God speed! to him, even in his native city.

Stafford, why is this?—Is it the nature of man to overlook
whatever is near and familiar to him—to court
whatever is rare, and of difficult attainment? Why are
strangers met, as they are, with incense and wine, while
our own children are languishing?—Yet, so it is—a new
face, like a new planet, is apt to make us forget the old
ones. Thus, Mr. Alston, who is from the south, goes
to the north, for sustenance; and Mr. Morse, who was born
at the north, goes to the south. Thus, too, if girls want
to be married, they must go, no matter how amiable and
excellent they are, where they are not known;—where
people are not familiar with their loveliness. How many
a young man, unknown and unhonoured at home, is
found, steadily and proudly, among the great, when he is
abroad, and dependent only upon his own merit. Excuse

the digression, dear Stafford—there was an indignant
feeling at my heart, and I thought it safest to give
it vent, when I reflected on the miserably reluctant spirit,
with which we award to them that we have known,
the encouragement of genius. Why is it?—Are we unwilling
to be beaten in the race, by them that learnt
their alphabets out of the same book with ourselves;
trundled hoops; and flew kites, just exactly as we did?—
Yes—it is.—If we be beaten by strangers; eclipsed by
the unknown, we conceal our mortification, under the
pretence that, they were born with some peculiar faculty,
which we wanted. But, we cannot lull our shame with
this unction, when we have known our conquerors, from
the cradle; and know that they have beaten us, not by any
inherent power, peculiar to themselves, but by their industry,
and perseverence. This, I believe, is the secret.
But, to return.—

The next picture that Mr. Peale painted, was the Roman
Daughter; or, as Murphy calls it, in his tragedy,
the Grecian Daughter. No subject is more common;
but, it was never painted so well.—A woman, full of
tenderness, in the deep breathing of the heart, is nourishing
her own father, with her own beauty. The hand
of the old man is wrong—it is badly placed, isolated—
and produces a bad effect; but I know of no other fault
in the picture. When it appeared, a gentleman in Philadelphia,
who had travelled, “and sure he ought to
know”—pronounced it a copy—Mr. Peale waited on
him, in company with a friend; and asked him where he
had seen the original. The gentleman found some difficulty;
though he was exceedingly positive, that he had
seen it, somewhere—in telling where: and, at last, named
the collection of Mr. Gerard—of Paris.

“Of Mr. Gerard!” said Mr. Peale—in astonishment.
He was the mildest man in the world; and remarkable,
for his politeness, good temper and self-possession; but,
that was quite too much, for either, at the moment. He
entreated to know the room—and the stranger, finding
that Mr. Peale knew more about Mr. Gerard, than he
did—finally abandoned his position, though reluctantly,

and qualified his charge, so as to make it stand thus:—
that he had seen something, somewhere, somewhat like
it.

But, the evil had gone abroad. The picture was
warmly spoken of—but, forever, as a copy. Mr. Peale
came out, therefore, and offered it, in the publick news
papers, to anybody, who would establish the fact, that it
was a copy. After that, he made a copy, which, I am told,
is altogether better than the orginal.

Next, he painted his Dream of Love; or, as he called
it at first, his Jupiter and Io. Originally, the face of
Jupiter was pressed to hers—and no other part of his
body could be seen, through the smoke and cloud that enveloped
them. It had a bad effect—the Thunderer's
face ought not to have been seen;—and never, at such a
moment, in such an occupation. The God, even in his
repose, is not easily created—but, when his forehead is
quaking, and the strong lustre of his eye, is a consuming
fire, before which, the heart melts, and the spirit faints,
it were madness to think of representing it. This head
was afterward blotted out; and a naked Cupid, painted
over the face of Io. The whole is now passionately,
but purely beautiful; the flesh lively, firm, and natural—
with that soft and inviting elasticity, which makes the
lips thrill, in looking at it. In short, it is the best naked
woman that I ever saw—and, by far, the most chaste. You
feel no impure emotion—nothing but an innocent delight,
as you stand breathing over her, as if it were the picture
of your own sweet sister—asleep, in her timidity and
loveliness.

His next attempt was the Ascent of Elijah.—It is
not yet finished; but the conception, which is after Lutherberg,
is imperial; the revolution of the clouds—their
fiery crimson; and the vivid brightness of the brazen
chariot, are transcendent. I hope to see it finished—to
see the descending mantle, distinguished from the clouds
—the whirlwind of fire and dust, more evident—the
horses' heads, that stand opposite, like two rose leaves,
upon one stem, in some girl's drawing, corrected—when
it will be the most vehement and poetical of his paintings.

To this, succeeded the Court of Death—of which I
shall not attempt a description; for the papers that I have
sent you, are full of it. Yet, you ought to know something
of the difficulty to be undergone in this country, by
an artist, who undertakes such a work. Here, he has no
academies; no collections; no other painters to consult—if
exhausted, he must refresh himself as he can. He has
no academy figures—no people trained, to stand and sit
as he requires—no workers in plaster, if he want a hand
made permanently, for some particular study. And
what is yet worse, nobody, whom he can prevail upon to
sit. So that his men and women, are, nine times out of
ten, even in their anatomy, the literal creation of his own
brain.

This is one of the largest pictures in the world.—The
figures, are full eight feet high, (I suppose)—and are in
three groups; illuminated by torch-light, day light, and
reflected light.

The chief fault is, that, there is too much abstractedness
in the conception of the painter. He is not satisfied
with Pestilence, Famine, and Conflagration—he must
have something like them—but not the same. Thus, instead
of Pestilence,—he affects to embody the apprehension
of Pestilence. This is the very metaphysicks of painting.

Another serious fault is, that there is too little foreground
to the canvass: the figures are too much in a line;
and, on the side where Death exerts most power, the least
effect is produced. On one side, his hand is raised, and
men are dying by disease. On the other, his hand is in
repose; and War, Pestilence, Famine and Conflagration
leap forth, like demons, commissioned on the spot, to lay
waste and destroy.

A part of the conception is magnificent. Mr. Peale
has uprisen, among the wrecks of the nursery, and dared
to array Death, in the calm, awful, unrelenting attributes
of Philosophy. We see nothing of the raw head
and blood bones; nor the eyeless sockets, hour-glass and
scythe of Christian mythology. He disdains to follow
the vulgar notions of allegory.

But Death is the principal figure. And yet, it is not
readily perceived. The eye is first attracted by a corpse
—a dead man, washed up, as it were, by the wind and
water, to the feet of Death. His countenance is wonderful—but
the flesh is too warm; he is arrayed in dazzling
white---and you see too little of the presiding power.

There is not depth enough to the piece---and there
should have been clouds, and darkness, and fire, it may
be, about the picture of Death---and through the broken
roof, the blue lightnings, or, at least, the starry lustre
of a midnight sky should have streamed; but, instead of
this, instead of rocks, shattered and piled up, there is a
great curtain, heavy and grand, to be sure, hanging
down from—we are left to imagine what.—

Yet, the picture is a great one---the greatest that I
have ever seen---and a most extraordinary performance,
when we reflect on the discouragement that the artist had
experienced---his want of opportunity---and that it was
a first attempt at dramatizing on a large scale. It is
no easy matter to put many persons in agitation---even
to him, that has been accustomed to manage a few. The
difference is, that of training a large army and a small
one.

We have now come to Mr. Vanderlyn---and I must tell
you something about him, too. It will assist you in remembering
him, and his worth. When Aaron Burr
was in his zenith, he happened to be travelling, somewhere
in the western parts of New York; and stopping,
one day, at a tavern, he saw what he took to be, a line engraving,
of uncommon vigour. He spoke of it to the
landlord; and was not a little amazed, when the latter
told him that it was a drawing, made with a pen, by a
stupid boy of his; an apprentice to the blacksmith's trade,
of whom he feared that he should never be able to make
anything. Burr sent for the boy, and was so pleased
with him, that he tried to obtain him---but the master,
suspected some secret value, in his stupid apprentice,
and would not part with him, at last, on any terms.
“Put a shirt into your pocket,” said Col. Burr, in passing
the boy; “come to New York, when you can get a

chance, and ask for Aaron Burr---he will take care of
you.”

Some time had passed, and Col. Burr had forgotten
the incident; when, one morning, in came a strange-looking
boy, while he was sitting at breakfast; and, as
he approached, plucked out a bundle from his pocket,
and gave it to him. The colonel was not a little amused
to find it a shirt. Here began the acquaintance; and
here, the eminence of Vanderlyn; and heaven so ordered
it, that, when colonel Burr, the Julius Cæsar of our
country—the greatest evil spirit of his age—was in the
wane, Vanderlyn, who had just left Paris, warm with
favour, and rich with all that makes life comfortable,
encountered him, in his desolation; and, in his turn,
ministered to the necessities of his benefactor.

Such is the anecdote, as I have heard it; and such, I
believe, is the truth, in all the material facts.

The only two pictures of Vanderlyn, that I have seen,
are his Marius, sitting amid the Ruins of Carthage; and
his Ariande, deserted by Theseus. The former obtained
a medal from the national academy, in France.
It is a stern, strange, natural picture; with a finish of unexampled
perfection. The figure is larger than life, sitting
like a giant, intruded upon by some vision of conquest
and rebellion. There is nothing visionary, nothing
intellectual, about Marius. All is the barren and
bleak expression of the tyrant man, when his heart is
iron, and his nature hardened in blood. It is a great picture—but
too elaborately finished.

His Ariadne is very beautiful; but you feel no emotion,
no trembling, when you approach her. You do
not feel that slight, tremulous quivering of the heart,
which you ought to feel, when trespassing upon the sleep
of even a pictured woman—in her innocence, timidity,
and loveliness.

O, I had well nigh forgotten a picture that has just
been sent out to the Cathedral, in Baltimore, by Louis
of France. It is the Descent from the Cross; full of the
fine errour, and beautiful exaggeration of the French
school; yet, animate with a profound and daring spirit,

that startles and amazes you. There are eight or ten
figures—two of which have no business, at all, in the
piece; and are put in—one to fill up a blank in the canvass,
on the right, where he stands staring at you, like an
Indian statue—and the other, to display the power of
the artist, in tinging the drapery with an undulating
ridge of rich velvet light. This latter is on the left;
and no human being could remain in the situation, in
which he is placed, for a single moment; nay, it would
be difficult for one to sit so, long; and there is nothing to
be seen to justify us in believing that he does sit. He
appears about to manifest his adoration. The artist is
fine in his feet; and, therefore, he has crowded the whole
picture with feet. A red outline, he has discovered, at
some time, to have the effect of illumination upon deep
colouring; and, therefore he has lined the very lips and
eyes; the tees and fingers, of all, or most of the figures,
with a red outline. The sheet, too, upon which the Saviour
is lying, is not linen—no, nor woollen—but wet
paper;—and was, evidently, copied from wet paper, or
badly imagined; for it is saturate and heavy, with water,
in almost every fold. The artist, too, is fond of shadow;
the dark, clayey-coloured shadow, too, of death and
terrour; and, therefore, has he been lavish of it, to such
an extent as to appal the imagination. He is fond of
brightening his drapery; and his purple is transparent
and liquid, like flowing claret; unnaturally bright and
vivid. These are all the faults; and they are rather the
faults of the French school, than of the artist. He is
truly a sublime and original genius. The anatomy of
the Saviour, who is about nine feet long, is wonderfully
fine—the countenance great—and that of his mother, terrible.
The evening sky is preternaturally lighted; and
the rough cross stands up against it, with a bold and decided
effect, with a sheet floating from the top, as out of
the sky. To it, clings a woman, half frantick in her
grief and terrour, with her black drapery flying in the
wind—and resembling a shattered and torn banner,
against a blazing sky. By her side, is a beautiful creature—a
woman, turbaned and queen-like—standing, as
if death-struck, at the instant that you look upon her.
Her eyes!—by heaven, they have not yet ceased to move!
Look upon them—the lustre gushes out; and the delusion
is so wonderful, that, after gazing upon the face for a
moment, in a certain point of view, about five or six
yards from it, it no longer appears cadaverous and unnatural,
in its unearthly hue; but, like some beautiful
creature, at her worship, over whose head the skies
have just passed away, while the tears are loading her
uplifted lashes. It is the most wonderful head, except
one, that ever I saw in my life—wonderful for its simplicity,
beauty—and yet more wonderful for its effect.

But, look at the drapery upon her breast—what keeps
that purple mantle there?—the wind? No—for the wind
blows in another direction;—nay, the wind is faint, as
you may perceive by her turban, which is of a lighter
material. Is it her action? No—for her action would
throw it off. Yet it clings to her bosom, (which is too
broad,) as if kept there by a strong wind. Observe her
hands—they are perfect.

Another beautiful effect is produced—perhaps without
intention. We see, from the very colour of the sky, beyond
the ground, that all these figures are on a hill.—
How this is apparent, it would be difficult to tell—yet,
so it is. Perhaps it is, that there is, always, a peculiar
colour near the horizon; but, however that may be—excuse
me for a moment—we have every day experience,
that there are ideas existing in our minds, without our
consciousness of them;—nay, that even when we are
made conscious of them, ideas that we have no language
to express, notwithstanding the doctrine that men think
in words—and that they can have no idea, without a
correspondent word to express it.

Thus we are shown a profile—a mere outline, and we
immediately recal the original. But how?—that we
cannot tell. We look into a camera obscura; we see
shadows walking about; yet every one, we are able to
recognise, with certainty, afar off. How, we cannot tell.
Nay, to come nearer home. Can any of us tell how he
distinguishes the gait, voice, carriage, or tread, of any
particular person, amid a thousand. He can do it. We

see that. Yet, he has no idea how he does it; or, if he
have, he has no words to express it in; for, he may be
able to perceive the difference, without being able to describe
it; or, to make another conceive of it, though he
should talk till dooms-day. Nay, how know we the
hand-writing of our friends?—and how should we be
able to explain to another, who had never seen writing,
wherein the secret lay. Again, there is a certain air of
reality about the truth; and of constraint and awkwardness
about what is counterfeit; and there are men, who
can tell you, at a glance, whether a signature be genuine
or not, although they never saw any thing like it, before.
This is incredible, and they could never make it intelligible
to us. They feel the difference—they judge by it
—they trust to it; but they cannot define it. Yet the incredulous,
no matter who they are, have always some
experience of their own, if they would but reflect, to confirm
the fact. Have they never been able to tell, at
once, a manner that was affected?—to point out what
was natural, and what was not, even in the voice, and
look, and manner of sitting, in a person whom they had
never seen before? Nay, have not all of us, at some
time, detected an impostor, a pretender, whom we had
encountered for the first time?—solely by that indefinable,
strange, but convincing manner, which will betray
the counterfeit. Is this instinct? I know not. But
I know, to return for a single moment to the subject, that
we are often struck with things upon the stage, in books,
or paintings, unexpectedly natural—yet uncommon—at
which we all wonder—asking ourselves why it has never
been seen before—and astonished that we should ever
have observed it sufficiently to see the resemblance. So
it is—the minds of all, the most careless and inattentive,
are stored with resemblances; and they awake, whenever
they feel the thrill of affinity; leaving people surprised
at their own memory and observation, and delighted at,
they know not what. Something truly natural—that
they thought overlooked by all the world. So here, we
are amazed at finding in ourselves, a secret consciousness
of what is natural, in this part of the picture.