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young Stuart in a land of strangers. He went aboard of a collier bound to Nova Scotia, and worked his passage home, having been absent about a

year.

He washed off the coal dust, put on a new suit of clothes, and went to painting Fully conscious of the great importance of drawing with anatomical exactness, he took vast pains to attain it, and hired a strong-muscled blacksmith to sit for him as a model. His mother died when he was in his eleventh year, and yet he, at this time, from recollection produced so striking a likeness that his uncle from Philadelphia recognized it the moment he entered the room. He soon had as much business in the portrait line as he could attend to.

Stuart's love of painting was enthusiastic, and the same with music, for he learned to play on a variety of instruments, and he also composed pieces himself. Lester says of him, in his biography, “ He seems to have been gifted with the loftiest and best impulses of genius-whole days he passed in reading to his sister, in walking with her in the fields; whole nights in playing the flute under her window-he never came home from his rambles in the country without bringing her wild flowers. He had a kind of wild wayward life, made up of gleams of light and thick clouds, of shadows and sunshine; and yet he loved music, and it soothed him when he was sad — and when he was half forsaken he used to think and talk of that sister; and when all was bright around him, for he was sometimes as happy as we ever can be in a naughty world,' he took up his pencil and dashed away "like Jehu;' and when such men as Reynolds looked at his pictures painted in this mood, they said the lines were 'gleams of sunshine, all light, in the midst of deep shadows.'"

Stuart was bent on seeking his fortune in London. So one day, in the winter of 1776, he found himself wandering in the streets of that great city, without a friend in the place or a pound in his pocket. Waterhouse, a school companion of his, whom he expected to meet there, was absent at Edinburgh studying medicine.

He went by a church door in Foster Lane, where he heard an organ playing. He stepped upon the threshold, and the “pew-woman” told him, in answer to a question what was going on, that the vestry were together testing the candidates for the post of organist. He went in boldly--asked if he might try. He was told he could-he did he succeeded-got the place, and a salary of one hundred and fifty dollars a year! So much for the musical genius he had cultivated in America, when wise people were telling him he had better leave off serenading girls at night, playing the flute, and go to 'work. It gave him bread now, in the swarming wilderness of London, where he needed nothing else.

Stuart's proficiency in the theory and practice of music, was an additional evidence of the vigorous intellect and varied talents which constitute genius. He had that peculiar aptitude of mind, which would have made him excel in anything to which he chose to direct his strong faculties.

Stuart was thougthless and improvident. His friends had to hunt for him occasionally in the sponging-house. He had been in London nearly two years before he made the acquaintance of West. Stuart says, “On application to West to receive me as a pupil, I was welcomed with true benev. olence, encouraged, and taken into the family, and nothing could exceed the attentions of the artist to me they were paternal.”

There are a hundred fine stories told of this eccentric, witty, improvident, but noble Stuart. He was full of genius, but he would not brook the requisite toil, or he would have made himself one of the first painters of any age. One day the blunt Dr. Johnson came into West's studio and addressed something to Stuart_"Why! you speak very good English, sir," said the lexicographer, "where did you learn it?” Sir," replied Stuart, "I can better tell you where I did not learn it-it was not from your dictionary.” Dr. Johnson had too much sense to be offended.

He was, at one time, traveling in an English stage-coach, when his companions manifested a great curiosity to ascertain his business, and questioned him rather closely. He answered with a grave face and serious tone, that he sometimes dressed gentlemen's and ladies' hair (at that time the high craped pomatumed hair was all the fashion)-"You are a hair-dresser, then?“What!” said he, "do you take me for a barber?" "I beg your pardon, sir, but I inferred it from what you said. If I mistook you, may I take the liberty to ask what you are, then?" “Why, I sometimes brush a gentleman's coat, or hat, and sometimes adjust a cravat.” “O, you are a valet, then, to some nobleman?" "A valet ! indeed, sir, I am not. I am not a servant—to be sure I make coats and waistcoats for gentlemen.” “O! you are a tailor!”

“ Tailor! do I look like a tailor? I'll assure you, I never handled a goose, other than a roasted one." By this time they were all in a roar. " What the devil are you, then?" said one.

"I'll tell you," said Stuart. “Be assured all I have said is literally true. I dress hair, brush hats and coats, adjust a cravat, and make coats, waistcoats, and breeches, and likewise boots and shoes, at your service.” “Oho! a boot and shoemaker, after all!" “Guess again, gentlemen; I never handled boot or shoe but for my own feet and legs; yet all I have told you is true.” may as well give up guessing.” After checking his laughter, and pumping up a fresh flow of spirits by a large pinch of snuff, he said to them very gravely, “Now, gentlemen, I will not play the lool with you any longer, but will tell you, upon my honor as a gentleman, my bona fide profession. I get my bread by making faces." He then screwed his countenance, and twisted the lineaments of his visage, in a manner such as Samuel Foote or Charles Matthews might have envied. When his companions, after loud peals of laughter, had composed themselves, each took credit to himself for having "all the while suspected the gentleman belonged to the theater," and they all knew that he must be a comedian by profession; when, to their utter surprise, he assured them that he never was on the stage, and very rarely saw the inside of a play-house, or any similar place of amusement. They now all looked at each other with astonishment.

Before parting, Stuart said to his companions, “Gentlemen, you will find that all I have said of my various employments, is comprised in these few words: I am a portrait painter. If you will call at John Palmer's, York Buildings, London, where I shall be ready and willing to brush you a coat or hat, dress your hair a la mode, supply you, if in need, with a wig of any fashion or dimensions, accommodate you with boots or shoes, give you ruffles or cravats, and make faces for you."

66 We

All who have written about Stuart, speak of his wonderful powers of conversation. • In this respect,” says Waterhouse," he was inferior to no man among us.

He made it a point to keep those talking who were sitting to him for their portraits, each in their own way, free and easy. This called up all his resources of judgment. To military men he spoke of battles by sea and land ; with the statesman on Hume's and Gibbon's History; with the lawyer on jurisprudence or remarkable criminal trials; with the merchant, in his way; with the man of leisure, in his way, and with the ladies in all ways. When putting the rich farmer on the canvas, he would go along from seed-time to harvest-time-he would descant on the nice points of the horse, nx, cow, sheep, or pig, and surprise him with his just remarks in the process of making cheese and butter, or astonish him with his profound knowledge of manures, or the food of plants. As to national and individual character, few men could say more to the purpose, as far as history and acute personal observation would carry him. He had wit at will--always ample, sometimes redundant."

Stuart read men's characters as easily as he read newspapers. Lord Mulgrave employed him to paint his brother, General Phipps, who was going out to India. When the picture was done, and the general had sailed, the earl came for the piece. “This picture looks strange, sir," said the disturbed nobleman, " How is it? I see“I think I see insanity in that face.” “It may be so," replied Stuart, "but I painted your brother as I saw him." The first account Lord Mulgrave had from his brother, was that his insanity, unknown and unapprehended by any of his friends, had driven, him into suicide!

Stuart generally produced a likeness on the pannel or canvas, before painting in the eyes, his theory being, that on the nose, more than any other feature, likeness depended. On one occasion when a pert coxcomb had been sitting to him, the painter gave notice that the sitting was ended, the dandy exclaimed on looking at the canvas, “Why-it has no eyes !” Stuart replied, “It is not nine days old yet.” We presume our readers need not be reminded that nine days must elapse from the birth of a puppy, before he opens his eyes.

Stuart had now become a fashionable and leading artist in London. But he lived in splendor and was the gayest of the gay; his indulgencies and his improvidences wearied his friends. He was poor on money that would have enriched any other man. One day he was drinking with earls, dukes, and princes; the next, cracking jokes with companions in a debtor's prison. But rich people would be painted, and they had to go to jail to get it done; and so he painted his way out.

In 1794, he turned his back on his good fortune and came home to America. His principal inducement was his great desire to paint the portrait of Washington, for whom he had the greatest admiration.

Stuart had been familiar with the highest society of England, but he was embarrassed when he entered the room where Washington was, and he said it was the first time he had ever felt awe in the presence of a fellow

man.

Stuart was now gratified in the accomplishment of the hope of years. Washington was standing on the highest eminence of glory any man had

yet stood on; the gaze of the world was fixed steadily upon him. To leave for posterity a faithful portrait of him, and thus link his name forever with that great man's; had now become the most earnest wish of Stuart's life. Washington sat for his portrait-Stuart was not pleased with his first attempt. It may easily be imagined with what feelings the painter was stirred, when he gazed with the full, clear, earnest eye of the artist, upon that face which Guizot has declared more than half divine. It is a matter of little surprise that he failed on the first trial. He destroyed the picture. Washington sat again, and then he painted as good a portrait as ever was or can be painted.

This picture is now in the Boston Athenæum. A couple of anecdotes are told in relation to Stuart and Washington, which are among the few authentic instances of Washington's losing his self-control. One morning, as the painter approached the house, the street door and inner door were open, so that his eye was led directly into the parlor; and just as he was about to ascend the steps, he saw Washington seize a man by the collar and thrust him violently across the room. This being an awkward moment to enter the house, he passed on a short distance; but immediately returned, and found the president sitting very composedly in his chair. After the usual salutation, his first words were, “Mr. Stuart, when you went away, you turned the face of your picture to the wall, and gave directions that it should remain so, to prevent its receiving any injury, but when I came into the room this morning the face was turned outward as you now see it, the doors were open, and here was a fellow raising a dust with a broom, and I know not but the picture is ruined.” It'so happened, however, that no essential harm was done.

Stuart, while engaged on this work, after several ineffectual attempts to bring that noble but restrained soul to the surface, to make the calm eye of the great man flash, and his patient features light up with excitement, practiced a stratagem to effect his object. He got everything in readiness and then left the room just before the time of appointment, knowing Washington's scrupulous punctuality, and his exaction of it in all with whom he had to do; he waited in an adjoining room until he heard a lond exclamation of impatience, and the rapid steps that told of an angry mood. Then he entered, respectfully greeted Washington—who sternly resumed his seat -seized his palette, and, after a few touches, apologized by confessing that he had practiced the ruse to call up a look of moral indignation, which would give spirit to his delineation.

Stuart lived after this thirty-four years, preserving his great powers to the very last. The portrait of John Quincy Adams was his last work. He died in 1828, and was buried in the cemetery of the Episcopal Church, in Boston.

When an English ambassador was leaving England for America, he called on West, and asked him to recommend a portrait painter. you going?“To the United States.” “There, sir,” said West, "you will find the best portrait painter in the world, and his name is Gilbert Stuart."

When Sully was in Boston, he requested Allston to accompany him to see a portrait of Mr. Gibbs, by Stuart. Well,” says Allston, “what is

" Where are

your opinion?” The reply was, "I may commit myself and expose my ignorance : but in my opinion, I never saw a Rembrandt, Reubens, Vandyke, or itian equal to it. What say you?" "I say," replied Allston, " that all combined could not have equaled it.”

JOHN TRUMBULL.

Our countrymen are much indebted to JOHN TRUMBULL, whose genius and industry have preserved to them, for all time, the great scenes of our war for independence, with accurate portraits of those eminent men who risked their all in the struggle.

He was born in Lebanon, Connecticut, in 1756, and was the son of Jonathan Trumbull, governor of that State through the entire war of the Revolution, and governor of the colony before the war ; being the only one of all the chief magistrates, who had served both the Crown and the Republic.

At six years of age, the future artist would read Greek "in certain way.” He says, in his autobiography : “My taste for drawing began to dawn early. It is common to talk of natural genius; but I am disposed to doubt the existence of such a principle in the human mind ; at least in my own case, I can clearly trace it to mere imitation. My two sisters, Faith and Mary, had completed their education at an excellent school in Boston, where they both had been taught embroidery; and the eldest, Faith, had acquired some knowledge of drawing, and had even painted in oil two heads and a landscape. These wonders were hung in my mother's parlor, and wero among the first objects that caught my infant eye. I endeavored to imitate them, and for several years the nicely sanded floors (for carpets were then unknown in Lebanon) were constantly scrawled with my rude attempts at drawing.

About the same time music first caught my attention. I heard a jewsharp-delicious sound! which no time can drive from my enchanted memory! I have since been present at a commemoration of Handel, in Westminster Abbey, and have often listened with rapture to the celestial warblings of Catalani--I have heard the finest music of the age in London and in Paris, but nothing can obliterate the magic charm of that jews- harp, and even at this late moment, its sweet vibrations seem to tingle on my ear."

Trumbull painted and studied till his sixteenth year, when he was entered at Harvard (1772), in the Junior class, “the best educated boy of his age in New England”-said the Greek professor.

“My fondness for painting had grown with my growth, and in reading of the arts of antiquity, I had become familiar with the names of Phidias and Praxiteles, of Zeuxis and Appelles. These names had come down through a series of more than two thousand years, with a celebrity and applause which accompanied few of those who had been devoted to the more noisy and turbulent scenes of politics or war. The tranquillity of the art seemed better suited to me than the bustling scenes of lifo."

He searched the library for all the books on art he could find, copied some fine paintings, and, on graduating the next year, returned to Lebanon, where he continued his artistic labors, by designing the death of Paulus Emilius, at the battle of Canna.

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