 | A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL. The Italian sketch book |  |
A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.”
At the palace of the prince Borghese in Rome,
several young English and American artists were
engaged in copying the renowned productions of
the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader,
two large halls, the walls of which are lined
with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side-door,
now thrown open for the benefit of the parties.
In the first of these apartments are erected
three easels—before which, in the attitude of painters,
stand—first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite
Magdalen of Correggio,—opposite, the native
of a country-town of Great Britain, transferring, as
nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great
Venetian,—while, within a few feet of the former, a
Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian,
by contemplating his `Sacred and Profane Loves.'
The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively,
the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now,
through the above-mentioned passage, and behold,
figure of a Baltimorean—fancying, perchance, the
surprise of the natives when they see his copy of
the inimitable Cupid beside him.
These worthy followers of the rainbow art were
wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time,
with conversations upon the merits and manners of
their respective countries; and occasionally, by a
very natural process, such amicable debates would
assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy.
Then would the brush fall less frequently
upon the canvass, the eye linger less devotedly upon
the great originals around, and, ever and anon,
the disputants would step a pace or two from the
object of their labours, raise aloft their pencils—
as if, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved
equally the purposes of art and of warfare,
or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the
arrows of argument. A full history of these discussions—hallowed
by the scene of the combat, diversified
by the characters of the combatants, and dignified
by the nature of the points contested—would
doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature.
The great topics of national policy, domestic manners,
republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws,
&c., as unfolded in the elegant and discerning disputations
of the absentees in a Roman palace, would
prove something new, vivid, and seasonable. But
to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene
of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety
of the advice of Polonious.
On a day when the war of words had run unusually
high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a
spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their
predecessors in the same city, years by-gone, the
gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an
interlude of silence. They gradually reassumed the
appropriate occupations of the hour; and a few unusually
fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing
copies, when the aspiring portrayer of
the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:
`Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery,
and deny or palliate, as you best can, the
charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit
the existence of true civilization in a country
where so barbaric a practice as gouging prevails.'
At the commencement of this speech, the pencil
of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an
inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and
with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the
issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus,
paused for a reply, his adversary was mute—perhaps
from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent
upon preparing to refute and chastise. The
Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation
to his brother-islander, and a provoking
and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to
be informed `of the origin and nature of the American
custom of gouging?' When, lo! there were
heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as
the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the
hall. His painter's stick, pallet, and brush, were
grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic
strides he reached the centre of the arena, and
gazed meaningly upon the disputants.
`You would know, sir,' he exclaimed, eyeing
fiercely the hero of the British capital, `what is
gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall—your literary countryman;
when ascending the Mississippi, he was put
on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly
deportment—and on the banks of that river,
sir, he was gouged!' As the last emphatic words
exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the
paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner
looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupidlimner
wiped his brow. `Who was that?' inquired
the Virginian. `That, sir, was Captain Hall!'
| A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL. The Italian sketch book | |