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he could make puns, and when at his arrival in London he could not earn enough with his brush, he supplied the deficiency as an organist.

Washington Allston is another nontenprceclamm in art. Born in South Carolina in 1779, he was sent to Rhode Island for his health in 1786; was graduated from Harvard in 1800; went to London the next year, and studied with West till 1804; then studied colors in Rome, returned to Boston and married Miss Channing, and went back to London with a full supply of beauty and harmony. He knew Malbone in college, and was befriended in London by that unfailing providence for young American artists, Benjamin West. He visited Paris, and was intimate with Thorwaldsen and Coleridge in Rome. He painted the poet; and Wordsworth, describing the portrait to Professor Henry Reed of Philadelphia, pronounced it unsurpassed. His "Dead Man Restored" was medaJed by the Royal Academy before the Pennsylvania Academy bought it. A "Madonna" from his easel is owned by Mr. McMurtrie of Philadelphia. His "Uriel in the Sun" is Miltonic in power and beauty, and has shared the praise given the Elijah. In 1818 he returned to Boston, and labored to his death in 1843 to complete a previously commenced picture of "Belshazzar's Feast." The subject is so immense and so difficult that it is not singular its representation should remain unfinished. Allston painted marines, landscapes and ideals, industriously and well. His own requirements were, however, very high, and somewhat changeable, and he failed to meet them to his own satisfaction, partly because his own sensitiveness to the grand or awful caused him to select themes Salvator would have rejected and Michael Angelo pondered or refused. He had the spirit of the old masters without their force. His pictures were exhibited in London in 1839. He published a poem called the " Sylphs of the Season;" "Monaldi"—a novel; "The Two Painters," "The Paint King," "Rosalie," and several lectures. His life was quiet. Washington Irving was his intimate friend in Europe and America; "Palmyra" Ware was another, and so was Dr. Channing; but he had friends everywhere. He died peacefully in his sixty-fourth

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1792, his art knowledge was inspired there and in Charleston, South Carolina; so that he was painting portraits in 1803, and in New York soon after. He removed to Philadelphia in 1809, and lived on Fifth street above Chestnut. Sully was amiable, intelligent and modest. He was encouraged and taught by Trumbull, by Stuart, and Leslie; and Hare Powell aided him pecuniarily when he visited Europe. Sully produced a portrait of Washington that holds a highly respectable place in the long list of Washington portraits. While in England he painted a portrait of Queen Victoria; and he had Lafayette, President Jefferson, Fanny Kemble, Commodore Decatur, and Dr. Rush among his sitters. His most ambitious work represents "Washington Crossing the Delaware." It is not without faults; but its historical character and the force of the representation place it with the most interesting and valuable of its class in the country. His Lafayette is in Independence Hall, and the St George's Society have his Victoria. Henry C. Carey had two examples of Sully. The Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts has six of his portraits. His Charles Carroll of Carrollton has been engraved, as have his Washington and some other pieces. Sully died in November, 1872, leaving quite a number of works, and an enviable and enduring reputation.

S. F. B. Morse was born in 1791, graduated from Yale in 1810, studied with Allston in England from 1811 to 1815, organized the New York Academy, and revisited England in 1829: He intended to become a sculptor. While returning in 1832 on a packet ship, he conceived the idea of the electric telegraph; and his intimate connection with this valuable discovery has almost blotted his artistic career from general knowledge. He devoted his brush chiefly to portraits, and left commendable likenesses of Chancellor Kent, Thorwaldsen, Lafayette, taken in 1825, a large picture of the House of Representatives, and some others. Numerous examples of his are found in South Carolina, where he spent some time. Morse lives and will live by his electrical discoveries; but the pictures he executed show that he had more than average capacity, and could have excelled. His taste for art and patronage of it remained to the evening of his life.

Thomas Doughty was a Philadelphian by birth, and was born in 1793. He abandoned the "Swamp" and the leather trade in New York in 1821, and was quite successful with landscapes at home and in England and France.

Chester Harding, born in Massachusetts in 1792, began life as a peddler, and matriculated in art as a sign painter at Pittsburg. He afterward studied in Philadelphia and St. Louis and Boston. Thence he went to London, where his taste was moulded by Leslie and Lawrence, and he painted the Dukes of Hamilton, Norfolk and Sussex; the historian, Alison; and Sam Rogers, the banker-poet. Returning, he painted Daniel Webster, General Sherman, and others. His drawing was poor; but he was unpretentious and industrious, clever and manly. He died in 1865.

C. R. Leslie was born in England in 1794 of American parents. His life was as pleasing and happy as his art. He was genial, honorable and refined in his character, and his perceptions were quick and correct. He studied the principles of art carefully, and enriched that knowledge by literary study and by dramatic taste. He came to this country in youth, and was some time an apprentice in Matthew Carey's bookstore. Then he returned to England, where he associated with Allston, Coleridge, Rogers, Scott, Turner, Wilkie, and men of their mould, and corresponded with Washington Irving. His style was founded on that of Sir Joshua and West's. He excelled in depicting manners. At Sully's suggestion he painted a view of Queen Victoria's Coronation. No better or more final opinion of his merits can be given than that of Mr. Ruskin, a severe critic. He has said "there is no man who comes at all near Mr. Leslie. He is equal to Hogarth, and here and there a little lighter and more graceful." He was English in taste and feelings, the range of his powers was limited; but within it he excelled. Henry C. Carey had five very good instances of Leslie's powers, and the Pennsylvania Academy has the same number. He died in 1868; and art had a positive loss when he died.

G. S. Newton's parents were New England loyalists and refugees. He was born at Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 1795; was taken to Boston in 1803, and there taught by Gilbert Stuart, his maternal uncle. He afterward studied with Leslie in Europe, and left good portraits of Washington Irving, of John Adams, and others. He was a great humorist, a good colorist, but rather fastidious and idle, and was insane long before his

death, in 1835. His painting of a scene in the "Beggars' Opera," where Captain Macheath, having two sweethearts, sings,

How happy could I be with eilher.

Were "tother dear charmer away.

has been engraved, and pleased thousands.

John Naegle, born in 1799, 's a Philadelphia notability. His picture of Patrick Lyon, blacksmith, now hanging in the Pennsylvania Academy, in company with the works of West and Allston and Stuart, has lost no part of its original interest. Naegle's parents were Philadelphians. He was born in Boston in 1799, studied with Peale and Sully, worked here from 1818, visited the South and left many portraits; painted Lyon in 18*5, painted the Matthew Carey that hangs in the Pennsylvania Academy, the Washington that is in Independence Hall, the Henry Clay owned by the Union League, a Commodore Barry and others. He was a great admirer of Gilbert Stuart, and the admiration may be seen in his style. For some years he was President of the Artists' Fund Society.

A. B. Durand, born in New Jersey in 1796, of Huguenot descent, is another of the last century notables. His father was a silversmith, and the son entered the fine arts by the gateway of industrial art. He engraved Trumbull's painting of the "Declaration of Independence," Vanderlyn's "Ariadne," and many portraits before he began to paint portraits and landscapes in 1835. He excelled in delineating forest foliage, and all he attempted and did shows great integrity, and is poetic and pleasing. His portrait of Bryant is remarkable, because he both painted and engraved it. He succeeded Morse as President of the National Academy of Design. His son is an art writer.

Joseph Wright, of Bordentown, perhaps should be remembered for having finished three portraits of Washington after 1783. He had Franklin's countenance while in Paris, and painted George IV. One of his Washingtons was owned by S. Powell, and one by Mrs. Willing, of Philadelphia, and Count de Solms had the third. He died in

'793

Ingham, 1797-1863, was another artist whose life began in the last century. His efforts, however, belong to this, and he should be placed in the later companionship.

There are a few considerations flowing from these facts which deserve notice. It is evident from such cases as that of West and others named that there always has been and is a positive and powerful aesthetic taste mingled with the eminent practical aptitudes of the American people. This taste is restricted to no latitude, limited to no race, confined by no conditions. When manifest it finds appreciation and aid from those enriched by practical affairs. It has all along been disciplined by tuition in Italy, France and England; and it has been welcomed there and placed at par with domestic skill. Generally objective in its aims, it is often subjective and always progressive. Up to the beginning of this century the homely Flemish school attracted no attention, and won no pupils. Our pupils endeavored to excel in orthodox art, and followed West and Leslie rather than the awe-inspiring themes of Salvator Rosa, or the incipient stages of what has developed into the Turneresque and pre-Raphaelite. At the beginning of this century this country had painters of whom it is still deservedly proud, as they were proud of and loyal to it. The influence of this ancestry can be seen in its descendants. Art here

has remained orthodox and classic, and has not sought to force notice by bizarre methods or meretricious means. It has been natural rather than artificial, and its appeal has been to the purer sentiments rather than to violent passions. Wherever exaggeration is evident, its religious, patriotic or moral motive has excused and excuses what cannot be justified. The American artists, too, have always been clannish. Their nationality has controlled their personality. They have learned from others, but corrected their education by intercourse with one another, and they have always found a great and undying inspiration in national history, national scenery, tastes and conditions. As we advance from the beginning of the century and study progress in architecture, sculpture, painting, engraving, art education and decoration of various kinds, the fact will become more patent, and the practical worth of what was done at first will be clearly recognized, and fresh courage will be given those who desire an equal and harmonious development in all that makes a nation full and round and complete.

WITH MEN AND BOOKS.

By A. F. Bridges.

XV.

In its nature, the scrap-book is different from all other volumes. Filled with material that struck the compiler's fancy, its table of contents does not necessarily include the best thoughts of the greatest minds; but the veriest scribbler is often given a corner, and that, too, without detracting from the interest of the collection.

Though compiled under the most ordinary circumstances and by the most ordinary individual, it is nevertheless a curiosity. Are you tired of books filled with endless detail? Do select readers fail of interest? Has the poetry of the great masters become stale? Have you thrown aside the morning paper in disgust? Then try the scrapbook which has engaged your leisure hour, or better still, borrow one of an acquaintance. If you are despondent you will find something to cheer you; if you want to laugh you will find something to laugh at; if you cannot fix your

mind on the happiest passages of your favorite author, in this intellectual medley you will find something to interest you. It is the reflex of the current literature of the day. The polished essay, the historical sketch, the choice poem, the joke, disjointed paragraphs, lectures, sermons, stories, in fact almost everything to excite interest and arouse curiosity, may here be found. In an outof-the-way corner is a short poem, the very gem for which you have been searching. On every page there is something new, whether notes of biography or of travel; and the only wonder is how so much of interest happened to get together. The student of human nature finds in the contents of a scrap-book at least fragments of history referring directly to the compiler. Journals and epistolary correspondence are prized by the biographer for their frankness. They were written, it would seem, for the perusal of the writer with a few of his most intimate friends perhaps, and were never intended for public scrutiny. • As we open their pages we fancy we discover secrets that give light where otherwise there would be but darkness. But this secret history, this private recital, is found to a greater extent in the scrap-book. What we write we expect to be read. We may adopt, however, the language of others, and boldly tell to the world a story but few can hear, and hearing understand. Had Johnson kept a scrap-book, an interesting chapter might have been added to that celebrated biography in which journals, letters, and conversations conspire to give a true representation of the great author and to institute Boswell the prince of his tribe. I regard the scrap-book of a friend, with whom I am not fully acquainted, as a more complete index to his mind than his outward actions. Is he melancholy? I discover it in his selections. Is he a man of taste? Is he charitable with other's faults? Is he given to retrospection? Who are his favorite authors? What are his idiosyncracies? To the same authority I turn for answer. I here study the mind of my friend, and get a key as it were to his very inner nature.

I have in my possession the scrap-book of one whom I never met, a venerable Christian lady now enjoying .her reward in heaven. What a strange interest these two facts lend to the volume as it lies outspread before me! It is a sacred relic, the work of a mind now realizing immortality, and of fingers now sweeping chords of melody in the glory world. I may never know the labor of the one, I may never comprehend the nature of the other; but as I study the contents of this book, I fancy I obtain some clue to the life and character of the deceased. It is the work, I am informed, of her later years. I am also told that she lived on a farm in the Western country, and that she died at a ripe old age.

Her neighbors were Virginians, Carolinians, and French; but she was evidently a native of New England, where she spent her childhood and lived till maturity, when she married and removed to the West. Not every Western emigrant of her day could read, especially if they were Virginians or Carolinians, while she could read and had something of literary culture and education. In short, she was evidently a product of New England education. I recognize this in her literary taste. Here are poems from Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Bryant, and Lowell.

The many articles relating to that section of the country also betrays this fact. Besides, she subscribed for New England periodicals, as I detect from certain evidence that indicates the source from which many of the selections were clipped. It requires no stretch of the imagination to see her at home in the woods of her adopted State. Her husband secured an ample farm, and erected thereon a spacious homestead. I find here a description of it, selected by her after her children had grown up and left her. It is rudely built, but of spacious apartments, with an attic story and a large porch:

The Old Homestead.

It stands in a sunny meadow,

The house so mossy and brown,
With its cumbrous, old stone chimneys,

And its gray roof sloping down.

The trees fold their green arms around it,

The trees a century old;
And the winds go chanting through them,

And the sunbeams drop their gold.

The cowslips spring in the marshes,
And the roses bloom on the hill,

And beside the brook in the pasture
The herds go feeding at will.

The children have gone and left them,

They sit in the sun alone;
And the old wife's ears are failing

As she lists to the well-known tone

That won her heart in her girlhood,
That has soothed her in many a care,

And praises her now for the brightness
Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal—
How, dressed in her robes of white,

She stood by her gay young lover
In the morning's golden light.

Oh! the morning is rosy as ever,
But the rose from her cheek is fled;

And the sunshine still is golden,
But it falls on her silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams once vanished

Come back in her winter time
Till her feeble pulses tremble

With the thrill of spring's gay prime.

And looking forth from the window
She thinks how the trees have grown

Since clad in her bridal whiteness
She crossed the old door-stone.

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