The Life, Letters and
Work of
Frederic Leighton

It was in 1860 that I first knew Leighton. We met over affairs connected with the Artist Rifle Corps at Burlington House, and afterwards at the studios of various artists, where discussions took place regarding the formation and means of conduct of the Corps. On several occasions I walked home with Leighton to his house in Orme Square.

I don't think I have ever known a man who grew more steadily than Leighton did. The effort of his artistic life was to remove the effects of a certain mannerism and over-education in his early artistic life. His knowledge was wonderful, his powers of design without immediate consultation with Nature were phenomenal; he feared the facility in himself and went always to Nature, that out of her manifold gifts he should be inspired directly by them. And this constant study had its drawbacks as well as its merits, because in one sense it stood in the way of the development of an abstract power of invention. If ever an artist made the most of his conscious abilities, Leighton did. His character was so curiously simple on the one hand, and so complicated on the other, that a balance between a very emotional and extremely accurate temperament had to be found, and it was found. How far a certain charm of spontaneity was obscured a little, perhaps by erudition and a sort of Aristotelian preciseness, it is not for me to say. There is in all things a balance which, when once obtained, reduces the weight in [2]both scales. But we must take a life as it has been made by circumstances, by early training and after influences; and probably most men who are in earnest,—and Leighton was pre-eminently in earnest,—find their proper issue finally. That the best of Leighton's work will live, I am convinced; that it will hold its own when a great deal of other work praised, admired, even worshipped during the life of his contemporaries shall be dead, I feel quite assured; and one may very justly be asked—Why? The simple answer is that it was thorough, definite, sincere, accomplished. Leighton never put out his hand towards the limbo of vulgarity or fashion. Like Virgil, like Mendelssohn, Leighton was a stylist, and his life's work showed a perfection of attainment upon the lines which he drew out for his progress almost to my thinking unrivalled in the work of any of his contemporaries. Here and there he struck a deep note of poetry, here and there he was like a Greek for his simplicity, here and there his work shows the luxury of the Venetians, the restraint of the Florentines, but never perhaps the majesty of M. Angelo or the strong charm of Raphael. His art was eclectic; still it was Leighton, and could have been done only as the result of great natural gifts, assiduous study, force of character, and, withal, independence of vision. His love of beauty was his own personal love, not learnt, hardly perhaps inherited, but spontaneous and lasting. This devotion to beauty may have sometimes led his emotions away from character, which sometimes is very nearly ugly as well as very nearly allied to the highest beauty, which Bacon says has always something of strangeness in it. The pursuit of beauty, per se, may be purchased at the expense of character.

But Leighton was always pulling himself up; and when he found himself too facile, too ornate, he resolutely set his mind to correct any tendency in that direction by fidelity to Nature, sometimes even to her ugly movements. Excess was not in his nature, which was curiously logical; his mind was swift, far-seeing; in debate he was admirable, always seeing the weak point of an argument at once, and "partie pris" was his abomination. A man so gifted in the essence and laws of form, so learned in the construction of the human frame, so deeply sensitive to line and movement as well as to structure, surely would have given to the world great works of sculpture. Indeed he did, but not enough! One regrets that—still [3]one must accept the fact that form is but little cared for in this country, and Leighton sinned by reason of his love of form; by many he was called not a painter because he did not smear, did not trust to accidents, did not leave works half done—because he was sincere to his conviction that a work of art must be, to last, complete "ad unguem." The present craze for incompleteness, for sketches instead of pictures, for unripe instead of ripe fruit, must die as all false notions die; the best, the rightest will live; and when the present ephemeral fashion has worked itself out, the nobility of Leighton's works, his best, are certain to take their place in the estimation of those that know as surely as that they are good.

How many out of the multitude really, if we could test them, care one jot for the Elgin Marbles, for the Demeter of Knidos, for the vault of the Sistine Chapel?—very few. Really great things never can be accepted by the commonplace. How should they be? for to understand the highest in music, in architecture, sculpture, or painting, the observer or listener must have a spark in his constitution which is a portion of the flame that burned white heat in the soul of the conceiver. How can such an attitude of intimate sympathy belong to the many? It never has, and probably never will. Great men are rare, and those who are mentally or organically made to comprehend them are rare also. The great can afford to wait because they are immortal. In all one's dealings with Leighton what did one find? a noble nature, restrained, charitable, in earnest; and if in many discussions as to the desirability of certain events, certain compromises, certain acts of conformity, one did not agree with Leighton, one knew "au fond" that the attitude was quite logical, not hastily arrived at, and the position taken up was to be strenuously held: and it was that power of consistency which made Leighton so trustworthy. He was fearless when his principles were touched, he was loyal to his associates in the Academy even if he did not see eye to eye with them, and he was loyal to his art and to his friends. If Leighton had chosen politics for his career he would probably have been Prime Minister, just as Burne-Jones might have been Archbishop of Canterbury had he continued his early and very remarkable theological studies. All really great men have endless possibilities. It is more or less chance which decides the direction of ability, which, once discovered, forcibly, dominantly present, [4]must find opportunities for its highest development and achievement in the tenure of the goal. It was ability and natural gifts that made Leighton great, industry that nourished his greatness, and stability to principle which made it lasting in his lifetime, and must for all time stamp his work. The thing that really engages one's interest about a great man is not so much his "technique" as his general disposition and character, which forms for itself a suitable "technique" by which his achievements have been manifested. Should any one by-and-by describe the "technique" of Joachim, the supreme violinist, he would probably interest a few, but in reality he would say nothing really valuable, excepting inasmuch as he touched upon first principles. The "modus operandi" of an artist's life is moulded by his personal aims, the means are those by which he found his own way of stating them; and one doubts very much if, after all, the points which differentiate one man's work from another's are not those which have obliterated the conscious efforts, preserving just the touches which genius gives beyond and above all laws that may be learnt. Verse no doubt is much dependent for its beauty on the system of the arrangement of syllables, and the music they make when harmoniously handled upon the final perfection which they reach, and so become rule-making instead of being the result of rule-following. Hence lies that unaccountable beauty which is the inexplicable result of the ego—that taste, that selection, that special word which creates an impression immediately, and which seems inimitable even, and obviously the only one which could have been used; that is style—the very essence of the ego which cannot be copied, or indeed again brought into relation with the idea. And isn't that the reason why the copy of a picture can never be really like an original? even if the "technique" is identical, it lacks that last touch, that last word which transcends tradition, almost transcends thought, for it is just the thought which has been summed up in a moment of inspiration, uncalculated, spontaneous. Leighton was far too wise a man to believe in the constant recurrence of inspirations: he knew that the moment when the whole spirit is ready to act is involuntary; he knew that to reach the supremacy of that moment, labour was necessary; that in labour is the foundation of the building for that moment of inspiration. One may question if the first vision in Leighton was very [5]strong—strong as Blake's, strong as many artists whose powers of attainment were much less than Leighton's, but whose vision was clearer at the outset. Rougher minds than Leighton's have produced more epic effects, and a ruder, less accomplished "technique" has borne with it more original, more trenchant ideas. Leighton was not a mystic; he dealt with thoughts which he embodied in forms that he saw, but which he also made his own in their application; that was his genius of originality. The rugged verse of Æschylus had no place in his temperament, much as he admired it; the polished diction of Virgil bore more similitude to Leighton's inspiration. Sometimes one missed in his work just the touch of the rugged which would have given more grace by comparison, by contrast. His grace of diction, his oratory, his writing, was sometimes over-refined, and missed its mark by over-elaboration. The very speciality of Leighton was completeness. One has seen pictures in his study only half finished, which had a charm of freshness that vanished as each portion became worked into equal value. But that fastidiousness was his characteristic, it was part of him; and therefore we must not deplore it. His originality was exemplified by his power of taking pains, his power of will to do his very best according to his guiding spirit of thoroughness. Temperaments are so different. Whistler could not be Leighton. Because we admire the one, it is not necessary to decry the other; that is weak criticism, or rather none at all. The spirit which inspires the impressionist is not the spirit of design, but a limited observation in a very restricted area. We can have the Academic as well as the Impressionist: both are useful as foils to each other, and it is just as narrow of the Impressionists to want all men to see nature and art as they see them, as it has been for the Academics to see "nothing" in the newer if more limited system. I believe that Leighton's real love was early Italian art; all that came to him after was the result of growth. His enthusiasm for Mino da Fiesole, for the earlier Raphaels, for Duccio of Siena, for Lorenzetti, was evident and absorbing; other enthusiasms were more branches from the stem than its roots. He loved line; he found it there: he loved restraint of action, pure sensuous beauty; he found it in early Italian Art. The reserve of emotions touched him in Greek Art—its suavity, its almost geometrical precision, the tunefulness and melody of its rhythmical [6]concords. His love of music was on the same lines: Wagner never appealed to him as Mozart did; it was too strenuous, too busy in changes of key, too incomplete in the finish and development of phrases. It was not that he liked dulness—not a bit; he was emotional, often gay, often depressed—excitable even; but to him Art was an intellectual more than a purely emotional system, and he liked it to be finished, consistent, perfect—and those qualities he strove for, without a doubt he obtained in a high measure. It will be long before we see again the like of Frederic Leighton, a man complete in himself.

W.B. Richmond.

June 1906.

I first met Leighton about 1869 or '70, I think. I went to one of his receptions at the Studio in Holland Park Road, at the time he was showing his pictures for the Academy. I think his principal work of that year was "Alcestis," or "Heracles Wrestling with Death." About the same time Browning's poem of "Balaustion's Adventure" appeared, in which he alludes to Leighton and this very picture in the lines beginning:

(if I remember rightly).

I availed myself of a friend's introduction, and presented myself. One recalls the courteous and princely way in which he received his guests on these occasions, and the crushes he had at his studio—Holland Park Road blocked with carriages, and all the great ones of the London world flocking to see the artist's work.

About this time, or shortly before, he had done me the honour to purchase two landscape studies I had made in Wales from among a number in a book, which was shown him by my early friend George Howard (now Earl of Carlisle), and I remember his kind words in sending me what he deemed "the very modest price" I had asked for them.

[7]His kindness to students and young artists was well known. He would take trouble to go and see their work, and he was always an admirable and helpful critic.

I remember, on my first visit to Rome in the autumn of 1871 (on our marriage tour), going into Piali's Library one evening to look at the English papers. No one was there, but presently Leighton came in. He did not remember me at first, but I recalled myself to him. He was very kind, in his princely way, and gave me introductions to W.W. Storey, the sculptor, and his great friend, Giov. Costa, and he called at our rooms to see my work, in which he showed much interest. In a letter I had, dated March 1st, 1872, written from the Athenæum Club, he speaks of some drawings I had sent to the Dudley Gallery, one he had seen on my easel in Rome, and he says: "I have seen your drawings, all three—one was an old friend; of the other two, the 'Grotto of Egeria,' with its 'sacrum numes,' most attracted me through its refined and sober harmony. The quality of your light is always particularly agreeable to me, and not less than usual in these drawings"; he goes on to say he is glad to hear I have "made friends with my excellent Costa, who as an artist is one in hundreds, and as a man one in thousands"; he adds, "Have you sketched in the 'Valley of Poussin'? It strikes me that old castle would take you by storm."

I saw Leighton again in Rome in 1873, meeting him on the Palatine, among the ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars. He was with a lady who, I believe, was the author of the story published in The Cornhill, "A Week in a French Country House," for which Leighton made an illustration. (His black and white work was always very fine, and I recall seeing some of his drawings on the wood for Dalziel's Bible and "Romola.")

Later, he came to see us when we settled in London, in Wood Lane.

I had further relations with him about the time he was building the Arab Hall, when (through George Aitcheson, his architect) I designed the mosaic frieze. On some sketches I made for this he writes: "Cleave to the Sphinx and Eagle, they are delightful—I don't like the duck-women." With regard to these Arab Hall mosaics, he said that he hoped to have more, [8]and eventually "to let us loose (Burne-Jones and myself) on the dome."

After this, I saw something of Leighton on the committee of the South London Fine Art Gallery, Peckham, in its earlier days, when he was chairman, and helped to pilot the institution from the somewhat exacting proprietorship of its founder towards its ultimate position as a public institution.

From the aristocratic point of view, he certainly had a keen sense of public duty, and probably laid the motto "Noblesse oblige" to heart.

I met him again at the Art Conference at Liverpool, when a trainful of artists of all ranks went down together, and some notable attacks were made on the Royal Academy. Leighton was tremendously loyal to that institution, which I notice is always stoutly defended by its members, whatever opinions they may have expressed while outsiders.

I suppose we differed profoundly on most questions, but he was always most courteous, and, whatever our public opinions, we always maintained friendly personal relations; and I may say I always entertained the highest admiration for Leighton's qualities, both as an artist and as a man.

At the time when the election for the presidency of the Academy was in view (after the death of Sir Francis Grant), it was said that Leighton was the only man, and that if they did not elect him the institution would go to pieces; but probably as president he had less power of initiative than before.

I remember, after one of our committees at his studio, he drove me home to Holland Street in his victoria; and as he set me down at my door, he pointed to a little copper lantern I had put up over the steps, and said, "Is that Arts and Crafts?"

His fondness for Italy was well known, and I think he went every autumn. I recall meeting him at Florence in 1890, while staying at the delightful villa of Mrs. Ross (Poggio Gherardo), when he came to luncheon.

In death he was as princely as in life; and on the day of his burial at St. Paul's I was moved to write the following as a tribute to his memory, which will always be vivid in the hearts of those who had the privilege of his friendship:—

"Those who place the brush behind the pencil, under the pretence that form is before all things, make a very great mistake. Form is certainly all important; one cannot study it enough; but the greater part of form falls within the province of the tabooed brush. The everlasting hobby of contour (which belongs to the drawing material) is first the place where the form comes in; what, however, reveals true knowledge of form, is a powerful, organic, refined finish of modelling, full of feeling and knowledge—and that is the affair of the brush (Pinsel)."

"In my pictures,—which are above all decorations in the real sense of the word,—the design is a pattern in which every line has its place and its proper relation to other lines, so that the disturbing of one of them, outside certain limits, would throw the whole out of gear. Having thus determined my picture in my mind's eye, in the majority of cases I make a sketch in black and white chalk upon brown paper to fix it. In the first sketch the care with which the folds have been broadly arranged will be evident, and if it be compared with the finished picture, the very slight degree in which the general scheme has been departed from will convince the spectator of the almost scientific precision of my line of action. But there is a good reason for this determining of the draperies before the model is called in; and it is [13]this. The nude model, no matter how practised he or she may be never moves or stands or sits, in these degenerate days, with exactly the same freedom as when draped; action or pose is always different—not so much from a sense of mental constraint as from the unusual liberty experienced by the limbs to which the muscular action invariably responds when the body is released from the discipline and confinement of clothing.

"The picture having been thus determined, the model is called in, and is posed as nearly as possible in the attitude desired. As nearly as possible, I say; for, as no two faces are exactly alike, so no two models ever entirely resemble one another in body or muscular action, and cannot, therefore, pose in such a manner as exactly to correspond with either another model or another figure—no matter how correctly the latter may be drawn. From the model make the careful outline on brown paper, a true transcript from life, which may entail some slight corrections of the original design in the direction of modifying the attitude and general appearance of the figure. This would be rendered necessary probably by the bulk and material of the drapery. So far, of course, my attention is engaged exclusively by 'form,' colour being always treated more or less ideally. The figure is now placed in its surroundings, and established in exact relation to the canvas. The result is the first true sketch of the entire design, figure, and background, and is built up of the two previous ones. It must be absolutely accurate in the distribution of spaces, for it has subsequently to be 'squared off' on to the canvas, which is ordered to the exact scale of the sketch. At this moment, the design being finally determined, the sketch in oil colours is made. It has been deferred till now, because the placing of the colours is, of course, of as much importance as the harmony. This done, the canvas is for the first time produced, and thereon I enlarge the design, re-draw the outline—and never departing a hair's-breadth from the outlines and forms already obtained—and then highly finishing the whole figure in warm monochrome from the life. Every muscle, every joint, every crease is there, although all this careful painting is shortly to be hidden with the draperies; such, however, is the only method of insuring absolute correctness of drawing. The fourth [14]stage completed, I return once more to my brown paper, re-copy the outline accurately from the picture, on a larger scale than before, and resume my studies of draperies in greater detail and with still greater precision, dealing with them in sections, as parts of a homogeneous whole. The draperies are now laid with infinite care on to the living model, and are made to approximate as closely as possible to the arrangement given in the first sketch, which, as it was not haphazard, but most carefully worked out, must of necessity be adhered to. They have often to be drawn piecemeal, as a model cannot by any means always retain the attitude sufficiently long for the design to be wholly carried out at one cast.[2] This arrangement, is effected with special reference to painting—that is to say, giving not only form and light and shade, but also the relation and 'values' of tones. The draperies are drawn over, and made to conform exactly to the forms copied from the nudes of the underpainted picture. This is a cardinal point, because in carrying out the picture the folds are found fitting mathematically on to the nude, or nudes, first established on the canvas. The next step then is to transfer the draperies to the canvas on which the design has been squared off, and this is done with flowing colour in the same monochrome as before over the nudes, to which they are intelligently applied, and which nudes must never—mentally at least—be lost sight of. The canvas has been prepared with a grey tone, lighter or darker, according to the subject in hand, and the effect to be produced. The background and accessories being now added, the whole picture presents a more or less completed aspect—resembling that, say, of a print of any warm tone. In the case of draperies of very vigorous tone, a rich flat local colour is probably rubbed over them, the modelling underneath being, though thin, so sharp and definite as to assert itself through this wash. Certain portions of the picture might probably be prepared with a wash of flat [15]tinting of a colour the opposite of that which it is eventually to receive. A blue sky, for instance, would possibly have a soft, ruddy tone spread over the canvas—the sky, which is a very definite and important part of my compositions, being as completely drawn in monochrome as any other of the design; or, for rich blue mountains a strong orange wash or tint might be used as a bed. The structure of the picture being thus absolutely complete, and the effect distinctly determined by a sketch which it is my aim to equal in the big work, I have nothing to think of but colour, and with that I now proceed deliberately, but rapidly."

"No doubt the constant wear and tear occasioned by the perpetual strain of mental and physical watchfulness did much to shorten his life; I think it sometimes injured his own work as an artist, because, though a great artist can never be evolved except by years of patient work and strenuous effort to do his very best always, yet, on the other hand, it is often the happy, easy work and absolutely spontaneous effort of the moment by such a hand which is his very best. Such happy, easy work [22]probably Leighton would seldom allow himself to do, and never would leave at the right moment, but would still strive to make better and more complete. He must still elaborate it and try to make it more perfect; and this it was that made his enthusiastic admirer Watts sometimes say, 'How much finer Leighton's work would be if he would admit the accidental into it.'"

"Now the language of Art is not the appointed vehicle of ethic truths; of these, as of all knowledge as distinct from emotion, though not necessarily separated from it, the obvious and only fitted vehicle is speech, written or spoken—words, the symbols of ideas. The simplest spoken homily, if sincere in spirit and lofty in tone, will have more direct didactic efficacy than all the works of all the most pious painters and sculptors from Giotto to Michael Angelo; more than the Passion music of Bach, more than a Requiem by Cherubini, more than an Oratorio of Handel.

"It is not, then, it cannot be the foremost duty of Art to seek to embody that which it cannot adequately present, and to enter into a competition in which it is doomed to inevitable defeat."

"There is truly to be traced in the feeling of his art that 'seal on a man's work of what is most inward and peculiar in his moods'; the sign of individual intimate preferences and of the moving power which certain aspects of beauty have had upon the artist's innermost susceptibilities, though these may be somewhat veiled and distanced by being translated through the reserved form of a classic garb. Perhaps it is this reserve which invests Sir Frederic Leighton's art with the special aroma of poetry which Robert Browning found in it to a greater extent than in any other work of his time.[6] Whether in his larger compositions, in the complicated grouping of many figures, such as the Cimabue picture being led in procession through the streets of Florence, the 'Daphnephoria,' 'Heracles struggling with Death,' the 'Andromache,' the 'Cymon and Iphigenia,' and others; or those simpler compositions, such as the 'Summer Moon,' 'Wedded,' 'The Mountain Summit,' 'The Music Lesson,' 'Sister's Kiss,' in all can be traced the sentiment of a poet inspiring the touch; not overriding by any assertiveness of sentiment the complete scheme of the picture, but lingering here and there with a wistful loveliness which has to be sought for within the barriers of the formal classic design. And it is this reticence in the expression of individual sentiment, this subduing it to the [30]larger conditions of a more abstract style of art which, though it will never make Sir Frederic Leighton's work directly popular, gives to it a quality of distinction. In such reticence is an element of greatness which probably will only be duly appreciated when the more transient moods of thought in the present generation have passed. His work lacks altogether the sentimental, brooding-over-self quality, which, when allied to genius, is contagious, and gives an interest of a subtle, but perhaps not altogether wholesome kind to some of the best work of this era."

"Beauty of every kind played on a very sensitive instrument, when it made an appeal to his nature, giving him very positive joy: no complication of subtle interest beyond the actual influence being required before a responding echo was sounded, because so pure and innocent was this joy he had in the charm of beauty;—so also attendant on his personal influence, there was no power of mesmerism, nor of the black arts. In every direction it was healthy and bracing. Even a Nordau could have discovered no remotest taint of the degenerate!"

Que parlez vous de reconnaissance, mon cher Monsieur Leighton? de l'amitié je le veux bien, et je reçois, à ce titre seulement, le dessin que vous m'avez envoyé. Ne me suis je pas fait plaisir en vous reconnaissant du talent et en vous rendant la justice qui vous est due? si vous m'avez donné l'occasion de vous faire part de ma vieille espérance n'est ce pas une preuve de l'estime que vous faites de mes conseils? Puisque vous m'offrez généreusement votre amitié, je l'accepte de bien bon cœur, et votre petit dessin me restera comme un gracieux souvenir de vous.

Robert Fleury.

Paris, le 18 Mars 1858.

It is my particular object and study to go to no parties, in the which I have succeeded admirably. I go often to Cartwright's in the evening, that don't count; now and then to Browning, now and then to the play, see a good deal of Lady Hoare; and that reminds me that Hoare sent you some game the other day, which, however, was returned, as you were not forthcoming. By-the-bye, when I say I have made no acquaintances of interest, that is not true; Odo Russell, son and brother of my friends, Lady William and Arthur Russell, and our diplomatic agent here, is a great friend of mine, and particularly sympathetic. I see him often at Cartwright's, who is his alter ego; also I know and like Miss Ogle, who wrote that (I hear) exceedingly remarkable novel, "A Lost Love." She is a country clergyman's daughter in a remote corner of Yorkshire, and wrote this book when she had, I believe, never lived out of a circle of "kettles." She is not young, but agreeable and quaint.

I am just finishing the largish studies of a very handsome model here, and am about to send them off for exhibition. They seem very popular with all who see them, and are, I think, my best things.

1859.

Dearest Mammy,—I find to my annoyance that I have mislaid your kind letter, so that I must answer as best I can from memory.

That the French and Austrians have been formally requested by the Pope to withdraw their troops from the States of the Church is, I have ascertained from good authority, true, though how on earth you can have known in Florence so long ago a thing which has only just happened, and which is still in great measure a secret here, is what I can't make out; but, dear Mamma, I trust this won't prevent your coming to Rome in April, as there [39]is no chance of the evacuation being carried into effect by that time. There will be particularly (indeed exclusively) on the side of Austria a great demur and pourparler, inasmuch as the consequences of this step will probably be most serious to her; so that for the next few months we need fear nothing. I trust you will come; however, of course I dread the responsibility of insisting too much. You will see how matters look in a few weeks. I am just about to despatch to the Royal Academy some studies from a very handsome model, "La Nanna." I have shown them to a good many people, artists and "Philistines," and they seem to be universally admired. Let us hope they will be well hung in the Exhibition. Talking of exhibitions, you will be rather amused to hear that my "Samson" has been refused at the British Institution, which this year is particularly weak and insignificant. It is gone in to the Suffolk Street now, unless too late. Neither I nor anybody else has the least idea what is the cause of this strongish measure. I have sent my "Negroes" to Paris, and if it is not too late the "Juliet" and "Paris" will go there also. I think they will be well hung, as they are godfathered by Mr. Montfort, my kind and valuable friend. This afternoon the Prince of Wales came to my studio, with Colonel and Mrs. Bruce, Gibson, &c. &c. Gibson spoke in the very highest terms of my pictures, so of course all the others were delighted!

Tuesday Morning.

I have not been able to answer your letter till now, and indeed even now I am interrupting my work to do it; I will answer all your questions categorically. First, about the brigands—I have made inquiries, and have heard of nothing new since these two cases about five weeks back, and am told that now the roads may be considered safe; indeed, no time is generally so good for travelling as just after an accident of that kind, as the authorities are on the look out: if you go by vetturino, there will in all probability be other vetturini on the road, and you will start together and arrive together from and to the different stations on the road. You quite misunderstood the sense of my letter, dear Mamma, if you imagined that I knew nothing of rumours of war, &c. &c.—so far from not knowing what is going on, I live in a hot-bed of politics, what with Cartwright and what with Odo Russell. [40]I expressed my surprise that you should speak with confidence of the withdrawal of the French troops when the official news of the Pope's formal request to that effect could not yet have reached Florence, for the reason that it had not taken place; with the Florentine politicians the wish must have been father to the thought. What really will happen is impossible to say; they won't withdraw till the Austrians do—that is pretty certain; the French, I think, like to mislead people about it. A French general told a friend of mine that in six weeks they would all be gone, but Antonelli, who ought to be the best authority, told Odo Russell they would not go for six months, though the occupation has already ceased (as the Moniteur expresses it) "en principe." You see, dear Mamma, that it is entirely impossible for me to give you any definite information at a moment when nobody seems to know what is coming next. I should be very much disappointed if you could not come; if you settle to come, let me know in time to look for rooms at an Hôtel, and tell me what you expect to give. My work would not allow me to go to Florence. My pictures for the R.A. this year are three portraits in different sizes and attitudes from the same model, all dressed—one a small half-length, the other a kit-cat, the third a small head the size of my hand—this I have sold to Lady Hoare for forty guineas. It has been much coveted—Lady Stratford de Redcliffe wanted a repetition (I never do repetitions), and Mrs. Phipps seemed quite distressed it was sold. The Prince and his party told O. Russell they liked my studio better than any they had seen in Rome. My "Pan" and "Venus" are stowed away in London.

Wednesday Morning, 1859.

I scribble two lines in haste before starting to Capri to announce my safe arrival here in the middle of the day on Monday. I found here several letters from England; but, as I [41]had presumed, that report about the sale of all my pictures was a canard. Lord Lansdowne wishes very much for a repetition of my small profile of Nanna, but as I refused to make one for Lady Stratford, I of course can't for him. George de Monbrison has very kindly consented to give up his Nanna to the Prince,[9] but is evidently sadly disappointed—so much so, that I have written to offer to do what I could not under any other circumstances, i.e. copy it for him.

This place is in great beauty. I have been received with the greatest hospitality by the Hollands, with whom I have dined and supped both days.

Yesterday I breakfasted with Augustus Craven,[10] who photographed me. He is a great adept at this art, and devotes much time to it. He has a most lovely house here, looking out on to the sea.

I have nothing to add for the present, and I will write again from Capri.

[42]1860.

Dear Leighton,—Unless I write again I shall hope to breakfast with you on Friday, and see and know evermore how a lemon differs from an orange leaf. In cases of doubtful temper, might the former more gracefully and appropriately be used for bridal chaplet?—Most truly yours,

J. Ruskin.

15th December 1882.

Dear Leighton,—Of course I want the lemon-tree! but surely you didn't offer it me before? May I come on Tuesday afternoon for both? and I hope to bring "Golden Water," but I hear there's some confusion between the Academy and the Burlington Club. "Golden Water" is perhaps too small a drawing for the Academy—but you'll see.

I wish the lecture on sculpture you gave that jury the other day had been to a larger audience, and I one of them.—Ever affectionately yours,

J. Ruskin.

17th November.

Dear Leighton,—I brought up the "Byzantine Well,"[12] but was forced to trust my friend, John Simon, to bring it across the Park to you, and then forbid him till I wrote you this note, asking you to spare a moment to show him the "Damascus Glass and Arab Fountain." He is, as you know, a man of great eminence, with a weakness for painting, which greatly hinders him in his science.—Ever your loving,

J.R.

I can't get lectures printed yet.

19 Queen Street,
Wednesday Morning, 1859.

I have so far altered my plans that I stay on until Saturday morning instead of going to-morrow with Mrs. Sartoris as I had intended. I have still a call or two to make, and, besides, am going to dine to-morrow with Mario and spend the evening of Friday at Lord Lansdowne's, whose invitation I got though I had not called on him. I suppose that a card was sent me because my name was on the old list. I have since met him (at Henry's party), and he made himself very amiable, renewing the invitation by word of mouth. I have just been spending two or three days at Old Windsor with Miss Thackeray, who has been kindness itself as usual; the weather was divine, and we took exquisite drives. Chorley[13] also has been a kind friend to me; he took me twice to the Handel Festival, seating me, conveying me, breakfasting me, and, but that I was engaged, would have dined me. The Festival was, as you have no doubt read in the papers, most successful, the choruses, considering the enormous difficulty of training such masses of people (2000!) were excellent; the quantity of sound produced was, of course, enormous, still there was no din, nothing stunning, only an exceedingly dense and close-textured quality of sound. The solo singers varied in excellence. Clara Novello shone by the quality of her voice, which carries any distance, and by the correctness of her singing, but to me she is entirely without charm, and left me as cold after the great song of the Nativity in the "Messiah" as if she had not sung at all. Miss Dolby sang well throughout; she was [44]remarkable for the excessive decorum and simplicity of her singing. She finishes a phrase with great breadth; her voice, to some people disagreeable, is to me very simpatica, and she gave me altogether the greatest pleasure. Sims Reeves, whom but a few days back I heard sing so badly at Liverpool, astounded me here by the remarkable care and study he brought to bear on his solos. He sang in the "Messiah," beginning with "Behold and see if there be any sorrow," &c. He sang exquisitely; and in the "Israel" he sang "The enemy said" (a very ungrateful song) as well as possible. He was vociferously encored, and well deserved it. —— was simply abominable, without a redeeming point. ——, though less aggressively bad, was too insignificant to say much about at all. Of course, altogether, the solos, especially the more vigorous ones, were too weak for the choruses; that could not be otherwise short of having four pair of Lablache lungs. Costa led to perfection; it was a sight to see him.

Friday, Paris.

Dearest Mamma,—I write you a few lines just to announce my safe return to Paris. You have no doubt by this time got the box back again. Henry was, as always, very kind to me, and I spent three days very simply at his house. I had intended, when I left this, to stay only two days in London, but those days being Saturday and Sunday, I remembered that all the Galleries were shut, and therefore, being most anxious to see the new Veronese, I stayed over Monday. I was delighted with the pictures in the National Gallery and also at Marlborough House, but the annual exhibition at the British Institution is deplorable. I have decided, on the advice of Buckner, Colnaghi, and others, to send my "Niggers" ("A Negro Dance"—water-colour—from sketch made in Algiers) to the Suffolk Street Exhibition (where I shall be well hung through Buckner's intervention) if I get done in time: it will be a hard race, as the Exhibition opens a month sooner than the R.A.

I reached home Tuesday evening at 10½ o'clock, after a good passage; I was, however, suffering from a shocking indigestion, and, to crown all, was kept awake till four in the morning by a ball immediately under my bed. Next morning I had to paint away at Gallatti (my model) willy nilly (particularly nilly), [45]feeling seedy and frightfully cross. However, my "Gehazi" is now as near as possible finished, and to-morrow I go in for the "Niggers." I hope, dear Mamma, you will let me hear at once what Lina or Suth. write; I am most anxious to hear more.

Good-bye, dear Mamma. Best love to all from your most affectionate

Fred.

Friday, 26th.

I am happy to say I have just done my "Niggers," and though too late for the ordinary mode of conveyance on account of an accident in the papers, I am saved by the exceeding kindness of a secretary of the Sardinian Embassy, a great friend of mine; it will be taken over on Monday night by a messenger under the seals of the Embassy, and will just arrive in time. On Sunday I hope to show it to Monfort, Fleury, and Scheffer. I will let you know their verdict.

From America I have good and bad news. The bad is that my "Pan" and "Venus" are not being exhibited at all on account of their nudity, and are stowed away in a cupboard where F. Kemble with the most friendly and untiring perseverance contrived to discover them. This is a great nuisance. I have sent for them back at once; they know best whether or no it is advisable to exhibit such pictures in America, but they certainly should have let me know. I have written to Rossetti about it to-day, expressing my regret and desires, and have added "my pictures have been exposed to the wear and tear of several long journeys not only entirely for no purpose, but, being shut out from the light, they are even suffering an injury; meanwhile I am neglecting the opportunity of showing and disposing of them in England, a possibility which I might willingly forego for the sake of supporting an enterprise in which I am interested, but not to adorn a hidden closet in the United States." Fanny Kemble was charmed with the pictures, went often and pluckily to the forbidden cupboard, and said she only wished she could afford to buy them.

Friday.

Since I last wrote I have had a note from Rossetti, the Secretary of the American Exhibition, giving me a piece of [46]information about my "Romeo" which can't fail to gratify you. He said that, had my picture not been bought by Mr. Harrison, a public subscription would have been opened to procure it for the Academy of Arts at Philadelphia. Rossetti answers me (as indeed I did not doubt) that he had not the remotest notion of the fate of "Pan" and "Venus." He has written on my request to beg they may be sent back at once to Europe. By Henry Greville's urgent advice I have given notice that I shall send the "Orpheus," as they have applied for more pictures; things were selling so satisfactorily that there was scarcely anything left to exhibit in Boston. I am glad to be able to reassure you about the "Niggers." Sartoris did like them exceedingly even before they were anything like as good as they are now. Cartwright, who is not géné to dislike, is enchanted with them, and says if they are not sold at once people are fools, for he has not for some time seen anything he likes so much. Puliza Ricardo and other "publics" like it extremely. Robert Fleury considered it highly original, and said that if he only saw one little head in it he would say, "c'est d'un coloriste." R. Fleury, you know, blames very roundly what he does not like. Montfort, my most candid adviser, was delighted, and said of a particular bit "je vous assure c'est tout à fait comme Decamps." This is unconditional praise. Again I consulted him about its chances of success in the gallery of water-colours. He said, "Comme aquarelle je vous promets qu'il n'y en a pas beaucoup qui font comme cela;"—about water colour being infra. dig., showing myself competent in two materials can only raise me. Poor Scheffer was unwell and could not come. You see, dear Mammy, you need not be so uneasy. I fully appreciate your and Papa's anxiety about my pictures; but it has too great a hold on you when it makes you think that I am entirely reckless and foolish, and that rather than give in I should tell a lie and say it was too late to withdraw a picture when it might still be done. Many thanks for the extract about Sutherland which, however, I had already seen, Henry Grev. having sent it me a week ago. My "Niggers" arrived in time by great luck. Buckner godfathers them.

In haste with very best love, your affectionate boy,

Fred.

19 Queen Street, 1859.[47]

I have got, through the kindness of Elmore (R.A.), a sort of studio at the other end of the world; I believe I told you this in my last note; I suppose my things will come over in a week or less. I am in great doubt about being able to paint in that studio, and about its having been any use to come over to London without the possibility of a really good locale: however, here I am. I shall brush up my acquaintances and see a good deal of my friends. Don't reckon on my selling anything—I don't at all. My picture is hung so that it is virtually impossible to see it. I went to look at my "Niggers" in Suffolk Street, and am confirmed in the idea (that also of my friends) that it is my best work. I have as yet nothing worth writing about, so good-bye, dearest Mamma, best love to all.

2 Orme Square, Sunday, 1859.

Having got on Monday last into my studio and been very busy ever since, this is absolutely the first moment I have found to sit down and write to you.

You will wish to know some particulars about my studio. Of course after Paris and Rome it is a sad falling off—narrow and dark, though I believe, for London, very fair; when I live here I must have a much larger light or I shall go blind—however, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth. I have had to furnish—this costs me about nine or ten shillings a week; I keep a servant (a stupid, pompous, verbose, dirty, willing, honest scrub) to run my errands and clean my brushes, &c. &c., at half-a-crown a day; models are five shillings a sitting here—ruination!—men with good heads there are none—women, tol-lol!—a lay figure, twenty-five shillings a month; in short, historical painting here is not for nothing; I am working at my "Samson" picture; God knows how I shall finish it in so short a time! Dearest Mammy, I shall have but a very short peep at you this year, I am very sorry to say—I lost a full month waiting for this wretched studio. I don't see my way through my work before the middle or even end of the second week in August, and I cannot well give up going to Scotland though only for a very few days, as I have accepted so long ago. I am to go there [48]on the 20th; after that I must rush back post-haste to Stourhead to finish Lady Hoare; all this will make me very late for Italy, as I am anxious to revisit the north of that country and study the Correggios a little at Parma before going south. I shall be obliged to scamper across the country. I must be in Rome or the neighbourhood in October; I am going to finish my Cervara landscape on the spot.

I am in very fair health, London decidedly agrees with me, and I don't suffer as much as I expected from the obligato spleen of blue devildom. I need not say this is a source of immense congratulation to me.

London, 1859.

Dearest Mammy,—I scribble a word in haste to announce to you that I have sent "Nanna" off to Bath for you to see, she wants varnish very badly as you see, but is not dry enough for that yet. You must mind and put her in the right light, the window must be on the left of the spectator—the more to the left of the picture you stand yourself the less you will see the want of varnish. If you stand to the right of the painting you won't see it at all. Please send "Nanna" back when you have shown to whom you wish, as she is overdue at Paris.

Saturday Morning, 1859.

I returned yesterday from the Highlands, and have at last time to write you a little word. My stay in the North has been most satisfactory, I have enjoyed myself thoroughly, and have felt particularly well in the keen bracing air of the mountains. My time has been spent exclusively in walks, rides, and drives, for the weather was great part of the time too uncertain to allow of sitting out to paint (even had there been time), whereas no amount of showers prevented our going out, and indeed to those showers I owe seeing some of the most superb effects of colour, light and shade, that I ever beheld. We used sometimes to have three or four duckings [49]in one ride, drying again in the sun, or not as the case might be, and never catching even the phantom of a cold, so healthy and invigorating is the breath of those healthy hills. I said I painted nothing and bring home an empty portfolio (all but a flower I drew one very wet morning), but I have studied a great deal with my eyes and memory, and come back a better landscape painter than I went. On my road home, at Dunkeld, where I lingered a day (exquisite spot), I jotted down in oils two reminiscences of effects observed at Kinrara with which I am rather well pleased—one is a stormy Scandinavian bit of cloud and hill, the other a hot sunny expanse of golden corn and purple heather, which looks for all the world like a bit of Italy. Mind, they are the merest little sketches, but accurate in the impression of the effect.

I go on Monday morning to Stourhead, where I stay till Saturday, and start Monday week for the Continent. Please send me a line to Stourhead. How are you, darling? and Lina and Gus? and Papa? Have you had any more drives?—Your loving boy,

Fred.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater, London,
December 5, 1859.

My dear Friend and Master,—What a long time it is since I heard from you! my last letter, despatched from Rome, has had no answer.

I enclose a photograph of a memorial tablet which I executed [50]in Rome last winter for my poor widowed sister. The monument is of white marble with black mosaic decoration; the four dark circles are bronze nails, which secure the marble tablet to the wall.

When I had finished work in Rome, I went south and spent five weeks in Capri. You would hardly believe, dear Friend, how this wonderful island delighted me. I made vigorous use of my visit and executed a fairly large number of conscientious studies. I also took the opportunity to visit Paestum for the first time. I may say that the Temple of Neptune gave me the most exalted architectonic impression that I have ever received; I shall never forget that morning. The two neighbouring temples, however, are not worth looking at, except from a painter's point of view.

Meanwhile, the season being advanced, I was obliged, with real regret, to give up my plan of going to Frankfurt, and to hurry back to England. Here I am now permanently established. I confess that I did not pitch my tent here without some anxiety; I had not spent a single winter in England since my earliest childhood, and I had good reason to fear that to me, with my love of sunshine, it would prove a little harsh. I also feared the climate for my bodily health. However, "native air" appears to be not altogether an empty phrase, but I find myself, notwithstanding the fog, well and in good spirits. Man must indeed carry the sun in his heart—if he is to have it. Of work in particular, I have nothing much to say. Later, in the course of the winter, I will report more at length.

Meanwhile, dear Master, write to me very soon. Tell me whether you still think of your pupil, and especially tell me about your certainly numerous works.—Your grateful pupil,

Leighton.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
London, January 12, 1860.

I spoke little in my last letter of my present work, partly perhaps because of the feeling I have already described, but partly also because I intend to send you a photograph directly the picture is finished, which will not be till spring. It is a [51]commission, and the subject is religious. There is only a single figure, and I would describe it to you now, but that I fear you would imagine the picture much more beautiful than I can paint it, and you would consequently suffer a disappointment later on in my work which would be painful to me. For the rest, I am striving as hard as I can to make it fine and simple. You will perhaps be surprised, but, in spite of my fanatic preference for colour, I promised myself to be a draughtsman before I became a colourist.

And now adieu, my dear Friend. Directly I can show you anything in "black and white" you shall hear from me again, and I shall expect from you, as my old master, the most unsparing criticism; that is the greatest proof of love you can give me.

Fred Leighton.

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
January 29, '60.

Dear Browning,—It is not till the other day that I at last received from Cartwright your Rome address, or I should have written to you some time ago; before it was too late to wish you a merry Xmas and health, happiness, and all prosperity for yourself and Mrs. Browning in the present year. I don't know that I have anything worth telling you to write about, for all the little incidents which have their importance for the space of a day, all appear too trivial to write about after a lapse of a week or two. Still I write to assure you I keep up my most affectionate remembrance of you, and to beg that you won't entirely forget me. I received your kind letter at the beginning of the winter, and was truly concerned to hear that Mrs. Browning had been so alarmingly unwell; I trust that the air of Rome, which once before was so beneficial to her, will have strengthened and recruited her again this time. Dear old Rome! how I wish I could fly over and spend a week or so with you all in my old haunts. I suppose I shall never be entirely weaned of that yearning affection I entertain for Italy, and particularly for Rome and the "Comarea." You must have it all to yourselves this year. What a delight it must be to see neither Brown, Jones, nor Robinson.

[52]I suppose Cartwright, Pantaleone, and Odo Russell are the staple of your convivial circle; and, by-the-bye, how much more freely Mrs. Browning must breathe this winter without certain daily visitations which I remember last year. I wonder whether you will write to me and tell me what you are doing, socially and artistically; everything about you will interest me.

As for myself, you would not believe it, in spite of my old habits of continental life and sunshine, I take very kindly to England; it agrees with me capitally, really better than Rome. I am fattening vue d'œil. The light is certainly not irreproachable, still I can work, and don't find that my ideas get particularly rusty. On the contrary, for colour, certainly my sense seems to be sharpened in this atmosphere.

I am soldiering too. I drill three times a week, and make as bad a soldier as anybody else. The Sartoris, you know, are no longer in London—a great loss to all their friends—but I go pretty often to see them in the country, and have spent many a happy day there in the course of the winter. By-the-bye, do you hear or know anything of those two drawings I did of you and Mrs. Browning? If so, will you give the one of you to Hookes that he may send with some other things he has? And now, dear Browning, "vi leverò l'incomodo," and will bring this very tedious epistle to a close. Remember me most kindly to Mrs. Browning, to Cartwright and his wife, to Odo Russell, B——, Pantaleone with better half, Storeys, and last, but not least, dear little Hatty! Love to Cerinni; tell me about him. Good-bye.—Believe me, very affectionately yours,

Fred Leighton.

I am hand-and-glove with all my enemies the pre-Raphaelites. Woolner sends his affectionate remembrances.

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
March 12.

My dear Gussykins,—You may have heard from Mamma that I went to Paris to hear Madame Viardot in "Orphée." What wonderful singing! what style! what breadth! what pathos! You would have been enchanted, I am sure. Do you know the music? [53]It is wonderfully fine and pathetic, the first chorus particularly is quite harrowing for the accent of grief about it. Madame Viardot's acting, too, is superb—so perfectly simple and grand, it is really antique. And when you consider all she has to overcome—a bad, harsh voice, an ugly face, an ungainly person; and yet she contrives to look almost handsome. She enters heart and soul into her work; she said it was the only thing she ever did that (after fifty performances) had not given her a moment's ennui. I am afraid there is no chance of her singing it in England this year, if at all; I don't believe the Covent Garden audience would sit through it.[14]

I also saw Gounod's new opera, "Philémon et Baucis," and was disappointed. Nothing but the care and distinction of the workmanship redeems it from being a bore; the subject is ill adapted for the stage, and is dragged through three acts with portentous efforts. Striking melodies there are few, charming accompaniments many; all the pretty music (or nearly) is in the orchestra—c'est la sauce qui fait avaler le poisson. The introductions to the first and second acts, but particularly the latter (a little motif on the oboë), are charming; there is also a capital chorus. All this, however, is an impression after one hearing; I might alter my mind on hearing it oftener, but I think not.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, September 15, 1860.

My very dear Friend,—I was almost afraid that you would think that I had entirely forgotten you, but this would be a very undeserved interpretation of my long silence. No, my dear Master, you still live in my constant memory, in my most grateful recollection.

[54]When I last wrote, I promised to send you a photograph of my large picture. This work has taken up my time far beyond my expectations, and I always put off writing in order not to send you an empty letter. At last it is thus far, and I enclose both the large photograph and some little ones, in the hope that you, dear Master, will be interested also in the unimportant works of your old pupil.

Have I already told you the subject of my religious picture? I think not. At the turning-point of a very critical illness, the lady who commissioned my picture dreamt that she, as a disembodied spirit, soared up heavenwards in the night.[15] Suddenly she was aware of a point of light in the far vault of heaven. This light grew, developed, and soon she saw coming forth from the night the shining form of the Saviour. Full of confidence she approached the holy apparition. Jesus, however, raised His hands and, gently repulsing her, enjoined her to return to earth, and during her life to make herself worthier to enter the company of the blessed. She awoke, recovered, and ordered the picture.

You will be able to imagine, my dear Friend, how little contented I am with my work; however, I am accustomed to show you my weaknesses, and I therefore send you also this unsatisfactory work. As regards the photograph, it is in certain respects successful, although it makes the whole picture four times too dark.

I send also a portrait of my sister; a head of an English soldier, who lost an arm at Balaclava, and recently died of consumption; and finally a photograph after a drawing on wood, which I drew for a book, but which has been incredibly disfigured by the engraver. Fortunately I had the drawing (although bad) photographed before I sent it to be engraved.

But enough of me and my affairs.

And you, dear Master, what are you working at? Are your [55]cartoons all finished? Shall you soon begin your frescoes? What other beautiful things have you composed?

Do not punish my long silence, but send me a couple of lines to tell me what interests me so deeply. So soon as I have finished anything new (and I have many pictures in prospect) I will send you another specimen of my handiwork.

Meantime I beg you will remember me most cordially to your wife and daughters, and to my other friends in Frankfurt. And yourself do not altogether forget, your loving pupil,

Fred Leighton.

December 12, 1860.

Dearest Mammy,—I have deferred until now answering your kind letter that I might be able to announce to you a little circumstance which took place yesterday, and which, though not of any real importance, may give you and Papa pleasure. I was yesterday raised to the rank of Captain; I command the 3rd Company—Lewis was at the same time made Captain of the 2nd—his election of course came before mine; he has done three times more for the Corps than I have or could have done—he lives very near and goes every day—as a man of business, and a very clever one, he has entirely organised the bookkeeping department, and in fact has been altogether the vital principle of the Corps. I was chosen next for having shown some zeal in this service and some little capability for teaching. The vacant lieutenancies go to Nicholson (the musician) and Talfourd. One of the ensigncies has been given to Perugini, contingent on its being lawful for him to hold such commission; another to old Palmer. So much for our volunteering. I wish we had a commander. The next question in your letter I thought I had answered in my last—however, though Ruskin stayed about three hours and was altogether very pleasant, he did not say anything that I could quote about my paintings. He was immensely struck by my [56]drawing of a lemon-tree, and was generally complimentary, or rather, respectful, that is more his genre. I don't think, however, that he cared for Sandbach's picture—which leads me to the third point in your letter. Neither of the S.'s have seen their picture; last time they were in London, having made no definite appointment, I missed them. He wrote to say that when he came up to town again, he would fix a day to call on me. Gibson, the old traitor, never turned up at all. By-the-bye, I see you ask whether I shoot much—no, not often; I am an ordinary, average shot—my unsteady hand prevents my shooting well. My general health is pretty fair. Many thanks, dearest Mammy, for your kind wishes and congratulations on that melancholy occasion, my birthday—it is a day I always hate—fancy my being thirty!!! About marrying, dear Mamma, you must not forget it requires two to play at that game. I would not insult a girl I did not love by asking her to tie her existence to mine, and I have not yet found one that I felt the slightest wish to marry; it is no doubt ludicrous to place this ideal so high, but it is not my fault—theoretically I should like to be married very well.

"He has such an effect on him by his profound stupidity and intense conceit he can't keep him, for if he did, the irritation would render him wicked if he indulged it, and ill if he repressed the same—at least that's Fred's feeling just now. He means to take an Italian servant if he can find one.

"Fred has received an invitation to Sandringham (the Prince of Wales). If he has not found a suitable servant we are to lend him ours—Ellen's husband, a very superior person. I must not forget to tell you that we saw ——'s new baby, a very [57]dear little thing. Freddy was enchanted with it. He noticed him more than ——, who is a delightful little chap, and after caressing it several times with exceeding tenderness, he suddenly grew red in the face, and said, 'I must nurse him,' which he did for a long time, to the wonder and admiration of Miss —— and the nurse. For my part, it gave me actual pain to see that proof of his strong love for children, believing that he will never have any of his own. He declares he has never seen a girl he could marry. Of course this shows he is unreasonably fastidious; more's the pity!"

2 Orme Square, April 10, 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—I have deferred writing until now that I might be able to tell you the result of my little "private view," now over. I am happy to say I have a great success. The "Vision" pleased many people much, but was altogether, as I expected, the least popular; the subject, though very interesting, was less attractive to the many, and besides I have progressed in painting since the date of that picture. My little girl at the fountain, christened for me by one of my visitors, "Lieder ohne Worte," has perhaps had the greatest number of votes.[16] The "Francesca,"[17] on the other hand, has had, I think, the advantage in the quality of its admirers. Watts, for instance, and Mrs. Sartoris think it by far my best daub.

By-the-bye, you will be particularly pleased to hear that Lina's portrait has had an immense success, and indeed, on second thoughts, perhaps it was more admired than anything else. The "Capri" and the "Aslett" were also much liked. Mind, dear Mamma, this letter is "strictly confidential," because although, of course, you want to know what people say of my pictures, anybody else seeing this letter would (or might) suppose I was devoured with vanity.

I have just made an unexpected acquaintance in the Gladstones, who sent me, I don't know why, a card for two parties. It was very polite of them, and of course I went. This is a very egotistical letter, dear Mamma, but I know that is what you want.

[58]I am very sufficiently well, not strong, but never ill. I marched to Wimbledon with the Volunteers last Monday, and got wet several times but did not catch cold.[18]

London. 1861.

Dear Papa,—If the Public receives my pictures as favourably as the Private has done, I shall have no cause to complain; as far, at least, as the maintenance and increase of my reputation is concerned. I should, however, have liked the "market" to be a little more "brisk."

Tom Taylor and Rossetti (Wm.), the only critics that came [59](as far as I know) besides Stephens, were, as far as I can judge, both of them much pleased with what they saw. I know at least that both spoke well of my pictures behind my back.

As for Ruskin, he was in one of his queer moods when he came to breakfast with me—he spent his time looking at my portfolio and praised my drawings most lavishly—he did not even look at the pictures. However, nothing could be more cordial than he is to me.

I bolted out into the passage after you when you left the other day to tell you that one of the gentlemen you saw come in was Sir Edwin Landseer, but you had disappeared.

Paris. Monday.[60]

Dearest Mother,—I must wind up with bad news, which I hope you will bear well: my pictures are badly hung, ill lighted, and almost entirely ignored by the press.[19] Of course this is au fond, a bitter disappointment to a man of my temperament, especially after all the praise my work got before the Exhibition. However, I shall wear a brave face, and who knows but that some good may arise to me out of this? My little energies will be sharpened up and my tenacity roused. I trust in some future day, as long as hope lives. God bless you, Mammy; best love to dear Gussy. From your affectionate son,

Fred.

May 1, 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—Life being a pump handle, first up then down, you won't be too much surprised to hear that after the real success my pictures had on "private view" they are with one exception (the landscape) badly hung, "The Vision" over a door, the others above the line, which will make it impossible to see the finish or delicacy of execution which is an important feature in them. I have not seen them myself, but am told this by those who have. Don't take on, dear Mammy, nor let Papa worry himself about it. Things come right in the end, and I know that many people will be much annoyed at this treatment of me. Millais, like a good fellow that he is, spoke up for me like a man, though he himself feels so differently on art from what I do. My good friend Aïdé is furious. After all perhaps, though badly hung, the pictures may still be seen well enough to be judged, that is all I really want, then perhaps some of the papers will speak up for me. I am glad I let so many people see them at the studio, those at least know what the pictures are like. Of one thing be sure: if my works have real value, public opinion will in the long run force the Academy to hang me—but enough of this subject.

The Prince of Wales saw a photo-portrait of me in Valletort's book the other day and begged him to ask me for one. [61]I have had some new ones done, and mean at the same time to send H.R.H. a photograph of each of my larger pictures, "The Vision," the "Francesca," and "The Listener," which, by-the-bye, I have christened on the suggestion of a lady friend of mine (a sister of Cockerell's) "Lieder ohne Worte."

Landseer said nothing that was worth repeating, though he gave me one or two useful practical hints. He is eminently a practical man, and I suspect in his heart sneers at style. He was, however, I believe, pleased with my things.

9 Park Place, St. James's,
Sunday, May 5, 1861.

Dear Mrs. Leighton,—I know that the news of the bad hanging of your son's pictures has reached you (unpleasant tidings generally travel fast) and I hasten to tell you, what I hope may a little mitigate the annoyance you must have felt about it, that they are spoken of in terms of great eulogium by both the Times and Athenæum. I was afraid that their unfortunate placing might have prevented the possibility of any justice being done them by the public critics, but after all the Times and Athenæum are the most influential and leading of all our public journals. Mrs. Orr's portrait is consistently praised by all the papers, even by those which review the others less favourably. Fortunately, the pictures were well seen in the studio by numbers of people of all classes before they went to the Academy, and excited very general admiration in those who felt no particular interest either in art or in your son; while his friends, and those who know, were delighted not only with the works themselves, but at the visible indications in them of increased power in all ways. They have been thought by all whose opinion is of value a great advance upon what he has hitherto done. All this will, I hope, be pleasant to you; what will be so most of all will be to know that he took the exceeding trial and vexation of the abominable hanging of his pictures with the most perfect temper, and an admirable desire to be just about those who were doing him this ill turn. You will care for this, as I do, more than for any worldly success his talent could have brought him. I think he is looking well, although he complains a little of feeling tired. I daresay it is nothing but the weariness that must make itself a little [62]felt after a great and all-engrossing exertion. His volunteering occupation is quite invaluable to him, giving him the exercise he never would otherwise get. I think he seems to like his life in London, where he has many friends, so many that if you were here you would no longer feel as jealous about me as you once owned to feeling—do you remember? I do not apologise for writing all this to you, for although excess of zeal may be a sin in the eyes of others, and even indeed of those whom one would die to serve, a mother will hardly count it as such when her child is in question. With best remembrances to Mr. Leighton and your daughters, I am, ever faithfully yours,

Adelaide Sartoris.

1861.

As to the article in Macmillan, I don't in the least deny its value as far as it goes and quo ad the public; it is in that sense very gratifying to be spoken of in such flattering terms in a periodical of some standing, but I can't individually feel much elated at the praise of a critic who in other parts of his article shows he is not au fond a judge; as for what he says in interpretation (I am not now alluding to the praise), it is so verbatim what I said myself to those who visited my studio, that I suspect he must have been of that number. I remember, it is true, telling you before I began to paint "Lieder ohne Worte" that I intended to make it realistic, but from the first moment I began I felt the mistake, and made it professedly and pointedly the reverse. I don't think, however, that we understand the word realistic alike; the Fisherman and Syren which you quote was as little naturalistic as anything could be, and, while you urge me to take up some subject possessing that quality, I would point out that the Michael Angelo and the Peacock Girl both fulfil that condition—to my mind to a fault. I have sent in (or am about to) a formula which I received to fill up, stating what I would contribute to the Great Exhibition of 1862 (International). I have offered the Cimabue, four "Nannas," the "Lieder ohne Worte," "Francesca," and the "Syren." I have obtained permission for all.

Translation.][63]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
30th April 1861.

My dear Friend and Master,—When I last wrote you I promised in the spring to send you photographs of my pictures for the exhibition. I have just received some prints and hasten to enclose them.

One of them (the girl by the fountain) gives, as is so often the case, an entirely false impression of the picture, in that the drapery of the principal figure should be much darker, and that of the retreating figure much lighter. I have called this picture "Lieder ohne Worte." It represents a girl, who is resting by a fountain, and listening to the ripple of the water and the song of a bird. This subject is, of course, quite incomplete without colour, as I have endeavoured, both by colour and by flowing delicate forms, to translate to the eye of the spectator something of the pleasure which the child receives through her ears. This idea lies at the base of the whole thing, and is conveyed to the best of my ability in every detail, so that in the dead photograph one loses exactly half, also the dulling of the eyes, which are dark blue in the picture, gives a look of weakness in the photograph that is not quite pleasant.

The second subject is, as you will know well, the old, ever-new motive of Paolo and Francesca. I endeavoured to put in as much glow and passion as possible without causing the least offence; this picture also would, perhaps, have pleased you in colour. How I should like to show it to you, my dear master! However, you will no doubt send me your candid opinion of the photographs in a few lines, and not spare criticism.

I am exceedingly curious to know how your work is getting on. What are you working at just now? When is the fresco to be begun? What easel pictures have you undertaken? I want to know all that. I also hope with all my heart, my dear master, that your health keeps good, that your wife and children are all well. Please remember me most kindly to your family and all in Frankfurt who remember me. And yourself, my dear friend, keep in remembrance.—Your grateful pupil,

Fred Leighton.

Translation.][64]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater, London,
June 30, 1861.

My dear Friend,—Forgive my not having thanked you sooner for your kind note. The same thing has happened to me as to you: work has left me but little leisure for writing. Now, however, my hearty thanks for the open sincerity with which you have spoken of my latest work, I am only sorry that you have not gone into it even more closely. I shall endeavour in my present works to diminish the excessive mannerism of the lines, which will be all the easier for me as I am now painting principally from nature; in my last picture the subject permitted that but little. In any case I hope, dear master, that you will always speak to me with the same candour; it is the best proof to me that I still possess your friendship.

I am extremely eager to see how far your works have got on. Amongst them, however, my dear friend, keep in remembrance your grateful pupil,

Fred Leighton.

P.S.—I notice with regret that already I do not write a German letter with my former fluency.

London, July 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—Thanks for your kind letter, which I have been unable to answer till now. I had heard of poor Browning's bereavement; we were all very much shocked at it, knowing, as we do, how entirely irreparable his loss is. I wrote a few lines to him that he might know how sincerely I grieved with him; I don't at all know what were the circumstances of her death, we have no particulars.

Chez M. Laraison,
Ste. Marie, Près Pornic, Loire Inférieure,
August 30, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—Don't fret; you will do everything like yourself in the end, I know; wait till the end of October, as you propose. I cannot return before the beginning of it, though I would do so were it necessary, but it is not, for I have only this morning received the notification of which I told you, that "the marble is in the sculptor's studio." We shall therefore be in full time.

The portrait you saw was the autotype which I lent to Mr. Richmond, and concerning which I wrote to him before leaving London, directing that it should be sent to you. He engaged to let you have it whenever you desired. I therefore enclose (oh, fresh attack on your envelopes and postage stamps!) a note which I presume he will attend to, and which you will of course burn should he have sent the portraits meanwhile. I have also two others nearly like that portrait, taken the same day with it, which I was unable to find, but which shall be found on my return.

Dear Leighton, I can only repeat, with entire truth, that you will satisfy me wholly. I don't think, however, you can make me more than I am now—Yours gratefully and lovingly,

Robert Browning.

I am glad to hear Papa reported favourably of my work, and that you like the photographs of my pictures now in the Exhibition. I am very glad also that Gussy liked the receding figure in the "Lieder ohne Worte," as it was a favourite also with me, the tallness of said figure was inseparable from the sentiment of it in my mind. I have a photograph of that picture still remaining; I will give it to Gus when she comes through, I can get myself another some future day. I am getting on tol-lol with my pictures, but am rather anxious just now about [66]the extreme difficulty of getting a peacock. I want to buy one to have the skin prepared, and if I don't get one soon they will all lose their tails; and there I shall be—in a fix! A friend of mine has written to Norfolk, and hopes to get me one. The season, even in the extremely moderate form in which I take it, is a fatiguing affair. I get up late and never feel fresh and vigorous. I have serious thoughts of entirely giving it up next year. I will go now and then to stay at people's houses, but not to their parties—le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle. A propos of country houses, I am going to spend a few days with Lady Cowper at Wrest Park towards the end of this month; there are to be theatricals and great hilarity. And now about Bath, I hope, dearest Mammy, you won't be hurt if I propose to come at the end of the first week in September instead of the last week in August. The fact is I have a great "giro" I want to make, and if I could take Bath in the regular progress it would be both a great convenience and a saving of expense. I mean to stay three weeks in Bath and have thoughts of painting a pot-boiler of little Walker if he is still handsome. I wish Papa would look after him, and let me know what he is doing and how he is looking. These are my plans: I want, whilst the summer is still hot and green, to visit South Hampshire, New Forest, Isle of Wight, South Devon, North Devon, and so work my way round to Bath, whence to Stourhead for a few days; then to Mason in Staffordshire, and then back to London. My pictures will be done long before the Exhibition next opening, so I can manage all this. I shall visit the following people: Sartoris, Aïdés, perhaps Morants, I hope Tennyson, Lady E. Bulteel, and look in at Mount Edgcombe—the rest of the journey will be purely artistic.

Clovelly, Sunday.

Dearest Mammy,—I could not find time to answer your note (for which best thanks) before I left Ventnor. I am now in one of the most picturesque spots on the north coast of Devon—the rendezvous of painters and tourists, the pays de cocagne of Hook and one of the chief lions of my trip.

The places I have visited so far are Salisbury, Exeter, and Bideford; with the latter I was much disappointed, and think it [67]far below its reputation; not so Salisbury, which is a most interesting town, full of quaintness and character beyond my expectations; it has, however, a look of decay and depopulation about it which makes me feel awfully low-spirited. The Cathedral, perhaps, altogether rather disappointed me—though of course much about it is very beautiful; then, too, its general (internal) aspect is entirely marred by a brutal coat of whitewash laid on in the last century, covering up the marble columns and killing out all life and colour. Unfortunately, it would cost very many thousands to restore the church and its ancient glories.

To-morrow I start for Ilfracombe—the next day for Lynton.

Many thanks for your letter just received and for all the kind wishes therein contained, which I most warmly return for you all—a double portion to dear Taily in honour of her birthday.

I will come on the 8th if I possibly can, and bring some little sketches to show you.

I shall exhibit this year IF I get done in time, but I can't hurry—it is entirely immaterial whether I exhibit or not—I would rather, of course.

We have begun drilling, but it will be many weeks before we get to rifle-shooting—this is the sort of thing we are doing now. Our uniform is plainness itself, all grey, and the cheapest in London.

I weather the cold so-so—I have a gas-stove beside my fireplace, but am still tolerably cold when it comes very sharp.

My dinner with Millais was put off till Monday next—I think Millais charming and so handsome.

I am exceedingly sorry, dear Mamma, you have reckoned on me for cotillon figures—with the exception of the one I led at Bath once, I have not seen one for years, and have not the faintest notion what is done—I will, however, back anybody else with great zeal.

I was indeed truly sorry to hear of Lord Holland's death—I had expected it for some time; nothing could exceed their kindness to me, and the House is an irreparable loss to me.

I hope to have a very merry Christmas Day. I am running [68]down to Westbury (the Sartoris); there is to be a tree; I come up again of course Monday morning.

I am never ill. I take my human frailty out in never being very well—never equal to much fatigue.

London 1861.

My dinner at Millais' yesterday was very pleasant. I like him extremely, and his wife appears an agreeable person. I met there John Leech, the man who does all those admirable caricatures in Punch—he is a very pleasant and gentleman-like person.

I don't feel sure whether I told you that I am about shortly to send my "Paris and Juliet" with the "Samson" to America on spec. Mrs. Kemble will do all she can to godmother them; I got a very kind letter from her from Boston the other day—she has asked me to send her a little sketch of Westbury with the pictures—of course I shall.

Revere House, Boston,
Friday, December 9, 1861.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—It was very kind and amiable of you to write to me of Westbury and my sister; you cannot imagine the forlornness one feels when, to the loss of the sight of those one loves, is added that bitter silence which leaves one almost ignorant, as death does, of all the conditions in which our friends remain. God knows, written words are a poor substitute for the sound of a voice and the look of living eyes; still, when they are all that can reach us of those towards whom our hearts yearn, it is miserable not to be able to obtain them. The friends with whom I constantly correspond see and know little or nothing of her, and so no one of them can in any degree supply me with the news that I most desire from across the sea—how it is faring with my sister; so I am very grateful to you for your intelligence, which was just what I would give anything for (though not in itself, perhaps, very satisfactory) out here, where I think you have none of you an idea how banished I feel. Now, [69]my dear Mr. Leighton, to your business, about which I began my inquiries almost immediately after my return to this country, but only received the last of these communications last night, and you perceive the other was incomplete without it. You must command me entirely in any and every thing that I can do to forward your aims, and I will promise to be severe in my obedience to any instructions you may like to give me. New York is undoubtedly a better market for pictures, and therefore a better place to exhibit them than this, but I do not know anybody whom I trust there. Mr. Ordway, however, seems inclined to take charge of your pictures if they are exhibited there.

Good-bye. Do not fail to employ me in this matter to the fullest extent that I can be of the least use to you; it will be a great pleasure to me to help you in any way that I possibly can.—Yours very truly,

Fanny Kemble.

I wish you would send me out some sketch of Westbury with your pictures, if they come. I wish for one very much. I wish you could see the world here just now—a sky as pure and brilliant as it is possible to conceive, and every bough, branch, blade of grass and withered leaf coated with clear crystal and blazing with prismatic colours. There are, every now and then, sentiments in this sky that I have seen in none other. There are certain points of view in which Boston, rising beyond broad sheets of water that repeat them still more tenderly, seems to me worthy of a great painter. But do not come out and try unless you are quite sure of going back, or you will break your heart.

Revere House, Boston,
Friday, February 7.

I feel terrified, when you speak of my determining what is to be done with your pictures when they arrive in Boston, for assuredly I am utterly incompetent to any such decision, and can only refer myself to the judgment of my friend Mr. Cabot, who will certainly advise for the best in the matter, but who, nevertheless, is not infallible. I should think it rather late in the season for exhibiting them here, but again would not take upon myself to say. I do not know what the percentage on sale here is, but presume it is not higher than in London. But here people [70]exhibit their pictures at a shilling a head, i.e. put them in a room hung round with black calico, light up a flare of gas above them, and take a quarter of a dollar from every sinner who sees them. Two of Churche's pictures (he is a great American artist, though you may never have heard of him) have been, or rather are, at this moment so exhibiting—his "Falls of Niagara," and a very beautiful landscape called the "Heart of the Andes." Both these pictures were exhibited in London, I know not with what success; they have both considerable merit, but the latter I admire extremely. Page had a "Venus" here the other day, exhibited by gas-light in a black room; but indeed, dear Mr. Leighton, it sometimes seems to me as if you never could imagine or would consent to the gross charlatanry which is practised—how necessarily I do not know—here about all such matters. Certainly your gold medal should be trumpeted—and your profession of art and your confession of faith, and anything most private and particular that you would not wish known, had better be published in several versions in all the newspapers of the United States. Your pictures must be placarded over all the walls in all the sizes of type conceivable, and all the colours of the rainbow. If you will write me your personal history, and rampant puffs of your own performances, I will copy them and send them to those sources of public instruction, the enlightened public press. Moreover, I will go and sit before them daily and utter exclamations of admiration on every note in my voice, and if anything else remains to be done I will do it; but you must not make me in any way responsible for the result, because it is not in the least likely that you will write yourself up to the mark of puffing as practised here. Basta—I will take the very best advice and do the very best I can about the pictures, and rejoice in my heart to see them myself, that I can assuredly promise you. By-the-bye, I gave your address only a few days ago, to be sent to a person now in Europe negotiating with French and English artists for pictures to exhibit. I wonder if he will find you and enlighten your mind about art in America. Thank you for the account of Westbury and its Christmas festivities, and thank you, thank you for the sketch of the home you are so very kind as to promise me; it will be a blessed treasure to see, for you cannot conceive the [71]dreary heart-sickness that utterly overcomes me here sometimes. To-day I was singing the quartette in "Faust" that we used to sing, and was obliged to stop for crying. I wished extremely to have a photograph of the house, and, if I could only have afforded it, should have asked you to sell me every sketch you took about the place. The skies here are beautiful, wonderful in their transparent purity. They seem to me of a different texture from any other I ever saw, more diaphanous, and there is a colour in them when they are quite free from clouds that surpasses in delicacy all other skies I have seen. It is like the complexion of the young girls here, a miracle of evanescent brilliant softness. My winter is wearing along pretty tolerably. My Christmas was passed entirely alone, but I am quite used to that. I am beginning to be much occupied about the plans and drawings for a house, which I am thinking of building on some land I own in Massachusetts. It is a great undertaking, and really at fifty years old seems hardly worth while, and yet, till I am ready for my coffin, I must have some place in which to rest my head. Perhaps some fine day—who knows?—you will come to see me there. That would be a very pretty plot, and I think I need not say how welcome you would be, dear Mr. Leighton, to yours very truly,

Fanny Kemble.

Lenox, Tuesday.

A thousand thanks, my dear Mr. Leighton, for the minute account of Westbury—as I cannot know anything about my sister, it is something to know how her house is settled and decorated, and how the place where she lives looks. The red velvet drawing-room sounds gorgeous, and it must be very becoming to the pictures. Of your pictures that have "wandered west" you may be sure I should have written you, if I had had the good news to give you that either of them was sold, but I am sorry to say this is not the case. The New York Exhibition is now closed, and the pictures have been sent back to Boston, where they are at present hanging in the Athenæum under the care of Mr. Ordway, who wishes, but does not much hope, to be able to sell them. It seems that one or two people asked the price of the pictures in New York, but considered it, when they received the information, [72]"rather a tall price." I am a little consoled at the ill success of this venture of yours, by Henry Greville's writing me that your hands are full of orders, for which you are to be well paid. Your small acquaintance, Fanny, who left me this morning after a visit of a month, propounded to me the expediency of desiring the purchaser of the reconciliation of old Capulet and Montague to buy as its pendant the "Paris and Juliet"; and though she has no personal acquaintance with the lover of art in question, she said, when she got to Philadelphia she should set about intriguing to that effect; and she had my full permission to try and to succeed. I wish I could tell you anything pleasant in return for your description of the rooms at Westbury, but I have nothing very cheerful to impart. I have been quite unwell, and am still very far from flourishing; my spirits are much depressed, and the life I lead, of incessant worry and discomfort with servants and all one's domestic arrangements, is something quite too tedious to relate—and that indeed it would be impossible to realise, as the Yankees say, unless you witnessed it. I saw Hetty Hosmer three days after her arrival in Boston. Her father is a hopeless invalid, and she will certainly not leave him while he lives; but I suspect that he is likely to die before this year ends, and then she will return to live in Italy. The State of Missouri has voted two thousand pounds for a statue of Colonel Benton, one of its "great men," to be erected by her, which, of course, is a whole plume of feathers in her cap.

Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; believe me always yours most truly,

Fanny Kemble.

You must not fail to write to me any directions that you wish observed about your pictures, while they remain here. I am only too glad to try to serve you.

Lenox, Berkshire, Massachusetts,
Monday, March 12.

Pictures of very high pretensions are exhibited, like the scenes in a theatre, by gas-light, and advertised in coloured posters all over the streets like theatrical exhibitions. However, it is no use vexing your soul with what neither of us can help. I cannot and will not accept the responsibility of disposing of your pictures; but I will [73]get the best advice I can about them and follow it, and spare no personal pains to have them advantageously dealt with; only, I hope it will not be very long before they arrive, because my own stay in Boston is now drawing to a close, and after the end of the present month I shall be at Lenox, a remote village in a lonely hill district one hundred miles from Boston, or rather I should say seven hours distant from the nearest railroad station, which is six miles away again from Lenox. When once I come here—for I write at this moment from this snowy wilderness—it will be to remain for the next nine or ten months, so you see I must make all arrangements about your pictures before taking my leave of civilised communities. I came up to this place from Boston yesterday to look at a house that I think of hiring for a year, and shall return to the city next week. I have left your pictures (should they arrive during my absence) to the charge of a friend of mine who is one of the directors of the Athenæum, and will see that they are properly received. Thank you a thousand times for the promised likeness of Westbury, which will be a treasure to me. What a contrast is my recollection of that charming place, to the abomination of desolation of the dreary savage winter landscape of low black hills, bristling with wintry woods and wide, bare, snow-covered valleys, that stretch before me here at this moment. I am well, but much worn out with my last course of public readings, which I had just ended in Boston. My daughters are well, and write to me tolerably frequently; the eldest seems happy and contented in her marriage; your small acquaintance, Fanny, writes to me from Savannah of sitting with the doors and windows wide open, and wiping the perspiration from her face in the meantime; and here everything is buried in snow. I shall wait till I return to Boston to finish this, as I shall hope to send you then news of the arrival of your pictures.

Wednesday, March 14.

Your pictures are arrived, my dear Mr. Leighton; they reached Boston last week while I was absent at Lenox. I only returned yesterday evening, and found a letter from Mr. Cabot announcing that they were at the Athenæum; thither I went this morning, and spent a most delightful half-hour in looking at them. I like the [74]"Samson" very much indeed; I think it is beautiful, and am charmed with the treatment of the subject, though you have chosen a different moment for illustration from the one I had imagined. This evening I have been having a long conversation with Mr. Ordway about the future destinations of the pictures. I am little sanguine, I regret to say, about their being bought here, for the only rich picture purchaser that I know here has a predilection for French works of art, small tableaux de genre, and Troyon's landscapes. However, it must be tried. Mr. Ordway says he will exhibit your pictures in the Athenæum, which (should they be sold while there) will save you your commission, because, being an artist himself, he will not charge you any. If after due experiment they do not seem likely to sell here, we will send them to New York, and then to Philadelphia; in short, the best that can be done for them shall, as far as my agency is concerned, you may be sure.

Boston, Thursday, March 15.

I have this moment received your letter of the 25th February, for which I thank you very much. It does not require any further answer with regard to your pictures, of the safe arrival of which I wrote you word last night. I did not tell you, by-the-bye, that they are both slightly streaked across from side to side with what Mr. Ordway thinks must have been small infiltrations of sea-water; he says the pictures are not injured by them, nor do they indeed appear to be so in the least, and that he can wipe off the stains with no damage whatever to them. Thank you for all you tell me of my sister; it is not much, indeed, nor very cheerful, but it is more than reaches me through any other channel, and far better than the miserable conjectures of absolute ignorance. Dear Mr. Leighton, thank you a thousand times for the portrait of Westbury—it is exactly what I wished for—but, oh, why could there not be the lovely upland beyond, and the sheep slowly rolling up and down the slopes, and the tinkle of the bell, and you and she and they and all of us. Oh dear, if you could conceive what it is to me to be here, you would know a thousand times better than I can tell you how precious such a memento of there is to me. Thank you, too, for the good inspiration of telling me about the change of place of the pictures at Westbury; it is wonderful how much one small [75]particular has power to bring the whole of what surrounds it, back to the mind, and what vividness it gives to the picture that, in spite of the distinctness with which it was stamped upon the memory, becomes so soon, and yet so unconsciously, obliterated in the minor parts that give it charm and vitality. I spent a long hour to-day again looking at your pictures and wishing most heartily that I could afford to buy them both. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; I shall leave this open till to-morrow, in case I should hear anything more about them before I go. I enclose the receipts for what I have paid. I suppose it is all right, but it seems a most monstrous price for mere conveyance, and indeed reminds us that our humorous forefathers called stealing conveying.

Lenox, Berkshire, Massachusetts,
Friday, April 27.

Your pictures are at present in the New York Exhibition. Mr. Ordway tells me that it is extremely rare for pictures to sell without the intervention of dealers. In this country they cry down and undervalue all pictures that are not expressly committed to them, and the ignorance of the rich shopkeepers who purchase works of Art, is so excessive that they do not feel safe in making any acquisition without the advice and permission of some charlatan of a dealer, to whom these wiseacres come saying (verbatim, so Mr. Ordway informed me), "I want some pictures; can't you recommend any to me?" and then, of course, the picture-dealer recommends what brings him the highest percentage; and the man who buys pictures exactly like looking-glasses, window-curtains, or any other furniture for a new house, departs satisfied that he possesses a work of Art. The things that are bought and sold here in the shape of pictures, and the things that are said about them, vous feraient pouffer de rire, if you did not live in this country. If you did, they would be like many other proofs of the semi-civilisation of the people, that would be rather doleful than otherwise to you. Thank you for all you tell about my sister and her children. I feel very much both for my sister and Anne in their separation. I have just parted with my maid Marie, who has lived with me fifteen years, and who leaves me now because her health is so much broken down that her physician tells [76]her, she must go to some other climate or she will die. So she is gone, and here I remain absolutely alone, looking, not for the "wrath to come," but what may be supposed no bad instalment of it—the advent of four new servants with whom I am to begin housekeeping in my small cottage next week. Just before leaving Boston I saw Hetty Hosmer. She has come home to her poor old paralytic father, who, I suppose, is not likely to live very long. Whenever the event of his death happens, Hetty will gather up her substance, and depart hence for the rest of her natural or artistic life. She is very little changed in appearance, and only a little in manner. She seemed very glad to see me, and so was I to see her, for she represented to my memory a whole world of things and places and people that I am fond of. I have not seen Lord Lyon, and do not expect to do so, as I understand he does not mean to stir from Washington all the summer, and thither I shall assuredly not go, though I would go a good way to see him. I'm told he lives in dread of being married by some fair American, and it is not always a thing that a man can escape; but he is too good for that, and I trust will not succumb to these intrepid little flirts. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; I have a settled nostalgia, which is the saddest thing in the world. Your sketch of Westbury is always before me, and your letters are the most kindly return you could possibly make, for any service that you could require of me. I wish with all my heart I might have the great pleasure of writing you, now that one of your pictures was sold.

Addio.

Lenox, Friday, June 7.

Thank you, dear Frederic Leighton, for your letter and the photographs, by means of which, and your description, I have a sort of vision (not quite what the Yankees call a "realising sense") of your pictures. The girl at the fountain is charming,[20] the other beautiful and terrible, as it should be.[21] I can well imagine the beautiful effect the sentiment of the picture must receive from that regretful return, as it were, of the daylight that has set upon the poor people for ever. In the English newspapers that are sent to me I looked eagerly among the notices [77]of the Exhibition for your name, and read the meagre little bit allotted to each picture. I was especially delighted with the critic who thinks your "Paolo and Francesca" too earthly in the intensity of their passions. The gentleman apparently forgets that it was not in Heaven that Dante met these poor things. With regard to your other pictures, dear Mr. Leighton, I think you are right to withdraw them from America. I wish with all my heart that I could have presented myself with one of those pictures; however, that is one of the vainest of all human desires. My income is already docked of two hundred pounds this year by the disastrous state of public affairs; but, of course, if one is in the midst of a falling house, one can hardly hope to avoid bruises and broken bones. The attitude of England is highly unsatisfactory to the North, who now choose to consider the whole action of the Government a crusade against slavery—which it is not, and was not, and will not be except in the New England state where the Abolitionist party has always been strongest, and where the character of the people is more of the nature to make fighters for abstract principles. The Southerners hate the Yankees, and vice versâ, for this very reason; and if the crisis comes really to anything like fighting, the New England, especially the Massachusetts men, will probably fight very maliciously as against slaveholders, and the slaveholders against them as Abolitionists, which they now are, pretty much to a man. A huge volunteer force is levying and being prepared for action; but in spite of the very unanimous feeling of the North and North-West, and the warlike attitude of the South, I shall not believe in anything deserving the name of war till I see it. The South is without resources that can avail for a six months' struggle. The North has a huge, unarmed, undisciplined force of men at its command; but the Southerners do not want to fight, and neither do the Northerners; but if any combination of circumstances (and of course matters cannot stand still, especially with the border states all au pied en l'air) should occasion any collision accompanied with considerable effusions of blood, I believe the North would pour itself upon the Southern States and annihilate the secessionist party. It is extremely difficult to foresee the probable course of events, but I believe eventually the Southern States will be obliged to return to their allegiance, [78]and then I believe the North will, once for all, legislate for the future limiting of the curse of slavery to those states where it now exists, and where, of course, under such circumstances, it would very soon cease to exist, as if it cannot extend itself it must die. In one sense slavery is undoubtedly the cause of the present disastrous crisis—and in the profoundest sense, for the character of the Southerners is the immediate result of these infernal "institutions"; and but for Southern slavery Southern "Chivalry," that arrogant, insolent, ignorant, ferocious and lawless race of men, would never have existed.

Oh, how thankful I shall be to be at home once more! Farewell, dear Mr. Leighton; pray, if there is anything special to be done about your pictures, write to me and let me have the pleasure of doing something for you. Oh, I am so enraged that I could not get them sold; and yet though you may not think it, I should have thought it a pity for them to have to live the rest of their lives here. Thank you again for the photographs; I look at them constantly. All such things are like being lifted into another atmosphere from that which surrounds and stifles one here. Believe me always your obliged and sincere friend,

Fanny Kemble.

Emil Devrient's was the best Hamlet I ever saw. It would not have been if my father's had not been too smooth and harmonious. I hope I shall see Fechter's.

Lenox, Thursday, October 11.

How good an inspiration it was that made you send that beautiful photograph to me! It came to me really like a special providence, on the day when I had parted from my children for an indefinite time, and with more than usual sadness and anxiety; for my eldest child's health has failed completely since her confinement, and she came to me for a visit of ten days only, looking like the doomed, wan image of some woman whose enemies were wasting her by witchcraft. My small comfortless home was intolerably lonely to me, and towards sunset I went out to find some fortitude under the open sky. I wandered into a copse of beech trees that clothe the steep sides of a miniature ravine with a brook at the bottom, and here gathered a handful of the beautiful [79]blue fringed gentian (do you know that exquisite flower that grows wild in the woods here?). The little glen with its clusters of mysterious blue blossoms was all but dark, but, emerging from it, I stood where I saw a wide valley flooded with the evening light, and hills beyond rising in waves of amber and smoke colour and dark purple; it was so beautiful that it cannot be imagined. The autumn has turned all the trees into gold and jewels, like the enchanted growth of fairy-land, and the whole world, as I saw it from the entrance of that shadowy dell, looked as if it was made of precious metals and precious stones. I was very sad, and stood thinking of our Saviour and the widow of Nain, and how pitiful He was to sorrowful human creatures, and with some sparks of comfort in my heart I returned home, where I found your letter waiting for me. I have told you all this of my previous state of mind and feeling, because—without knowing that—you could not conceive how like an express message of consolation your work appeared to me. May it be blessed to many hearts for admonition and for consolation as it was to mine, dear Mr. Leighton. It is no wonder that it seemed to me beautiful, and I do not think I shall ever sufficiently disconnect it with this first impression, to be able to judge of its merit as a work of art; it was, as I said before, a special Providence to me. I long to have it framed and hung where I can see it constantly. I have within the last few days moved into a house which I have hired for the next two years. It is all but in the village of Lenox, and yet so situated that it commands from the windows of every room a most beautiful prospect. The whole landscape is a harmonious confusion of small valleys and hills, rolling and falling within and around and beyond each other, like folds of rich and majestic drapery. Oh, what lights and shadows roam and rest over these hill-sides and in the hollows between them! The country is very thickly wooded, and the woods are literally of every colour in the rainbow, all mixed together under a sky, the peculiar characteristic of which is not so much softness or brightness, as a transparent purity that seems as if there was no atmosphere betwixt oneself and the various objects one sees. I expect this would make it difficult to paint these beautiful aspects of nature here; but, oh, how I do wish [80]you could see it, for, in the matter of American autumnal colouring, seeing alone is believing. The house itself is very tolerably comfortable, but hideous to behold both within and without; and I have begun my residence in it under rather depressing circumstances, i.e. without being able to obtain the necessary servants for the decent comfort of my daily existence. Ever since the beginning of May I have been endeavouring, in vain, to procure and keep together a decent household. Not for one single week have I had my proper complement of people in the house, and I have done every species of house-work myself, from cleaning the cellar and kitchen to washing the tea-cups; it is a state of things as incredible as the colour of the autumn woods, and as peculiar, thank God, to America. I am now making my last experiment by trying coloured servants. Their manners and deportment are generally much better than those of either the Irish or American, and they seem capable of personal attachment to their employers, which neither of the other races are. The incessant worry, discomfort, and positive fatigue that I have undergone during the whole summer has completely shaken my nerves, so that I have been in a sort of hysterical condition of constant weeping for some time past. I trust, however, it will not be so wretched now, for I am at any rate close to the village inn, and if I am left without servants, can go there and get some food; it is a state of existence qu'on ne s'imagine pas. You will not wonder, after all this, to hear that I declined a ticket to the Prince's ball at New York, to which the whole population of the United States are struggling to get admittance; but at the best of times "I am not gamesome," and feel as if I had swept my own rooms quite too recently to be fit company for my Queen's son. Thank you, dear Mr. Leighton, for all you tell me about my sister and the children; she never writes, you know, and so I am thirsty all the time for some tidings of her. It is very sad to be so far away and hear so seldom from those one loves. Good-bye, God bless you; and thank you once more for the "Vision." I am sorry I cannot tell you of the sale of either of your pictures; they are in the Boston Athenæum, very safe, and highly ornamental to it, but not, I regret to say, sold. If you wish me to do anything more about them, you must write me [81]your directions, which I will fulfil with every attention and accuracy of which I am capable.

Lenox, Sunday, November 11.

I trust before long you will receive your children safe and sound. I wish the two hundred pounds I have lost this year had been invested in one of those pictures instead of in St. Louis. Thank you for your account of Adelaide and her children; it is not much, but it is all that much better than nothing. The state of the country is very sad, and any probable termination of the war quite out of calculable distance. England, no doubt, will maintain her absolute neutrality in spite of secession, cotton, and anti-slavery sympathies; it is her only part. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton.

I beg you will not scruple to write me now if there is anything more that I can do, either in the matter of the pictures or any other by which I can be of use to you here.

New York,
Sunday, March 10.

I am sure you have not forgotten the charming farmhouse at West Mion, to which you and your sketch-book were the means of introducing us, —— farm: well, his brother is one of the richest shopkeepers in New York—and, upon the strength of my visit to the paternal acres in Hampshire, his wife, a funny little specimen of vivacious vulgarity, called upon me, and I, of course, upon her. I was shown into a drawing-room at least thirty feet long, with two massive white marble chimney-pieces, green silk brocade curtains and furniture to match, magnificent carpets, mirrors, gildings, hideous works in marble on scagliola pillars—in short, the most marvellous palace of shopkeepers' beaux ideaux that you can conceive; through this to a beautifully fitted-up library; through this to a picture gallery, noble seigneur, pensez y bien! Oh, my dear Frederic Leighton, it was enough to make one fall down and foam at the mouth, to see such a hideous collection of daubs and to think of the money hanging on those walls; and then I thought of your pictures, and why the wretched man couldn't have procured them for some of his foolish money; and then I begged your [82]pardon internally for the desecration of imagining your pictures in such company; and then I gazed amusedly about me, and at length gave tongue: "Mr. ——," said I, "this is a vastly different residence from the old homestead in Hampshire." The worthy man could not see in my heart which way the balance of preference inclined, and answered with benignant self-satisfaction: "Ah, well, you see, ma'am, they've been going on there for the last I don't know how many hundred years, just about in the same social position; they haven't a notion of the rapidity of our progress here." I hate to advise you to have your pictures back, for there really does seem to me to be a greedy desire for pictures (I cannot qualify in any other way the taste which covets and buys such things) here; but I suppose pictures, at any rate, must be what these people want, and will not buy dear and good ones, when cheap and nasty do as well. I think, while I am here in New York, I shall take the liberty of making some further inquiry as to whether the great print and picture seller here does not think they could be seen to selling advantage in his shop; in short, it throws me into a melancholy rage to think what pictures are bought while yours are not. The state of this country is curious—strange and deplorable beyond precedent in history, it seems to me; and it is absolutely impossible to foresee to what issue things are tending. The opinions one hears are all coloured by the particular bias of the speaker, and the confusion is so great in the general excitement of sectional partisanship that even one of the members—and a very influential one—of the peace convention sent to Washington for the purpose of proposing terms of conciliation—which should not, however, compromise the Northern principles—said that nothing had been done, that all was "sound and fury, and signifying nothing"—or if anything at present, the confirmed secession of the Southern, the disruption from the North of the Northern slave States, and, not impossibly, civil war. Of course, the more time elapses in palavering before the first fatal blow is struck, the less probability there is of its being struck at all; but, on the other hand, the longer the present state of things continues, the more accustomed people become to the idea of the dismemberment of the Union, and [83]therefore, though the clangour of an appeal to arms diminishes, so I think does the prospect of anything like "making up" the family quarrel—indeed, if it were patched, and soldered to the very best, I do not believe that it will ever "hold water again"; but it is impossible to foresee from day to day what may be the turn of events.

If I live till a year from this summer I will be in England in July, and if I live till the November after that I will be in Rome, and you and Edward and Adelaide have my full permission to come too.

Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton. Your letters are a great comfort as well as pleasure to me; I am extremely obliged to you for them.

I showed my daughter the photograph of your "Vision," and she was enchanted with it. She has not a cultivated or educated taste in matters of art—this country affords no means for such a thing—but she is a person of very fine natural perceptions and great imagination and sensibility, and she was so charmed with it that I hope you will not think it foolish or impertinent in me to tell you of it.

The last political news I have is that the border or Northern slave States will probably not join the cotton states, in which case the latter will, of hard necessity, very soon be compelled to abandon their absurd and infinitely perilous position; but one does not see the end of it all, for if they do come back into the Union, it will be under a burning sense of humiliation which will hardly facilitate their future intercourse with the North, for humiliation and humility are difficult things, and the cotton Lucifer under coercion will not be a pleasant devil to deal with.

Lenox, Saturday, September 7.

You owe me nothing, and you will owe me nothing, dear Mr. Leighton, for expediting your pictures to England. When I wrote to Mr. Ordway about them desiring him to send them back to you, and to let me know the amount of any expenses he incurred in doing so, his reply was that the mere cost of packing and putting them on board ship would not be worth charging you with, and that the possession of your pictures in his gallery was well worth [84]the small outlay of merely despatching them to you. I hope they will reach you safely. I am sorry, sorry they have not remained here; but latterly, as you will easily believe, people's minds have been little inclined to the peaceful arts or any influences of beauty and grace; moreover, the pockets of the wealthiest amateurs are affected, as those of their poorer neighbours are, by the public disasters. My own loss this year is two hundred pounds of my income. What it may be next year, or how far my capital itself is safe, is more than anybody can tell. We are to be taxed moreover beyond all precedent in this country hitherto, and as it is already nearly the dearest place in the world to live in, what with onerous imports and the failure of interest from one's investments it will be simply ruinous. Thank you for all you tell me of my sister and her children. I am beginning to see them again, as the time when I may really hope to do so draws nearer. I am sorry for what you and all my friends tell me about Harry's strong dramatic propensities. Of course, if he is fit for nothing else, or fitter for that than anything else, he had better become an actor, and his being so in England need not prevent his being a worthy fellow and respectable and respected member of society. I am, however, much reconciled to what at first disappointed me extremely—my not being able to bring him out to this country; for if he should eventually take to the stage, here that is simply in most instances equivalent to taking to the gutter. My daughters are both with me just now, and Fanny desires me to remember her very kindly to you. The incidents of the war which reach the other side of the water no doubt strike you as amazing enough; but anything more grotesque than the daily details in the midst of which we live, you cannot conceive. A young gentleman, a friend of ours who has just returned from his share in the campaign in a three months' volunteer regiment (he has entered the regular army, as a very large proportion of the volunteers did as soon as their three months' amateur service expired), described to us a volunteer corps which happened to be encamped in the neighbourhood of his company. He said they were one of the finest bodies of men he ever saw. Lumberers, that is, wood-fellers from the forests of Maine and New Hampshire, perfectly brave and reckless and daring—perfectly undisciplined too, to the tune of replying to their [85]officers when ordered to turn out on guard, "No, I'll be damned if I do," with the most cheerful good humour. Thereupon the discomfited "superior" simply turns to some one else and says, "Oh, well—you're so and so—go." Good-bye; I shall rejoice to see you again, and be once more at home among people who know how to behave themselves.—Believe me, always yours most sincerely,

Fanny Kemble.

I have just returned from a fortnight in Bath, where I have at last finished the Johnnies,[22] I believe, and hope you will like them; they are at all events much improved. I am glad for the poor lad that the corvée of settling is over; he was dying to get back to his work. If zeal and enthusiasm can make an artist, he ought to become one.

I don't attempt to give you home news, as you are amply supplied with that article by Mamma. Everybody here is in great sorrow for the poor Queen. She bears up under her overwhelming grief with admirable fortitude, and expresses her anxious desire to do her duty as he would have wished it, but she speaks of all earthly happiness as at an end. The tender sympathy manifested by the whole nation is touching, but deserved.

Whether there will be war or not, the beginning of the year will show; it is, I think, more than probable; there is no probability of the Americans giving up Mason and Slidell. If we do fight, it will be agreeable to feel that we are supported by the sympathy and approval of all Europe; that we are entirely in the right is universally recognised, even by those who have no love for us. Sooner or later, a war with America was, I fear, unavoidable. There is a limit to what even we can overlook. All this need not prevent your coming to England that I can see; it won't stop the Exhibition, nor make any perceptible [86]difference in anybody's doings, except perhaps the picture buyers.—Your very affect. brother,

Fred.

Sunday, 1862.

Arrived here safe and sound on Thursday night, and began my work on Friday. I am making studies[23] for the "Eastern King" which I shall begin to paint shortly after New Year. I found the frame for the large "Johnny" on my return. It improves the picture very much, and looks very handsome. I also found a letter from Henry Greville waiting for me. He says the Queen bears up admirably, because, she says, he would have wished it, but that she always talks of her earthly career as at an end. The equerries, &c., will remain attached to the court.

1862.

Dear Papa,—I am afraid I don't take exercise very regularly, still, I walk a little nearly every day.

With regard to the volunteering, the zeal for the matter is necessarily not what it was when every third man really expected to be called to defend the country. Nevertheless, the movement is not dead, but has found a level on which I fancy it will remain; the shooting will keep it together a good deal. We (the artists) shall join the great business at Brighton on Easter Monday.

Had I thought you would have taken my remark about the M. Angelo and the Johnnies so much to heart, I should have thought twice before I made it. Against what I said you must set the paragraph in the Athenæum two or three weeks back—my doubt is not whether they will be admired—I think they will be that—my only question is whether they will be cared for. Mrs. Austin admires and likes the M.A. beyond anything, and if she could afford it would, I believe, buy it at once.

[87]You will perhaps be surprised to hear that the pictures from which I expect most are the three which you have not seen—the "Eastern King" and the two others I mentioned in my last. One of them is Pocock's smaller order, a girl with a swan (not with peacocks as the Athen. says)—the other is a kitcat of a girl listening to a shell. Both these are very luminous, and are in that respect the best things I have done.

London, 1862.

Dear Papa,—I think I may confirm the report made to you of the success of my pictures, particularly the "Odalisque" and "Echoes" (by-the-bye, I have just received a letter from somebody who wants to know if they are sold). What the papers say, you have seen. You will be glad to hear that I have received congratulations on all sides, which gives me the idea of being tolerably secure; at all events, I got no such last year, nor indeed at all since the "Cimabue." That two of my pictures should not have been accepted does not indeed surprise me, and least of all would it do so if they were rejected on the score of number, but I have reason to suspect that they were not liked; in fact I know it. I have put my name down as a candidate for associateship.

I don't think I have anything of interest to communicate; nobody has as yet asked the price of the "Eastern King" or the "Michael Angelo." There is no mistake now about what people in this country like to buying point; whether I shall conform to their taste is another question.

Pocock liked the "Michael Ang." much, but did not seem to wish to have it. The same remark applies to the Johnnies.

Millais has been, and liked the yellow woman[24] extremely. I think he liked them all of their kind, but the yellow woman was his favourite by far. Stephens has also seen my pictures. He seemed altogether much pleased, but most especially with the design for the "Eastern King," which is also Fred Cockerell's favourite.

1862.

I have deferred answering your letter till now, that I might be able to inform you definitely of my fate as regards the Royal Academy. I have just been there; I must tell you at once the least pleasant part of my news—they have rejected the large "Johnny" and "Lord Cowper." On the other hand, the other pictures are well hung; two (the "Odalisque" and the yellow woman), very well, being on the line in the East Room. The "Michael Angelo," the "E. King," and the shell girl are just above the line and well seen—the small "Johnny" just below the line. I think the pictures all look well, though not so luminous as in the studio. I am confirmed in my opinion that the Academy Exhibition is a false test of colour; what looks sufficiently silvery there is chalky out of it. The "Odalisque" looks best from general aspects. Lady Cowper wrote me a very nice note about the rejection of her son's portrait, and said she was delighted to get it so soon. I am sorry about the large "Johnny," because my chance of selling it is much diminished.

64 Rutland Gate.

My dear Mr. Leighton,—I do not know how to express my thanks to you. I have this moment come home and found your beautiful drawing, and can hardly hold my pen, I am in such a state of delight at possessing such a reminiscence of my favourite picture. You really do not know what pleasure you have given me, and I think it too kind of you to have parted with this to give to me. One thing you may be quite sure of, that the "Eastern King" will receive the greatest homage to the end of days from his devoted admirer and your sincere friend,

Mary Sartoris.[25]

Past Midnight, Tuesday.

Office of "All the Year Round,"
No. 26 Wellington Street, Strand, London, W.C.,
Thursday, April 9, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—I owe you many thanks for your kind reminder. It would have given me real pleasure to have profited by it had such profit been possible, but a hasty summons to attend upon a sick friend at a distance so threw me out on Friday and Saturday in obliging me to prepare for a rush across the Channel, that I saw no pictures and had no holiday. I was blown back here only last night, and believe that I shall deliver your message to Mrs. Collins to-day; that is to say, I am going home this afternoon and expect to find her there.

When the summer weather comes on, I shall try to persuade you to come and see us on the top of Falstaff's Hill. A hop country is not to be despised by an artist's eyes.—Faithfully yours always,

Charles Dickens.

Gad's Hill Place,
Higham by Rochester, Kent,
Saturday, July 18, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—Shall I confess it? I never went out to breakfast in my life, except once to Rogers'. But what I might have done under this temptation is a question forestalled by my having engaged to go down to Bulwer Lytton's in Hertfordshire on Monday, to stay a few days.—Cordially yours,

Charles Dickens.

Translation.]

Friday, 30th November 1860.

My dear Friend and Master,—Best thanks for your dear letter of the 7th, thanks also especially, because in your kind praise you do not spare criticism also; you could give me no better proof that you still esteem and love your old pupil. I feel the justice of your remarks about the drapery of the Saviour very much, and can only say in my excuse that I have treated this kind of subject very little, for I am only really a profane fellow; but should I at some future time again treat such a theme, I should endeavour to avoid similar faults. I send you this time, for fun, a proof impression of a woodcut after a drawing I made for one of our good monthly periodicals (The Cornhill Magazine). It seems to me to be not bad for wood. It illustrates a poem, and represents Ariadne kneeling on an eminence, looking out for Theseus. This as a preliminary; I hope to send you something in April.

Dearest Mammy,—My wretched picture is causing more delays! I am very sorry to say I shan't be able to get to Bath before Wednesday evening. I am due at Stourhead the 27th; this I cannot defer any more, as I must be on duty with the Rifle Corps at the beginning of September, and can't do all I [92]have to do in less than a week—this will, however, still leave me three weeks, all but two days, at Bath.

I enjoyed myself at Panshanger very much—did I write to tell you who our party was? In case I did not, it was as follows: Henry Greville, Lord and Lady Katherine Valletort, Lord and Lady Spencer, Mrs. Leslie, Lord Listowel, Mr. Clare Vyner, and Mr. E. Lascelles—all young people; so that it was very pleasant.

There are, as you know, most beautiful pictures at Panshanger—a magnificent Vandyke, a splendid Rembrandt, Correggio, Andrea del Sarto, and two beautiful Raphaels.

G. Smith sent me a kind note and a cheque to fill up for drawing in the Cornhill ("Ariadne"). I put ten guineas, telling him that I could not, as a general rule, interrupt my work for that sum, but that I would not take more because the cut had turned out so extremely bad.

I am going to expend the money, adding a few pounds, on a cup, to be shot for in the spring by our Rifle Corps. Arthur Lewis has already given one, and another of our men has promised a second prize to go with my cup. My picture will be finished by the time I go to Bath. My eye is too accustomed to it to know whether it is successful; I shall know better when I return from the country.

I have no news, so good-bye, dear Mammy. Best love to all.—From your very affectionate boy,

Fred.

I go to Windsor (to Miss Thackeray) for two days next week; that also is an old invitation; I have no time for it, but must go. I keep my parties going tolerably, but shall give that up with a few exceptions when I settle here; it makes work impossible from unavoidably late hours, and produces a general deterioration of mind and body, mostly the former; the Hollands I shall always keep up—they are most kind; I dine there frequently and meet interesting and remarkable people.

Copy.]

Dear Mr. Leighton,—The portrait is beautiful, and would satisfy me entirely except for a want of strength about the brow, which I must write of, because I can't trust Robert himself with the message. I think the brow is feeble, less massive than his, [94]with less fulness about the temples. In fact, your temple is hollow, instead of full. Will you look at it by the original? The eyes and mouth are exquisite. Your pencil has the expressiveness of another's brush.

How much I thank you for having put so much of my husband on paper is proved by the very insolence of my criticisms.—Most truly yours,

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

April 1.

Tuesday.

Dear Papa,—Though I am not able, I am sorry to say, to report the sale of any more of my pictures, you will be glad to hear of a commission just given me by G. Smith of the Cornhill which is very acceptable to me. I am to illustrate (by-the-bye this is "strictly confidential") a novel about to appear in the Cornhill from the hand of Adam Bede. It is an Italian story, the scene and period are Florence and the fifteenth century, nothing could "ganter" me better. It is to continue through twelve numbers, in each of which are to be two illustrations.

I am to have for each number £40; for the whole novel, therefore, £480. I have conferred with the authoress to-day, and am to get the first-proof sheets this week. The first number will be published in July. Miss Evans (or Mrs. Lewes) has a very striking countenance. Her face is large, her eyes deep set, her nose aquiline, her mouth large, the under jaw projecting, rather like Charles Quint; her voice and manner are grave, simple, and gentle. There is a curious mixture in her look; she either is or seems very short-sighted. Lewes is clever. Both were extremely polite to me; her I shall like much.

I have no other news; no one asks about my pictures, though their success is decidedly great; hard times! Are you writing to Gussy? if so will you tell her that I mean to give her some lessons with Hallé when she comes to London? she shall have three a week for a month. Tell Lina with my love not to be jealous, it will be her turn next. How is she? and how is Mamma? Give them my best love, and believe me, your affectionate boy,

Fred.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Friday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Thanks for the sight of the Vignettes. They are satisfactory.

Your delicious drawing was with me all day yesterday and made the opera more delightful to me in the evening. I never saw anything comparable to the scene in Nello's shop as an illustration. There could not be a better beginning.

I should very much like to have a little conversation with you, and will arrange to see you at any hour that will best suit you, in the evening if you like, any time after the morning working hours, which last till two o'clock. I know your time is very precious to you just now, but I think we shall both benefit by a little talk together after you have read the second proof.—Yours very truly,

M.E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Wednesday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I feel for you as well as myself in this inevitable difficulty—nay, impossibility of producing perfect correspondence between my intention and the illustrations.

I think your sketch is charming, considered in itself, and I feel now with regret that if we had seen each other and talked a little together after you had read the proof, the only important discrepancy might have been prevented. It is too late for [97]alterations now. If it had not been, I should have wished Bardo's head to be raised with the chin thrust forward a little—the usual attitude of the blind head, I think—and turned a little towards Romola, "as if he were looking at her."

Romola's attitude is perfect, and the composition is altogether such as gives me a very cheering prospect for the future, when we have more time for preparation. Her face and hair, though deliciously beautiful, are not just the thing—how could they be? Do not make yourself uneasy if alteration is impossible, but I meant the hair to fall forward from behind the ears over the neck, and the dress to be without ornament.

I shall inevitably be detestable to you, but believe that I am

(Unfinished)

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Thursday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Unmitigated delight! Nello is better than my Nello. I see the love and care with which the drawings are done.

After I had sent away my yesterday's note, written in such haste that I was afterwards uncomfortable lest I had misrepresented my feelings, the very considerations you suggest had occurred to me and I had talked them over with Mr. Lewes—namely, that the exigencies of your art must forbid perfect correspondence between the text and the illustration; and I came to the conclusion that it was these exigencies which had determined you as to the position of Bardo's head and the fall of Romola's hair. You have given her attitude transcendently well, and the attitude is more important than the mere head-dress. I am glad you chose Nello's shop; it makes so good a variety with Bardo and Romola. In a day or two you will have the second part, and I think you will find there a scene for Tessa "under the Plane Tree." But perhaps we shall see each other before you begin the next drawings.—Ever yours truly,

M.E. Lewes.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Monday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Your letter comforts me particularly. I am so glad to think you find subjects to your mind. I have [98]no especial desire for the view from S. Miniato, and indeed a plan we started in conversation with Mr. Smith this morning, namely, to have moderately sized initial letters—the opening one being an old Florentine in his Lucco and generally the subjects being bits of landscape or Florentine building—seems to do away with any reason for having the landscape to begin with. The idea of having Tessa and the mules, or Nello's sanctum, smiles upon me, so pray feel free to choose the impression that urges itself most strongly. Your observation about the "che, che" is just the aid I besought from you. With that exception, I have confined myself, I believe, to such interjections as I find in the writers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and in them, curiously enough, this exclamation now said to be so constant and "to mean everything" (according to our authority) does not seem to occur.

Thank you. Pray let me have as many criticisms of that kind as you can. I am more gratified, I think, by your liking these opening chapters than I have yet been by anything in these nervous anxious weeks of decision about publication.—Very truly yours,

M.E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Tuesday Evening.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I am enchanted! purely delighted! which shall I begin with, to tell you that I delight in Baby's toes or that exquisite poetry in the scene where Romola is standing? Is it not a pleasant change to have that opening made through the walls of the city, so as to see the sky and the mountains? In the scene with Baldassarre and Tessa, also, the distant view is charming. Tessa and her Babkin are perfect—Baldassarre's is, as you say, an impossible face to draw, but you have seized the framework of the face well, both in this illustration and the previous one.

I want to tell you that a man of some eminence in art was speaking of your drawings to a third person the other day as "remarkable" in a tone of genuine admiration. I don't know whether you care about that, but it is good to know that there is any genuine admiration in one's neighbours.

[99]I am glad to have the drawings left. I shall go now and have a long look at them. The February number will soon be out of my hands, but you will have it when it pleases the pigs—or printers.—Ever yours truly,

M.E. Lewes.

Park Hotel, Little Hampton,
Sussex, September 10, '62.    

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Thanks for your letter, which I have received this morning.

My copy of Vasari has a profile of Piero di Cosimo, but it is of no value, a man with a short beard and eyes nearly closed. The old felt hat on his head has more character in it than the features, but the hat you can't use.

Of Niccolo Caparra it is not likely that any portrait exists, so that you may feel easy in letting your imagination interpret my suggestions in the First and the Fifth Parts of Romola. There is probably a portrait of Piero di Cosimo in the portrait room of Uffizi, but in the absence of any decent catalogue of that collection it was a bewildering and headachy business to assure oneself of the presence or absence of any particular personage.

If you feel any doubt about the new Romola, I think it will be better for you to keep to the original representation, the type given in the first illustration, which some accomplished people told me they thought very charming. It will be much better to continue what is intrinsically pretty than to fail in an effort after something indistinctly seen. If you prefer the action of taking out the crucifix, instead of the merely contemplative attitude, you can choose that with safety. In the scene with Piero di Cosimo, I thought you might make the figures subordinate to those other details which you render so charmingly, and I chose it for that reason.

But I am quite convinced that illustrations can only form a sort of overture to the text. The artist who uses the pencil must otherwise be tormented to misery by the deficiencies or requirements of the one who uses the pen, and the writer, on the other hand, must die of impossible expectations. Apropos of all that, I want to assure you again of what I had said in that letter, which your naughty servant sent down the wind, [100]that I appreciate very highly the advantage of having your hand and mind to work with me rather than those of any other artist of whom I know. Please do not take that as an impertinent expression of opinion, but rather as an honest expression of feeling by which you must interpret any apparent criticism.

The initial letter of the December part will be W. I forgot to tell you how pleased I was with the initial letter of Part V.

I am very much obliged to you for your critical doubts. I will put out the questionable "Ecco!" in deference to your knowledge. I have a tremulous sense of my liability to error in such things.

I don't wonder at your difficulty about the modification of com into ciom. The writers of the fifteenth century, speaking of the insurrection of the Ciompi which occurred in the previous century, say that the word was a corruption of the French compère, the same word of course as compare, constantly on the lips of the numerous French who were present in Florence during the dictatorship of the Duke of Athens. The likelihood of the derivation lies in the analysis of transition in the meaning of words compère and compare, like the English "gossip," beginning with the meaning of godfather and ending with, or rather proceeding to that of companion. Our "gossip" has at least parted with its secondary meaning as well as its primary one.

The unlikelihood of the derivation lies in the modification of the sounds, and I felt that unlikelihood as you have done. But in the absence of a Max Müller to assure me of a law to the contrary, I thought the statement of Tuscan writers a better authority than inferences. I ought to have written "is stated by the old historians."

I am really comforted by the thought that you will mention doubts to me when they occur to you. My misery is the certainty that I must be often in error.

Mr. Lewes shares my admiration of the two last illustrations.—Ever yours truly,

Marian E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Tuesday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Since I saw you I have confirmed by renewed reference my conclusion that gamurra was the equivalent [101]of our gown, i.e. the constant outer garb of femininity, varying in length and cut according to rank and age. The poets and novelists give it alike to the peasant and the "city woman," and speak of the girdle around it. Perhaps it would have been better to call Tessa's gown a gamurrina, the word sometimes used and indicating, I imagine, just that abbreviation of petticoat that active work demands.

If you are going to see Ghirlandajo's frescoes—the engravings of them I mean—in the choir of Santa Maria Novella, I wish you would especially notice if the women in his groups have not that plain piece of opaque drapery over the head which haunts my memory. We were only allowed to see those frescoes once, because of repairs going on; but I am strongly impressed with a belief—which, au reste, may be quite false—in the presence of my "white hood" there. As to the garb of the luxurious classes at that time, a point which may turn up in our progress, I think the painters can hardly be believed to have represented it fully, since we know, on strong evidence, that it ran into extravagances, which are even in contrast with the general impression conveyed not only by the large fresco compositions but by the portraits. You must have had sufficient experience of the eclecticism in costume which the artist's feeling forces upon him in the presence of hideous or extreme fashion. We have in Varchi a sufficiently fit and clear description of the ordinary male costume of dignified Florentines in my time; but for the corresponding feminine costume the best authority I have seen is the very incomplete one of a certain Ginevra's trousseau in the Ricordi of the Rinuccini family of rather an earlier period, but marking even there the rage for embroidery and pearls which grew instead of diminishing.

I imagine that the woman's berretta, frequently of velvet embroidered with pearls, and apparently almost as prevalent as our bonnet, must have been that close-fitting cap, square at the ears, of which we spoke yesterday. I trouble you with this note—which pray do not think it necessary to answer—in order to indicate to you the very slight satisfaction my anxiety on this subject can meet with, and the obligation I shall be under to you if you will ever give me a positive or negative hint or correction.

Approximative truth is the only truth attainable, but at least [102]one must strive for that, and not wade off into arbitrary falsehood.—Ever, dear Mr. Leighton, yours very truly,

Marian E. Lewes.

Trinity House, E.C.

My dear Sir,—If I send this to the author of a lovely illustration to a lovely poem, it is not for its worth, but to give me an excuse for saying that I go out of town for a month next Wednesday, and hope that I may call on you on my return, perhaps get leave to show you over Loughton Woods in the autumn.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours truly,

Robin Allen.

F. Leighton, Esq.

Commencement of letter missing.]

1862.

I have a fit of the blues instead.

I hope for the sake of my pictures that I shall soon get over them (the blues, not the pictures). I believe if I could find models I should recover at once; but I foresee that I shall have no such luck.

I had a delightful time at Compiègne—the place is charming, the house comfortable in the extreme, and the life the perfection of unconstraint (if that is English); I have told you already how hospitable and kind my host and hostess were. I have, of course, no news to give you yet, except, by-the-bye, that the bailiffs were in the house the other day because Mr. and Mrs. Gedy had not paid £3, 5s. 6d. taxes; they stayed two days in the house, and if the money had not come, would have walked off with some of my furniture. I wish I had a house; they are beginning a house on Campden Hill, and would build it for an artist after his own designs.

"Those who knew Lord Leighton require no record of his kindness and unselfishness. For those who had not that privilege the following little anecdote may be interesting. In the late autumn of 1863 we were all staying with my sister-in-law, the Marquise de l'Aigle, at Francport, near Compiègne. Mrs. Sartoris was also there and Mr. Leighton. There was to be a service on the Sunday in a little neighbouring village church for some children who had made their first communion, and it occurred to Mme. de l'Aigle to have some special music on the occasion, and profit by the glorious voice of Mrs. Sartoris, who kindly offered to sing. Mr. Leighton also volunteered to take the tenor part in various sacred pieces. We were all to help in the concerted music, and the old curé was in the seventh heaven of delight at the prospect of such a grand service. Our dismay can be imagined when three days before the service Mr. Leighton announced that he must leave us as business required his presence in London. 'Oh!' we all exclaimed, 'what shall we do? the tenor pieces must be given up; the curé will die of grief,' &c. ... 'No, no,' said Mr. L., in his cheery way, 'don't change anything; I shall be back all right on Sunday morning in time to sing;' and so, sure enough, he did return, having travelled two nights to London and back. He never would tell us why he had gone; and it was not till long afterwards that it transpired that he had made the hurried double journey to help a struggling artist, whose work he wished to bring forward and introduce to some influential person. He attained his object, and thought nothing of the time and trouble involved, only glad to have been a help to one who needed assistance, and also to keep his promise by singing in the little village church."

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater.

My Very Dear Friend,—When I last wrote I asked you when the German exhibition of which you spoke was to take place, and whether it was to be held in Cologne itself; but as I received no answer I supposed that this exhibition either had not come to anything (as I have seen nothing about it in the newspapers), or that it did not seem sufficiently important to you for me to go specially to Germany for it. Nevertheless, I would have gone to Cologne, if it had been in any way feasible, exclusively on account of you and your works, which I am very anxious to see; unfortunately, however, I could not arrange it, and must content myself with learning from a letter (if you will write me one) how your work succeeds, and how far you have got with it. Two walls are already finished, are they not?

As for myself, I am fairly industrious. Amongst other things, I am painting at present the composition which you have already seen, of Michael Angelo and his old servant Urbino. I have endeavoured to keep the action of the figures simpler and smoother than in the first sketch; and, in fact, I think the picture will please you better than the drawing. For the rest, I am sick of painting small pictures, and would like to undertake something large; but it is not very agreeable to paint pictures which will probably remain always hanging round one's neck.

I think I shall very soon test the public again in this respect—but what I shall paint I do not know. A friend of mine (Mr. Gambier Parry), a great art devotee and first-rate amateur, has discovered a medium to replace fresco painting in our damp climate. I have seen his experiments, and have [106]myself painted a head under his rules,[28] and to my complete satisfaction. The result is scarcely to be distinguished from fresco, and is quite as easy, indeed even easier to achieve. At the same time this method has advantages which buon fresco does not possess; it dries exactly as one lays it on (and is then flat), it has no deposit (Ansätze), and one can go over it as often as one likes. The wall (a granular lime wall) is saturated with the same preparation as you paint with. This preparation, which is stone hard against water, can always dissolve itself with moisture, so that one can retouch it perpetually, at the same time the whole of one's palette is available. My friend is going to publish his system; I will then, if you like, tell you exactly about it.

And now, farewell, dear Master. Remember me most kindly to your wife and children, and keep in remembrance your friend and pupil,

Fred Leighton.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
April 22, 1862.

My very dear Friend,—When I last wrote to you, I promised and hoped that this time I should be able to send you some photographs of my latest works, but unfortunately at the last moment time ran short. My pictures are only just ready for exhibition, and I must send them off unphotographed. In order that you may not think I have been idle, I write these lines; also because I am unwilling, my dear Master, to fade entirely from your memory. I am exhibiting eight pictures this year, an unusually large number. But the case is not so bad as it looks at the first glance. Two only of these pictures are important in size and subject. One of them you already know from a former composition. It represents Michael Angelo with his dying servant Urbino. In the principal idea I have not deviated much from the first sketch, but have endeavoured to treat the whole with more unity and the details with more [107]simplicity than in the drawing which you saw, and the faults of which you pointed out to me. This picture is life-size, and extends down to the knees.

The other is of a somewhat fanciful description. I have imagined one of the three holy kings, when he sees the Star in the East from the battlements of his palace. The picture is curious and open to much fault-finding, but I think it will please you by a certain poetry in the conception. The shape is long and narrow. The king, half life-size, almost turns his back upon the spectator, and is, in the midst of the dark night, only lit by the mystic rays of the Star. In contrast to this pure light one sees, quite at the bottom, through an arch, into the hot lamp-light, which illuminates a gay orgy. I have allowed myself a certain amount of pictorial licence, which may well surprise the general spectator at first glance, but which to me heightens the poetical impression of the whole.

Five other pictures are smaller, and three of the subjects are idyllic or fanciful (e.g. a shepherd playing on a flute, an Oriental girl with a swan, &c. &c.), all carried out with great love, and certainly my best works.

At present I am busy making studies for a large wall painting (the "Wise and Foolish Virgins"), which I am giving to a church. I shall execute it this summer, and tell you more about it.

Now, my dear Friend, I have given you a long and full report of myself; I hope you also will tell me what you are doing. I am very anxious to know how the Cologne frescoes get on. How I should like to see them! Perhaps I may manage it this autumn. In the meantime, however, write to me, and believe me to be, your devoted pupil,

Fred Leighton.

April 1863, Saturday.

Dearest Mamma,—You have seen in the papers that the Review at Brighton went off capitally. I enjoyed my day very much, and though I was a little tired and very sleepy for two days after, was altogether the better for it. It was a stiff day's work too—nine or ten hours without sitting down, and with the additional responsibility of having the command of the Artists' Company. I was sure you would be pleased at the reception of my [108]"Fruit Girl"[29] by my brother artists—you must understand, though, that this applies chiefly to the younger men (and not to all of them), for there are several of the older painters who strongly object to my style of painting and are bent on suppressing it.

Will you thank Papa for his hint about the Athenæum—I am pretty sure he is mistaken about it, but I shall take measures about it—indeed I have.

I spoke to Charles Greville (Henry's brother) and told him I thought I should be coming on before very long; he very kindly overhauled the lists and said he thought I might be up by the end of the summer, and, what was still more kind, seeing me unseconded, he put his name down as seconder.

Forest Bank, Lyndhurst,
Thursday, August 6, 1863.

If I was not more explicit about being with Aïdé, it was because I made sure you knew it. You will be pleased to hear that when after many péripéties I did begin my fresco I got on capitally; I have now finished the task for this year, having painted three life-size figures, with a good bit of background, in four days. I worked hard for it, and am rather tired—head and eyes; otherwise flourishing.

I am delighted with my new fresco material (Parry's)—the effect is excellent—nearly as fine as real fresco. Everybody seems much pleased with what I have done, particularly the parson. I like it myself; I enjoy working at it immensely; it is my real element. I find it (for mere manipulation bien entendu) absurdly easy.

Highnam, Gloucester,
August 3, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—In reply to your last note about the use of the wall itself rather than of canvas, there can be no doubt on the subject, if only the plaster is good and well put on. You speak of two or three months to get it dry. I assure you that that is not near enough. When the surface feels dry to your hand you must not suppose that it is all dry inside, and if the wall is new, I doubt [109]a year being enough to dry it. The water must evaporate somewhere—it is drawn to the surface of interiors because they are the warmest.

You ask whether the rough cast on the wall must be scraped off before you wash the wall for painting. If by the rough cast you mean rough plaster, which is a totally different thing to rough cast, certainly use it as it is. The coarser the plaster the better, because it is all the more porous, so long only that it is of the best materials (viz. perfectly washed sand, and good lime), and well put on a good wall. Nothing in the world could equal it for painting upon, except a surface of coarse clean Bath stone, with all its pores open. If you have such plaster as I have just described, and both it and the wall thoroughly dry, nothing could be better. The smooth surface, with what granulated texture you please, can be got according to the directions in my paper—viz. after two or three washes of pure diluted medium, give another or two more of the same, with dry whiting and a little white-lead, then go ahead while it is all fresh, viz. two or three days after the process of preparation has been completed.

Take care in painting not to rub it up too much, for fear of drawing up the glossy resins to the surface away from the wax. Paint right into your prepared surface solidly and with decision in the way of fresco painting, not as oil. Keep the brush clean, and the volatile oil in the dipper clean, and then, oh! how shall I envy you your power to use them all![30]

At the Ely ceiling, which is of hard wood not porous, but prepared with three coats of oil white-lead, I am painting with

[110]well shaken up every time it is used. The colours are all ground up in it, and then painting is done as in water-colour, using pure spirits of turpentine as a vehicle. Colours dry extremely rapidly and with a dead surface. The stuff looks horribly black, but the colours are not materially affected by it. Of course it is not to be compared with my former medium, because there is that bane of the palette oil in it, but I used it because of its great facility (used transparent like water-colour on a white ground), and because the surface was hard, so that wax might (in great heat) shrink or play tricks on it, as it has done in Murillo's pictures and many others.—Ever most sincerely yours,

T. Gambier Parry.

If I can do anything for you, command me; we go to Scotland on the 14th.

London, April 26, 1863.

Dearest Mamma,—You were no doubt surprised to see a sock arrive in Bath in solitary grandeur, unaccompanied by any sort of note. The fact is, for some days past I have been working at a rate which made me altogether unfit for correspondence. I have just returned from Lyndhurst, where I have been doing a bit more fresco—and very stiff work it was—up and at work at seven, and at it best part of the day, perched generally on an uncomfortably narrow ladder, and with my head almost blown off by the agreeable but overpowering smell of the vehicle with which I painted. The result is as far as it goes tolerably satisfactory—everybody there is delighted, and though that, of course, does not prove much, it is at all events agreeable to me that they derive so much pleasure from my work. The stained-glass window, too, which has been executed at my desire from Jones' designs, gives great satisfaction—is a lovely piece of colour, and (which was, to me, of paramount importance) does not hurt my fresco, though, of course, in the nature of things, it outshines tenfold in point of brilliancy; hence the folly, to my mind, of ever putting glass and wall painting in immediate juxtaposition. I shall go and paint another slice in June, after which Aïdé leaves, so I may not be able to finish my work till he returns in autumn. On my road to Lyndhurst, I paid a [111]visit to Lady Dorothy Neville (Lady Pollington's sister) at Dangstein—a very beautiful place near Petersfield.

On Monday week the Royal Academy opens—I shall be curious to see what pictures they have taken; my work at present will be a woodcut for Dalziel—then that for the Cornhill—then a drawing for Cundall's Bible—Mrs. Magniac's portrait—the cartoon for the remainder of the Lyndhurst fresco—then perhaps a new picture. I wish some one would buy the old ones!

Have you read "Sylvia's Lovers"? Don't read "Salammbo"—it is hideous.

Dearest Mamma,—My chair has arrived safe and sound; once more, my very best thanks for it.

Aïdé is one of the most excellent men that ever lived—I like him extremely.

By-the-bye, I am made one of the ensigns in our Rifle Corps, so that when you come to town you have a chance of seeing me strutting about with a sword.

I write in haste. Good-bye, best love to all.—From your very affectionate boy,

Fred.

Translation.]

3rd December.

My dear Friend,—Just now returned from a long journey (to Constantinople and Athens), I find two very welcome letters from you, by which I see with great pleasure that your old pupil may still reckon upon your invaluable friendship and sympathy, and I see it all the more certainly because you enclose a kind but pertinent criticism of the photographs I sent you.[31] I agree entirely, and can only pretend in my defence that it was difficult, with the long space (all having to be filled) and the altar standing in the middle of it, not to fall into rather a panic. That, after all, is but a lame excuse, and I hope that you will always rap me over the knuckles with the same friendly sincerity.

[113]My dear Friend, the idea of appearing as a collaborator beside you, my master, would be in the very highest degree delightful and flattering to me. It is therefore only after mature deliberation, and in the firm confidence that you will at least appreciate the sincerity of your Leighton, that I have to decline with real regret Herr Bruckmann's flattering invitation. You, more than any one else, will agree with me that an artist can execute no first-rate work, indeed dare undertake no work, that is not a genuine expression alike of his feelings and his convictions. I must candidly confess I cannot agree about a complete illustration of the Shakespearian plays, those masterpieces already in existence as exhaustively finished works of art; it seems to me that in literature only those subjects lend themselves to pictorial representation which stand in the written word more as suggestion. Subjects perhaps which are provided in the Bible or in mythology and tradition in great variety, or are not already generally in possession of the minds of the spectators of living plays (e.g. the Greek Tragedies). It is for the most part a struggle with the incomparable, already existing complete—which is quite intimidating to my capabilities. Do not take this ill, my dear Friend, and do not consider it too great a presumption that I, your pupil, declare so plainly against you where you think so differently. To go back over one detail, I must also confess that to me a coloured cartoon is not a natural mode of expression; a drawn, or a grey in grey (grau in grau) painted cartoon—well enough. A size five feet high is to me, for a suggestion of colour, at least five times too large; just as little could I give a suggestion of form in this size. Colour is not necessary; but if one should use it in half life-size, it is too noble and poetic, I think, for one to venture, so to speak, to clarify it. Will you forgive me for all this, dear master? However, I shall see with deep interest the progress of the beautiful work which you will certainly execute.

I have heard with some sorrow of the burning of the venerable Dome, and am just writing to Otto Cornhill in respect to a lottery which is to be arranged for the re-erection of the tower.

I have read what you tell me of your dear family with great pleasure; please remember me most kindly to your wife [114]and children; also to my old comrades V. Müller, Wecker, and the rest. I am very glad to hear that G. Wecker, the apostate, has returned to art. He was, undoubtedly still is, a very gifted man, but had to guard somewhat, had he not? against the ornamental.

But my letter is becoming too long.

Farewell, my dear Master; take nothing amiss from your grateful, devoted pupil,

Fred Leighton.

Friday 10, 1864.

Dear Papa,—You will be disappointed, after waiting so long, to receive no paper after all, and a skimpy note instead. I am amused at the studied ill-nature of the Spectator; I wonder who V. is. The author of an article on sensation pictures in the Realm, in which I am flatteringly quoted, is by Mrs. Norton. En somme I think my "Golden Hours" is the most successful of my pictures (perhaps more than anything since "Cimabue") and the "Orpheus" (deservedly) the least. I am about to begin two new pictures. Mrs. Guthrie's portrait—a full length—is postponed for her health till the winter.

1864.

I should not leave the place I am in except to build; a mended house would be most unsatisfactory and temporary. I feel sure I shall nowhere get standing room for a house for less than £28, still less room for a house and large garden. If I find the terms exactly as I expect and my lawyer (Nettleship) satisfied with the title I shall, I think, close the bargain, the more so that another painter (I don't know who) is after it.[32] I am staying for a day or two at Dangstein (Lady Dorothy Neville's). I met here last night Mr. Henry Woolfe, who very kindly offered me introductions to one or two charming Venetian families (Mocenigo) which will be very pleasant for me, as I want to see a Venetian interior. Gambart has paid the £1050 for "Dante." The "Honeymoon" was bought by a Cornhill dealer yclept Moreby.

[115]I will let you know how all goes off on Saturday at the Council, meanwhile best love to Mamma.—From your affectionate son,

Fred.

August 23, 1864.

I found your letter on returning from Lyndhurst this morning. I may as well tell you at once that I have finished my fresco, retouching a great deal of what was already painted, and I think I may add, greatly improving it—so much for that.

With regard to the draft, my assent was only general and preliminary (besides being subject to the approval in the details of my solicitor) and bound me to nothing. My surveyor and solicitor have conferred together and with Lady H.'s agent, and though the agreement is not yet signed, the matter is virtually settled. I have several minor clauses altered which had been inserted originally in the general draft to meet cases different from my own. With regard to the title, I was surprised and vexed to hear that it was stipulated that no title should be called for. My lawyer told me that this was frequently the case—that he would go to Doctors' Commons to see the Will to ascertain the truth of the statement that the property was Lady H.'s in fee simple (as it is). Even this he said did not legally exhaust the matter, as there might be encumbrances not alluded to in the Will. He said, however, that many other leases had been granted on that property on precisely the same terms, that the matter turned on the character of the landlord, and that, en somme, I ran but little risk. Since then I have seen him, and he tells me that he has fortunately been able to ascertain through a very respectable firm of solicitors, who have seen the titles, that it is all right; he has therefore not thought it desirable to put me to the expense of investigating the Will—so far so good. As to the possible expense of the house, my dear Papa, you have taken, I assure you, false alarm. I shall indeed devote more to the architectural part of the building than you would care to do; but in the first place architecture and much ornament are not inseparable, and besides, whatever I do I shall undertake nothing without an estimate.

You need never fear that I shall take otherwise than it is [116]meant the advice that your experience and interest in me suggest to you. You will also, I am sure, allow for the difference of feeling between yourself and an artist who lives by his eyes.

A line will find me at Venice, poste restante, all September. I am just off.

Best love to Mammy.—From your affectionate son,

Fred.

I knew neither Poole nor Jones. Grant said he thought it probable I should be an R.A. before long.

Venice, September 20, '64.

My dear Papa,—Many thanks for your letter, which reached me safely a few days ago. I do indeed contemplate building my house so as to be enlarged at a future day. I find, however, that I shall probably be obliged to build at once rather more than I absolutely require for practical building reasons, but I need not therefore furnish more than I require. About the well I am now entirely in the dark. It would never have occurred to me to ask myself the question, Are there not pipes or something? With regard to the Will, if the perusal of it only cost a guinea, it might have been worth while to look at it, though Palmer and Nettleship thought it superfluous; but then P. and N. tell me it would cost £20! to have it gone over, and as my expenses with Browne (Lady H.'s agent) are already very great—he makes a preposterous charge, which I can't dispute, for the agreement—I don't think I shall care to add to them.

My architect is Aitchison, an old friend.

I wrote to the Academicians (Poole, Grant, and Jones) almost immediately on hearing from them, and expressed a hope, vague but polite, that we might meet on my return. Poole I should like to know; he is a man of poetic mind. I need scarcely tell you that the idea of my being elected President (!!!) for many years to come is simply ludicrous, even if there is a chance of my ever having the offer of that dignity.

[117]I am quite aware that people do talk of it laughingly, but I don't think it goes beyond "chaff" yet. No doubt many other young artists are chaffed in the same way with imaginary dignities. I am delighted that Mamma is better; I should have said this before but that I have answered your letter systematically. I trust the improvement will be lasting.

I congratulate you on Colenso's visit, and shall be very anxious to hear from you how it went off.

As for myself, I am very snugly ensconced in a little mezzanino on the Grand Canal, with a sort of passage which I use as a studio and a bath-room, inasmuch as it opens straight on the water, and enables me to take a very jolly swim every day. I am not attempting a picture, but am making a sketch for one which I shall probably paint on the spot next autumn, staying here a couple of months or so. Meanwhile I have got several heads in hand—studies, not for sale, for use—and a few sketches in Saint Mark's, which I think promise well. Et voilà.

I stay here a fortnight longer, so that a letter written on receipt of this would still catch me; after that Rome is the safest address. I shall be there from the 20th to the 28th of October.

Best love to Mamma, and believe me, your affectionate son,

Fred.

April 29, 1863.

Dear Mammy,—I have just been to the R.A., having been invited to the "Varnishing Day." Four pictures are hung—"Elijah," high, of course, but in a centre place; it looks well, but much darker than in the studio. "Peacock Girl,"[33] very well hung, exactly where "The Vision" was a few years ago; it looks well. "The Crossbowman" and "The Girl with the Fruit"[34] are fairly hung, but look, to me, less well than in the studio. The "Salome"[35] is the one not taken. Altogether I am well treated.

My dear Leighton,—I've only just had time to look in, yesterday, at R. Ac., and your pictures are the only ones that interest me in it; and the two pretty ones, peacocks and basket, interest me much. Ahab I don't much like. You know you, like all people good for anything in this age and country (as far as Palmerston), are still a boy—and a boy can't paint Elijah. But the pretty girls are very nice—very nearly beautiful. I can't say more, can I? If once they were beautiful, they would be immortal too. But if I don't pitch into you when I get hold of you again for not drawing your Canephora's basket as well as her head and hair! You got out of the scrape about the circle of it by saying you wanted it hung out of sight (which I don't). But the meshes are all wrong—inelegantly wrong—which is unpardonable. I believe a Japanese would have done it better. Thanks for nice book on Japan with my name Japanned. It is very nice too. I wish the woodcuts were bigger. I should like it so much better in a little octavo with big woodcuts on every other page. But I never do anything but grumble.—Faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

My dear Leighton,—The public voice respecting the lecture you are calumniously charged with, is as wise as usual. The lecture is an excellent and most interesting one, and I am very sorry it is not yours.

I am also very sorry the basket is yours, in spite of the very pretty theory of accessories. It is proper that an accessory be slightly—sometimes even, in a measure, badly—painted, but not [121]that it should be out of perspective; and in the greatest men, their enjoyment and power animated the very dust under the feet of their figures—much more the baskets on their heads: above all things, what comes near a head should be studied in every line.

There is nothing more notable to my mind in the minor tricks of the great Venetians than the exquisite perspective of bandeaux, braids, garlands, jewels, flowers, or anything else which aids the roundings of their heads.

It is my turn to claim Browning for you, though I know what your morning time is to you. I must have you over here one of these summer mornings, if it be but to look at some dashes in sepia by Reynolds, and a couple of mackerel by Turner—which, being principals instead of accessories, I hope you will permit to be well done, though they're not as pretty as peacocks.

I have been watching the "Romola" plates with interest. The one of the mad old man with dagger seemed to me a marvellous study (of its kind), and I feel the advancing power in all.

Will you tell me any day you could come—any hour—and I'll try for Browning.—Ever faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

I'm always wickeder in the morning than at night, because I'm fresh; so I'll try, this morning, to relieve your mind about the peacocks. To my sorrow, I know more of peacocks than girls, as you know more of girls than peacocks—and I assure you solemnly the fowls are quite as unsatisfactory to me as the girl can possibly be to you; so unsatisfactory, that if I could have painted them as well as you could, and had painted them as ill, I should have painted them out.[36]

Monday.

Dear Leighton,—I saw Browning last night; and he said he couldn't come till Thursday week: but do you think it would put you quite off your work if you came out here early on Friday and I drove you into Kensington as soon as you liked? We have enough to say and look at, surely, for two mornings—one by ourselves?

[122]I want, seriously, for one thing to quit you of one impression respecting me. You are quite right—"ten times right"—in saying I never focus criticism. Was there ever criticism worth adjustment? The light is so ugly, it deserves no lens, and I never use one. But you never, on the other hand, have observed sufficiently that in such rough focussing as I give it, I measure faults not by their greatness, but their avoidableness. A man's great faults are natural to him—inevitable; if very great—undemonstrable, deep in the innermost of things. I never or rarely speak of them. They must be forgiven, or the picture left. But a common fault in perspective is not to be so passed by. You may not tell your friend, but with deepest reserve, your thoughts of the conduct of his life, but you tell him, if he has an ugly coat, to change his tailor, without fear of his answering that you don't focus your criticism. Now it so happens that I am in deep puzzlement and thought about some conditions of your work and its way, which, owing to my ignorance of many things in figure painting, are not likely to come to any good or speakable conclusion. But it would be partly presumptuous and partly vain to talk of these; hence that silence you spoke of when I saw you last. I wish I had kept it all my life, and learned, in place, to do the little I could have done, and enjoy the much I might have enjoyed.—Ever faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

Send me a line saying if you will give me the Friday morning, and fix your own hour for breakfast to be ready; and never mind if you are late, for I can't give you pretty things that spoil for waiting, anyhow.

I had a kind note this morning from Ruskin, in which, after criticising two or three things, he speaks very warmly of other points in my work and of the development of what he calls "enormous power and sense of beauty." I quote this for what it is worth, because I know it will give you pleasure, but I have NOT and never shall have "enormous power," though I [123]have some "sense of beauty." The "Orpheus" and "Golden Hours" are not in the great room but in the next to it. I have not seen Gambart lately, and do not, therefore, know whether he has got rid of any more of my pictures (by-the-bye, I have sent the "duet"—"Johnny"—to America to an Exhibition for the Sanitary Commission, on the request of Mrs. Kemble's daughter). He will, I think, engrave the "Honeymoon," but probably only photograph the others; by-the-bye (again), Mammy, tell Gussy with my love that I shall present her with a copy of each and shall not "think her greedy," having no thoughts for her but affectionate ones. With regard to the money paid me by Gambart, I invested as soon as I got it £1000 in Eastern Counties Railway debentures, at par, 4½ per cent., this on the advance of Coutts' stock clerk. Lord Ashburton's portrait was scarcely begun.[37] I have offered to try to finish tant bien que mal from photographs, and to give it to Lady A. She is very grateful. The child's picture also goes to the wall, as she won't be able to sit for some time, and would then be changed. Lady A. wanted to pay the price of the sketch as it stood; this I of course refused. She has commissioned me to paint her a fancy picture for £300.

Translation.][127]

Frankfurt am Main,
April 30, 1865.

Dearest Friend,—As your last friendly lines of 14th March did not bring your address, I grasp the opportunity offered me by Mr. Tobie André to express to you my heartfelt sympathy on the loss of your dear mother. I remember that you often spoke to me of this mother with true filial affection, and I have secretly blessed you for it; I know now also that you will treasure her memory!—Always, your truly devoted,

Steinle.

"I am sorely perplexed to answer this; I can only approach an answer by a sort of memoria technica. I made studies in Algiers for 'Samson Agonistes'; that will give you roughly the period. This visit made a deep impression on me; I have loved 'the East,' as it is called, ever since. By-the-bye, I drew here my (almost) only large water-colour drawing, 'A Negro Festival' [the picture Leighton alluded to as 'The Niggers'], which was thought very well of by my friends. To Spain (into which I had made a raid of a few days on a previous occasion when visiting the South of France for architecture, to which I am much devoted) I went the year of the cholera. I remember this because I was going to Constantinople, but was dissuaded by a friend there because of the ravages of that epidemic. The following year I did go: Vienna, Danube, Varna, Constantinople, Broussa, Smyrna, Rhodes, Athens (the greatest architectural emotion of my life, by far), &c. This was the year before those poor young Englishmen were murdered on Pentelicus, up which [129]I had been with the same guide. My visit to Egypt, and up the Nile on a steamer, given me by the Khedive, was a year before the opening of the Suez Canal; I rode over the Salt Lakes with Mons. de Lesseps and a party of his friends. Damascus a year before I exhibited the 'Jew's House,' I think. Spain, revisited, and Morocco, the year before last. This is a roundabout way of getting about dates, but, contrary to my expectation, I think I have contrived to fix all the chief journeys approximately."

Lloyd Steamer "Adriatic,"
November 28, 1867.

My dear Papa,—As I am likely to be busy during my very short stay in Venice, where I hope to find a letter from you, I take advantage of the leisure which I find in excess on board this steamer to begin an epistle which, however, I shall not close till I have seen yours, in case anything in the latter should require an answer. Of course my getting to the end of even this first page depends upon the state of my feelings—physical, not moral, for I am a poor sailor at best. I told you, I believe, in my last how much I had enjoyed and, as I hope, profited by my stay in Rhodes and Lindos. I am uncertain whether I added that I had received great kindness and attention from our consul and his brothers, and also from one or two other gentlemen with whom I became acquainted. Through the assistance of Mr. Biliotti (our consul) I had an opportunity, which could never present itself again, of buying a number of beautiful specimens of old Persian faience (Lindos ware), chiefly plates, which will make a delightful addition to my collection of Eastern china and pottery. I know that you, personally, care little for such things, and have small sympathy with purchases of that nature; you will, therefore, be glad to hear that though I spent a considerable sum, knowing that such a chance would never again be given me, I could, any day, part with the whole lot for at least double—probably treble—what I gave.

The weather, which was very beautiful at the [130]beginning—indeed during the greater part of my stay in the Island—was not faithful to me to the end; it broke up a few days before my departure, and, to my very great regret, prevented my painting certain studies which I was very anxious to take home: on the other hand, I had opportunities of studying effects of a different nature, so that I can hardly call myself much the loser as far as my work in Rhodes was concerned. In Athens, however, the effect of the absolute instability of the weather (an instability of which I have never seen the like anywhere) was that I left that place almost empty-handed, although I stayed there a week longer than I had originally intended. If, however, I got through little or no work, I had infinite enjoyment in the frequent and unvaried study and contemplation of the ruins on the Acropolis. Familiar as I was, from casts and photographs, with the sculptures and some part of the architecture which I found there, my expectations were very highly wrought, but it is impossible to anticipate, nor shall I attempt to describe, the impression which these magnificent works produce when seen together and under their own sky. Indeed, it is quite strange how one seems to read with new eyes things which one conceived oneself to have understood thoroughly before. The scenery about Athens, depending a good deal on effects of light, only rarely displayed its full beauty during my stay; sufficiently often, however, for me to see that it is of exquisite beauty, and that that part of it described by Byron in certain favourite lines of yours does not receive full justice at his hands. I had letters, as you probably knew, to Mr. Erskine, our Minister, and to Mr. Finlay, the historian; both of them received me with the greatest cordiality and kindness, as did also two or three other persons with whom I became acquainted, so that my stay was socially agreeable as well as artistically delightful; but herewith ends my journey, for heavy weather, rain, sleet, fog and the rest prevented my seeing any of the scenery of the Gulf of Lepanto, which I might as well not have visited, and although I passed Zante, Cephalonia, and Corfu under rather more favourable skies, I did not see them to advantage—ce sera pour une autrefois. Your letter, which I have found on my arrival, and for which thanks, does not call for any particular reply beyond that I have painted [131]no figures, though I might have been tempted by several fine heads I saw, but time only sufficed for my landscape studies, which in this journey were my chief care. The extract from the Saturday Review, which is highly flattering, was shown me by Mr. Finlay in Athens.

Of Venice I have nothing to say, except that my first impression of the Gallery, coming as I did straight from the Parthenon, was that everything but the very finest pictures was wanting in dignity and beauty, and was artificial. I was much surprised myself, as the Venetian school always exercises a great fascination over me. You may infer from that what an impression of beauty Athenian Art has left on me. I was incessantly reminded, in looking both at the sculpture and architecture of the Acropolis, of the admirable words which Thucydides puts into the mouth of Pericles: those are the beginning and the end of the Greek artistic nature.

I shall be in London by the 10th, and right glad to get home again—meanwhile, with best love to Taily.—I remain, your affectionate son,

Fred.

Venice, Hotel De L'Europe.

Beginning of letter missing.]

I find that the Prince (the Prince of Wales) asked him in the said letter to introduce me as a personal friend of his to the Viceroy, adding that he would be obliged by anything he (Col. Stanton) could do for me. This was more than I had expected [132]from what Col. Tait also had written me. Well, to make a long story short, I communicated to Col. S. the ambitious desires that Smart had stirred up in me, assuring him, however, that I should never have dreamt of entertaining them of my own accord. He took my case in hand at once, by asking for an audience, which the Viceroy granted as soon as he should have returned to Cairo; he was too busy to see me at Alexandria. Meanwhile Col. Stanton hinted to the secretary of H.H. what my wish was, but nothing was said to the Viceroy himself. Wednesday being fixed for my reception, I went to his palace of Abbassia with Col. S., and was there received in a pavilion in the open air, which overlooked a tract of country covered with tents in which some 5000 men were quartered. Round His Highness' pavilion were the tents of his chief ministers in attendance. It was rather a picturesque sight. The Viceroy was alone, and, having received us very courteously, and asked after the health of the P. and Pcess. of Wales, made us sit down. He then clapped his hands, and on a word from him long tchibouques were brought, of which the amber mouthpieces were enriched with enormous diamonds and emeralds. A little conversation on general matters then followed between him and Col. S., after which he questioned me about my projects; and after asking whether he could assist me, and Col. S. throwing out a little hint about a steam tug to get me on quicker, he said, "Would you not rather have a steamer to go in? it is the same to me, and you will be more comfortable." Here Col. Stanton, very judiciously and promptly, said he was sure the P. of Wales would be much gratified by this mark of favour to me; so that I have only to name the day, and the vessel will be at my orders, and I shall do all I wish in half the time, or less, it would otherwise have taken me. I bowed myself out with my best thanks, and went home much pleased at my good fortune and at everybody's kindness. I should not forget to say also that Mr. Ross (Lady Duff Gordon's son-in-law, you know) was full of empressement and kindness to me, and Lady D.G. lent me a gun for the Nile. I start in ten days or thereabouts, and hope before that to hear from you, for no letters will follow me and I shall lose sight of everybody for nearly two months. [133]I will write again before I start; meanwhile, when you write which it will be no use your doing till November, address, please New Hotel, Cairo, Egypt.

And believe me, meanwhile, with best love to Taily, your affte. son,

Fred.

Wednesday, October 14, 1868.—Went on board, dined and slept.

Thursday, 15th.—Started at about 7 A.M. There had been a storm in the night, and the east was still heavy with clouds; but the western sky was pure and soft.

At about ten caught up the Sterlings, becalmed in their dahabyeh; their crew was making a futile attempt to tow them against the current. I let out a rope and tugged them as far as Benisoëf, which, owing to the additional weight, I did not reach till Friday morning (16th).

The first day's journey up the Nile is enchanting, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The sky was bright, but tempered by a glimmering haze which produced the loveliest effects; those of the early morning were the most striking. The course of the river being nearly due north, the western bank was glowing in varied sunny lights; the other seemed made up of shadowy veils of gauze fainting gradually towards the horizon. The boats that passed on the left, dark in the blaze of light, looked, with their outspread wings, like large moths of dusky brown; those on the right shone against the violet sky like gilded ivory. The keynote of this landscape is a soft, variant, fawn-coloured brown, than which nothing could take more gratefully the warm glow of sunlight or the cool purple mystery of shadow; the latter perhaps especially, deep and powerful near the eye (the local brown slightly overruling the violet), but fading as it receded into tints exquisitely vague, and so faint that they seem rather to belong to the sky than to the earth. At this time of year the broad coffee-coloured sweep of the river is bordered on either side by a fillet of green of the most extraordinary vivacity, but redeemed from any hint of crudity by the golden light which inundates it. [134]The brightest green is that of the Indian corn—the softest and most luminous that of an exquisite grass, tall as pampas (perhaps it is a kind of pampas, I have not seen it close yet), and like it crowned with a beautiful plume-like blossom of the most delicate hue; seen against a dark shady bank, and with the sun shining through it, it shimmers with the sheen of gossamer.

Frequent villages animate the river's edge; they are built of unbaked bricks coated with mud, and have a most striking effect. The simplicity and variety of the shapes of the houses, with their slightly sloping sides and flat roofs, give them a certain dignity in their picturesqueness which delights me; the colour, too, is particularly agreeable, and is the most beautiful foil to the bronze-brown of the naked, or nearly naked, fellaheen and the indigo of the robes of their wives; to the sparkling white of the doves that swarm in the gardens, and to the cinder-colour of the buffaloes that wink and snooze along the bank. Every village nestles in a dense grove of date-palms, and one cannot conceive a lovelier harmony than that which is made by the combination of the browns below with the sea-green of the sweeping branches and the flame-like orange of the fruit. The acacia (here a large, massive tree, with a vigorous dark green foliage) is frequent in the villages.

The shape of the hills and mountains is very peculiar and striking. It gives the idea of a choppy sea of sand thrown up into abrupt peaks and then uniformly truncated by a sweep of a vast scythe, sweeping everything from horizon to horizon. Here and there a little peak, too low to be embraced in the general decapitation, raises its head amongst innumerable table-lands and gives great value and relief to the general outline.

Meanwhile an occasional train and not infrequent lines of telegraph poles don't add to the poetry of the scene.

Nor the flies to one's comfort! What a curse they are! they infest one's face. I wonder what the epiderm of Egyptian children is made of; you see babies with a dozen flies settled, no, stuck, embedded in and round each of their eyes, and as many in and about their noses and mouths; and they make no attempt to remove them—seem absolutely unconscious of them.

Scenery this afternoon less interesting—river wider—banks more monotonous.

[135]Opposite a place called Magaga, some fine mountains on the east bank, scored with innumerable horizontal lines marking the monotonous parallel strata of which they are composed; a characteristic peculiarity in all the Egyptian hills I have seen as yet. (The finest in outline are the Quarries opposite Sakkara, on the right bank, and like those behind the Citadel at Cairo.)

Spent the night at a village called Kolosana, not having made Minyeh owing to delay at Benisoëf, where we coaled, and took leave of the Sterlings, with whom I breakfasted. The sunset before reaching Kolosana was magnificent, like a sunset at sea; almost as grand in its simplicity. Between the broad flaming sky and the broad flaming river there was only a long narrow strip of dark bronze-green bank, that seemed to burst into flame where the almost white hot sun sank scowling behind it. The after-glow was also very fine, though less grand than I should have expected. The sky was of a deep violet, and the distant rolling sand-tracks wore the most mysterious tints, faint, glimmering, uncanny, vague fawn colours, pale dun browns, and ghostly pinks.

Saturday, 17th.—Started at dawn, and arrived at Minyeh about eight o'clock.

Stayed two hours and coaled.

Obeying the custom of the country, I have presented the crew with a sheep—great satisfaction.

Took a stroll in the Bazaars, which are rather picturesque. Minyeh is a largish place (chef lieu), and, like every second village on the Nile, disfigured by the tall chimneys of sugar factories.

There is a striking line of hills opposite Minyeh, quaintly jagged in outline and curiously regular in the marking of its strata.

Passed Beni Hassan, where I shall stop on my return.

It is curious to see the incessant toiling of the natives at irrigation. The poor people literally make their country every year, and it is marvellous to see how a narrow fillet of water will, as by enchantment, conjure up in a few weeks an oasis out of an arid desert. The land of Egypt is born afresh out of the Nile every returning year.

I observe, with pleasure, in this part of the country those [136]little white-domed tombs of Sheykhs which make such a pretty feature in the landscape of Algeria.

At Minyeh there is one, close to the riverside, in which rests the "Sheykh of the Crocodiles" whose holy dust prevents those man-eating ornaments of the Upper Nile from going any further towards Cairo—below this tomb they never venture.

Not having reached Manfalût by sunset, we have drawn up for the night by the bank of the river, nowhere in particular. This entire freedom in our movements (I should say mine, for the steamer stops exactly where, when, and as often as I choose) is very agreeable. Less pleasant is the storm of flies and insects of every kind, that rush in literally by myriads as soon as candles are lighted within reach of shore; my tablecloth is darkened with thousands of little flies no larger, wings and all, than a moderate flea; the nuisance is intolerable.

A wonderful sunset again this evening. The western bank like yesterday was low and brown and green, but, unlike yesterday, it was alive with the sweet clamour of many birds. On the eastern side the long wall of rock which seems to enclose the whole length of the valley of the Nile came flush, or almost flush, to the water's edge; and with what an intense glory it glowed! The great hills seemed clad in burnished armour of gold fringed and girt below with green and dark purple; but the smooth face of the water was like copper, burnished and inlaid with sapphire.

I sat in the long gloaming enjoying the soft, warm, supple air, and watching the tints gradually change and die round the sweep of the horizon, and across the immense mirror of the Nile as broad as a lake. It was enchanting to watch the subtle gradations by which the tawny orange trees that glowed like embers in the west, passed through strange golden browns to uncertain gloomy violet, and finally to the hot indigo of the eastern sky where some lingering after-glow still flushed the dusky hills; and still more enchanting to watch the same tones on the unruffled expanse of the water, slightly tempered by its colour and subdued to greater mystery. A solemn peace was over everything. Occasionally a boat drifted slowly past with outspread wings, in colour like an opal or lapis lazuli, and then vanished. It was a thing to remember.

[137]I hear an altercation between Ottilio (my Italian waiter) and a stoker who has put down his grease can on one of the Pasha's smartest plates. "O—(adjective)—Madonna! se si può vedere una carogua simile! e se me la rompi pas? costa più di te—sa!"

My young dragoman having fastened a hook to a bit of string, and the bit of string to the stern of the steamer, has been waiting some hours for a fish. After the first hour he reasoned with himself, and said: "Brabs (perhaps?) he know!"—then, dolefully, "He come touch the 'ook, and then he go run away!"—cela c'est vu. To-morrow to Asyoot. 10½ P.M. Just been on deck again. Dragoman still fishing! He says, "I tink he won't." I incline to agree with him.

Sunday, 18th.—Started about six. Reached Syoot, or rather El Hamza for Syoot, which is a mile inland, at eleven. Between Manfalût and Syoot the Nile takes an immense sweep west, and assumes altogether a tortuous course; the plain opens out, the eastern mountains recede, and for the first time an important chain closes in on the west. Game is already beginning to be abundant. I saw a sandbank full of pelicans and geese just below this place. I wish I could get at the names of the small birds I see here, which are mostly new to me; an Arab invariably answers your questions on this subject by the word "asfoor," i.e. a bird—thankee! The peasants here all wear a loose dark brown robe like that of a Franciscan monk; and as they squat fishing on the brown bank of the river with their skull-caps and black beards, I fancy I see the monks of the Thebaïd coming, as in old days, to get their daily meat out of the Nile.

Irrigation seems to go on more actively even than lower down; I saw to-day no less than twenty-four shadoofs all in a row, and in full play. The men that worked them, mostly naked, were of every colour between a new halfpenny and an old shoe, and the effect of them all toiling away and surrounded by groups of squatting onlookers was very striking.

Hosseyn, my servant, the angler, is having his head shaved on deck; when he has done I shall visit the town.

Meanwhile I have had a visit from the government doctor, a rather intelligent man who made his studies in Pisa.

[138]Pipes and coffee as usual.

Here comes Hosseyn clean-shaven. He is a nice boy, eager and willing—but wants varnish; he can never address me without scratching his spine at its lowest extremity; Audrey herself could not have done it in a manner more naïvely unconventional. Though only twenty, he has had two wives; not liking the first, who snubbed his relations, he gave her three months' wages and dismissed her. To avoid further unpleasantness he then married his cousin: "She good woman—very quiet—good tongue."

The village at which we have landed is very picturesque. The mud and brick architecture is here carried out with some care and is entirely delightful. The walls are mostly crowned with an openwork finish made by a simple arrangement of the bricks which is most effective. Sometimes, as, for instance, in the cemetery, they are surmounted by crenulations like those we see in the old Assyrian monuments; the heads of the doorways are decorated with a charming sort of diapered ornament, capable of great variety and produced entirely by the arrangement in patterns of the bricks; the patterns being painted black and the ground filled in with white. The woodwork in the windows is also very pretty, and altogether the general aspect of the houses most novel and striking.

Beyond the village I wandered into a delightful garden; a half cultivated wilderness of palm and gum trees in which one came on unexpected pergolas, and lovely garden trees all pouring out their most intoxicating scents under the fiercest sun I ever walked beneath. I saw oleanders, the flowers of which were as thick as roses and smelt like a quintessence of nectarines; there were also some beautiful olive trees with weeping branches—a thing I had never seen before—and with berries as large as plums. Overhead, amongst the yellow dates, sat doves the colour of pale violets.

Syoot itself is beautifully situated amongst groves and gardens; except in that it is brown and not white, it reminded me much of an Algerine town; it is very unlike Cairo. The rock-cut tombs in the mountain above the town are so mutilated and disfigured that little can be made of them; but they have that [139]stamp of vastness which is so characteristic of all the ancient monuments of this country.

The view from the height is very fine. The river has barely begun to fall yet, so that everything is reflected in the great sheets of water that cover the land. At evening I saw the sunset through the tall palm trees, with the domes of Syoot dark against its flaming light.

For a fine showy assertion that looks very original and striking, but is not calculated for pedantic verification, commend me to a Frenchman. The other day, at Boulay, Mariette Bey, the creator and the curator of the Museum of that ilk, and a man of high standing as an Egyptologist, told me that the Nile was turned into its actual course by a great chain of hills at Syoot which, serving as a rampart, alone prevented it from following its obvious tendency to flow into the Red Sea. "Il allait évidemment se jeter dans la Mer Rouge;" in fact, but for this hill, there would have been no Lower Egypt, that country being literally the child of the Nile which alone prevents the sands of the central deserts from ruling over the whole breadth of the land. Here was a dramatic revelation of coincidences! Here was a startling suggestion of contingencies!

It fairly took your breath away! without that hill no Nile north of Syoot! half Egypt would not have been! No Memphis! Memphis with its wisdom! No Alexandria with its schools! No Cairo with its four thousand mosques! No Pharaohs! No Moses! (The poor devil of a sculptor who drowned himself in his own fountain because he found he had made his Moses too short might have died in his bed.) No Cleopatra! (turn in your grave, noble dust of Antony!)—"forty centuries" would have had no Pyramids from which to look down on the conquering arms of Buonaparte. Mr. Albert Smith's popular entertainment would have been shorn of half its glories! Let me breathe! To what fantastic proportions did that hill grow as one thought of it!

Alas! then, for prosaic fact; and oh! for unimaginative maps! On consulting the latter I observed that, by the time it reached Syoot, the Nile had been flowing for nearly two hundred miles in a north-westerly direction, away from the Red Sea rather than towards it; and on visiting the spot I saw, oh confusion! that [140]the hills which bore the responsibility (according to Mariette) of making the history of the world what it is, were on the western bank of the river!—there, at least, or nowhere, for a vast plain closes in on the east.

This evening more visitors on board—lemonade and cigars—pour changer; Consuls, &c. &c.—tedious.

Monday, 19th.—Left Syoot at six, and arrived at Sohag before three. Suffered a good deal in the morning from spasms of some sort, and was not in a frame of mind to appreciate the scenery. Was, moreover, driven near the verge of exasperation by the steersman (Reis Ali), who droned select passages from the Koran, sotto voce, within two yards of my ears from 8 A.M. till 2 P. ditto; the same four bars over and over, for ever and for ever in one unceasing guttural strain. I trust the pious exercise did more for his soul than for my temper. Hosseyn informs me that he is about to buy a lamb, and "make him big sheep." It appears that, during a serious illness three years ago, he vowed a votive sheep to Sitteh Zehneb—the granddaughter of the Prophet—on condition that he should recover. Since then he has put her off (oh, humanity!) with candles and occasional prayer; now, at last, he is going to fulfil his vow. Admire thrift combined with piety, and observe the economy on the lamb.

Habit is a strange thing! Hosseyn, whose manners have been corrupted by evil communication with Europeans, occasionally attempts to use a fork in the bosom of his family—particularly when salad is put before him. On these occasions his elder brother invariably asks him with grim sarcasm whether he has no fingers. Hosseyn desists at once—"Brabs he beat me!—he big!"

This evening I went out shooting amongst the palms and gum trees. It was very delightful, though ferociously hot. The village is charmingly situated; the ground prettily tumbled about, and trees and houses group themselves in the most picturesque manner. (I noticed some new mouldings over the doorways that had a very artistic effect.) I can't shoot at all; but the birds are so plentiful that something is sure to cross your gun if you only fire. I got a hawk, some doves, a dozen little birds nameless for me, and two little green birds of a kind that I have not seen [141]before; they are quite lovely; must ascertain what they are called. The sun had set when I reached the boat, and all the dark plumes of the palm trees stood clear over the black outlines of the village; above, the new moon, a keen, golden sickle.

Hosseyn has given up fishing. "Oh, oh! nasty fish! he to laugh me!"

Was much amused this morning by the device and trade-mark on a tin of jam. (Jam, if you please, of Messrs. Barnes & Co. of Little Bush Lane and Tooley Street.) The device was "Non sine labore"—and the trade-mark?—a beehive?—no!—the Pyramid of Cheops! Excusez.

Some twenty miles above Syoot, or, say, fifteen, the eastern chain of mountains makes a bend towards the river, and for some distance ranges near it; the stream, in its usual tortuous course, sometimes flowing for a few hundred yards towards them and then for a few hundred yards in the opposite direction. I wonder whether one of these bends served as a foundation, or rather as a blind, for Mariette's astounding assertion that the Nile "allait évidemment se jeter dans la Mer Rouge." Did he "to laugh me," as the fish did by Hosseyn? Or did he merely mean to say that, if the Valley of the Nile had not turned north-west between Keneh and Manfaloot, it might have turned north-east? If so, joke for joke, I prefer the great Pyramid on the jam-pot of Mr. Barnes of Little Bush Lane and Tooley Street.

Tuesday, 20th.—Started at about half-past five, and reached Disneh in the evening. There was a dead calm in the morning, and I congratulated myself, not for the first time, on my steamer; in a dahabieh I might have taken a week, and more, over the stretch of river I have just covered in a day; and the scenery just here, though fine, is monotonous. I am sorry for the Sterlings, who will, I fear, be unusually long getting up. This afternoon I saw Sheykh Selim, a sort of St. Simeon Stylites without the column. This holy man's peculiar form of piety consists in sitting stark naked on the bank of the river and exacting presents in money and kind from all passers-by.

Hosseyn had spoken to me at great length of his wisdom and piety, and assured me that when the crocodiles, which are numerous about here, presented themselves before the eyes of [142]the Sheykh, he merely waved his hand and said "Biz, biz!" whereat they fled, rebuked. He informed me also that no boat refusing him tribute could expect to get on—it would infallibly be becalmed until his holiness was propitiated. To my surprise I found that my captain, a sensible old gentleman in other respects, believed this just as firmly, though he expressed his faith more vaguely. When I asked him whether the Sheykh's power extended also to steamers, which did not wait on the wind, he said: "Well, Allah was great, and though, certainly, a steamer might, no doubt—so well appointed a steamer particularly—might, no doubt, get past—yet who should say? Allah was great!" In fact he believed with the best; so, of course, I said, by all means let the Sheykh be propitiated. Accordingly when we hove in sight of the little mound where he sits, and has sat for God knows how many years, we turned the steamer (a vessel of seventy-five horse-power) and ran straight in for the bank at considerable risk, it struck me, of not getting off again. The whole crew then went ashore in great excitement, headed by the captain, and surrounded the Saint, kissing his hand and salaaming. As I did not wish to hurt the old gentleman's feelings by not kissing his hand, I stayed on board and looked on. Sheykh Selim is a very vigorous-looking old fellow of the colour of a very dusky mahogany table; his hair and beard are woolly and of a dirty white; his countenance, as far as I could judge from a little distance, good-humoured and sagacious. He squats on the ground with his knees up and his arms folded across them. He inspects his presents, and asks for more. After the levée was over, and when our crew were about to come on board, he called after them and asked for roast meat, and then again a second time for oil wherewith to anoint himself. "There," said Hosseyn triumphantly, "he know everything! he know we have roast meat—how he know that?"

I was amused at the intellectual superiority of Ottilio, the Italian waiter. "Quanto sono stupidi questi Arabi!" For my part I don't see much more difficulty in swallowing Sheykh Selim than a stigmatised nun or a winking picture—I told him so.

We should have reached Keneh to-day, but the coals were bad, and we had to stop at Dishulh, three hours this side of [143]that place. Where was thy favouring grace, O Sheykh? It appears that, like the gods of ancient Greece, the Sheykhs of Egypt have their little misunderstandings; I am told that on one occasion Selim, having a few words with another holy man thirty-five miles up the river, by name Sheykh Fadl, and waxing wroth, threw a stone at him (what are thirty or forty miles to a saint?) and blinded him of one eye; whereon Sheykh Fadl returned the amenity by throwing "some fire" at Sheykh Selim, thereby sorely burning him. "I have seen the scar," my coxswain informs me.

Killed another fatted sheep for the crew.

Wednesday, 21st.—Arrived at Lougsor (El Uker) about three. It was too hot for sightseeing, so I waited till evening and went out shooting in a boat; at least I went out with the idea of shooting—if possible a pelican or a crane—but the birds were too shy—I could not get within fair shooting distance; wounded a pelican, but could not get after him in the deep mud. Got belated on the river, and the crew had to pull hard for an hour and a half to reach the steamer; fortunately there was a moon. Anything more good-humoured or more ineffective than the way in which the sailors pulled and shoved, I never saw; they hopped in and out of the boat in the shallows, up to their hips in the water—pushed, tugged, rowed and sang die era im piacus; they can do nothing without the accompaniment of some rhythmic, droning refrain, which they can keep up for an indefinite time. Anything will do; my fellows pulled on this occasion to the following words—

which is as who should say—

giving the stroke and the emphasis on the last syllable.

In the evening was visited by Mustafa Aga, H.B.M. Consular Agent, one of his sons, the Turkish Governor (Hassan Effendi), and the local doctor. Mustafa is a very courteous old gentleman, with half a nose, and much respected by all who know [144]him; I observed that Saïd, his son, would not smoke in his father's presence, in accordance with an Arab custom, which did not much remind me of the manner in which "the gov'nor" is treated in England.

On Thursday morning, 22nd, I started to see the tombs of the kings, leaving the eastern bank and Karnak for my return. It was a lovely morning, and I crossed the Nile before the air had had time to get thoroughly heated. On the other side I found horses, kindly lent me by Mustafa (whose son accompanied me), and donkeys for the rest of the party. There were a good many of us, and we made a very absurd-looking procession—en tête, a couple of fine brawny Arabs, one of whom has been the guide to these ruins since Champollion; then Saïd and I on our horses—mine a good-looking chestnut, caparisoned with scarlet finery; behind us, on their respective donkeys, the captain in full uniform holding a large umbrella over his head, Hosseyn in his Arab dress, the French cook in his official white jacket and cap, the Italian waiter with a large handkerchief over his head, and the engineer; further behind, lesser menials and the hamper. I forgot the Turkish Cawass in uniform and armed to the teeth. Hovering round, brandishing water-bottles, was a swarm of Arab boys and girls, in sizes, and of various qualities of chocolate; they were dressed in the most fantastically tattered remnants of dark brown shirts that I ever saw; there was one little monkey of a dull ebony colour turned up with pale blue, whose form was revealed rather than covered by a few incoherent brown shreds of garment, and who was inexpressibly droll from the way in which he cocked his little head demurely on one side with a half-consciousness of insufficient drapery.

The ride to the tombs, which takes about an hour, and the latter half of which lies through an arid valley, is very striking from the form and colour of the mountains. Nothing announces that one is approaching the city of the dead, and it is not till you stand before them that you become aware of the plain square openings which lead down to these magnificent last resting-places of the kings. It was a right royal idea this, of the old rulers of Egypt, to plunge these shafts into the bowels [145]of the rock, and give themselves a mountain for a tombstone over the palace which was their grave. The design of these houses of the dead is simple and apparently always much the same: a long corridor, sometimes with lateral galleries, sometimes with recesses or small chambers on each side, leads downwards by a not very rapid incline to a great hall, in the centre of which is the sarcophagus which contained the mummy of the king in its magnificent case; these cases have of course been all removed. All these lateral chambers were also originally filled with mummies—those, I believe, of the relations of the sovereign. The walls of these subterranean palaces and the ceilings are adorned throughout with coloured hieroglyphs and flat sculptured "graven images" representing mostly sacred and mystical scenes, but often, also, illustrating the different trades and crafts practised by the Egyptians. These paintings are of high interest from an ethnographic point of view—Poynter would have a fit over them. In the innermost places scores of bats dart about in intense alarm. The effect of the scanty light from the candles on these painted walls and on the dark bony forms of the Arabs is extremely fine—what your literary tourist would call "worthy of the pencil of Rembrandt."

After lunching in a shady spot we took an anything but shady ride to the temple-palace of Koorneh, and from thence to the Memnonium. Both are very interesting, but the latter by far the finest; there is about it a breadth and a vastness, together with much elegance and variety, that are very impressive. Nothing that I have seen is comparable to the monuments of Egypt, for the expression of gigantic thoughts and limitless command of material and labour; withal there is about them something stolid and oppressive that is unsatisfactory; and as I looked at these vast ruins, vivid memories of Athens and its Acropolis invaded me, and the Parthenon in all its serene splendour rose before my mind; mighty, too, in its measured sobriety, stately in the noble rhythm of its forms; infinitely precious in the added glory of its sculptures; lovable as a living thing; and then more, perhaps, than ever before, I felt what a divine breath informed that marvellous Attic people, and what an ineffaceable debt of gratitude is due to them from us, blind fumblers in their footsteps.

[146]I was less struck than I had expected to be by the two colossal statues, of one of which it was poetically fabled by the ancients that a mysterious clang rose from it as the first rays of the rising sun smote its forehead. The myth is more striking than the statues, though their size and isolation give them something impressive. I had expected them, too, I don't know why, to be in a desert, and they are in a field. How infinitely grander is the great Sphinx, with its strange, far-gazing, haunting eyes, fixed, for ever, on the East, as if expecting the dawn of a day that never comes; immovable, unchanging, without shadow of sorrow, or light of gladness, whilst the gladness of men has turned to sorrow and their thoughts to ashes before them, through three times a thousand years! Century by century the desert has been gathering and growing round it—the feet are buried, the body, the breast are hidden. How soon will the sealing sands give rest at last to those steadfast, expectant eyes?

In the evening Hosseyn had a great "fantasia" and fulfilled his vow—and spent all his money. He killed his sheep and roasted it, bought some rice and boiled it, some flour and had it made into bread; then mixing the whole, he distributed it in six very large trays; three were put before the crew, one he had placed on the wayside for all comers (and they all came); the other two were sent to the nearest mosque for the same purpose, and with similar results; then, being unable to read himself, he paid five men to recite from the Koran at night, in the mosque, and invited thereto the captain, Mustafa Aga, and his son and several others; he, the while, sitting outside and offering coffee to whoever passed by. When it was all over he came to me radiant: "El Hamdul illah," he said, throwing up his hands, "this is good! I am happy, everybody to be satisfied! this is rich day! El Hamdul illah! my money is all gone! why shall I mind? I spend it for God! brabs something good happen for me, el Hamdul illah!" His delight at the performance of his vow and his absolute faith were the prettiest thing one could see. Talking of faith, I am much struck by the dignified simplicity with which Mahometans practise the observances of their religion; praying at the appointed times without concealment, wherever they happen to be, and as a matter of course.

[147]Friday, 23rd.—Started early and coaled, first at Erment and then again at Esne, after which, being stopped by the night and shallow water, we anchored off a bank nowhere in particular. Heavens, what a hot day! this is indeed "the fire that quickens Nilus' slime," but has a vastly different effect on me. Sketching will be quite out of the question unless it gets rapidly cooler.

At Esne I was visited by the chief magistrate, and by the governor of the province; the former a jolly old bonhomme who offered me snuff, the other a very refined old gentleman with most charming manners. Both were Turks; and as they spoke no Christian tongue our conversation was carried on entirely through a dragoman; I was, however, pleased to find that I recognised several words that I learnt last year at Constantinople; I was glad, too, to hear again that fine vigorous language, the sound of which is extremely agreeable to me. Eastern manners are certainly very pleasing, and the frequent salutations, which consist in laying the hand first on the breast and then on the forehead, making at the same time a slight inclination, are graceful without servility. When an Egyptian wishes to express great respect he first lowers his hands to the level of his knees, exactly as in the days of Herodotus.

Talking of Herodotus, here is a first-rate subject for Gérôme suggested by that author; it is ethnographical and ghastly. The scene is laid in the establishment of an ancient Egyptian embalmer and undertaker, fitted up with all the implements and appliances of the trade; in the background, but not so far as to exclude detail, groups of assistants should be shown busied over a number of corpses and illustrating all the different stages of preparation, embalsamation, swathing, &c. &c. In the centre a bereaved family have brought their lamented relative, and are selecting, from specimens submitted to them by the master undertaker, a style of treatment suited to their taste and means, and expressive of their particular shade of grief. A large assortment of mummy-cases would form appropriate accessories and give great scope for the display of knowledge and the use of a fine brush. It seems to me that so pleasing a mixture of corpses and archæology, impartially treated by that polite and accomplished hand, could not fail to create considerable sensation.

[148]Took a stroll through Esne whilst the ship was coaling. The darker tints of skin are beginning to preponderate more and more; mummy colour is in the ascendant here, together with a fine Brunswick black. The men, I observe, spin in this country. The children are quite fascinating; they have nothing on but a little tuft of hair on the top of their shaven heads; those dazzling little teeth of theirs are wonderful to see, and funny—like a handful of rice in a coal-scuttle. Fine sunset again; the hills, ranged in an amphitheatre from east to west, showed a most wonderful gradation from extreme dark on one side to glowing light on the other. I make the profound reflection that no two sunsets are alike; this remark, however, does not extend to descriptions of sunsets—verb. sap.

When I saw Holman Hunt's "Isabel," his pot of basil puzzled me sorely; I had seen a great deal of basil, and have an especial love for it; but I had never seen it except with a very small leaf. I was sure, however, knowing his great accuracy, that Hunt had sufficient foundation for the large leaf he gave the plant in his picture; the very fellow of it is now before me in a nosegay of flowers, very kindly sent me by the old governor of Esne. As I smell it I am assailed by pleasant memories of Lindos—"Lindos the beautiful"—and Rhodes, and that marvellous blue coast across the seas, that looks as if it could enclose nothing behind its crested rocks but the Gardens of the Hesperides; and I remember those gentle, courteous Greeks of the island (so unlike their swaggering kinsfolk—if they are their kinsfolk—of the mainland), and the little nosegay, a red carnation and a fragrant sprig of basil, with which they always dismiss a guest.

As we lay anchored by the shore in the evening, the dahabiehs came sweeping past in the moonlight; and the faint glimmering of the shell-like sails, and the flutter of the water against the swift, cutting keels, and the silence of the huddled groups, and the dark watchful figure of the helmsman at the helm, were strangely fantastic and beautiful.

Saturday, 24th.—Started at half-past five—passed Edfou (which I leave for my return) at half-past seven. Shall we reach Assouan to-day? Hosseyn's pious orgies have, I fear, turned his head, for I observed yesterday that he has taken to fishing again. [149]"Brabs!—Insha Allah!" His interpretation of dreams is worthy of the ancient oracle-mongers; on the night before his sacrifice he dreamt that he had bought a slave, and then released it: "Wull! the slave is my sheep—is it not my slave? Wull, have I not buy it? Wull, I give it to the beebles—go!—I release it!" Whether the sheep, personally, considered itself released is problematic.

Saturday Evening.—Reached Assouan this afternoon at four, and, after the usual visit from the governor, took a stroll. I don't yet know whether I am disappointed in the place or not. At all events it is quite unlike my expectations of it. I had imagined, I suppose from descriptions, a narrower gorge and higher rocks; in point of fact there is no gorge at all, but the river is narrowed, or, rather, split by several islands and some fine granite boulders cropping up here and there to fret the river, and announcing the rapids; otherwise the country is open enough, and original and striking in aspect; I shall know better to-morrow what I think of it all. I saw during my evening stroll, and for the first time in my life, a group of slaves, mostly girls. If I had seen them subjected to any ill-treatment I should have felt very indignant; but I am bound to own that, seeing them squatting round a fire like any other children, showing no mark of slavery, and occupied in cooking their food, scratching themselves (as well, no doubt, they might!) and looking otherwise very like monkeys, I found it difficult to realise to myself the hardship of their position, however much it may revolt one in the abstract. They were black, and uglier than young negroes generally are; their hair was arranged in an infinity of minute, highly-greased plaits all round their heads; the elder ones were draped; the youngest wore a fringe pour tout potage. This is a noisy night; there is a "moolid" going on on the high bank to which we have made fast, and which borders the public square. A double row of howling dervishes are squatting and rocking and howling after their kind, almost over my head. In the brief lulls during which they take breath for further efforts, I hear from the other side of the river the mournful, weary, incessant creak of the water-wheel (with its blindfold cow or camel plodding round and round and round, apparently for ever), which in this [150]region almost entirely supersedes the hand-worked bucket. The contrast is very curious.

I have just returned the governor's visit. I found him sitting on a sofa in the piazza opposite the Government House, with half-a-dozen hand lanterns brought by the guests in front of him, and on each side a long row of benches (forming an avenue up to his seat) on which squatted and smoked numbers of picturesque folk, who looked to great advantage by the flickering glimmer of the lamps and under the soft warm light of an African moon. I sat in the place of honour, smoked my conventional tchibouque, drank my inevitable cup of coffee, conveyed through my dragoman the usual traveller's remarks and questions (cardboard questions, so to speak, of which I knew the answers) to my host, who, like all the Turkish officials that I have seen, has the manners of a perfect gentleman and much natural dignity.

Sunday, 25th.—Started for Phylæ at half-past seven; arrived there at nine o'clock. The road leads through a broad tract of yellow sand (where, I believe, an arm of the Nile is supposed to have flowed in remote antiquity) along which on either side crop up, in wild, irregular fashion, bumps and hillocks and hills of dark red granite, covered over with innumerable fragments of the same stone, scattered in the most incredible confusion, and having rather a ludicrous appearance of having been left about and forgotten. You could get an excellent notion of the thing in miniature, by hastily spilling a coal-scuttle on a gravel walk and running away.

Above Assouan we are fairly in Nubia, and of course none but the darkest complexions are to be seen; but so large a number of negroes make their way here from the Soudan (the Nubians are not black, but of a beautiful dark cairngorm brown), that the whole place has an air of negro-land which is disagreeable to me. The young men, indeed, both black and brown, are sometimes extremely fine fellows (bar the legs, which are never good), but the girls, as far as one can see them, are tolerably ill-favoured, and the old women, of an ugliness which passes all belief. They are far worse than apes. The ladies in this part of the country gladden the hearts of their admirers by anointing their bodies with castor oil, so that the atmosphere [151]of their villages, however full of sweet suggestion to a native, is much the reverse to a traveller with a nose not attuned to these perfumes; the smell that greets you through an open door is a mixture of the bouquet just named, and a penetrating flavour of accumulated stuffed beasts, and naturally interferes much with my enjoyment.

At Mahatter we left our donkeys and took a boat to Phylæ, a quarter of a mile, which takes half an hour owing to the rapidity of the current just above the cataract. The scenery about Phylæ has been spoken of as Paradise; I never saw anything less like my notion of Paradise, and so far, therefore, I am disappointed. Original and strange it is, in a high degree. It is in fact exactly like the valley of which I spoke a little further back, only that the hills are four times as high, and water takes the place of the sand; the same breaking up of the rocks into a myriad of fragments, putting all grandeur and massiveness of form out of the question—and, with the exception of a few palm trees and a sycamore or two, the same barrenness. Looking up in the direction of Wâdy Halfâ, the mountains appear to grow finer in outline, and a tract of very yellow sand amongst their highest crests is striking and original—gold dust in a cup of lapis lazuli. With the island itself and its beautiful group of temples it is impossible not to be delighted. Nothing could be more fantastic or more stately than the manner in which it rises out of the bosom of the river like a vast ship, surrounded as it is on all sides by a high wall sheer from the water to the level on which the temples stand. One hall in the main temple, and one only, shows still a sufficient amount of colour to give a very good idea of what the effect must have been originally; the green and blue capitals must have been very lovely. It is needless to say that here, as elsewhere, travellers have left by hundreds lasting memorials of their brutality, in the shape of names and dates drawn, painted, scratched, and cut on every wall and column, so that the eye finds no rest from them. This strange and ineffably vulgar mania is as old as the world, and the tombs of the kings at Thebes are scrawled over with inscriptions left there by ancient Greek and Roman visitors. I shall return to Phylæ shortly to make a sketch or two—Insha Allah.

[152]Here, at last, I have found that absolutely clear crystalline atmosphere of which I had so often heard; I own it is not pleasing to me; a sky of burnished steel over a land of burning granite would no doubt be grand if the outlines of the granite were fine—but they are not. Meanwhile, perspective is abolished—everything is equally and obtrusively near, and I sadly miss the soft mysterious veils and pleasant doubts of distance that enchant one in other lands. I think it very likely that in winter one has great compensation from the exhilarating purity of the air; but just now the heat, which is simply infernal, is too trying for me to do justice to these advantages; no doubt the air is light and dry, but I feel unfortunately so very heavy and wet, that I am not in a position fully to appreciate it. Returning to Assouan in the evening, saw a dahabieh that had just got through the jaws of the cataracts, always rather a nervous matter; at least so they say; "to be very dyinger" (dangerous?), according to Hosseyn; the men were chanting a monotonous strain that had little of triumph in it, but rather conveyed a feeling of an always impending calamity escaped this time; it was melancholy and very striking, I thought, in the silence of the gloaming; very likely pure fancy on my part, for I doubt whether more than a couple of boats are lost in a season, and the sailors of the Nile must be well accustomed to the dangers of these rapids; but the impression on me at the time was very strong.

Monday, 26th.—The dragoman of the ship having a swelling of some sort on his arm, an Arab doctor was sent for, and forthwith informed him that his arm was possessed of the devil!! Went to see the island of Elephantina opposite Assouan, but saw nothing to suggest its ancient magnificence. Gave a silver farthing to a funny little child, which (the farthing) being perforated, his mother immediately tied into one of his little oily locks—an ingenious substitute for a pocket. I observed several little boys simply attired in a piece of string tied round their loins—there, Diogenes!

Tuesday, 27th.—Began sketching, but am out of form from the heat. I am working chiefly because I am weary of idleness. I don't much care for the two sketches I have begun; they will therefore probably turn out badly. Going to try another presently.

Tuesday Evening.—Have begun a sketch which interests me [153]more than the others; it is taken amongst the tombs and shrines on the hills south of the town towards Phylæ. As my evening's work was drawing to a close, I heard a shuffling of feet a little behind me, and, turning round, saw, in the full fire of sunset, what appeared to me at first to be a procession of golden apes with dark blue robes, light blue lips, and nose-rings; on closer inspection they turned out to be Nubian women going home to their village. Hosseyn, qui a le mot pour rire, apparently, engaged in conversation with them, and convulsed them with laughter; the flashes of teeth were very funny to see. At last he gave them a few halfpence, and desired them to sing; whereon they set up a series of the most uncouth howls I ever heard; one baboon in particular got up and, using a flat date basket as a tambourine, accompanied her vocal performance with hops and jumps that would have done honour to any inmate of the monkey-house in the Zoological Gardens.

The twilight, walking home, was lovely. The earth was in colour like a lion's skin; the sky of a tremulous violet, fading in the zenith to a mysterious sapphire tint. "Dolce color d'oriental zaffiro."

Slew another sheep—"Allah hou akbar!" (without which formula in the killing a good Muslim must not touch the meat): this sheep is no empty formality, for the unfortunate sailors would never see meat without it; they live on bread and occasional beans. This is the fourth night of the moolid, which is to last the whole week! At this very moment the tambourines of the dervishes are driving me nearly wild with their diabolic din.

Wednesday, 28th.—Got on indifferently with my sketches; only one of them interests me much. The morning was almost cool and really delightful, but the heat was as great as ever in the daytime. I have always been unable to see the extraordinary difference which is said to exist between the length of the twilight in the north, and in southern countries; I could have read large print to-night three-quarters of an hour after sunset. Habit is everything, no doubt, as we are reminded by Herodotus, à propos of a certain people who ate their dead relatives instead of burning them; but I wonder whether I should ever get accustomed to the aching, straining, creaking complaint of the water-wheel far and [154]near, morning, noon and night, morning, noon and night; I can just fancy its becoming attaching as the clacking of a mill.

I have often wondered why, contrary to all analogy, the Spaniards call oil azedo, which at first sight appears to be the same word as the Italian aceto. I find that the word is Arabic: zeyd. Mem.: Look up the etymology of the English word cough, to which no European word that I remember has any affinity, and which rather appears to be onomatopœic. The Arabs say kokh (guttural ending); is this a mere coincidence, and does the word date beyond the Crusades? I find a good many words that have a curious likeness to English. My endeavours to pick up a little Arabic are almost entirely frustrated by Hosseyn's utter inability to pull a sentence to pieces for me. In an Arabic sentence of two words (e.g. azekan tareed—if you please) he could not tell me which word was the verb! literally; I had to find out as best I could. I never saw anything to approach his obtuseness in the matter, except perhaps that of Georgi, my dragoman in Turkey. As I was sketching this evening a Nubian passed me, very grandly draped and erect, and followed by two green monkeys that were fastened by leading-strings to his belt. They toddled very snugly after their stately master and made a queer group.

Sunday, November 1.—I am in a state of appreciative enjoyment of the comforts and civilised cleanliness of my steamer, having just returned from three or four days' roughing in the ruins of Phylæ. "Roughing" is a relative term, and my trials were of a very mild description, for though I slept à la belle étoile (or rather tried to sleep), at all events I had a bed to rest in, and the air at night was delightful; moreover, the commissariat was very satisfactorily managed, so that food and drink were abundant; nevertheless, I must maintain that living in an open ruin is not comfortable. I made two or three sketches, and should probably have enjoyed myself, but that on the second day I was entirely thrown off the rails by the heat whilst sketching; I thought I should get a coup de soleil; I was very indisposed in the evening, and utterly unable to work the next morning, so that I took the place en grippe, and could see nothing but the ugliness of the rocks and the wearing monotony of the hieroglyphs. Picked up in the [155]evening, and liked the place better; made some original and striking reflections about the desirability of health.

Having heard much of the beauty of the full moon at Phylæ, timed my visit to see it, and was entirely delighted. The light was so brilliant that one could read with ease, but at the same time so soft, so rich, and so mellow that one seemed not to see the night, but to be dreaming of the day. The Arabs say of a fine night, "it is a night like milk," but there is more of amber than of milk in the nights of Phylæ. The rising of the moon last night was the first thing of the sort I ever saw; the disc was perfectly golden, not as in a mist, but set sharp and clear in the sky, and exactly like the sun, except that you could look at it without pain to the eyes. The effect of this effulgent light on the shoulder of the hill was magical. The last hour of the afternoon I spent in strolling about the villages, which are picturesque. The cottages are four brown, roofless walls, built of the usual unburnt brick, and coated with mud; but the doorways are always highly decorated with painted geometrical devices which, in the mass of plain, sober brown, have a very cheerful and artistic effect. The people, too, amuse me; a pleasant, gentle, grinning folk these Nubians seem; I like their jargon—after the guttural Arabic it sounds so soft and round, and the women have funny, cooing inflections of voice (pretty voices, often) that are pleasing. Some of the girls are good-looking; chiefly through the brightness of their eyes and the milky whiteness of their teeth. The coiffure of the children is too funny; it consists in tufts of hair of various shapes and patterns left on an otherwise shaven head; often a crest all down the middle and a tuft on each side, exactly like the clown's wig in a pantomime; it is irresistibly droll.

A grand sight is to see the villagers keeping the birds from their crops; they all serve in their turn, men, women, and children; they stand each on a rude sort of scaffold which rises about two feet clear of the corn; they are armed with slings from which they hurl lumps of clay at the birds, uttering loud cries at the same time. Their movements are full of grandeur and character. I wonder Gérôme has never treated a subject so well suited to him. Why, too, has he never painted mine enemy the sakkea, which is even more emphatically in his way, for, besides the scope for fine [156]and quaint forms both in the men and the animals that work it, the accessories are abundant and interesting, and there are ropes in great abundance.

Is the sakkea my friend or my enemy? Its chant is so incessant that I should have to make up my mind if I stayed longer in the country; it would either fascinate me or drive me mad. As I listen in the silence of the evening, the rise and fall, the shifting and swaying of the wind bring its complaint from across the gurgling river in such a fitful way that it has the strangest and most unexpected effects: sometimes I fancy I hear deep, drowsy tones of a distant organ, sometimes the shrill quavering of a bagpipe; sometimes it is like a snatch of a song, sometimes like a whole chorus of voices singing a solemn strain in the sad, empty night; sometimes, alas! too often, like a snarling, creaking door-post.

Phylæ being above the cataracts, my steamer stopped at Assouan, and I went there by donkey as before; returning, I chartered a dahabieh to see the said cataracts, of which for some days I had heard so much; amongst other things, that a ship was wrecked there three weeks ago (I saw it stuck on its rock to-day). The cowardice of the people here, at least in this particular matter, is very funny; too naïf to inspire disgust: my captain, an old sailor, and the nicest old gentleman possible, told Hosseyn that nothing would induce him to go down them; I thought I observed a shade of respectful interest in his reception of me on my return from an exploit which most English women would consider good fun. I make no doubt that when the water is much lower, and your dahabieh shoots a good six or eight feet drop, and goes half into the water besides, considerable excitement may be got out of it; but now that the drop is not or does not look more than about a yard, and that the whole affair consists in a few plunges and shipping a little water, the emotion is very mild, and I own to considerable disappointment, though as far as it went it was pleasant. Nevertheless I did not for a moment regret coming if only on account of the amusement I got out of the sailors and pilots; the latter were men of years; the former, fine, jolly-looking lads as one could wish to see; but their demeanour throughout was infinitely droll; they rested their feet (according to custom here) on [157]inclined planks, up which they ran three steps with their arms well forward to fetch the stroke, getting back into the sitting position as they pulled through the water (and wonderfully fine the action looks in a large crew all pulling well together); but the contortions in which they indulged, the gnashing and grinding of teeth, the throwing back of agonised heads, the frowns, the setting of jaws, the straining of veins, the rolling of eyes, the groans, and, absurdest of all, the coming down on one another's laps and the cutting of crabs, were ineffably grotesque, and would have convulsed me with laughter if I had not controlled myself manfully. Meanwhile the pilots were howling at one another and them with all the vehemence of a violent altercation, and for no discernible reason. When they were not shrieking at one another, the crew took up the usual Arab boatmen's chant (I know no better word); one man gives out a short sentence, or name, or form of prayer (not exceeding four syllables) in a quavering treble, and the rest then repeat it in chorus in a graver key—the effect is very original. As we got within sight of the big cataract and the stranded ship, Hosseyn loudly exhorted the crew to pray to the Prophet, and all the saints who have their shrines on the heights of Assouan, to see them safely through the danger; the invitation was loudly responded to, and everybody who had not an oar to pull held up his hands and prayed with great fervour—which was very pretty, and done with the dignified simplicity which always accompanies an Arab's devotions; but it was certainly disproportionate to the emergency. When we had danced up and down (or rather down and up) three or four times, I had the curiosity to look about for the sailor and waiter I had brought with me from the steamer; they were respectively green and yellow in their unfeigned terror. Then there was a nominal small cataract (the first one is called the great cataract), and indeed I believe there was a third little commotion; then Hosseyn, throwing up his arms, exclaimed, "El Hamdul illah!! finish!!" and it was, as he said, "finish." I am utterly ignorant of the mysteries of navigation, but one figure we executed between the cataracts and Assouan struck me as novel: it consisted in turning entirely round in a wide circle to take (as it were) a fresh start; this manœuvre we performed with much gravity and success two successive times. An elaborate salute [158]from the guns of the dragoman and engineer, responded to with appropriate solemnity by Hosseyn, announced my return to my steamer—and, oh joy! my tub.

In the evening governor of course.

Monday, 2nd.—Resumed work; painted for a couple of hours—badly—in a high wind at an ugly study of a view I don't like. I consider it a sort of discipline. The wind to-day is tremendously high; the dahabiehs will come flying up now. I saw my friend the captain just now sitting on the bank in the midst of an interested circle having his fortune told. There is a blessing for them that wait. Hosseyn has caught a fish! two fishes, to-day! his glee is unlimited, he is radiant; when that boy is at the near end of his fishing rope, he is so absorbed I can't get him to attend to me or to answer a question. His brilliant piscatorial success is an opportune set-off against a chagrin the poor boy had this morning; he was taking a dip somewhere under the paddle-box, and lost, in putting away his clothes (he thinks by a black but improbable theft), a Koran with which he travels and to which he attributes much luck; he was greatly cut up, and after telling me how much he valued the book, proceeded to inform me that it contained a little piece of wood from Abyssinia with something written on it, "some, what you call, scription," which, when worn round the neck, infallibly cured the bite of the scorpion; seeing that this announcement did not impress me as much as he had expected, he asked me with some warmth how I supposed, pray, that the snake-charmers prevented the snakes from biting them if it was not by saying something out of the Bible.

Another sheep to-day; there was some hitch about the manner of the killing which caused a little excitement; his throat was not turned to the sun (or the East?) whilst he was being slaughtered; an important matter. I observe that Turkish officials are not expected to be able to write; my captain can, but I remarked that when his secretary, a poor, wizened little thing, whose nose and trousers are far too short, but whose mouth and ears offer ample compensation through their length, brought him to-day the ship's accounts, he stamped his signature at the foot of the page instead of writing it, although he happened to have a pen in his hand; I was giving him his English lesson. Talking of accounts, [159]the Arabs have a curious way of singing or rather intoning their sums, rocking all the while backwards and forwards like so many Dervishes. I have seen a large house of business (at Sohag) where all the clerks were doing it at once; it was like a madhouse. Oh, Lombard Street, and oh, Mark Lane! what would you have felt at the sight?

Tuesday, 3rd.—My last day at Assouan. Finished my sketches, took leave of the governor, and had a final stroll about the streets of the town, which seemed to me unusually picturesque. I remark that I invariably like a place best the day I leave it; if I am sorry to go, my regret casts a halo over it; if I am glad, my gladness makes everything brighter. How picturesque the people are! their flowing, flying draperies are wonderfully grand. I hope I may carry away with me some general impressions, but the immense multitude and rapid succession of striking things drive individual memories fatally out of the field. Sketching figures is out of the question—the effects are all too fugitive. This was also the last day of the moolid, and high time too; I met in the morning, in a narrow street, a procession of sailors carrying a boat, which they were about to deposit in the tomb of the sheykh in whose honour the moolid is held, and whose name they were loudly invoking. In front, drums and flags, and cawasses firing guns; behind, in front, everywhere, a host of most paintable ragamuffins enjoying the fun; above, over the brown house-tops, dark blue figures of women huddled peering at the procession; over them a blue sky with a minaret standing against it, a palm tree; some doves—there was the picture, it was charming. The children as usual called out, "Baksheesh howaga;" the so-called begging of the people has been ludicrously exaggerated; in the first place, only the children ask for baksheesh (I mean, of course, without the pretext of a service rendered), and in the next, they treat the whole thing as an excellent joke, and evidently have seldom the slightest expectation that they are to get anything. When you approach a village, every child, from as far as it sees you, whether from a window, or a doorway, or half-way up a palm tree, or the middle of the road, holloas out lustily, "Baksheesh, baksheesh," generally with much laughter, and frequently with a universal scamper in every direction except towards you. What I call [160]begging is that importunate whining that clings to you, and harasses you wherever you turn in the south of Italy or Spain, and with which this clamorous performance has nothing in common. I have remarked, with regard to grown-up Arabs, that though they wrangle vehemently with the dragoman on the subject of payment, they invariably show the master a pleasant and satisfied face. I speak, of course, only of my own experience. As strange a thing as a satisfied man is a barking fish; the fish that Hosseyn has caught of late—for Fortune is his handmaid now—all utter a sound which I can only describe as a faint bark; perhaps everybody knows that some fishes do this, but I did not, and my surprise was extreme. They are nasty-looking objects, all fins and teeth (a thick row of little bristle-like teeth). They are fat and shiny and most insipid eating.

Wednesday, 4th.—Started at six down stream; my face is turned towards bonny old England again, and I feel as if I had wings. At Kom Ombo (the first halt to-day) there are some ruins on a rock which crops up abruptly by the riverside in the midst of a flat country. The morning was divine, and the view from the temple, looking north, surpassingly lovely in colour. The form was nothing much; a vast sandy plain (tigered here and there with stripes of green), and in the distance a long low nest of mountain peaks; but the colour!—the gradation from the fawn-coloured glimmering sands in the foreground to the faint horizon with its hem of amethyst and sapphire was as enchanting a thing, in the sweet morning light, as I have ever seen. The temple is fine though heavy, and less delicate in detail than Phylæ. On the under surface of the architrave, between the columns, are some most curious and interesting unfinished decorations, on squares marked out in red, and showing (slight sketch) such as for instance a figure tried two ways on the same spot. The outlines are drawn out, in red also, with extraordinary firmness and freedom. Speaking of the squares, Gardiner Wilkinson—in his, I am told, most erudite, and, I am certain, most dry and heavy, guide-book—says that they were used (in the manner in which "squaring off" is practised in the present day) for the purpose of transferring a design. In this, however, he is obviously mistaken, because the squares are adapted not to the pictures but [161]to the space to be decorated; the hieroglyphs and the figures being adapted to the squares, not the squares to them: that these squares, once made the basis of the decoration and fixing its proportions and distribution, may then have been used also for enlarging a small design, or even, instead of tracing, for transferring one of the same size, is probable enough; but that was not their original function. In corroboration of this view, compare the frets and ornaments painted on the back of the architrave of the Parthenon, which I have examined closely; they are painted in squares marked out with a sharp instrument, and determining the space to be decorated exactly as at Kom Ombo. The case is so entirely parallel as to suggest the idea that the Greeks learnt the practice in Egypt. The great temple of Edfou, where we stopped next, far surpasses anything I have yet seen in Egypt; not so much, perhaps, for any especial beauty of detail—although the sculptures are extremely fine—as for its general aspect, which is superb, and its wonderful state of preservation; many parts of it look as if they had been finished yesterday. The gigantic Propylæa, and the no less gigantic wall which encloses the whole of this fortress-temple, are almost entirely intact, and make it unlike any other ruin I know. The great court, a giant cloister into which one first enters, discloses the temple itself, blocked out in vast masses of light and gulfs of shade, and tunnelled through by a corridor which reaches to its extremest end; the absence of some portions of the roof, by letting the light play fantastically into the inner spaces, only adds to the mysterious grandeur of the effect. A broad, open peribolus runs round the temple, dividing it from the towering mur d'enceinte which encloses the whole building. The western part of the temple is as full of staircases, secret passages, and dark chambers as any Gothic castle. Every square inch of the whole immense fabric is covered with sculptures and hieroglyphs.

I forgot to say that I stopped between Kom Ombo and Edfou at the ancient quarries of Gebel Silsily, from which the material of the sandstone temples was mostly quarried. They are extremely striking, and have a grandeur of their own. It was curious to compare them mentally with the marble quarries of Pentelicus from which Ictinus carved the Parthenon and Pheidias the Fates.

[162]In a tomb at El Kab are some most amusing and interesting sculptures (with the colour almost intact on them) representing the various occupations of Egyptian life, agricultural, &c. The reaping of the corn and durrah is pretty—a vintage and wine-treading pleased me vastly. Had they wine in this district?

Coming upon a magnificent view, stopped the steamer for the night; want to see it by sunrise. The absurd spurious importance my steamer confers on me in the eyes of the natives is too funny. At Edfou I found the whole place en émoi; horses handsomely caparisoned, a most polite governor, sheykhs, and a general profusion of salaams. It appears that the viceroy had the authorities in the different places telegraphed to be civil to me; and God knows they are. I was struck with the magnificence of the population here, the men at least; they are most stately fellows. I should like immensely to paint some of them, but for that there is no time; I can only hope that something will stick to me from this dazzling multitude of fine things. We are now again in the region of doves, whose presence in large numbers affects the architecture of the villages in a most curious manner. Every house has, or rather, is, a dovecot, the chief corps de bâtiment being a tower, or several towers, of which the whole upper part is exclusively affected to the doves. Their sides are inclined like the sides of the propylæa of the temples, with which they harmonise amazingly well; they are divided horizontally by bands of colour which have an excellent effect, recalling strongly the marked parallel strata of the mountains. (There is no more curious study than the concord which constantly manifests itself between national (and notably domestic) architecture, and the nature in the midst of which it grows up.) The construction of these towers is both peculiar and ingenious; they are built up entirely with earthen jars, sometimes placed topsy-turvy, but most often on their sides, and tier above tier like bottles in a cellar. The exterior is then filled in with mud, and the interior presents the appearance of a honeycomb, the cells being formed by the hollow jars; in these jars the doves have their abode. It is easy to see that by turning a few of the jars outwards a very simple but pretty decoration may be obtained; a crest is added at the top by placing jars upside down at certain intervals; the bands of [163]colour are generally divided by a string-course of bricks something after this fashion, but with much variety; and each of these string-courses is garnished with a perfect hedge of branches and twigs projecting horizontally a yard or more, and forming resting places for thousands of doves. Many houses have two towers, and the wealthier people have towers of great size subdivided again into small turrets; but in all cases the height of these edifices is the same, or nearly so, so that the villages received from them a very monumental look. The large towers are divided after the manner shown in the sketch. The natives also make to themselves curious pillar cupboards of mud (about man high), which from a distance have the oddest appearance; they look like raised pies on pedestals.

Thursday, 5th.—Made a little sketch from the paddle-box before starting. Then to Esne to return the visit of my amiable friend, the governor; him of the flowers. There is a temple here; a heavy-looking portico of the Roman period, coarsely executed, but with a grand, cavernous look, buried as it is in the ground which rises all round it to half the height of the columns, so that you have to descend a considerable flight of steps to get at it. At Arnout, or at least within three miles of it, are a few fragments of the Cæsarium. The portraits of Cleopatra and Cæsarion (he is always seated on her lap), which occur here several times, would be of the greatest interest if they were not utterly conventional, and exactly like everybody else in every temple of the date. Got to Lougsor at sunset, and found no letters, no Sterlings, no Lady Duff Gordon. I trust the letters may still turn up before I go, for, if not, I shall probably lose them entirely, through my desire to get them a little earlier. In the evening dined with Mustafa Aga, and met there the American Consul-General, Mr. Hale, who had run up from Alexandria to show the Nile to a friend of his; both are agreeable men (Mr. Hale earned my warmest blessings by lending me a pile of English newspapers); there was also the Consul from Syoot with a friend of his. After dinner the dancing girls were asked in, and, presently, a buffoon who stripped to his waist and performed various antics; he was clever and a good mimic, but became terribly tedious after a short time. His performance was of the most Aristophanic coarseness. With the [164]girls, of whom I had heard so much, I was decidedly disappointed; in the first place they were mostly ugly, one or two only were tolerably good-looking—et encore! Then they were clumsily built, and their dress was quite ludicrous: it consisted in a body fitting tight to the figure and four inches too long in the waist, tight sleeves, a petticoat, in shape exactly like a pen-wiper, and very full, loose trowsers (bags) down to the feet; the whole of printed calico. In front of their waists hung a sort of breloque, or chain, looped up at intervals in festoons, the object of which was to jingle as they moved, and to add to the effect of certain little brass castagnette cymbals which they held on the middle finger and thumb of either hand. A profusion of ornaments hung round their necks. Their dancing is very inferior to that of the Andalusian dancers of the same class, whose performance is full of a quaint grace and even dignity—inferior, too, to the Algerine dancing, to which that of the south of Spain more nearly approaches in character; it is monotonous in the extreme—very ugly for the most part, and remarkable only as a gymnastic feat; sleight of loins, so to speak. These are, however, no doubt, unfavourable specimens; I shall see the best of the kind in Keneh at the house of the Consul, who has come all the way here from that place to invite me thereto.

Friday, 6th.—Went to the palace and temples of Medinet Haboo, with which I was delighted beyond my expectation. What pleased me most, and was an entire surprise to me, was a bit of purely secular architecture—the remains of a royal residence, with its towers flanking the great entrance, its windows of various shapes, balconies, semicircular crenelations, outer wall; in fact, identically such a building as one sees occasionally in Egyptian sculptures, and, curiously enough, as if it were a portrait of it, on the walls of the very temple to which this palace leads. The temple, too (the large one), interested me extremely from the wonderful preservation of the coloured decoration in parts of it; one really gathers an excellent idea of the original effect, and a most brilliant and magnificent (though barbarous) effect it must have been. The columns in the great hall here are of what, for want of a better word, I shall call the "ninepin" pattern; and I think on the whole I prefer it to the bell-capped pattern; [165]because, besides its character and massive strength, there is no suggestion in it (as in the other) of the Doric order, with which comparison is obviously dangerous. As far as I can observe, there is no trace of colour on any of the propylæa, but the pylon is always richly decorated and highly coloured. This decorative importance given to the door must have had a very striking effect, and reminds me of the same peculiarity in the dwellings of Upper Egypt.

Visited a private tomb near Medinet Haboo, which is full of the most curious paintings, many of them in excellent preservation, and representing every sort of domestic and professional occupation. They are very superior in execution and character to those of El Kab. In the evening had a dinner on board: Mr. Hale and friend, Mustafa Aga and the Syoot Consuls (one of whom does not speak a word of anything but Arabic). I had also invited Mustafa's younger son, but find that he may not sit down with his father. (He accompanied me this morning, and insisted on lunching with the servants; on the other hand, my servant is addressed as Hosseyn Effendi, if you please! and conversed with as a gentleman. Service appears to be looked upon in an entirely patriarchal light.) The entertainment went off successfully, and Ottilio, the Italian waiter, covered himself with glory by his excellent waiting. After dinner Mr. Hale received a telegram to the effect that General Grant had been elected President of the United States, with Mr. Colfax as Vice. He was in great excitement and delight; we had a recrudescence of champagne, and gave the new President three cheers in British fashion. The news had come in three days from Washington to Thebes! it is marvellous.

Saturday, 7th.—Went to Karnak. Wilkinson advises the traveller to see this group of temples last; and wisely, for it is indeed the crowning glory of all, and must satisfy, if it does not surpass, the most sanguine expectations. The vast unfinished propylæa of the large temple prepare one by their colossal dimensions for the gigantic grandeur of the great central hall, in which one is at a loss what most to admire—the originality of the general design, combining, as it does in a surprising degree, freedom and variety with the gravest simplicity—the massive and reposeful breadth of the forms or the exquisite subtlety of the colour. The latter [166]has of course gained very much from the blending hand of time, and is now of a most delightful mellowness, but, judging from the better preserved portions, it must have been at all times of singular beauty. It seems strange at first that a decoration consisting entirely of small blots of vivid colour on a white ground, like butterflies on a wall, can have a large architectural effect; but, in fact, the repetition over large surfaces of wall and column restores, through its monotony, the balance of breadth. The design of this hall is very curious: the great central nave, flanked on each side by two aisles of the same height as itself, but of less breadth (diminishing, roughly, in a proportion of 10, 7, 5), runs, as in a Gothic cathedral, perpendicular to the main entrance; beyond the second aisle, however, on either side, the lintels or architraves which connect the columns run at right angles to the nave; the effect of this arrangement must have been peculiar and striking. (Too little remains now, except the columns, to enable one to form a distinct idea.) The central nave, with the aisles immediately adjoining, rises in a clerestory thirty or forty feet above the rest of the building, and was lighted by massive square windows filled with slabs of stone (sketch), perforated vertically, and of a severe and very fine (sketch) effect. These windows fill the space between the entablature of the lateral columns and of the roof of the clerestory, and must be some twenty to twenty-five feet high. I find it difficult to reconcile my eye to the far-fetched "asymetria" in the arrangement of the columns, the lesser ones standing in no definite relationship, on the plan, to the two central rows, neither immediately behind them nor half-way between them. How differently the Greeks managed these things! The inner row of columns at the east and west ends of the Parthenon differs also in size, height, and level from the outer row, and also stands back; but it is only one row at each end; so that variety and play of form are obtained without a repeated jar on the eye; and an otherwise uniform rectangular plan is not gratuitously distorted. In a very ancient temple beyond and behind that of the great hall are some curious polygonal columns that have a very Doric look about them, though they are very rude and undeveloped.

The walls of Karnak are of course defaced and disfigured by the usual amount of inscriptions; one commemorative tablet, [167]however, like a similar one at Phylæ, inspires a different feeling. Both are memorials of the French Campaign in Egypt; the one at Phylæ, dated "an VIII. de la République Française," alludes with simple dignity to the victorious march of the French army to the first cataract, giving the names of the generals who were fighting "sous les ordres de Bonaparte"; the other, under the same date, is a simple scientific memorandum giving the latitude and longitude of the chief towns on the Nile. It is impossible to read the first of these inscriptions without emotion: how remote from us, already, seems that stern, invincible French Republic, tracing its proud name with an undoubting finger here in the grave-dust of an empire that stood more centuries than this young giant completed years! How thickly, already, does the dust lie now on the grave of this thing of yesterday!

In writing about Phylæ, I forgot to notice the henna tree, which grows in great quantities round the skirts of the temple, and has a delicious scent. In this wilderness of granite and most unsavoury haunt of bats, its perfume wafted unexpectedly on the air is infinitely delightful.

Sunday, 8th.—Sketched.

Monday, 9th.—Ditto. In the evening went out to shoot, but could not get near the pelicans and crows—they see you half a mile off. Returning, against stream, Hosseyn, anxious to be useful, took a punting pole and rowed away with an air of conviction which was worthy of the fly on the coach-wheel in the fable.

The heat, though still considerable (greater than with us at midsummer), has diminished within the last few days, and does not inconvenience me as much as it did in sketching. Towards evening, soft autumnal veils of mist rise from the smooth, swift river, and shroud everything in their mysterious folds; to-night the effect was especially striking; a pale golden sun hung in a pale golden mist, tempered so that one could look at it undazzled, and so shorn of its fires that the eastern bank, instead of burning orange, showed only a faint violet flush over its dark-brown ridges. On a dahabieh alongside me an Arab is singing endless strophes of some poem of love and war, accompanied by the thud and jingle of a tambourine; the melody, a wandering, nasal strain, full of turns and runs and triplets, appears to be entirely improvised, [168]and is full of character and melancholy. At the end of each strophe I hear a prolonged, deep groan of approval uttered in a chorus by the audience, rising in pitch after a particularly happy effort of the rhapsodist, whose song begins again and again in mournful gusts like the song of the wind. It is dark; I only hear—don't see—the singer and his listeners.

Tuesday, 10th.—Sketched. A frequent companion in my work is my friend, little Fatma, a sweet, small child of about five, with a bright face and two rows of the whitest teeth ever seen. She squats down snugly by my side, sometimes looking at the picture, sometimes at the painter, most often at the paint-box, at which she twiddles silently; sometimes she pensively draws a pattern with a little brown finger on my dusty boots. I remember at Rhodes, last year, a knot of little girls used to watch me sketching in the Street of the Knights; but the little Turks were not so nice as Fatma, the little Arab; some used to giggle, and some used to frown at the Djiaour; but one very chatty young lady of about six with the manners and graces of sixteen would exclaim in a little fluty voice, "Mash Allah! Mash Allah! beautiful indeed! nobody here can write like you!" (Turk., if my memory helps me: Guzel! guzel! Bir khimse burda senci zhibi yazamas!) I had a visit on board the other day from Mustafa Aga's youngest son, bonny and rosy as an apple. He wore a flowing robe of linen, à ramages, buttoned summarily and once for all at the neck, but entirely open from the neck downwards; over this an enormous embroidered jacket with anticipatory sleeves turned up at the wrists, and on, or rather about, his feet, a pair of his papa's shoes; he was irresistibly funny and pretty; an amorino, dressed up as the Dog Toby. He was very chatty; not so his playfellow, "Genani," the son of Abdallah, the servant of Mustafa, a putto by Raphael modelled in chocolate; a wild, black-eyed, trembling, romping, dusty, stark-naked little imp (I used to call him Afreet), and the finest child I ever saw. The nearest approach to social intercourse I could get out of him was a sudden plunge at a proffered cake; after which he would dart off with affected dismay, and frown at me through an ill-suppressed grin from behind the nearest place of safety.

Wednesday, 11th.—Got on with my sketches. Have begun [169]two or three rough small studies of heads. Hate sketching heads rapidly; it is unavoidably and odiously free and easy, and nearly all that is worth escapes. But I have no time for more, and, I suppose, the sketches will be useful. One man, with a face like a camel, whom I drew in profile, was annoyed (though in a general way complimentary) at seeing only one eye in the picture. This struck me as quaint; for he was blind of the other; he had not been defrauded of much. My delight, in the evening, is to watch the processions of women and girls coming down to the Nile to fetch water. The brown figures, clad in brown, coming, in long rows, along the brown bank in all the glow and glory of sunset, look very grand; very grand, too, returning up the steep bank, along the violet sky, with their long, flowing folds and the full pitchers now erect on their heads (when empty they carry them horizontally). They are neither handsome individually nor particularly well made, but their movements are good, and the repetition of the same "motive" many times in succession makes the whole scene impressive and stately. There is no more fruitful source of effect in Nature or Art than iteration.

The suppleness of the limbs of the children here is extraordinary. I have seen little girls squatting like grasshoppers in the Nile drinking, à même, the water in which they were standing little more than ankle deep.

An hour after nightfall the dahabieh, my neighbour, slipped her cables and began to drift down the river; but not till the rhapsodist had chanted his ditty to the approving murmurs of his little circle as on the preceding night. His singing has a great charm for me; I shall miss it. It reminds me much of Andalusian singing and moonlight nights in the Bay of Cadiz—there is about it a strangeness and a wayward melancholy that attach and charm me. It was a love song (I am told, for I could not hear the words, and should have understood very few if I had).

"Ya leyl! ya leyl! ya leyl!"—the eternal refrain of Arab songs. "Oh night! oh night! oh night! you have left a fire in my heart, oh my beloved! Oh my beloved, do not forget me!" &c. &c. &c.

A day or two ago I heard a youth calling the faithful to noonday prayer, from the gallery of a minaret, with one of the [170]finest voices I have ever heard; he was tearing his notes from the inmost depths of his chest with that eagerness of yet unconscious passion that I have often noticed in southern children, and which to me is singularly pathetic; he retained his last notes as long as his breath allowed it, and they vibrated in distinct waves like a sonorous metal set in motion: from a little distance the effect was saisissant. I could not see him, and the air seemed to throb with sound as well as with heat in the sultry noon.

The departure of the dahabieh was celebrated with the usual Arab waste of powder, and all the echoes of the valley of the tombs across the river were aroused by the popping of many guns. All the consuls fired officially, everybody else fired unofficially. Hosseyn fired officiously—chuckling and nearly tumbling over; and the dahabieh itself, having opened the ball, fired again at intervals from a long distance as if it had forgotten somebody—they are too funny.

Thursday, 12th.—More sketching. The weather, which is a little too canicular at noon, is deliciously fresh and cool for an hour after sunrise; the Arabs, however, look much aggrieved at the severity of the cold; they sit huddled in muffled groups with a pinched look that would become a British December day.

I observe that half the men in middle life have no forefinger to their right hand. They all of them mutilated themselves to avoid conscription under Said Pasha, who, however, having found them out, enlisted them all the same. A curious equality prevails here: whilst sketching two of Mustafa Aga's servants this morning, I learnt from his son that they were both his relations. One of them appears to be a particularly nice fellow, and is a perfect gentleman in his manners.

Friday, 13th.—My last day in Thebes. When I arrived here and found neither friends nor letters, I thought, caring little for the place apart from the ruins, that I should stay four or five days; to-morrow when I leave I shall have been here nine, and shall go with regret. Work has exercised its usual attaching influence.

I have drawn in pencil a few heads that will be of use and interest to me. The subject of one of my studies (Mustafa's gardener) on receiving from Hosseyn two shillings for one hour's sitting, accused him, to his infinite disgust and anger, of having [171]suppressed the remaining eighteen shillings out of a putative pound which he conceived to be destined for him. Excusez!

Saturday, 14th.—Got up early to finish a couple of sketches, and started at half-past eleven amidst salutes and salaams. To my great relief, the letters which I very rashly sent for from Cairo three weeks ago have just turned up at the last moment—fewer than I had expected, but a great delight: the first and only news I have received since leaving home—such are Egyptian posts!

Weather divine: the Nile like an opal mirror, reflecting without a break the faint, sleeping, sultry hills on the horizon: a lovely, drowsy scene. Arrived shortly after three at the village at which one lands for Keneh; a very cheery town about a mile inland. It is generally separated from the landing place on the river during the floods by a vast sheet of water; this year, however, owing to the calamitous lowness of the Nile, a narrow, shallow strip of water, only, intercepts the road, and a large tract of country remains untilled and unfruitful from the want of the quickening flood. Keneh is a very pretty sample of an Egyptian town; it is animated and full of colour, has some pretty minarets, some charming gardens, and more than the usual allowance of ornamental doorways: the effect of the mosaic of black and white bricks is most satisfactory, and has the charm which always accompanies a considerable result produced by very sober and simple means. Great relief is frequently obtained by a band or frieze of carved wood, running across the decorated surface at the springing of the arch; this band is generally carved in circles enclosing patterns and picked out with green and red. In the jambs of the door of one of the mosques, a very beautiful effect was produced by alternate bands of brickwork and minutely carved wood, not coloured (three courses of brick to one band of wood).

Visited a pottery, and for the first time in my life saw a pattern-wheel and the artist at work—a most fascinating sight: the bottles and jugs flow into the most graceful forms as if by magic, and look incomparably prettier than when they are baked. I could hardly get away. A little boy scratches a pattern on them as they leave the wheel.

The Consul's white donkey, on which I ride about here, is [172]as fleet as the wind and as oily in his movements as a two-oared gondola.

À propos of consuls, Mustafa at Thebes showed me his travellers' book—in it I saw an entry of the names of Speke and Grant, with the numbers of their regiments, and the dates of their departure from Zanzibar and their arrival at Khartoum and Thebes. A simple conventional travellers' entry, as if they had returned from an ordinary journey—nothing to hint at the great achievement which brought them such honour and lasting fame.

Sunday, 15th.—Made a sketch, a little after sunrise, of the chain of hills on the west bank of the Nile, then crossed the river to see the ruins of Denderah. Horses were waiting on the other side, and would have been most enjoyable if the weather had been cool; but, under a fierce sun, absolutely incessant prancing and waltzing ("he make 'fantasia,'" quoth Hosseyn) was fatiguing after a bit. Was so much struck with the beauties of the mountains, as seen from the left bank, that I resolved to stay a couple of days to paint them. The temple is extremely fine, and in parts unusually well preserved—the sculpture, that is, for the colour is almost entirely lost. These sculptures, being of a late period (Roman), are clumsy enough; on the other hand the general scheme of decoration is more artistic, more varied in distribution and rhythm than in most of the temples. On the external wall I remarked here, as at Edfou and at Medinet Haboo, massive and very handsome gargoyles—half a lion, couchant, on a large bracket, the water flowing from a spout between the paws—a more important feature in the architectural aspect of the wall than in northern countries, and calculated for five months' rain rather than for five minutes', which is the average annual fall here, I believe. This temple boasts a portrait of Cleopatra on a large scale, but, like those of Armout and Karnak, it is absolutely conventional, and any pretence of detecting an individuality is mere humbug. One fancies at first one has discovered some peculiarity in the features, but on a candid examination one must own that the same peculiarities occur in other faces on the same wall, or that they are owing to the mutilation to which two-thirds of the figures in all Egyptian temples has [173]been assiduously subjected. In a lateral chamber of the temple, on the ceiling, is a most striking mystical design, representing the firmament and the sun fecundating the land of Egypt. It is fantastic and poetic in the extreme; it would delight Rossetti. In the evening made another sketch, and then rode to Keneh to dine with the Consul—a most interesting glimpse into a real old-fashioned Muslim interior. Si Syed Achmet (forty-five years British Agent in this town and at Khossayr) is a very wealthy old gentleman with large property in this part of the world. He is of the blood of the Prophet, a good and pious Muslim, tolerant and full of kindliness. A son, three nephews and a daughter form his immediate family circle, living with him in the house to which I was bidden—a bald, uninteresting place enough. It is entered from a narrow, irregular triangular court, ornamented on one side with some good brick and wood work, but ugly and plain on the others, and disfigured by something between a ladder and a staircase which leads to the clean but singularly naked room in which we were to spend the evening. This room was whitewashed, but so roughly bedaubed that the plain deal cupboards, the doors of which formed the only embellishment (?) of the walls, were all besmeared with ragged edges of white. Three windows, innocent of glass, and protected by a close, plain trellis-work of ordinary white wood, lighted the room, which boasted in the way of furniture the usual ugly divans, three red muslin curtains, a small deal table, two lanterns and two candles in candlesticks. Shortly after my arrival and most kindly reception by the old gentleman, who had come up from the country expressly ad hoc, dinner was served. The son, as the eldest, sat at table; the nephews waited on us; we squatted, I on a cushion, they on the floor, round a very low table on which was a large, round, brass tray, containing four plates, some wooden spoons, and a great many small loaves of bread arranged round it in a circle; a soup tureen, into which, after washing of hands, everybody plunged his spoon, was the central feature. After the soup, came in rapid succession several dishes containing savoury messes which were really very good, though perhaps too rich, but which I was entirely unable to enjoy in the sight of a number of hands, shining with gravy, mopping in succession [174]at the dishes with crusts of bread, or fetching out a coveted morsel with fingers too recently licked. It is a delicate and hospitable attention to put a bit with your own hand on to your guest's plate—an attention of which I was the frequent but unworthy recipient. After the made dishes had been done justice to, half a sheep—head and all—was put on the table and clawed asunder by Hosseyn. The roast being disposed of, the sweets appeared, and were eaten out of the common dish with spoons, like the soup: I was not sorry when it was over, for I had gone through all the sensations of a sea voyage. I observe that Arabs make a point of eating with as much noise and smacking of lips as possible; it is as if they were endeavouring to convey a sort of oblique expression of thanks to Providence by manifesting their relish of the blessings vouchsafed. When dinner was over, and a by no means superfluous washing of hands had been gone through, we had pipes and coffee. Hosseyn having gone to dine, I was now thrown on my own extremely limited stock of Arabic for conversation; and as I had about exhausted that during my ride to Keneh with one of the nephews, I was hard put to it. However, I just managed to get through a few broken sentences, to the great satisfaction of Achmet, who informed me that he had been for forty years the servant of the English, of whom he thought very highly, chiefly because, as he expressed it, they have "one word"—a satisfactory character to leave behind. In the evening the governor (Mudir) came to see me with a tail of employés and, if you please, a pocket-handkerchief, of which he was not a little conscious, holding it in his hand rolled into a neat tube, which he occasionally drew with dignity across the basis of the official nose. The Consul for France and Prussia also came and made his salaam. My borrowed and temporary plumes have been of real use to somebody here, for the Mudir, hearing that an Englishman (whom he erroneously supposed to be somebody) was on board a viceroy's steamer, immediately gave the crew two months' pay—an alacrity not sufficiently often displayed in this country, if I am not much misinformed. The dancing-girls who came to entertain us in the evening were no doubt better than those of Lougsor, though, with one exception, at least as ugly; but some of them were gorgeously attired [175](from the dancing-dog point of view), and all were a mass of gold necklaces and coins and glittering headgear, which produced at a certain distance and in the doubtful light a prodigiously fine effect of colour. The dancing was a little more varied than that of the Lougsor women, chiefly, no doubt, because they got more to drink; but, en somme, I am confirmed in my first impression that it is an eminently ugly performance, though a very remarkable gymnastic feat. Of course a graceful and good-looking girl may do a good deal to redeem it by personal charm, and this was in some degree the case with Zehneb, who is a noted dancer and the fine fleur of the profession. She is pretty though coarse in feature, and not without grace; but has a semi-European smack about her dress and ways that spoils her in my eyes—hers, by-the-bye, are splendid. Just as the "fantasia" was at its height, a ragged, dust-soiled, old beggar came, chattering and grinning, into the room, and at once installed himself, uninvited but unhindered, on the divan, from which comfortable post he proceeded to witness the performance and apparently thoroughly to enjoy his evening. The contrast between his beggar's garb and the scrupulously cleanly attire of his neighbours was very curious. He is a fakeer, as I am told; everybody feeds him, no doors are closed to him; he is not, I believe, exactly an idiot, but is certainly in his second childhood—"rimbambito," as the Italians say. On one side of him squatted a sweet little brown girl, Achmet's daughter, of about five or six, in a pink cotton shift and with anklets hanging about her little naked feet. On the other side, a little further off, was an umber-coloured dancing-girl, with bright bold eyes painted round with black, covered with a mass of gold coins on her head, in her hair, on her ears, and round her neck, and wearing a blue silk dress all bespangled with gold. He looked like a dust-heap between them. It was a queer picture, taken out of the "Thousand and One Nights"; from which work also, I presume, the numerous one-eyed people that I see everywhere in Egypt, are copied. (I prefer this view to that of unimaginative pedants who, attaching undue importance to facts, inform me that this blindness is self-inflicted, to avoid conscription.) My ride home was a fitting close to such an evening; a fantastic procession we made, headed by a handful [176]of torch and lantern bearers, brandishing enormous staves; after which "Meine Wenigkeit" on a sumptuously caparisoned steed, the consul's nephew, the captain, Hosseyn, a cawass, all of them on horses, others on donkeys, and odd men bustling about amongst us and dispersing the few stragglers that were to be found at that late hour in the streets. The fitful flare of the torches, dressing in fugitive, fantastic lights the gateways and dim walls of the slumbering town, had a very fine effect. More curious still was our ride through a quarter of a mile of dourah that stood at least ten or twelve feet high all round us; the train of light and shower of sparks in the tall graceful corn was of a surprising aspect. Except that nothing took fire, it was as if Samson's foxes had been let loose in front of us.

Monday, 16th.—Sketched. In the evening, yielding, I own, with some reluctance, to a pressing invitation, returned to Keneh to dine with Si Achmet. Had, except the roast, exactly the same dinner as on the previous day, which leads me to conjecture that the répertoire of Arab cookery is limited. After dinner we rode out to see the moolid, which is just beginning here. It is the great moolid of Central Egypt, and to it, but only towards the end, flock people from all parts of the country till the concourse is enormous. It must be an interesting sight when in full swing, but as yet there is little or nothing worth seeing except the tomb of the sheykh in whose honour the moolid is held (Sheykh Abd-er-Rahim, the "Genani") to which I was taken by my host. The building was like most others of the same class in Egypt: a square chamber with a dome, and windows through which the coffin, placed conspicuously in the centre, can be seen by the pious crowds outside. On entering, I was conducted, after taking off my boots, to a post of honour, on the ground of course, in the midst of a grave circle of worthies who were squatting in the ruelle between one side of the coffin and the wall. On my right was one of the civic functionaries, on my left the priest attached to the tomb. The spectacle before me was wonderful both in colour and form, though composed in great part of the simplest elements. It was like the finest Delacroix in aspect and tone, but with a gravity and stateliness of form very foreign to that brilliant but epileptic genius. To the [177]left of me, covered with a showy embroidered cloth, stood behind a railing the sarcophagus of the saint, illuminated from above by various lanterns hung from the ceiling (the central one, and the handsomest, the gift of Lady Duff Gordon) and from the corners by gigantic candles, standing in candlesticks of proportionate dimensions; at the same corners stood great banners of sober but rich tone, which added much to the general colour. On each side of the carpet at the head of which I squatted, squatted, in far more picturesque attire, some of the notables of Keneh, half hidden in the shadow, their large turbans cast on the rich carpet they sat on. At the further end stood and stared, with the solemnity of a chorus in an opera, a motley, dazzling group of lesser folk; magnificent, too, in the flow of their draperies, the grace of the half untwisted turbans wreathed round their necks or hanging from their shoulders, the stateliness of their forms, and the fiery glow of colour in which they burnt under the clustered lanterns. Unfortunately, I could not gaze with attention as undivided as I could have wished, because the gentleman on my right insisted on making conversation, the very meagrest form of which exercise absorbed for the time my powers of attention. Hosseyn, who is very pious, bled me of an enormous baksheesh for the shrine of the saint.

Tuesday, 17th.—Completed my sketches in the morning. In the evening, Si Achmet, his son, and three nephews, one of whom I neither knew nor had invited (this is entirely Arabic—I might, also, have taken any one with me to dine with them) came to dine on board. It was a very droll ceremony—the Arabs had, with one exception, probably never sat at a table on a chair before, but they were so entirely simple as not to be (also, by-the-bye, with one exception) at all ridiculous. Ottilio had, perhaps with a little malice, arranged the napkins in a most artistic and intricate fashion; these edifices so impressed my friends that they did not sit down opposite to their plates but on one side of them. I set them at once comparatively at their ease by requesting them, through Hosseyn, to consider themselves at home and eat with their fingers, forgiving me if I followed the custom of my country; the proposal was received with great satisfaction by the old gentleman and his son, who fell to in [178]their own way, the father muttering his appreciation of the dishes in low, sonorous ejaculations: "Allah!"—"Mash Allah!"—"Ou Allah!"—"Ameer! Ameer!" &c. &c. &c. The son, a man of about forty, with a broken nose and a very strong squint, and whose movements carried a general impression of contemplative dreaminess, always verging on surprise, ate with his usual deliberation and spent his odd moments in contemplating a shining bunch of fingers, which he periodically and slowly licked with the utmost impartiality; he did not mix in the conversation. Of the three cousins on my left, two made a very fair attempt at using the knife and fork, though it must have been a virgin effort; the third, who had been a great deal with English people when he was consul at Khossayr, ate his dinner and put down his wine like the best European; I suspect, in fact, that he was brought as a show man. Achmet, in a climax of gratification, exclaimed towards the end of dinner, "By Allah! if the Ameer comes to my house another year, he shall be served after the Frankish custom." Arabs appear to be much devoted to limonade gazeuse—without being the forbidden fruit of wine itself, it dwells in bottles, and has a sort of air of crime about it which no doubt pleases them; my left-hand neighbour took off at least two bottles during dinner.

Hosseyn, whose father was a great friend of Si Achmet, proved invaluable; he hopped about like a delighted child, filling the glasses, cutting the meat of the two digitarians, and generally making conversation—a great relief to me. In the evening one of the nephews asked for some tea to take home, which I gave him; another pocketed all the tobacco that was brought them to make cigarettes. Arabs are hospitable and generous, and I like them much, but they are indiscreet in the extreme. "Arabs," says Hosseyn, "have no face; they never take shame." I have seen instances of this which I won't put down; one only, for it is very droll: my squinting friend with the pensive look asked Lady Ely last year if she would just procure for him from the Queen a title, or an order, as a mark of her regard. I am the bearer of a letter to her from him now, which I have no doubt is a reminder. Slew a sheep again.

Wednesday, 18th.—Left Keneh early, and with regret; the place, [179]the people and the scenery have left many pleasing pictures in my memory. I little expected at starting the annoyance that awaited me! As we approached the spot where Sheykh Selim receives his devout visitors, I sent word to the captain that I did not wish to lose any time in landing, but that the bag of money which had been collected for the saint was to be delivered, and we were to go on. I had scarcely uttered this almost sacrilegious order, when the steamer, which had been judiciously steered within ten yards of a flat, shelving bank, ran hard and fast into the mud, with the apparent intention of sticking there permanently, the engine being utterly powerless to get her out. Nobody on board doubted for an instant but that Sheykh Selim had stopped us in his resentment; the captain instantly dispatched sailors with money to propitiate him, and after a few futile attempts on the part of five or six of the crew (to loud cries of "Help us, O Prophet! help us, O Sheykh Selim!") to heave out a vessel that was four or five feet in the mud, jumped himself into a boat, and hurried, of course accompanied by Hosseyn, and leaving his vessel to take care of herself, to beseech the sheykh to get us off. Their conversation was afterwards reported to me by one who was present. "What is this, O Sheykh, that thou hast done to us? in what have we been wanting towards thee? did I not give thee a shirt when we last came by? and the tobacco, was it not good? was the roast meat not sufficient? why are we thus punished?"—to whom the sheykh: "Don't be a fool! why do you come to me about your boat? am I a sailor? how do you expect me to get her off—or on? Allah got her on the sand, not I, who am a man like yourselves." The captain: "Allah is indeed great, but if he ran us aground it was on thy instigation—thou knowest it, O Sheykh!" &c. &c. In this strain the conversation lasted at least twenty minutes, during which time and for the rest of the day I was literally sick with disgust and anger at the lot of them. Everything that ought not to be done under the circumstances, including losing the anchor (which is still at the bottom of the river), was done before evening; everything that should have been done was left undone.

Next morning (Thursday, 19th) we obtained (by force, after [180]the fashion of this country) through the governor of the neighbouring town a gang of two hundred Arabs, magnificent fellows some of them, who, at last, by heaving and tugging, contrived to get her off—not without the most unearthly charivari I ever heard. In the morning I made a sketch; reached Bellianeh in the evening, appeased, at last, and rather amused at the abject condition of the captain, to whom I had conveyed my mind (he had never seen me angry before), and who swore that in future one hundred sheykhs should not take him out of his course. My misadventure will benefit my successors in the good ship Sheberkheyt—à quelque chose malheur est bon.

Friday, 20th.—Started at seven on horseback to see Abydos, and had a delightful morning. The weather was fresh and clear, and the canter of six or seven miles across a fine open plain to the foot of the mountains where the ruins lie was most enjoyable. The temples, very strikingly situated on a slope which sweeps down from a grand amphitheatre of bastion-like rocks, have a great advantage over all those that I have yet seen, viz. that their sculptures have almost entirely escaped mutilation, and are in admirable preservation. This is the more fortunate, that they are of a very fine period, and most delicate in workmanship; the type of the faces has considerable beauty and refinement. The colours, notably in the more recently excavated temple of Osiris, are often extremely well preserved, and I am confirmed in my conjecture, that they must have been much less beautiful in their freshness than now that time has toned and tuned them. In the larger temple are some very beautiful wagon-head vaults cut in the thickness of two layers of stone, the upper ones laid on end to get more thickness of material. They are charmingly decorated with cartouches and stars on a blue ground, and divided by a band of hieroglyphs running like a ridge-rib along the head of the vault. The stars on Egyptian ceilings are always pentagonal, and placed very near together. At the temple I was joined by the obligato governor, a puffy Turk with a tight, shiny face that had a look of having been stung all over by a wasp; he was heavy and stupid, and I left him in the hands of Hosseyn, galloping ahead myself with the mounted cawass, a very picturesque Arnout on a very good [181]horse. N.B.—Never come to the East again without an English saddle; the back-board of a Turkish saddle is in the long run an intolerable nuisance, as are also, though in a less degree, the shovel-stirrups in which one's feet are imprisoned. In the afternoon reached Sohag, a sail, or rather a steam, of three or four hours, in time for a most pleasant evening's walk.

Saturday, 21st.—Got to Syoot in the afternoon, and was very glad to catch Lady Duff Gordon on her way up the river. Was received with great hospitality by the American and Spanish consuls, wealthy Copts of this town who kindly put their carriages at my disposal and, better still, their donkeys—splendid Arabian donkeys, looking, in their trappings, like cardinals' mules. Nothing is more pleasant than the swift amble of a good donkey from the Hejaz. Dined in the evening with Mr. Wonista, the consul for Spain, quite "à la Franca" with knives and forks and the whole thing. A curious house, and the rooms small but of enormous height, so that they looked as if they had been set on end by mistake. The walls were bare whitewash, but the furniture was of the most gorgeous brocade, as were also the curtains; there was a European carpet all over the floor and as many candles on the walls (in glass bells) as in a café chantant. I met there a Scotch clergyman belonging to the American Mission (Episcopalian) which is very active in Egypt. After dinner the singer from Lady Duff Gordon's boat was sent for, and in a short time arrived with some of the crew who acted as chorus; it is this chorus, I find, that gives the approving murmur after each strophe. He sang well, but his performance of course lost three-fourths of its charm by not being heard in its proper place and surroundings. I remember once in the Sabine hills hearing unexpectedly at a distance, in the silent dimness of night, the droning song of a piffera; nothing could be more strangely pathetic than this voice rising in the utter silence from out of the heart of the valley below—yet those same sounds heard close in the broad daylight would have seemed uncouth and strident. Arab singing has a similar quality, and is equally dependent on time and place for its full effect. Whilst the performance was at its height, and the minstrel was tuning his note to the most ambitious fioriture, I heard in [182]the room overhead some European part-singing of a melancholy order, and was informed that the Scotch minister had been invited by a few proselytes to retire upstairs "to worship and explain an obscure passage in the Gospel." On the invitation of the master of the house, I went up and joined the congregation, who thought it right to favour me with another psalm. The clergyman then read in Arabic, and expounded in the same language a chapter from the Bible, and I must say did it (I speak of his manner only, for Koran and Bible Arabic is so different from the current idiom, here at all events, that I did not understand four words in the whole sermon) in a very simple and impressive way. He had, too, an admirable accent. He tells me that in spite of vehement opposition from the Coptic prelates he finds a good deal of sympathy amongst the people.

Sunday, 22nd.—Lovely day. Strolled about with a gun. This place is full of "sparrows of paradise," a little bird of an exquisite golden green. Since I was here last, the aspect of the country has changed very much and for the better. Where I saw, a few weeks back, nothing but pools and mud, is now a vast expanse of clover and grass of an intense green, sunny and brilliant to a wonderful degree. The plain looks like one immense jewel, and contrasts deliciously with the tawny sand-rock which walls it in on the west, behind the gleaming white domes of the cemetery. Dined with the other consul in the evening. Same sort of house, but much larger. No Scotch clergyman this time, but an Anglo-Arab who teaches in the Coptic school, and, embracing Coptic views, inveighs bitterly against the converts to Protestantism. At sunset, to my agreeable surprise, the Sterlings turned up, musique en tête, the singer in the bows quavering a jubilant strain, and the vessel magnificent with fresh paint.

Monday, 23rd.—Killed a sheep. Sketched. Had the consuls and the Scotch missionary to dine with me. The latter brought me some newspapers, which I read greedily.

Tuesday, 24th.—Sketched. At last an evening to myself!—these festive gatherings are an ineffable bore, if the truth were told.

Wednesday, 25th.—Completed my sketches with one [183]exception—a study of my beautiful grey (hechtgrau) donkey. Unless I make a study at Sakkara, which is just possible, this will be the end of my work on the Nile. In twenty-two skies which I have painted there is not a vestige of a cloud, such has been the divinely serene weather I have had all along. This evening, indeed, faint, shining flakes of vapour were drawn across the sky, breaking and tempering the last rays of the sun; but by a curious piece of luck they did not appear till I was just giving the last touches to my day's work. Saw a beautiful and original effect at sunset. Just as the sun was about to sink behind the hills, a dahabieh drifted past with its sails spread, and reaching up into the region where the light was still golden, whilst the face of the water was darkened, and the long, low banks were already shadowy and grey, the burning sail was reflected in the night of the river, and looked astonishingly beautiful. It was like the mellow splendour of the rising moon.

I delight in seeing the sailors climbing the tall, oblique yards of the Nile boats. Sometimes five or six of them perch on one yard at the same time, looking at a distance like great birds.

Thursday, 26th.—Finished my donkey and started; as I get further north, the weather is much cooler—the mornings and evenings are quite fresh, though not so cold but that I can sketch in the shade an hour after sunrise in summer clothes. The natives, however, seem to take a severe view of the temperature, and leave nothing unmuffled but their mouths, with which they occasionally blow their fingers in the most approved winter fashion. Was more struck than before with Gebel Aboofada—the infinite and strongly marked strata of which it is made up writhe and heave in a very grand and fantastic manner. Some of the Egyptian mountains are ruled like a copy book from head to foot, and are very monotonous.

At the foot of Aboofada, I saw, for an instant, my first and last crocodile; a small one. They are very seldom seen from a steamer below the cataracts, as the noise frightens away the few there are. I had looked forward to getting a shot at one, and was a good deal disappointed at finding none up the river. It is curious how rapidly time lends its perspective to the past. Every now and then a boat from the cataracts laden with dates [184]comes floating down the river, and the melancholy chant of the Nubian sailors, as they strain at the oars, already falls on my ear as a sudden memory of an almost distant past—not a month old.

Arrived at Roda this evening. I have been reading, amongst other things, a book everybody else read thirty years ago, "Les Natchez," and am greatly disappointed with it. I am especially struck with the extraordinary contrast between the masterful sobriety and simplicity of the style, and the far-fetched affectation of the ideas which are, more often than not, distorted, tawdry and inflated, sometimes disgusting and not seldom maudlin in the extreme. This singular discrepancy between form and matter is especially French, and may frequently be traced in the works of their painters and sculptors. No living people has so sensitive a perception of form or so artistic an epiderm, but an ineradicable self-consciousness develops in them a theatrical attitude of mind which too often betrays itself in their artistic and literary conceptions. It is the absolute consent between conception and execution which constitutes one of the chief sources of delight in the art of the Greeks, to whom they are fond, too rashly, of comparing themselves.[41]

I notice in the Natchez a peculiar use of comparisons. That mode of adding light and colour to an idea which consists in suggesting analogies, has always been the delight of poets; but Chateaubriand (whose analogies, by the way, are often singularly far fetched and unfortunate) occasionally, in a morbid endeavour to be original, seeks his effects in a suggestion of dissimilarities; I remember an instance: he has been describing with minute and gratuitously sickening detail a mangled heap of dead and dying warriors after a ferocious encounter. "How different," he exclaims, but in more flowery terms, "is a haycock in a field with girls rolling down it!" Few will be disposed to contradict him. His exorbitant personal vanity which continues to peep through everywhere, and makes even his unbounded praise of his country seem an oblique tribute to himself, is droll and nauseating at the same time.

Took a stroll in the evening, and met an English baby! pink [185]and delicate like a flower; with cape and cockade complete—a pretty sight.

Thick folds of rose and violet-coloured cloud hung along the horizon at sunset, and looked autumnal. I have left eternal summer behind me.

Friday, 27th.—Such a morning as the evening of yesterday foreboded; rather chilly and misty, and as near an approach to winter as Upper Egypt may be expected to afford. The sky was veiled on all sides with soft grey clouds, wrinkled and fretted like the grey sands when the sea has left them. It was a fitting background to the desolate tombs of Beni Hassan, which I visited an hour or two after sunrise. The range of hills on the face of which these tombs are excavated is not unlike Gebel Aboofada in its configuration, except that the strata with which it is scored are more level and regular. This monotony is, however, relieved by the sky-line, which is extremely fine. Along the foot of these hills runs a level strip of barren land, broken abruptly in its whole length by a steep bank which rises like a ruined wall from the plain below, and which is, when the Nile is exceptionally high, the bank of the river itself. Standing, as it now does, nearly a mile inland, and crested with two deserted villages, it has a grand but uncanny aspect. I had long been eager to see the tombs, which show what is considered by many to be the first rudiment of the Doric order. The similarity, more striking even than I expected, is so great that, taken with our knowledge of the early and frequent intercourse of the Greeks with Egypt and of the assimilating power of their genius, it certainly offers a strong prima facie presumption in favour of this view. It may be objected that the echinus, the conical form of the shaft and its entasis, all three inseparable features and especial beauties of the Greek order, are wanting here, though they are present in the earliest specimen of the style preserved in Greece, the temple of Corinth. This argument would deserve more consideration if it could be conceived that the order as seen at Corinth was a spontaneous conception, and not a development of some more elementary form which, whether native or imported at a remote period, has not been handed down to us. In point of fact, the chamfering of a simple stone pier into an octagon and then [186]further to a polygon of sixteen, or more, sides (specimens of the two forms are seen side by side in two of the tombs of Beni Hassan) is so elementary an effort of architecture and one so obvious, that its independent and spontaneous adoption by two different nations would be matter for no surprise. On the other hand, it is to be remarked that these tombs and the early temple at Karnak already mentioned are the only instances of this style known in Africa—that not only are they isolated in themselves, but they form a step to no further developments—a link in no chain; that in character and conception they have nothing in common with any of the great monuments of Egypt, to which indeed they are antagonistic in feeling; that they stand side by side with other monuments of the same date (about 2000 B.C.?) of a developed and absolutely different type—a type certainly indigenous and based on the imitation of natural forms which is especially characteristic of Egyptian architecture; and lastly, that the tombs of Beni Hassan show certain dissonances, such as one might expect to find in the case of an unintelligent and unperceptive manipulation of a foreign style. In the face of these considerations, I find it difficult to resist a suspicion that the view generally received exactly reverses the truth of the case, and that these tombs are not indeed the prototypes of the Doric temple, but rather the results, themselves, of contact at some remote period between the Egyptians and that branch of the great Aryan family which, at long intervals, and in successive waves, covered the shores of the Egean Sea, and one of the latest offshoots of which poured down into Greece from the heights of Thessaly under the name of Dorians. I believe the earliest Egyptian record of the pressure of Greeks in this country goes no further back than 1500 B.C.; but a peaceful intercourse between the two races may have existed over a long period, without necessarily finding a place in public records.

The (quasi) Doric tombs are divided into a nave and aisles by two rows of piers, carrying an architrave and disposed at right angles to the portico, agreeably carrying out the likeness of a Greek temple. The circles which intersect the extremity of the other group of tombs are parallel to the portico, and have a deplorable effect, much heightened by the shape of the ceiling, [187]which is that of a very flat pediment. The architrave follows the line of the roof, but at a still more open angle. It would be difficult to conceive anything more hideous. Nearly all the tombs are decorated with frescoes of a rude kind, but displaying frequently an amount of freedom unusual in Egyptian art.

Our guide was a splendid fellow, looking, in his flowing robes, like a figure from the "School of Athens" on the "Disputa." The longer I live, the more I am struck by the identity of Raphael's frescoes with the noblest aspects of Nature.

To Benisoëf in the evening. Passed some travellers; nothing looks so gay and pretty as a dahabieh with its colours flying and its sails spread.

Saturday, 28th.—Lovely morning once again. Reached Sakkara early, but found that the road to the Pyramids was obstructed by water, so moved on at once to Ghizeh, opposite to Old Cairo, where I shall remain till to-morrow morning; meanwhile I have sent on Hosseyn to secure a room at the inn, and to fetch the means of leaving a pleasant memory of me on board the Sheberkheyt.

I have stripped the walls of my cabin of the paintings I had hung round them, and they look desolate and like the coffin of my now past journey. A most enjoyable journey it has been, full of pleasant things to remember; full, too, I hope, of artistic profit and teaching. I have been indeed fortunate, for, as I now see more clearly than ever, in a dahabieh I could not have achieved a third of the journey, and in a passenger steamer I could not have done a stroke of work. Every study I take home I owe entirely to the viceroy's munificent kindness.

Sunday, 29th.—Left for Boulay, my destination—gave a parting sheep to the crew, distributed largesse, shook hands all round, and drove off to the hotel.

"....Yea, I will go and lie in wait for Death, the king of souls departed, with the dusky robes, and methinks I shall find him hard by the grave drinking the sacrificial wine. And if I can seize him by this ambush, springing from my lair, and throw my arms in circle round him, none shall snatch his panting body from my grasp till he give back the woman to me."

November 13, 1864.

I returned so suddenly on account of a grave and terrible anxiety, now quite removed, about my dear friend Mrs. Sartoris.

I must tell you that for some time past she has been looking dreadfully ill, getting daily worse, haggard and thin. I, in common with all her friends, had been growing very anxious, and conjectured that some day or other a crisis must come in which only the surgeon could avail her. I little thought how near at hand the moment was! She on her part had borne up with an amount of moral and physical courage which everybody says was quite incredible. Her nearest relations have not known from her that she was in so dangerous a state. A week ago I arrived at Francport, the château of the Marquis de l'Aigle, where I expected to find Mr. and Mrs. Sartoris and their children. I found instead Mme. de l'Aigle in the deepest anxiety and commotion, having received a letter saying that on that very day poor Mrs. S. was undergoing an operation of which the event was very doubtful! I need hardly say that I instantly hurried off to England in the greatest alarm, and in fear and trembling lest she should have succumbed. You may judge of my relief, next morning, on hearing from the servant in Park Place that she was doing well. I hurried off to the doctor, a friend of mine, and heard that for six hours her life had been in jeopardy, but that, thank God, she was doing amazingly well, that for a week [192]there could be no certainty of her recovery, but that the possible chances doubled every day. Since then, thank God, she has progressed so astoundingly owing to her immense roots of vitality and health, that one may be almost certain (unberufen) of her complete recovery, in which event she will enjoy life more than she has done for several years. Her family and friends have escaped an entirely irreparable loss.

217a Glebe Place, Chelsea, S.W.,
2 Mai 1877.

Mon cher Leighton,—Si mes humbles félicitations peuvent vous toucher j'en serais trés heureux.

J'espérais vous voir lundi dernier à l'Academy et vous complimenter comme vous le meritez pour votre belle statue. À quoi sert de gratter toute sa vie un morceau de terre, quand près de soi on voit tout à coup surgir un chef d'œuvre d'une main à qui la sculpture était jusque là restée étrangère?

Si j'étais envieux ce serait une belle occasion pour moi, mais loin de là j'ai été trés heureux d'admirer votre œuvre, et trés flatté de l'honneur qu'on a fait à ma pauvre terre cuite, en la plaçant en pendant avec votre bronze; c'est encore un bon souvenir de plus [199]qui me viens de l'Academy et de vous, mon cher Leighton, car je sais toute la part que vous avez prise au déplacement dont ma figure a été l'objet.

Aussi croyez que je suis heureux de pouvoir me dire votre sincère admirateur et trés reconnaissant ami,

J. Dalou.

Grove Lodge,
Palace Gardens Terrace, Kensington, W.,
December 11, 1874.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I fear that the note which I sent with the bronze did not explain itself sufficiently. I meant to ask you to accept it—"to have and to hold for yourself your heirs and assigns for ever," to speak legally.

I can in no way express the pleasure I felt when I saw your small study for the man battling with the serpent. I hope the report in the Academy that it is to be done life-size in bronze is true. It will be worthy to go with the best of the antiques. The other study for the singing maidens was delightful[50] as the other was grand. To put it in the picturesque parlance of the Far West, "I was knocked over and sat on." It will be a slight relief to give my words a little form and weight; as I am unfortunately not a Roman Emperor and have not a golden crown of laurel about me, pray do me the favour to accept the only thing I have worth sending.—Believe me, yours very sincerely,

Geo. H. Boughton.

Grove Lodge,
Palace Gardens Terrace, Kensington,
December 14, 1874.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I don't know which to admire most—the "sketch," as you call it (it seems "heroic" in size even now), or your great kindness in sending it to me. Now that I may enjoy it at my leisure—and I take my leisure very often—it seems finer even than I thought it was. Not merely the spirit of the antique, but the antique itself, and the "antique" I mean is the everlasting, the best mortal may ever hope to make.

This is, as far as my capacity for judging is worth, sincere. I know how perilous it is to say warmly what one feels, how it is put [200]down as "gush" and "bad form"; but when in this very London fog of Art one sees a spark of pure light, there is some excuse for shouting with joy.

I should reproach myself with taking up overmuch of your time in this matter, but I know that you are very good-natured; besides you might have taken my poor little bronze tribute in as few words as I sent it, and there it might have ended—though for myself I am glad you did not, and shall be ever selfishly thankful that you acted as kindly as you did.

Pray don't bother to reply to this, I am too much your debtor already.—Yours very sincerely,

Geo. H. Boughton.

78 Cornwall Gardens,
Queen's Gate, May 11, 1877.

Dear Leighton,—I follow my instinct and sincere desire in congratulating you on your magnificent statue in the Academy, which I have just seen. It is superb. I think it the best statue of modern days. I was riveted with admiration and astonishment; and whatever you may think of my judgment, pray take this as my humble and heartfelt tribute to a work of genius, which to my mind ranks nearer "zur Antiken" than anything I have seen, during my career, produced in any school or country.

Believe me, with sincere admiration, yours,

J.E. Boehm.

Translation.]

February 3, 1874.

My very dear Friend,—Your very welcome lines arrived auspiciously a few days ago. I need not say how delighted I am that you are not displeased with the two compositions of your old pupil, and that you recognise in them a not unworthy effort. I am especially grateful to you that while giving your approbation you [202]have enclosed a criticism, and only regret that you have blamed but one thing, where there are unfortunately so many faults. I shall endeavour, if these cartoons ever come to be carried out, as far as possible to repress the faults which you remark in "Peace"; for, as I am by all means passionate for the true Hellenic art, and am touched beyond everything by its noble simplicity and its unaffected directness, so the Roman or Napoleonic at its highest is antipathetic to me—I had almost said disgusting. The two compositions are intended for a large court (where there are objects from all parts of the world and of all epochs); they will not, however, stand near, but opposite to one another. The figures will be life-size, the foremost ones almost colossal. The "Arts of Peace" I transported to Greece, partly out of sympathy, and partly on account of the special beauty of the Greek ceramic and jewel work; the conduct of arms seemed to me to find its highest expression in mediæval Italy, and I gladly seized this opportunity to tread the old path again in which my feet now so seldom wander.

If you really believe that my old friends in Frankfurt will be interested in these works, I shall be extremely pleased if you will put them in the Gallery; I wish only one thing, namely, that it may be made quite clear to the spectator that they are merely cartoons; their entire lack of effect would otherwise be surprising.

But the Pinta, of which you write, haunts my mind! If I had only time to run over myself!—but it is impossible.

Once more heartiest greetings, from your devoted pupil,

Fred Leighton.

July 14, 1868.

Sir,—The Lords of the Committee of Council on Education having had under their consideration the subject of the permanent [203]decoration of the lunettes at the ends of the South Court of the South Kensington Museum, have directed me to inquire if it would be agreeable to you to undertake to execute a picture for one of these lunettes, for which lunette their Lordships would be prepared to authorise a payment of £1000, it being understood that all rights of copying the work belong to the Department.

When the court is completed, there will be four lunettes of a similar size. At the present time, however, there are only two spaces actually ready; and should you be willing to accept the commission now offered to you, your picture would be placed in one of these two finished lunettes. Mr. Watts, R.A., has been asked to execute a similar commission for the second lunette; and, in order that the works may have a certain symmetry in respect of the scale of the figures, &c., it would be desirable that you should place yourself into communication with him.—I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

Henry Cole.

I submit that I have given reasons why the figures under[204] discussion should not be pictures, and that you, on the other hand, have not put forward a single reason why, a single principle on which they should be pictures. You have contented yourself with adducing some precedents; as the question, however, is entirely one of principles, precedent alone means nothing, one way or another; if it were not so, I should have opposed to you cases in which the, to my mind, sounder principle is observed.

Raphael's ceiling in the Vatican, for instance—an example you will scarcely cavil at. There is not in the whole range of art a single aberration that cannot be endorsed with some good name. To glance once more at the principle: whether the gold behind the figures be in effect the background of flat, or whether it be, as you hold, "essentially something round"; whether or not it be this, as I certainly assert, the wall throughout the decoration, it is unanswerably a conventional abstraction, it represents no concrete object, and as an abstraction is incompatible with any perspective representations of solid objects, which presuppose space and distance—everything that is on the same plane as the figure is submitted to the same conditions, hence any accessory on the pedestal is admissible; everything beyond the pedestal is part of the background, which may be abstract or concrete, as you please, but cannot logically be both.

I am the first to admit and admire the intimate connection which existed formerly between architecture and painting: to say "architecture and pictures," is to beg the whole question. In condemning the loose practice of modern times, you cannot propose upholding for admiration the mere fact that in old times picture and wall were sometimes one, but no doubt allude with just admiration to the harmony existing between them, in the best examples, and to the wise adaptation of the one to the other. You, I submit, are attacking and attempting to subvert the very principles on which this harmony rests; my sole desire is to assert and defend them, and I earnestly desire that, actuated, as I am entirely convinced you are, more by the desire to forward the truth than to triumph in argument, the views I have put before you may eventually commend themselves [205]to you, and deter you from further encouraging a practice which may be supported by precedent, but cannot be made tenable in theory.

"One afternoon, late in the autumn of 1872," wrote Dr. William Wright, "I was on the roof of my house trying to cool after a long ride in the sun, when there came a loud knock at my door; the latch was lifted, and presently a resplendent kavass mounted to my platform. He explained to me that a noble Englishman was coming up to see me, and with that Frederic Leighton skipped gaily up the steps. After a courteous greeting and apology, he sat down and became silent, absolutely wrapped up in the pageantry of the sky. When I excused myself for the lapse of the time, he looked at me, and said quietly, 'No artist ever wasted time in accurately observing natural phenomena,' and added, 'That sunset will mix with my paint, and will tint your ink as long as either of us lives. It will never be over, it has dyed our spirits in colours which can never be washed out.'"

Damascus, October 18, 1873.

Dear Papa,—I find that I am not as completely cut off from the western world here as I have been led to believe I was, and that boats leave Damascus for Alexandria weekly, and not fortnightly, as I told you in my hasty line of the other day; although, therefore, you are no longer uneasy about my health, I will not defer till the later boat thanking you for your welcome letter which reached me two or three days ago. I am much shocked and concerned to hear of the death of my poor friend Benson, for which I was in no way prepared, the last accounts I had received before leaving England being of a decidedly hopeful nature. A kinder heart [207]never beat than his, and I felt really attached to him; he is a great loss to me. And now to tell you about myself. Three tedious days on board a Russian boat which tossed and rolled like a cork over a sea on which a P. and O. would have been motionless, brought me to Beyrout, a cheery, picturesque, sunny port at the foot of Lebanon; gay and glad I was to land, and Andrea's cool, clean inn overlooking the sea was a delightful haven of rest, and my first meal at a steady table (or a real chair) was ambrosial. Being in a hurry to get to the end of my journey, I did not stay more than half a day, but started by diligence for Damascus, a journey of some thirteen hours, first over Lebanon itself (which is fine, but by no means grand as I had hoped), then across the Valley of Coelesyria, and lastly over Antilebanon, at the foot of which the town lies. At the last relay I found waiting for me a horse and dragoman, for which and whom I had telegraphed in order that I might get the famous view of Damascus about which travellers have told wonders from time immemorial, and which is only to be seen from a bridle path over the hill above the suburb of Sala'aijeh; unfortunately the days are getting short, and I did not reach the proper spot till just after sunset; not too late, however, to enjoy the marvellous prospect before me, and to feel that it is worthy of all that has been said in its praise. It is impossible to conceive anything more startling than the suddenness with which, emerging from a narrow and absolutely barren cleft in the rock, you see spread before your eyes and at your feet a dense mass of exuberant trees spreading for miles on to the plain which looks towards Palmyra, and, rising white in the midst of it, the Damascus of the thousand and one nights. It is a great and a rare thing for an old traveller not to be disappointed, and I am grateful that it has been so with me this time. About the town itself—as seen, I mean, from within—I have a mixed feeling. In some respects it equals all my hopes, or at least in one respect; in others it falls short of them. I have remarked that to be prepared for disappointment never in the slightest degree deadens the blow, and, accordingly, although I have both read and been told to my heart's content that I should find the streets unpicturesque and without character, relatively of course (relatively say, to Cairo, not to Baker Street), I was, nevertheless, depressed and in [208]a way surprised to find them so. Of course, there are, as in every Eastern town, numberless delightful bits, and those ennobled as regularly as the day comes by a right royal sun and canopy of blue, yet in the main, Cairo and, in a very different way, Algiers, are far more brilliant, and by-the-bye although you see here an extraordinary variety of costumes from the remotest corners of the East (I have met Indians in the streets), a group of Algerine Bedouins in their stately white robes is worth a whole bazaar full of the peasants and pilgrims that throng Damascus. Then in architecture, Damascus falls far behind Cairo, both for abundance and beauty of its specimens. Its background, too, Antilebanon, is unsatisfactory, humpy and without power of character or beauty of line, such as makes the Red Mountains on the skirt of the Cairene desert so delightful. Here then are the shortcomings; but I have my compensation in the houses, the old houses of which some few are standing, though grey and perishing, and which are still lovely to enchantment. I can't hope to convey to you in writing any idea of this loveliness, and it is not within the scope of sketching (though I am doing one or two little corners), but I am having three or four photographs made (for there are none!) from which you will be able to gather something of their charm. They cannot, however, give you the splendour of the light, and the fanciful delicacy of the colour in the open courts, or the intense and fantastic gorgeousness of the interior. Indeed I shall probably not attempt the latter, and though you will see lemon and myrtle trees rising tall and slim out of the marble floors and bending over tanks of running water, you will miss the vivid sparkling of the leaves, and you will not hear the unceasing song of the bubbling fountains. I wish I could report that I am doing much work. I am doing some, and think I see my way to one or two pot-boilers (the fatal, inevitable pot-boilers!); but distances here are great, and so is the heat, and there is not much that is within the compass of sketching, though there is endless paintable material. I am doing a bit in the great mosque, which is very delightful to me, in colour, and, if I can render it, may strike others in the same way. I am having the spot photographed in case I try to make a picture of it. The second p.-b. would probably be some unambitious corner of a court with a figure or two, et voilà. It is late and I am sleepy, [209]so good-night and good-bye. I wish you gave me a brighter account of Lina; give her too my best love. It was hardly worth while, by-the-bye, to have my letters forwarded. I shall only get them, if at all, just before leaving Damascus next week! I fear I can't get back to England till end of third week in November.—Your affectionate son,

Fred.

Thank you for what you tell me about Puvis de Chavannes' work. I admire the designs for Ste. Geneviève hugely, and am altogether an aficionado of that odd, incomplete, but refined and poetic painter; but for emptiness of modelling he seeks his peer in vain. I am seeing Velasquez again for the third time; this is the place in which to see him in all his splendour, and in all his nakedness—but that would be a chapter, and not a hasty note.—Very truly yours,

Fred Leighton.

Tangiers, October 4, 1877.

My dear Papa,—You are probably not a little surprised at the superscription of this letter; so am I. It was a sudden and a happy thought that brought me here. I reflected that, whilst I had long wished to see Tangiers, I should not very probably come to Spain again, and should therefore not have another chance of visiting Morocco without a journey made on purpose. The run from Gibraltar is only four hours, and I wonder the trip did not form part of my original scheme. It will have one drawback for me, that I shall get to Granada a few days later, and be by so much the longer in getting news from England; but my journey will not be prolonged on the whole, as I shall endeavour to cut off at the end what I put on now. I the more owe myself what enjoyment [210]I can get here, that as I told you—did I not?—in my last, my journey has been hitherto rather a dismal failure. I told you how vile the weather was in Madrid, so that all technical study of the pictures was out of the question. Well this is, since then, the first perfectly fine afternoon we have had. Observe, I only say afternoon, for it poured in the morning, and the phenomenon of a wholly bright day has still to come. I am also still further in arrears of enjoyment from the fact that I got rather out of order, God knows why, the day I went to Toledo, to the utter spoiling of what should have been one of my most delightful trips, and am only now pulling round again, having called in Æsculapius (at 2 dollars a consultation), whilst at Gibraltar. An attack of this nature is simply fatal to any real pleasure on one's journey, and, coming on the top of dark weather and the contretemps just as the closing of the Alcazar in Seville (one of the things I especially wanted to see) made rather an absurd failure of the whole thing. At Seville I was fool enough to go again to a bull-fight, and was so disgusted that I got up and went away when the performance was only half over. Meanwhile the aspect of the arena itself, with the Cathedral and its marvellous tower rising just above into the sky, is a very striking sight, and one I should regret to have missed. The processional entry, too, of the whole of the performers—picadors, capeodors, espadas, &c. &c.—is very picturesque and stately. It is when the goring and torturing begins that the sight is revolting; and the enormous popularity of this form of sport with a nation, not, that I am aware of, exceptionally cruel, only shows how easily our worst instincts stifle our better nature, such as it is.

This is a prodigiously picturesque place, and I enjoy more than I can say watching the Arabs swarming up the streets and markets, stately and grand in their picturesqueness beyond any population that I know, and particularly instructive and valuable to an artist from the sculpturesque definiteness of their forms. The Jewish women here are said (by Ford) to be prodigiously handsome. I have seen no Rebeccas amongst them yet. I have not yet opened my box, and shall at best do little or nothing; I have no time. Next week I shall be in Granada, from where I hope to have to acknowledge a letter dated in Kensington Park Gardens. Meanwhile I am, with best love to Lina and yourself,—Yours affectionately,

Fred.

[211]Granada, October 19, 1877.

My dear Papa,—To-morrow is my last day in Granada. On Sunday I turn my face Londonward, and my holiday will be pretty nearly at an end, as I have, from want of time, given up my original intention of seeing Valencia, Alicante, Tarragona, &c. &c. Travelling in Spain is so infinitely slower than I had remembered it, and so ideally inconvenient in regard to hours of starting and arriving, that my programme has altogether undergone considerable modifications. I reached this place a good week later than I expected, and I did not get your letter till some days later yet, owing, I suppose, to the difficulty experienced by the postal authorities in the art of reading. This will account to you for the time that will have elapsed between your receipt of my two epistles. I am truly sorry to hear that poor Lina is below par; tell her so, with my love. As you do not speak of yourself, I presume that you are in good form, and am glad to hear it. There is one passage in your letter which suggests to me a strong protest. I think it preposterous that the ambulant spinsters, or otherwise, with whom you foregather on your journeys, should expect you to furnish them with photos of your "celebrated son." I like enthusiasm; but genuine enthusiasm does not halt at a shilling, which is the sum for which my effigy is obtainable in the public market; verb. sap. I will not describe to you Toledo, Cordova, Seville, Granada, &c. (under which heads see Murray's guide-book). I have done so before (probably), and they have altered less than I, with the exception, perhaps, of Granada, or rather the Alhambra, which, alas! is changed indeed, thanks to the restoring mania, and is now all but brand new. I ought, perhaps, to remark that the changes in me are not precisely in that direction. Taking a bird's-eye view of my holiday, I don't think I should call it altogether a success, though I have had many very delightful moments, and have seen many very beautiful things; but, in the first place, I have failed to fulfil one of the special objects of my trip, that, namely, of making a few sketches of sky effects, particularly seaside skies, which I sorely want for my picture of the girls and the skein of worsted. I have not done so, because I have not once seen anything even resembling the skies I mean, and which are generally forthcoming at this season. The weather has indeed of late been fine, often if [212]not always, and here even, at times, superb; but it is the before the rains, and not, as it should be, the clear, keen, autumn weather, after the air has been well swept and purged by the equinoctial broom and pail, which I had a right to demand of a Mediterranean October. This is a great disappointment. I did not want to work, and God knows I have not (five little sketches in all!); but just this document I did peremptorily require. In the second place, I have been rather seedy (am all right now), not very, but enough to poison my pleasure; and just so much that, after two or three little amateur attempts (local apothecary, fellow-travellers, &c. &c.), I thought it right (at Gibraltar) to see a doctor, not because I was ill, but lest I should get worse and develop more serious symptoms, as internal disturbance occasionally does in hot countries. In a few days (and two large bottles of physic) I was much better, and am now, I repeat, quite "myself" again.

But I perceive that this uninteresting twaddle has filled my paper, and barely left me space to tell that I have been to Africa, and shall be home on the 28th (evening). Yes, to Africa; Tangiers in four hours' steam from Gibraltar, and a most picturesque spot, of which more when we meet. On my way home I shall spend part of a day in Madrid, in the hopes of seeing the pictures this time. On my road through France I shall make a short break at Poitiers. À bientôt.—Affectionate son,

Fred.

"In the autumn of the same year two hundred cases of inscriptions and sculptures from Priene were transported from Priene to Smyrna, and thence conveyed to England in H.M.S. Antelope. In March 1870 the society presented these marbles to the trustees of the British Museum. In May 1870 the committee, then consisting of Earl Somers, Lord Houghton, Mr. Watkiss Lloyd, Mr. Penrose, Mr. Cartwright, Mr. Leighton, and Mr. Newton, held several meetings. The committee at their meetings went carefully over all the drawings and details obtained by the society of the Temple of Bacchus at Teos, Apollo Smintheus, and Minerva Polias at Priene; they were of opinion that they would form an interesting and valuable publication, and should be proceeded with as soon as possible, and executed in a style worthy of the former productions of the society. Mr. Leighton offered to redraw the sculpture on some of the friezes, and Lord Somers to prepare the landscape illustrations."

Hôtel Westminster, 1878,
Friday.

Dear Papa,—I have been waiting to write till I should have something to say beyond the fact that the weather is odious, and shows no signs of relenting. On Saturday afternoon we had our meeting of the Royal Commissioners, which had for its object the hearing of an address from the Prince of Wales. On [214]Monday morning the whole International Jury (some six hundred or seven hundred members) met at the Ministère de Commerce, and was little more than formal. To-day the group of sections which are concerned with Art held its first meeting under the presidency of Signor Tullio Massarani, an Italian, with Meissonier as Vice-President, the chief object of the meeting being to inform the various sections of the groups whom the Minister had appointed as their respective presidents. My section, composed of forty members, is Paintings and Drawings; there are twenty Frenchmen—nearly all the first artists of the country, in fact—and you will be surprised and very much gratified to learn that I was named president of this section—a very high honour, of course, and one of which I am extremely sensible, but which we must not misinterpret; it is, of course, only by an act of international courtesy that the French placed a foreigner at the head of their section, and amongst the other foreign artists there were few names of much weight or standing; still, it is a courtesy which will, I am sure, give you pleasure. Our section being thus constituted, we then appointed our own vice-president, reporter, and secretary; they were unanimously elected; the first was my old friend, Robert Fleury; the second was Emile de Savelege, the Belgian writer whom you know of; and the third an old and kind friend of mine, Maurice Cottier, a man much mixed up in the official artistic world and possessing a magnificent picture gallery. To-morrow we begin our labours at the Exhibition, and in the afternoon I shall go to the séance of the Institut, which always takes place on Saturdays. This is my budget.

I was in hopes of seeing you, to thank you vivâ voce for the ambrosia you sent me from Italy. I did not write during your pictorial tour, not exactly knowing where you might be. It was, and is, for I have some still, excellent; Paolo Veronese did not eat any better, nor Titian, nor any of your Brethren in Apollo.

Guido you are—the English Guido—but not "da Polenta"; I will not accept that "terre à terre" denomination. I now thank you most gratefully—it was one of the seven works of mercy, for I really could not eat and was starving. The Indian cornflour was a renovation. If ever you can make up your mind to pay a visit to una povera vealisa—zoppa—sorda—brutta and seccante, and forget "Aurora," I shall be charmed. But I know that your time is better employed; so a million of thanks, and as many regrets not to be able to see your marvels of which I hear.—Believe me, most sincerely your obliged Serva and Amica,

E.A.R.

2 Audley Square Mayfair, W.
Sunday, 26th November 1871.

Dear Guido (but not of Polenta),—I have been quite[216] mortified at your neglect of me, and invoked the muses in vain! and call'd on the ghosts of Titian and Raffael, but they did not heed my sighs! I am always glad to see you, and wish I could see your works! All my cotemporaries and comrades are dying off, and I cannot last long—so come to my "Evenings at Home" when you dine in my "Quartier" and are going to your club.

Alas! for dear Henry Greville! I knew him from his most early youth. Both his parents were my early friends from my youth, and his elder brother my cotemporary.

Come! Benvenuto Cellini—venite!

Monday, February 1873.

Dearest Gussy,—You heard, no doubt, that I gave a party the other day, and that it went off well. To me perhaps the most striking thing of the evening was Joachim's playing of Bach's "Chacone" up in my gallery. I was at the other end of the room, and the effect from the distance of the dark figure in the uncertain light up there, and barely relieved from the gold background and dark recess, struck me as one of the most poetic and fascinating things that I remember. At the opposite end of the room in the [217]apse was a blazing crimson rhododendron tree, which looked glorious where it reached up into the golden semi-dome. Madame Viardot sang the "Divinités du Styx," from the "Alcestis," quite magnificently, and then, later in the evening, a composition of her own in which I delight—a Spanish-Arab ditty, with a sort of intermittent mandoline scraping accompaniment. It is the complaint of some forsaken woman, and wanders and quavers in a doleful sort of way that calls up to me in a startling manner visions and memories of Cadiz and Cordova, and sunny distant lands that smell of jasmine. A little Miss Brandes, a pupil of Madame Schumann, played too. She is full of talent and promise, and has had an immense success. Mme. Joachim sang "Mignon" (Beethoven) excellently.

I remember the incident you refer to at Eton College. The Orfeo performance was given by the Eton boys, who had formed a society among themselves with the view of making acquaintance with the music of the great masters. I took the part of Orfeo, and a niece of Darwin's, Miss Wedgwood, who is now Lady Farrer, sang Euridice's part. I believe Lord Leighton sang in some of the quartettes and choruses. I often met Lord Leighton at Mrs. Sartoris' musical gatherings at her house in Park Place, St. James', when he would sing very heartily the tenor parts of the old madrigals, in which also Mrs. Douglas Freshfield, Miss Ritchie, and others took part with Mrs. Sartoris, who on some occasions would sing one of her great operatic Arias which brought her so much fame in her former years.

Damascus, March 22, 1871.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I have just returned from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or yours of April 14th, 1871, would not have remained so long unanswered. And now to business. I am quite as willing to have a house pulled down for you now as when at Vichy,[56] but the difficulty is to find a house with tiles. The bric-à-brac sellers have quite learned their value, and demand extravagant sums for poor articles. Of course you want good old specimens, and these are waxing very rare. My friends, Drake and Palmer, were lucky enough, when at Jerusalem, to nobble a score or so from the so-called Mosque of Omar. Large stores are [219]there found, but unhappily under charge of the Wakf, and I fancy that long payments would be required. However, I shall send your letter to my colleague, Moore, who will do what he can for you. The fact is, it is a work of patience. My wife and I will keep a sharp look-out for you, and buy up as many as we can find which seem to answer your description. If native inscriptions—white or blue, for instance—are to be had, I shall secure them, but not if imperfect. Some clearing away of rubbish is expected at Damascus; the Englishman who superintends is a friend of mine, and I shall not neglect to get from him as much as possible.

We met Holman Hunt at Jerusalem; he was looking a little worn, like a veritable denizen of the Holy City. I hope that you have quite recovered health. Swinburne, the papers say, has been sick; his "Songs before Sunrise" show even more genius than "Poems and Ballads." What has become of Mrs. Sartoris? I saw her son's appointment in the papers. Poor Vichy must be quite ruined—veritably it was a Cockney hole. Syria is a poor Chili; the Libanus is a mole-hill compared with the Andes—do you remember? I am planning a realistic book which has no Holy Land on the brain, and the public will curse her like our army in Flanders. Pilgrims see everything through a peculiar medium, and tourists shake hands (like madmen) when they sight the Plain of Esdraelon or Sharon, as the case may be.

N.B.—Both plains are like the poorer parts of our midland counties. My wife joins in kind remembrances.—Ever yours sincerely,

Richard F. Burton.

Trieste, July 13, 1876.

My dear Leighton,—One word to say that the tiles are packed, and will be sent by the first London steamer—opportunities are rare here. Some are perfect, many are broken; but they will make a bit of mosaic after a little trimming, and illustrate the difference between Syriac and Sindi. They are taken from the tomb (Moslem) of Sakhar, on the Indus. I can give you analysis of glaze if you want it; but I fancy you don't care for analyses. The yellow colour is by far the rarest and least durable apparently. The blues are the favourites and the best.

[220]Here we are living in a typhoon of lies. I am losing patience, and shall probably bolt to Belgrade in search of truth. Austria is behaving in her usual currish manner, allowing her policy to be managed by a minority of light-headed, Paddy-whack Magyars and pudding-headed, beer-brained Austro-Germans. How all Europe funks the Slavs, and how well the latter are beginning to know it.

Very grand of la grande Bretagne to propose occupying Egypt without any army to speak of. Sorry that you don't understand the force of the expression, the "world generally," but will try some time or other to make it clear. United best regards and wishes. Why don't you take a holiday to Turkey?—Ever yours,

R.F. Burton.

P.S.—I hear that W. Wright has subsided into an Irish conventicle, and that Green doesn't like prospect of returning to Dan!

1878.

Dearest Gussy,—You perhaps have heard from Lina that I had an overwhelming majority, and that the outer world beyond artistic has warmly received my election, which is of course infinitely gratifying, but fills me with a dread of disappointing everybody. Monday I go to Windsor to be knighted. Yes, I got a first-class gold medal for my statue[58]—at least, it was awarded, and I shall get it some time. I also don't mind telling you in strict confidence—because it is not yet a fait accompli—that I am, I believe, to have the "ruban" of an Officier de la Légion d'Honneur. I am so glad, dear, your wrists are better—may they keep so. Love to old Joseph (Joseph Joachim) when you see him.

Translation.]

Frankfurt am Main,
December 1, 1878.

Dear and honoured Friend,—To-day I have read in the paper that the choice of President of the Royal Academy has fallen upon you, and since I am convinced that this distinguished position is both appropriate to your services to art, and also certainly well merited, you must permit an old friend, who remains bound to you in love only, to offer you his dearest and warmest good wishes upon this honour. I pray God, that your position may provide you with great power in your country for good so as to enable you to encourage the noblest things in art. I am convinced that you, dear friend, will make a right and fruitful use of it. I often set my pupils to make enlarged drawings of single groups from your medieval Equipment for the Defence of the Town,[59] and rejoice in the admirable studies which you made for that cartoon. I, dear friend, am in my old age still active and industrious, and would gladly go on learning. Should God grant life, I shall next year complete my work on the Strassburg master, which will demand all my love and strength. Here we have now built a new gallery, on the other side of the river Main, and a new studio. The collections are good, and more suitably accommodated than heretofore, and there is no want of space for future additions. Perhaps one of your journeys will bring you again to the old Main town, and so to the arms of your old friend. My dear President, I repeat my good wishes, and remain with all my heart, your truly devoted,

Edw. Steinle.

BOROUGH OF SCARBOROUGH.

At a meeting of the Council of the Borough of Scarborough, in the County of York, held in the Town Hall in [225]the said Borough, on Monday the ninth day of December, 1878,—

Present,—
The Mayor (W.C. Land, Esq.) in the chair,—

It was moved by the Mayor, seconded by Alderman Woodall, and resolved unanimously: "That this Council learns with peculiar satisfaction and pleasure of the election of a native of Scarborough, in the person of Sir Frederic Leighton, to the Presidency of the Royal Academy, and respectfully offers to Sir Frederic its warm congratulations, and records its conviction that his great talents as an artist, his attainments as a scholar, and his many striking qualifications, eminently fit him to adorn the high position to which he has been called."

W.C. Land, Mayor.

19 Warwick Crescent, W.,
November 14, 1878.

Dear Leighton,—I wish you joy with all my heart, and congratulate us all on your election. There ought to have been no sort of doubt as to the result, but the best of us are misconceived sometimes, though in your case never was a right more incontestable. All I hope is that your new duties will in no way interfere with the practice of your Art. I only venture to write, now, as one who, so many a year ago, saw your beginning with "Cimabue," and from that time to this remained confident what your career would be. But you know all this, and it requires no answer, being rather a spurt of satisfaction at my own original discernment than any assurance which I can fancy you need from,—Yours very truly,

Robert Browning.

Pen's letter to me, two days since, contained his earnest wishes for what has just happened, and he will be delighted accordingly.

Athenæum Club, Pall Mall, S.W.,
November 15.

My dear Leighton,—One line (which you need not answer) to say how delighted I am to see what an excellent choice the Royal Academy has made.

I only hope poor O'Conor may not take advantage of the occasion to plant an ode and a letter.—Ever sincerely yours,

Matthew Arnold.

November 27, 1878.

My dear Sir Frederic Leighton,—I am just recovering from an attack of brain fever, and although I am not allowed yet to write, I can no longer wait without dictating a letter to express my own individual pleasure at your being the new President.

Three years ago you wrote me a letter after seeing my "Chelsea Pensioners." Perhaps you little dreamt of the tears of joy that that letter caused in a young painter, who will always feel that he owes you a debt of gratitude; and now he glories in your being the chief of that body which attracts to it all the principal art of the country. All England feels that you, from your new position, will give new life to it. Perhaps you will allow me, when I am sufficiently recovered, to come and see you.

In the meantime believe me to be, with most heartfelt congratulations,—Sincerely yours,

A.H., pro Hubert Herkomer.

Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A.

November 15.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I have tried to keep silence, telling myself that it cannot matter what I think or feel on the subject (and that it may seem to you a very unnecessary proceeding!); but I cannot resist the temptation to tell you how warmly I rejoice, and how earnestly I congratulate myself and all other [227]hungerers after wholesome beauty of colour and form, and high ideals of greatness and purity, on your acceptance of a position that one may hope will, nay must, influence the Art of this time for good in every sense. One takes a great breath of relief as one thinks of it!

Were I to describe to you the effect your works produce on me, and the feeling of real reverence I have for them, I should appear to exaggerate, and should certainly bore you, so I will say no more! and I am not given to that sort of thing.

My beloved Lady Waterford was much disappointed that you could not come and meet her; I need not say, so were we: it was a great enjoyment to have her, she is like no one else; and I yet hope you may come and meet here some day. Pray do not answer this; of course you are overwhelmed with business, and it would hurt me to have it considered and acknowledged as a complimentary civility! whereas it is nothing but an involuntary overflowing to relieve my mind.

1 Sussex Square, W.,
November 24, 1878.

My dear Leighton,—Let me add one voice more, small but true, to the great chorus of applause with which your election has been greeted. It might seem left-handed praise to say that your election was the only possible one; but it is very true praise to say it was the only possible one if the highest interests of English Art, and of the Academy itself, were the sole object of the electors.

It would have pleased and touched you to hear old Boxall speak of it. I dined with him alone on Friday, and he was just and generous, as he always is, in his appreciation of you, and looked forward to your reign as likely to be one of high aims and noble motives. It is a small thing to say, but I venture to agree with him.—Ever sincerely yours,

Coleridge.

March 20, 1879.

Dear Mrs. Kemble,—Many thanks for your very amiable words of congratulations on the honour done me by the Royal Academy. The kind sympathy shown towards me by my friends had added very greatly indeed to the pleasure my election gave me. The belief entertained by Miss —— that the admission of works to an exhibition is a simple matter of personal favour, is shared by all foreigners—and I fear by many English people—and places me at this time of year in much and often painful embarrassment. So robust is this belief, that those who, having applied to me, fail to find their works on our walls ascribe their absence to personal unfriendliness or discourtesy on my part, or, to say the least, to lukewarmness. As a matter of fact each work of art is admitted or rejected by a separate vote of the Council, and that in complete ignorance (except where authorship saute aux yeux) of the artist's name. This applies equally to English painters and foreign artists who reside here. In regard, however, to foreigners sending from abroad, whilst the vote is taken in the same way, admission is much more difficult. We have so many Anglo-foreign painters who live amongst us that, our Exhibition not being international, we can only admit a very limited number of really prize works. These works are therefore brought before us separately, and a small number of them selected, according to the space we have to deal with; I myself as a rule dissuade my foreign friends from sending except in cases where their merit is really very great; this may be Miss —— case; you will best know. I am quite sure, my dear Mrs. Kemble, that you do not doubt the pleasure it would give me to serve you in the person of your friend, and will not misinterpret these lengthy explanations.

And now I have a favour to ask of you. On Wednesday the 26th, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Joe will, I hope, play at my studio, and with him Miss Janotha and Piatti; Henschel will, I hope, sing. Will you give me the great pleasure of seeing you [229]amongst my friends on that occasion?—Believe me always, yours very truly,

Fred Leighton.

2 Palace Gate, Kensington,
December 11, 1879.

Dear Leighton,—I was suffering all yesterday with tooth-ache, otherwise I would have attended the distribution last night. The ceremony is always most interesting to me, awakening as it does many anxious and happy recollections. My object in writing to you is to say I have read your address, which I think so beautiful, true, and useful that I cannot but obey an impulse of congratulating you upon it. For some time past I have been putting down notes on Art which some day may be put into form, and I find we are thinking precisely in the same way. I have used identical words in what I have written to those you delivered yesterday.

The exponents of Art surround it in such a cloud of mystery [230]that it is a real gain when a practical authority is able to say something definite and clear the way.—Yours sincerely,

J.E. Millais.

Woodberrie, Loughton, Essex,
December 11, 1883.

My dear Sir Frederic,—Have any of the multitude of men who love you ever called you Chrysostom? It seems so natural after reading yesterday's address. Will it be published by itself and obtainable in some handier form than the broadsheet of the Times? I want it as part of the education of my daughter, who now, at sixteen, is beginning to take a new interest in whatsoever things are lovely and of good report, and I want it for myself, for in its lovely suggestiveness and exquisite English I could often find refreshment when I wanted (and needed) to "travel in the realms of gold," and forget my own invalided personality under the magic of such guidance.

My wife desires me to say a word of gracious remembrance to you, and I am ever, faithfully yours,

Robin Allen.

Flaxley, 82 Finchley Road, N.W.,
December 11, 1879.

Dear Sir Frederic,—After hearing your admirable address last night, I came home in despair, for what little basis of thought is contained in my lectures (more especially in the second one) is built chiefly upon two or three of the lines of argument that you have already expressed so beautifully: Sincerity in the student—The effect of his own time upon him—That time in its relation to the time of the Old Masters, and the temper of mind in which the Old Masters should be studied; on these points my lectures are but a feeble echo of what I heard last night.

My first thought was to change my whole line of battle, and re-write them, but the extreme limitation of my powers of work would make this too great a sacrifice. To throw them up altogether, which I should much like, is impossible, for I am pledged to the Academy to do my best.

Clearly, I must go on, but I shall do so more easily now that [231]I have explained my position, so that if any one who hears me should tell you that my lectures were only a parody of what you had already said so well, you will believe that it has been the misfortune and not the fault of yours very truly,

Briton Rivière.

Don't trouble to answer this.

Athenæum Club, Pall Mall,
April 19, 1880.

My dear Leighton,—You have been better than your word, for I see you have made me the actual possessor of your "address." From the glance I have already taken at it, I see that I shall both like it and you with it; but of this I might have been sure beforehand. A thousand thanks, and believe me, always sincerely yours,

Matthew Arnold.

"Those perhaps sometimes too perfectly built-up sentences, of which his admirable addresses and speeches were formed, were the outcome of this same quality of mind. One of his most intimate friends, when we were talking about the mental strain occasioned by these, once said to me: 'Leighton would never get over a slight lapse of grammar,' and I can believe it. The accidental was hateful to him when considered in reference to his own work of any kind, though probably no one knew better than he did its value in a work of art; but, as Watts deplored, he never would use it or admit it into his own pictures. This quality and its strain upon him was illustrated by an accident which occurred at his last R.A. Banquet speech, the last he ever made, and which gained immensely from the fact that in one place he forgot for a moment the next sentence, and came to a pause (as he told me afterwards), in fear that he had broken down altogether; but his suspense, painful as it must have been to him, looked perfectly natural and spontaneous, and gave to his speech that touch of something which his better remembered periods did not express so well. This system of speaking entirely from memory added much to the constant strain of his Academy work. He had what he called a 'topical memory,' viz. he remembered the place of each word in his written speech and used to read it off in the air with never-failing accuracy, but did so always with the belief that a forgotten sentence would shipwreck [234]the whole. If he would have been content now and then to lapse from this high pitch of the accuracy he aimed at in all his work, few could have reached a safer or higher standard spontaneously, as he proved in the Royal Academy, General Assembly, and Council meetings, when he never failed to speak admirably on the spur of the moment; and his summing up of a debate there on any subject was invariably marked by the same elegance and cleverness as his prepared speeches, but with more vitality and flexibility, which, however, never led him into anything that was not almost fastidiously exact and precise. I have always felt that no one who had heard only his elaborately prepared speeches knew his real power as a speaker."

"For a long period Italian painting did not cease to enjoy the favour of the Court; it ceased, however, towards the beginning of the seventeenth century to exercise that paralysing influence which had marked its first advent, and the ground was cleared for a new impulse from within. At this conjuncture a man of commanding genius and fearless initiative was given to Spain in the person of Diego Velasquez. It may perhaps have surprised you that with such a name before my mind I should have spoken of Zurbaran, a man so vastly his inferior in the painter's gift, as perhaps the most representative of Spanish artists. I have done so because beyond any other artist he sums up in himself, as I have pointed out to you, all the complex elements of the Spanish genius. In Velasquez, Spanish as he is to the finger-tips, this comprehensiveness is not found. Of Velasquez all was Spanish, but Zurbaran was all Spain.

"Viewed simply as a painter, the great Sevillian was, as I have just said, vastly the superior of the Estremeño. He was in more intimate touch with Nature, and none, perhaps, have equalled the swift magic of his brush. On the other hand, depth of feeling, poetry, imagination were refused to him. The painter of the 'Lanzas,' the 'Hilanderas,' the 'Meninas'—works in their kind unapproached in Art by any other man—painted also, be it remembered, the 'Coronation of the Virgin' and the 'Mars' of the Madrid Gallery—types of prosaic treatment. In one work, indeed, Religion seems for a moment to have winged his pencil; but striking and pathetic as is his famous 'Crucifixion,' it does not equal in poignancy and [236]imaginative grasp the presentment of the same subject by Zurbaran in Seville. But if we miss in Velasquez the higher gifts of the imagination, we find him also free from all those blemishes of extravagance which we have so often noted in this land of powerful impulses unrestrained by tact. Whatever gifts may have been refused to Velasquez, in his grave simplicity he is unsurpassed. If fancy seldom lifts him above the level of intimate daily things, neither does she obstruct for him with purple wings the white light of sober truth. In days in which the young Herrera could find favour; in a country in which Churriguera was possible, and euphuism was applauded, he never overstepped the modesty of Nature, nor forgot in Art the value of reticent control. I have not here to follow his career, nor the evolution of his unique and dazzling genius. Still less need I, before young artists of the present day, dwell on the wizardry and the luscious fascination of the brush of this most modern of the old masters. I will only, in conclusion, touch briefly on one or two points that are of interest, and one that is, perhaps, of warning.

"First, I would notice the purity and decorum of his art; a decorum not, I think, due to the characteristically Spanish laws under which the Inquisition visited with heavy penalties every semblance even of impurity in a work of art, but to a spirit dwelling in the people itself, of which those laws were but the somewhat exaggerated expression. It may be worth while also to note that yet another virtue of the Spaniards is, in one of his works, reflected in an unexpected manner, namely, their sobriety. It is a curious thing that in a certain class of Spanish literature a peculiar relish is shown for the portraying of moral squalor and the grovelling criminality of social outcasts. In Spanish Art, on the other hand, the picturesqueness alone of low life seems to have sought expression. You know what gentle Murillo made of his melon-eating beggar boys. Again, you saw not long ago upon these walls, in the 'Water-Carrier of Seville,' how at the outset of his career Velasquez turned his thoughts to subjects drawn from humble life, and you know how to the end he dwelt with peculiar gusto on the fantastic physiognomy of the privileged buffoons, dwarfs, and hombres de [237]placer who haunted the Palace in his day. You know further that one of the most powerful works painted by him before reality of atmospheric effect had become his chief preoccupation, and when he sought exclusively after truth of character, a picture known as 'Los Borrachos,' represents a group of drunkards doing homage to Bacchus. It is a work of the most naked realism. Bacchus (Dionysos!), showing his repulsive vulgarity (what a blank to Velasquez was the poetic side of classic myths), is surrounded by a circle of kneeling rascals, rude and ragged enough, and supposed, no doubt, to be carousing; but here is the strange peculiarity of this work—in spite of all the accessories of a revel, and the flash of grinning teeth, we are unable to persuade ourselves that any one of the disreputable crew could ever be drunk. Imagine the subject treated by a Fleming.

"And now, though I am loth to touch one leaf of the laurels of so dazzling and so great an artist, I cannot pass in silence a circumstance which must be weighed in estimating Velasquez as a man, and which is not without bearing on his art. The virtues of his race, as we have seen, purified his work and gave it dignity; a Spanish foible, though it could not dim his genius, cramped, no doubt, and curtailed its production—namely, a tendency to subordinate everything to the pursuit of royal favour. I said a Spanish foible; for a superstitious rendering up of will and conscience to the sovereign, such as is, I believe, without example, had long been a growing characteristic of the Spaniard. On a memorable occasion Gonzalo de Cordoba himself, one of the noblest figures recorded in Spanish history—a man of a mind so fearless that he was bold to rebuke Pope Borgia himself face to face in the Vatican for the scandals of his life—did not scruple to break, in deference to what he considered this higher duty of obedience to his king, his solemn pledge and oath to the unfortunate young Duke of Calabria. So all but divine did majesty appear to the Spaniards, that divinity and majesty became almost as one in their eyes, and they spoke, in all solemnity, as 'Su Majestad,' not only of the Divine persons of the Trinity, but also of the sacrificial wafer. The prevalence of this feeling must plead to some extent in mitigation of the tenacity with which Velasquez [238]canvassed—with success, alas!—to obtain at Court a post of an onerous and wholly prosaic character—the office of 'Aposentador Mayor,' a sort of purveyor and quartermaster, who, when his Majesty moved from one place to another, had to convey, to house, to feed, not the sovereign only, but all his suite. A post demanding all his attention, says Polomino, who goes on to deplore that this exalted office (which he has just told us any one could fill) should have deprived the world of so many samples of the painter's genius. We shall agree with our sententious friend, not, perhaps, in the satisfaction he derived from the honour conferred, as he imagines, on his calling, but in his sorrow over the loss we have sustained! And in the sight of canvases in which the execution of a sketch is carried out on the full scale of life we shall at once bow before the product of a splendid genius, and regret the signs of haste, the evidence of too scanty leisure, by which its expression has been marred. Truly it has been said, 'Art requires the whole man.'"[62]

"Albert Dürer may be regarded as par excellence the typical German artist—far more so than his great contemporary Holbein. [240]He was a man of a strong and upright nature, bent on pure and high ideals; a man ever seeking, if I may use his own characteristic expression, to make known through his work the mysterious treasure that was laid up in his heart; he was a thinker, a theorist, and, as you know, a writer; like many of the great artists of the Renaissance, he was steeped also in the love of science. His work was in his own image; it was, like nearly all German art, primarily ethic in its complexion; like all German art it bore traces of foreign influence—drawn, in his case, first from Flanders and later from Italy. In his work, as in all German art, the national character asserted itself above every trammel of external influence. Superbly inexhaustible as a designer, as a draughtsman he was powerful, thorough, and minute to a marvel, but never without a certain almost caligraphic mannerism of hand, wanting in spontaneous simplicity—never broadly serene. In his colour he was rich and vivid, not always unerring as to his harmonies, not alluring in his execution—withal a giant."

Perugia, Thursday, October 12, 1893.

You have misconstrued my knee; I have no pain in it, at most occasionally a dull ache in the muscles and a slight soreness in the joint; but it is an incapacitating and depressing nuisance, and it won't move on. (I am writing near a window opening on to a clear, star-bright sky; far below, in the paese, I hear the tinkle of a wandering, nocturnal mandoline—how I like it!) You do me the honour to appreciate my having, during my recent precipitate odyssey, visited thirty towns in thirty days, noting things of which I had already accurate knowledge d'avance; but I can "go one better" than that: ten of the towns were absolutely new to me, and of the whole subject on which I am [241]preaching, I knew as good as nothing when you last saw me. I suspect that, in spite of a lack of memory which baffles belief, I have a certain "uptaking" knack. My preachment will bore you, but you will (if you read it) detect an ensemble; but, for goodness' sake, zitti! They'll think, when they hear the P.R.A., that, Lor' bless him! he'd known it all his life. Nevertheless, enough for the day, &c. Best love to Gussy.—Affect. bro.,

Fred.

"The reasons which have now for a good many years impelled me to decline any 'public utterances' outside Burlington House have increased in weight and force as life and strength wanes, and as demands on me grow in every direction. I am sometimes asked to speak in public, not only in London, but all over the country, and in all cases the demand is grounded on strong claims in so far as I am an 'official' artist. Assent once is assent always—assent in half the cases would mean the gravest injury to my work, and I am a workman first and an official afterwards. Things have their humorous side, for those who press me most are sometimes those who on other occasions most earnestly assure me that I 'do too much.' How tired I am of hearing it."

My dear President,—I have received your letter with mixed feelings. You do me great honour, and I must obey you. But I long for the return of the good old times, lying within the long range of my memory, when the dinners of the Academy did not suffer the contamination of political toasts, and kept us all for three precious hours in purer air. Can you tell me when the practice was changed? I am not, I think, under the dominion of a pleasant delusion.—Yours most faithfully,

W.E. Gladstone.

We live in times so hustling and breathless, times in which so much happens in so short a space, that a few years seem to divide men and habits like a deep gulf, and I feel that in the eyes of many of you the toast that your C.O. has invited you in such friendly terms to drink is one possessing an almost antiquarian flavour interest; the more grateful therefore am I for the cordial response with which, not, I hope, solely in a spirit of discipline, but from a more human point of view, you have given to the call of Colonel Edis.

The sight of the old uniform recalls to me, in a vivid manner, a period when not only my years, but my circumferencial inches, were fewer, during which it was my pride, first in one grade, then successively in others, from the ranks to the command, to take my share in the doings of and the life of what I hope I may call, without egotism, one of the finest corps in the Volunteer service. I have now for some years laid by the coat, to be furbished up only for these annual gatherings, not without misgivings as to my power of getting into it; but I have not laid by, nor shall I lay by while I have life, my deep interest and my high respect for that great defensive force of which it is the sign, and which, having sprung into existence [245]in a moment of emergency and national excitement, has shown through over more than a quarter of a century that it requires no excitement to sustain it, and is fed by no transitory fires.

But whilst I watch this great sign of national vitality with unchanging interest, there is of course an inmost corner of my heart in which that national movement appears to me clad in grey and silver, and the old corps still sits in the warmest place; praise of its performance is always to me the most grateful praise; strictures on its shortcomings, if like other human things it has any, will always find me sensitive, and the account which your excellent Colonel furnishes on these occasions of your year's growth, comes home to me more than other like utterances. Gentlemen, I have named your energetic and efficient commanding officer; there is this year a special reason why his name should be on my lips; he is about shortly to acquire by length of service the full colonelcy of which his long devotion to the cause makes him so worthy a recipient; and I should wish before sitting down to offer him an old comrade's hearty congratulation, and the expression of my confident hope that his advanced rank will only confirm him in his loyal and faithful efforts to promote the honour of the corps to which he, more fortunate than I, is still privileged to belong as an active member.

1894.

Ladies And Gentlemen,—It was necessary that the motives and feelings which have drawn us together to-night should find brief expression on somebody's lips; and, in obedience to a command which has been laid on me by this Committee, I have to ask you to accept me, for a few moments, as your mouthpiece. Of the varied duties which life lays on us, there are some which we perform in simple discharge of conscience and with little joy; some, [246]if few, into the discharge of which we can pour all our hearts; and such a duty is this which I have risen to perform.

I have said that I shall only ask your attention for a few moments, and you will feel with me the fitness of brevity; for besides that, in every case, taste imposes restraint in praise of those who are present before us, long drawn and redundant eulogy would clash strangely with that rare simplicity which is one of the qualities by which Joachim, the Man, compels the esteem of all whose fortune it is to know him. But there would be in it, I think, also a further deeper-lying incongruity, for we know that Joachim, the Artist, has risen to the heights he occupies, perhaps alone, by fixing his constant gaze on high ideals, and lifting and sustaining his mind in a region above the shifting fickle atmosphere of praise or blame. Well, it is now fifty years since he took his first step along the upward path, which he has trodden in wholeness of heart and singleness of purpose from earliest boyhood to mellow middle age. During these fifty years he has not only ripened to the full his splendid gifts as an interpreter, ever interpreting the noblest works in the noblest manner, leading his hearers to their better comprehension; not only marked his place in the front ranks of living composers by works instinct with fire and imagination; but shown us also, as a man, how much high gifts are enhanced by modesty, and how good a thing to see is the life of an Artist who has never paltered with the dignity of his Art.

Deep appreciation of these titles to respect and admiration has, as you know, led in Germany, the country of his adoption and his home, to an enthusiastic celebration of this, the fiftieth year of his artistic career; and we, his English friends, living in a country which we hope, nay, believe, is, after his own, not the least dear to him, have felt strongly impelled to express to him also in some form our gratitude, our sympathy, and our esteem. It has seemed to your Committee that these sentiments could not take a more fitting outward shape than that of the instrument over which he is lord: such an instrument, signed with the famous name of Stradivarius, and, as I am told, not unworthy of his fame, flanked with a bow the work of Tourte, and once the property of Kiesenwetter—such a fiddle and such a bow I now offer to him in your [247]name. Its sensitive and well-seasoned shell will acknowledge and respond to the hand of the master, and the souls of many great musicians will, we hope, often speak through it to spellbound hearers. But we nourish another hope—the hope that, through the great waves of melody that shall roll forth from it under his compelling bow, a still small voice may now and again be interfused which, reaching his heart through his ears, shall speak to it of the many friends who, in spirit or in the body, are gathered round him affectionately to-night.

Thursday Evening, 1879 or 1880.

Dear Wells,—I have noticed during my last two sittings at your studio, that, whenever the deeply interesting subject of [250]our Academy appeared on the tapis, it stood in the way of your work, and I have therefore purposely abstained, as you no doubt remarked, from going beyond the merest surface in [251]the discussion of any of the points on which we have touched. I felt that the sittings I gave you being so few and so scantily measured out, the least I could do was not, wittingly, to make you lose your time. That is to say, I did not tell you to-day orally what I now write, namely, my impression on your proposed question concerning the Chantrey purchases. The characteristic straightforwardness and loyalty with which you wished me to be informed on the point beforehand will not permit me to be silent in regard to your view. I have looked with the greatest care into the extract from the will which we all have, and have given the matter that thought which is due to your earnest conscientiousness, and I have satisfied myself that the General Assembly is wholly without a locus standi in claiming to control the expenditure of the Chantrey trust moneys in any way whatever; those moneys never pass into its hands or come under its cognisance; they are paid into the hands of the president and treasurer, against their receipt, and are dealt with solely by the president and council for the time being. An attempt, therefore, on the part of the General Assembly to assume control in this matter is in my view out of order, and it would therefore be out of order to ask or answer a question based, as yours is, on that assumption. I think you will find this view in harmony with the opinion of the body; if it is largely challenged, I shall postpone the answer till I have taken a legal opinion, as the point is very important. Here are my cards on the table.—In haste, yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

Private.][252]

Monday.

Dear Wells,—The usual stress of business has prevented me till now from thanking you for your note and valuable information; I shall, with great interest, turn to the passages you allude to as soon as I get a good opportunity, and what I read will have the greatest weight with me when I vote again on a purchase. It would not, however, touch my point in regard to the General Assembly, which can only interfere with a past purchase if it can be shown to be illegal; this can, of course, only be established by legal authority, and I am, myself, sorry that your first resolution does not run thus: That the President be requested to consult high legal authority as to whether such and such purchases are barred by the will of Sir F. Ch. If your misgivings on that head are shared by a majority the thing would pass immediately and undiscussed, almost.

As concerns your motion on the pension resolution, I own to much misgiving; I should not dream of alluding to this had you not yourself taken me aside about it the other day. I am so far at one with you in principle that I feel, I can't say how deeply, that it is our paramount duty to interpret in the largest and most elevated sense our duty to the art of the country that we may be worthy in the eyes of the enlightened portion of the community of our high place, and that it is equally incumbent on us to keep our personal interests vigilantly in sub-ordination. I think that one of the present resolutions militates against this last view, and I need not conceal from you that it has not my sympathy. I am, however, very strongly of opinion that the form of your opposition to it will not be supported, and that in your desire for a logical comprehensiveness, you will fail of your end, which by simple direct opposition to the particular measure on the principle you have already enunciated and explained, you might very probably, I believe, achieve. I need not, I think, assure you, my dear Wells, that nothing is further from my thoughts than any interference with a member's freedom; indeed, on that head my views are known to you; but I can't refrain from saying thus much to give you an opportunity of quietly thinking matters over (don't answer [253]this) before Wednesday. After all, you want primarily to get rid of paragraph 6, not to ensure a dialectical triumph. If the alternative is between your Committee and the resolution as it stands, I feel absolutely convinced that you will be left in a very cold minority; but if you point out that paragraph 6 takes our bounties off the ground of necessity, our only tenable ground, in fact commutes a bounty into an unconditional claim (of a formidable pecuniary nature, too), you will march in, I can't help thinking, with flying colours.

Don't, I repeat, be at the trouble to answer this expression of the opinion of,—Yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

Monday, February 1, (?) 1881.

Dear Wells,—Since receiving your letter I have been so absolutely engrossed with business and work that I have not had time till now to answer it. I am sincerely glad you have asked for a little modification in the terms of the Lucy petition; meanwhile I have written to Gladstone, and my letter has been acknowledged with a promise to note its contents.

In regard to your Chantrey resolution, I feel that, after the manner of very busy men, I have written in haste and not made myself quite clear. I should like, first, to remove one apprehension which you seem to have entertained; however strongly I may be convinced of the correctness of my own view on the matter under discussion, I cannot too emphatically say that as long as the points at issue were still sub judice I should not countenance a purchase which should assume my view to be the right one; but no such postponement as would lead to this dilemma is to be feared; what I propose is this: as soon as ever we have closed the discussion on the schools, and whilst they are being printed in their amended form for final consideration, therefore, on Friday next, if we get through on Wednesday, or failing that on the 22nd or 23rd of February, the resolutions of Council will be put on the table in their rotation; as, however, the next step in the Chantrey affair is to merely hear my answer to your memorandum, and as I understand that discussion on it will not be expected till members shall have had it to consider at their leisure, I will [254]read it and lay it on the table before I take up the resolutions of Council which stand on the paper before it, so that when it comes up for final discussion, presumably in the first days of March, it can be discussed and voted on with full mastery of the subject. It is on the agenda paper of THAT meeting that your affirmative motion will stand; it does not come into force till then, since it is contingent on the effect produced on your mind by my answer of Friday (or of the next meeting after).

With respect to Redgrave's motion, it may lead to a technical "censure" of the Council; but there are censures and censures, and nobody will suppose, certainly I never dreamt, that you meant to imply moral obliquity to us in regard to what we have done. I have not a word to object to what you advance about the right of complaint, but it does not exactly cover the case: if you caught us, say, taking our friends to the Exhibition (or ourselves) on Sunday, a matter on which no two opinions are admissible, then "a complaint" would be in its place; but in the matter of payment to Treasurer, two opinions may and do exist, and they can only be measured against one another by a vote, and a vote can only be taken on a motion.

Lastly, as to the new codification committee, I think with you, in strictest confidence, that —— was not a good choice; but he was chosen in the usual manner by a majority of votes: that your labours were not remunerated in the usual manner is an oversight, which, of course, must and shall be set right. There seems altogether, and your letter corroborates that impression, to have been much vagueness about the doings of the Committee as a Committee, though, as usual, much zealous work on your part. I do not gather that attendances were entered in a book, which is the machinery by which payment is generally regulated, and the Committee having lapsed without reporting to the Council on its labours (being a sub-committee of the Council of 1878, it lapsed by a natural death with that Council), the whole thing had fallen out of notice. I hope that the old sub-committee will put in their claims, which will very certainly be satisfied. The codification has frequently been in my mind, for I consider it of very great importance, but as it is my impression that I am considered to drive the work of the [255]Academy full hard as it is, I have hesitated to impose more labours on my colleagues, even though I am always ready to share them.—Sincerely yours,

Fred Leighton.

Tuesday Morning,
2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
March 18, 1884.

Dear Wells,—Thank you for your letter received yesterday, which only lack of time prevented me from answering at once. I am happy to say that Richmond cheerfully acceded to my wish in regard to clauses 6 and 7. I do not think with Calderon, who has written to me, that the words of a man so high-minded as Richmond will indispose members in this matter, and, though I feel the importance of raising no prejudice against the proposal as keenly as ever, still wish him to initiate it. It is, I agree with you, a pity that the question of the retiring pensions must come off first; but that is, I fear, quite unavoidable, and it connects itself with the very first resolution. I assure you, my dear Wells, that I see the bearing of all you say on this head as plainly as possible, and have done so all along; but it does not prevail with me, because it does not cover the whole ground, and because I do not anticipate the dangers for which you think it might be used as a precedent.

In view of my own personal painful position in this matter, I shall ask the Assembly not to ratify the clause which affects me.—In great haste, yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

The result of these studies and of the experience of years was that Leighton and I definitely adopted the following method. Take a canvas or panel with the whitest possible preparation and non-absorbent—the drawing of the subject to be done with precision and indelible. On this seek to model in monochrome so strongly that it will bear the local colours painted with exaggeration, and then the grey, which is to be the ground of all the future half-tones; on this paint the lights, for which use only white, red, and black, avoiding yellow, and, stabbing (botteggiando) with the brush while the colour is wet, make the half-tints tell out from the grey beneath, which should be thoroughly dry. When all is dry, finish the picture with scumbles (spegazzi), adding yellow to complete the colour.

Leighton formed his method of painting from these general maxims, and he painted my portrait at Lerici on these principles as an experiment, and then in 1878 we adopted the system definitely. For this portrait he had four sittings—one for the drawing and the monochrome chiaroscuro, one for the local colours; then, having covered all with grey, he painted the lights with red, white, and black, making use of the thoroughly dried [257]grey beneath for his half-tints. With scumbles he completed the colour and the modelling.

Royal Station Hotel,
Forres, N.B.

I drove over to Dunkeld (twelve and a half miles) to lunch at the Millais'; I think the drive one of the most enchanting things I know, and I was favoured, moreover, by a few of those divine glimpses of blue and silver sky of which Scotland has the monopoly (a monopoly which she uses, perhaps, just a trifle too modestly). This is Forres, as the paper shows you; if Macbeth's witches really did live in this neighbourhood, it is [262]just as well they had their hands pretty full, for they would have found the place uncommonly dull otherwise, especially on the "Sawbath." On the other hand, the drive to and the walk along the banks of the Findhorn—the excursion for which one comes here—is quite delightful, and indeed surpassed my expectations. I must tell you that I have nothing short of a craze for your dark brown Scotch (and Irish) rivers, as dark as treacle, and as clear as a cairngorm. This particular stream contrives to rush part of the way through fantastic rocks of pink granite—you may imagine the effect. Here again from the heights over the river I ought to have seen the sea and the coast of Sutherlandshire; but the weather was sulky and I had to draw on my imagination for the view.

In the forenoon I went over by train to Elgin, to see the ruined cathedral, which is fine, but, like all Scotch architecture that I have seen, crude and barbaric. As I stood on the platform before starting, I heard a gruff, good-humoured voice hailing me from a train on the other side; it was the voice which goes so well with the rubicund face of the Duke of Cambridge. I was going by the same train, so he made me get into his compartment; he was going to Balmoral or Aberfeldie. He was very comic about B—— and his article in the Nineteenth Century—"A fellow who fouls his own nest is always a d——d bad lot—a d——d bad lot," with which sentiment I close a d——d long letter.—From your affectionate son,

Fred.

Dear Mrs. Barrington,—Miss Pullen will be very happy to sit to you on Monday, and will talk over the rest when you meet. You are very kind about it all, as is, indeed, your wont.

P.S.—You see my harassed old head does sometimes remember what I promise.

2 Holland Park Road,
Kensington, W.

Dear Mrs. Barrington,—I want you to help me in a little conspiracy against (?) our young tragic friend. Mrs. Glyn frequently urges that she ought, at all events for a time, to give her whole mind and being to the study of her art. I need not say I share that opinion, and I have at last, after infinite trouble and persistence (my nose, you know)[76] induced her to leave off sitting for a month, in the hope, if you will all help, of making [270]it a quarter. This would, I am confident, be of the greatest value to her, giving her time also to read a little and concentrate her thoughts. I am quite prepared to give up painting from her for three months; but she is in mortal dread lest her other friends should think her unkind and ungrateful for their sympathy. I have told her I believe no such thing, and that I feel sure that Schmaltz and you (who work most from her) will, as willingly as I, postpone your studies in order to aid her in so important a matter. She is going to call on you to-day; if you agree with me, be very firm—have a nose! Refuse to paint from her for three months.

Dear Mrs. Barrington,—It has occurred to me that I perhaps seemed this morning what I certainly did not mean to seem, churlish in regard to that letter from Irving.[77] If Miss Pullen is now ripe for him to hear her—this is the most important [271]point (for to go to him too soon would be the most unwise thing possible in view of her getting a good engagement)—and if, having declined a letter on a previous occasion, she has any unnecessary scruple about now asking for one, it will be quite enough for you to tell me from her that she wishes for one, and I will at once write it. Kemp will always be able to tell you where to get at me. I can write as easily from Vienna or Constantinople as from here.

"Don't be frightened that I shall let all this praise turn my head. I know how much better it could be done, and after every scene a great weight falls on my heart that I have done no better. But I like you to warn me; it is good for me, so don't leave off, please. I am sorry that your friend, Lord Mount-Edgcumbe, will not see me, and that you had the bother of writing for nothing. Please do not fash yourself about finding out any one else. I must leave off now, as it is time to go to the theatre, and you will not get this any sooner if it were posted to-night than to-morrow.

Sunday, 24th.

"To continue, our lodgings are very comfortable, and nearly opposite the theatre; the food is good, and very fairly cooked, but I am very pleased with the tuck parcel; we had one of the birds when we arrived, the other things we have hardly touched. I thought it better to save them for places where the food may be bad. Please send me Mr. B. Tree's letter. I thought as you think about its advice. Thank you so much for your kind advice and gentle reminders, I shall try so hard to remember all you [272]have said to me at different times; and if I do become anything in the future, I shall owe all the best part of it to you."

April 7, about 1880.

Dear Sir,—I am probably too late to be of any use, but have nevertheless much pleasure in assuring you once again of the sympathy with which I view your endeavours to bring the refining influences of Art in all its forms, and, so to speak, in co-operation on the masses in the vast industrial centre from which you write. I believe that in seeking to elicit and to cultivate their sense of what is beautiful you are opening up to them a deep source of enjoyment, and by opposing good to bad influences, rendering them great and lasting service.—Yours very faithfully,

Fred Leighton.

February 17, 1881.

I have carefully read over the programme of your enterprise, and there is much in it with which I can warmly sympathise. I desire nothing more deeply than to see the love and knowledge of Art penetrate into the masses of the people in this country—there is no end which I would more willingly serve; but there is in your programme a paragraph which I cannot too emphatically repudiate—that, namely, which excludes from Art, as far as the public is concerned, that which is the root of the finest Art as Art, the human form, the noblest of visible things. That you should sternly and stringently exclude all work which reveals an [275]offensive aim or prurient mind is what I should be the first to claim, but that you should lay down as a corner-stone of your scheme an enactment which would exclude by implication more than half the loftiest work we owe to Art—nearly all Michael Angelo, much of Raphael's best, Sebastiano del Piomba's "Raising of Lazarus," Titian's "Bacchus and Ariadne," Botticelli's "Birth of Venus"—this is indeed a measure from which I must most distinctly dissociate myself, and which makes it impossible for me to connect my name with an enterprise which would else command my sympathy.

From the "Manchester Courier," August 30, 1890.

Sir Frederic Leighton on the Management of Art Galleries.

To the Editor of the Manchester Courier.

Sir,—On the 4th and 6th inst. I published two long letters on the management of art galleries, of some part of which this is a summary:—No one can intelligently and fully enjoy any picture or statue unless he has some measure of three kinds of knowledge. (1) He must know something about the subject represented, or he cannot enjoy the expression by the work of the artist's feeling and thought; (2) he must know something of the processes of the art in which the artist has worked, or he cannot know what effects the artist sought or might have sought; (3) he must know something of the history of the art, or he cannot understand what elements in the work are due to the artist himself and what to his time and place; or enjoy at all some of the finest works ever produced. For the giving of the second and third of these three kinds of knowledge there ought to be subsidiary collections in our Manchester galleries, kept distinct from the principal collection, and for the giving of the first kind there ought to be several distinct subsidiary collections, of which some should be for the purpose of giving knowledge of flowers, birds, trees, and the other beautiful objects which are "elements of landscape." As a very large proportion of the people of all large towns are ignorant of all that is interesting in nature, and of all that is [276]noblest and most interesting in history and in contemporary life, and as pictures can very effectively give some knowledge both of nature and of the deeds of men while fulfilling their special function, which is to give certain kinds of æsthetic pleasure, the principal collections in our galleries ought to be used for the purpose of giving knowledge of nature and of noble human nature. A gallery of good pictures of the kind would, by reason of the interest of the subjects represented, attract so much attention that the public would to a far larger extent than now feel the influence of the artistic qualities of pictures. In order to obtain pictures of suitable subjects, the directors of art galleries, instead of only buying pictures in exhibitions and studios as they now do, should, as a rule, revert to the custom which prevailed in the ages when art influenced life deeply, and should ask artists to paint pictures of prescribed subjects. I believe that they would get thus better pictures and at lower prices. Many artists certainly would be at their best when they knew they were working to enlighten a great community, and would gladly accept a moderate price for a picture ordered for a public gallery.

I sent a copy of my letters to Sir Frederic Leighton, and asked him if he would let me have his opinion respecting the principal suggestions contained in them. With the great kindness which distinguishes him, Sir Frederic Leighton has written me the following letter, which contains advice so valuable that I am sure every person in Manchester who cares for art will be glad to have an opportunity of reading it:—

Examples of the kind of copies which Sir F. Leighton recommends can be seen in the Art Museum in No. 1 Room. We have there a photograph of the "Adoration of the Magi" of Paul Veronese, with a series of studies by Mr. F. Shields of the composition, the light and shade, and the arrangement of colour in the picture. These copies suffice to prove that such a collection as Sir F. Leighton recommends would be of the greatest value and interest. May I say with regard to two points in the letter, that my proposal to use some parts of the collections in our galleries for the purpose of revealing the beauty of nature and the greatness of human nature, does not involve any belief that the giving of ethical teaching ought to be one of the functions of pictures, and that the proposal is made partly for the purpose of increasing the width of appeal of works of art. While trying to make that appeal reach a large part of the community, we may usefully teach, by means of other parts of the collections, that the excellence of paintings has no relation to ethical teaching.

[280]With regard to the influence on the artist of the choice by others of his subjects, I think that Sir F. Leighton is misled by his own great gifts. A man of remarkably wide culture, and of great poetical power, he has been enabled, by the great range and strength of his imagination, to choose subjects giving ample scope for the exercise of the qualities peculiar to the painter, and yet appealing strongly to the powers of thought and feeling of all fairly educated people. To such a man, and to such a man only, spontaneous impulse can now be a sufficient guide in the choice of his subject; and to such a man, and only to such a man, the choice of his subject by other persons of intelligence would be a harmful restriction. In every picture gallery it is but too obvious that the majority of even able painters, though unrestricted by the will of any committee, are impeded by more hampering restrictions than any intelligent committee would impose, and are unable to find subjects interesting both to themselves and to others. For many able painters the intelligent choice by others of subjects for their work would remove, and not impose, restrictions. It must be remembered that the subjects of the works of Pheidias, of Cimabue, of Giotto, and indeed those of most of the works which have been much cared for, were chosen for, and not by, the artists.—Yours, &c.,

T.C. Horsfall.

Swanscoe Park, near Macclesfield,
August 20, 1890.

Dear Sir Frederic Leighton,—It is most kind of you to answer my letter so fully. I shall show my gratitude by doing my best to make your counsel as useful as possible to Manchester.

The system which you suggest for giving some idea of masterpieces which are too distant to be visited seems to me to be admirable, and I cannot but believe that it will be adopted in one of our Manchester Galleries.

[281]With regard to the advisableness of choosing for public galleries chiefly pictures of noble subjects respecting which most people have, when they see the pictures, or can be expected to gain, some knowledge, though I feel the great weight of your argument, I am still of the same opinion. I may say this without presumption, because the great question which we are discussing: "How can Art be made most useful to England?" involves the two other questions: "What are the best conditions under which artists can work?" and "How can the best work of artists be made to influence the rest of the community?" In considering the second of these questions an artist is, I think, impeded by his special gifts, while I, not an artist, aided by the qualités de mes défauts, and by the results of several years of experiment in the use of pictures, believe myself to have gained much trustworthy knowledge! Speaking from the standpoint which I have thus reached, I should say that whilst the artist is most conscious of the analogy which exists between painting and instrumental music, there is really a much closer analogy between painting and poetry, or between painting and song, and that it is this closer analogy which should guide the action of the directors of public galleries. Painting deals, while instrumental music does not, with subjects respecting which we think and feel, and it must accept the results for good and evil of this; its products cannot be, as instrumental music is, without definite relation to our feeling and thought, and a simply neutral relation being impossible, the relation must be ennobling or debasing in some degree. I think that my analysis of the conditions which must be fulfilled if the relations is to be an ennobling one was sound.

In asking that painters shall choose subjects pure and lovely "and of good report," I am not asking that painting shall leave its special function—shall cease to do that which it can do better than any other art; but only that it shall recognise that its function differs from that of instrumental music, and is the creation in us of a symphony of feeling or emotional thought and enjoyment of form and colour, and human skill, and love of beauty.—With very many thanks, I am, dear Sir Frederic Leighton, yours sincerely,

T.C. Horsfall.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
August 22, 1890.

Dear Mr. Horsfall,—I have to thank you for your kind and interesting letter of the 20th.

Knowing of old the views you entertain, and the radical divergence which exists between them and my own, I had fully anticipated the spirit of your answer; in fact, it almost seemed to me when I wrote at some length the other day that I ought to explain that it was out of deference to your wish and in high appreciation of the long and earnest thought which you have given to a grave subject that I did so, rather than in the hope that my views would carry conviction or commend themselves to you.

The divergence between us is, as I said, at the root of things, and is one on which I do not think experience either qualifies or disqualifies us to judge. The question is not what effect pictures may have had on certain people, but what the proper function of Art is. The question is theoretic rather than practical. If the primary function of Art is definitely didactic, if its first duty is to inculcate a specific moral truth, then, indeed, there is, as you very rightly say, no neutral ground. Either the teaching is wholesome or it is mischievous.

Meanwhile, our brief correspondence only throws into stronger light the impossibility to which I believe I alluded in my first letter, of dealing with such a subject within the compass of a letter, and in broad and sweeping outlines. So, for instance, when I used instrumental music as a parallel, I did not for a moment mean to describe its province as being identical with that of painting. Neither, on the other hand, would you, I presume, in instancing song on your side wish to be taken too literally; for you would have, according to your theory, to excommunicate, let us say, for instance, Schubert, the king of song-writers, who has played on more varied chords of feeling and imagination than any other musician of his kind, and of whom I am not aware that he ever inculcated (I feel pretty certain that he never meant to inculcate) a definite moral lesson.

But I am beginning again. Let me at once draw rein, and abandoning a barren, however interesting controversy, remain, dear Mr. Horsfall, yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
August 28, 1890.

Dear Mr. Horsfall,—Before starting for my holiday, of which I stand in much need, I write one line to acknowledge and thank you for your amiable and interesting letter, which shows me, I am very glad to see, that we are much less divided in opinion than I should have gathered from what you had previously written, and indeed printed.

Judgments given as absolute in your letters to the Manchester press are shown by the commentary which your last letter furnishes to be in a manner conditional, and without that commentary your words were rather misleading. I was not unnaturally a little startled—I, who do not think a "subject" in the ordinary sense of the word imperative at all—to find you condemn the purchase of Yeames's "Arthur and Hubert" (which, for the element of human emotion, certainly satisfies the Aristotelian demand in reference to tragedy), because the emotion does not turn on an heroic act; and I may say, in passing, that I am unable to see how a scene in which deep pity for the helpless is aroused, can be justly described as a "horror which it is foolish to try to realise."

Meanwhile, I fully feel the practical difficulty which your last letter describes. It is a difficulty of the most perplexing kind. For it must be evident that whilst with a people of strong moral fibre and an almost entire absence of æsthetic sensibility—at all events, on the side of form—you may indirectly insinuate some perception of the beautiful—of that essence which lifts us out of ourselves—under the cover and pretext of a moral emotion—we cannot ignore the danger of producing the exactly opposite effect of confirming the dully-strung spectator in the belief that the stirring of that moral emotion is in fact the raison d'être of the work. One is, of course, glad, as the world goes, that the doors of righteousness should be opened, even by the wrong key; but one would still more desire that the door which yields only to that key should not itself remain closed.

Pray do not take the trouble to acknowledge these parting words: but believe me, very truly yours,

Fred Leighton.

Dear Sir,—It is a source of regret to me that I am unable to be present as a listener at the discussion to-morrow. Meanwhile the question of the base, though a very important one, is in my mind very secondary to that of the site, and the (in my poor opinion) radical wrongness of the present selection much mars my interest in the whole affair. A monument which, intended to be conspicuous, is not the focus of the avenues that lead to it, I think against the most primary perceptions of effect. Two magnificent avenues give access to Cleopatra's Needle, the finest river and the finest embankment in Europe; both of these run past it as if they had forgotten it. I may add that what would only have been feeble is rendered worse than feeble by the (of course accidental) semblance of matching with the short tower over the way.

Pray excuse the great haste in which I write and the consequent abruptness of my expressions, and believe me, yours very truly,

Fred Leighton.

2 Holland Park Road,
August 12, 1888.

Dear Wells,—The list for the Memorial Committee is practically complete, and though it is not in every particular the list which you or I might have drawn up, it is a good one, and as I told you I think in a previous note, I have not liked to interfere too much, as Agnew has so zealously taken the work on himself. I meant to send you the list, but have cleverly come away from home (I am writing at the Senior United Service Club) without it. I have of course asked Agnew to add his own name; for the Academy I have proposed to him the four Trustees—not as Trustees, but because they offer a ready-made group in a body where none is afore or after—Sir J. Gilbert, Linton, and Coutts Lindsay will complete the artistic section for the present. The next step, as I have suggested to Agnew, is to get at the Dean of St. Paul's—this I have offered to do. A chairman will have to be appointed; I should suggest, or rather have suggested, the D. of Cleveland—if he joins; I believe his answer has not yet come in. And there must be a banker: then a letter from the [287]Committee should appear in the Times inviting adhesions and subscriptions, to be published from time to time: is all this in harmony with your own view? Are you not afraid that the moment when "everybody" (for our purposes it is everybody) is leaving town or has left it—I go myself in a few days—is a very bad one? Many people lose sight of their Times, or would not write from the country or foreign parts. How would it strike you to wait a month or two, having now laid the foundation? It is a nice point. There are pros, but there are also cons. With all good wishes, yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

You have seen no doubt in your Times that we mean to exhibit our lamented friend's work in a worthy manner.

P.P.S.—By-the-bye, S. Kensington ought to be represented. I will ask Agnew to write to T. Armstrong.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
November 2, 1892.

Dear Wells,—Best thanks for your cheque and kind note. You will be glad to hear that the removal is going on capitally. I did not wait for the full money-promise; I had determined to do the thing, and I set it going on my personal guarantee when we were £300 short of the full sum. Now we have the money, young Lehmann munificently sending a cheque for that amount.

"About 1875 I received a letter from Baroness ——, requesting me to call upon her in order to arrange to photograph the collection of works of art in her country house. She had employed other photographers, but the results had not been satisfactory. I carried the matter through, and not [289]only received a considerable amount in remuneration, but was given great encouragement to persevere with my work at a time when I had nearly decided on going to America. The Baroness never mentioned who it was that had recommended me, and though I had been constantly working for him during many years, it was not till six months after his death that I discovered it was Lord Leighton who had been my good friend. I should be glad to bear testimony to his great heart and loving kindness, and do regret not having been able to thank him myself."

Private.]

10 Downing Street, Whitehall,
June 17, 1885.

My dear Sir F. Leighton,—Your letter has given me much pleasure. I can assure you that I in return highly appreciate the generous spirit you have shown, and I value the advice you kindly tendered in this matter of Art Honours. I am reporting rather fully to Her Majesty on our conversation of Monday, and on the personal abnegation on your own part, which commands my cordial respect.—I remain always, very faithfully yours,

W.E. Gladstone.

8th.

Dear Prof. Church,—I write to acknowledge your letter of the 6th, the information in which (Jaune de Naples) is to [291]me of very great importance indeed. I believe Hills to be really anxious to help us in the matter of medium. I should be peculiarly glad if we could send forth a thoroughly trustworthy, hard-drying, supple, and not yellowing vehicle. Let us consider it. I find myself using a mixture, roughly, of equal parts of amber varnish (Roberson's) and oil of spike; and, say, a sixth of the whole of poppy oil (Roberson's): that is, 3/7 amber, 3/7 spike, 1/7 poppy; but I vary according to the work; and again I don't know what Roberson's amber varnish is, it does not seem very drying. Of course one would want a good middle drying power, to which, mixing the ingredients, one might add any one at will. I think that "Siccatif de Haarlem" has about that middle quality, if I remember it rightly. It is, I think, copal, poppy oil, and turps.; but it seemed to me to yellow a little, why, I don't know; poppy should not darken. Chromophile is delightful up to a certain point, and then the work sinks extraordinarily blind and tallowy; and as you want something in the way of varnish at the end, it seems desirable to carry that or some varnish in a moderate degree right through. Chromoph. becomes a little milky in a bottle with spir. of turp., and turns bright green when left in a dipper.

Your proposal to report to us annually is very valuable, and could be worked to the general advantage.

I am delighted to find that you are in co-operation with my friend Mr. Hills, who has a warm and genuine desire to serve Art and his friends the artists. I find his poppy oil clarified with charcoal very delightful stuff. Am I wrong in thinking the action of the charcoal on it has been to render it more drying? I think that a vehicle made with that oil, amber varnish, and oil of spike will be a very satisfactory vehicle indeed; particularly if you can, between you, bleach the oil yet more. Chromophile is quite colourless. The mastic varnish that won't bloom will be a great triumph. Pace our detractors, it shall, I hope, be seen in time that the R.A. is not unmindful of the needs of artists even in the matter of material appliances.

[292]I observe that you speak in your valuable manual of Aureolin as a very slow-drying colour when ground with oil; finding, in use, that Roberson's Aureolin dries, on the contrary, extremely quick—it is always absolutely dry the next day, and I use no vehicle but Bell's Medium, i.e. linseed and oil of spike and turps.—I wrote to ask him what he grinds the colour in. He answers "pure linseed oil without the addition of any drier." This puzzles me. Where is the solution? Are there different kinds of Aureolin? When you have a leisure moment send me a post-card.

Among the madders in your handbook scarlet madder does not appear; I hope it is not a treacherous colour; I use it freely, but only mixture with other dark colours, to give them richness. I also use cadmium red; is that wrong? A line on a post-card will greatly oblige.

P.S.—Of course I only use cadmium red when I want a very deep orange in drapery or sky—nothing could replace it.

Feb. 2, 1885.

Here is a little problem: I thought all burnt colours were ipso facto sound. Roberson tells me that burnt white (Chremnitz do.), a lovely colour like ivory, plays most amazing tricks, darkens and lightens again in rapid succession. WHY? When you are in Long Acre make him show you his samples.

Thanks for your letter. I don't use any particular colours other than those you mentioned in your lectures, although I thought of trying deep yellow madder again; I used to like it very much. I suppose you have the list—it is a very long one—of Edouard's colours. Smith is his agent here (14 Charles Street, Middlesex Hospital). I use one or two colours (Tadema I think all) from Mommen's in Brussels; his burnt sienna is superb. Asphaltum would reward study; it was universally used by the Venetians, and seems never to have cracked with them. I am very glad that you are steadily pursuing your collection of specimens and experiments, which I hope will by degrees [293]become an exhaustive one, and of infinite value to the profession. Grounds, too, will deserve much attention.

Kindly tell me whether there is any harm in putting a thin coat of mastic, softened perhaps with a drop or two of oil, over works finished quite recently but begun a year or more ago? If I understand rightly, cracking is caused by atmospheric action through the back of the canvas, by distension of underlying partially soft paint and, consequent disruption of the upper, harder layer of varnish. If the first painting is a year old, is it not tough enough to resist the atmosphere, and is it not anyhow pretty safe when the canvas is backed?

I suppose "Mutrie yellow" is quite safe alone and mixed with other pigments?

Thanks for your note. Yes, I do like the white oil, but I add copal to it if I want it to be very drying, or mix copal on the palette with a slow-drying colour, say a lake. This, I suppose, is all right; if so, don't trouble to acknowledge this. The oil of orange is delightful on account of its smell, but dries less quickly than turpentine (rectfd. spirit). Is it not always better to have some resin in a picture throughout since it has to be varnished at the end?

April 21, 1888.

I am so much enamoured with the method, so far as vehicle is concerned, which I have used during the last year, that I should like to feel quite certain that it is absolutely safe. I use a "single-primed" canvas, and underpaint with "Bell's medium" and rect. spir. turps., which, under your advice, I have in small bottles, so that using it freely a bottle lasts a very short time, and the stuff is therefore always fresh. The mixture I use up to the end (except when I now and then use the pigment alone), and letting the turps. rather preponderate as I advance. I have found to my amazement that this mixture dries even in winter weather excellently, and that I can use with it even scarlet madder and aureolin, which, at least the former, hitherto I never [294]attempted to use except stiffened with amber or copal; and I further find that this mixture, though of course it "sinks" to some extent (and especially with the blues), in the main bears up very fairly, incomparably better than I should have expected, and in fact quite enough. Before beginning to paint I rub over the part each time with Bell's medium and saliva nearly equal parts, or say five oil to four saliva beaten up with the knife on the palette to a white mucilage. This, if left alone, makes a good varnish, and is delightful to paint into. So far, so good; at least I suppose so. (Do you see any elements of danger? cracking? darkening?) But at the end something must go over it all, if only to lock it up (I suppose), certainly to get uniform gloss and strength. I propose in the Academy to put Roberson's medium over the whole of my large one and to retouch with the same. A portrait on to which I don't intend to work I should cover with mastic and a little poppy oil; there is no harm in this, I suppose, and the small quantity of mastic is not likely to yellow, is it? I know this mixture won't come off, but why should it?

May 30, 1889.

Messrs. Reeves send me a colour in which I delight, but which I have hitherto always avoided as being unsafe, to wit, indigo. I suppose one ought not to use it, ought one? although my old friend, and in some ways my master, Robert Fleury, employed it extensively in underpainting blue draperies.

December 23, 1889.

I have got a recipe—a very simple one—from a friend of mine in Italy, who paints a good deal in distemper, and who in technical matters is quite the most leery person I ever came across. In this recipe he mentions what he calls "Gum Damar," which he, in his characteristic ignorance of spelling (for Italians are not very strong in orthography), writes with an apostrophe, D'Amar. Now I presume he means "Gum Dammar" (I believe there is such a thing, is there not?), but I should like to feel sure. Perhaps you will kindly enlighten me on a post-card.

[295]The distemper itself is the simplest thing in the world. It is only a proportion of water and yolk of egg (he deprecates the use of vinegar), to which he adds a certain number of drops (I have not the recipe by me) of this gum. Of course it would be important not to use the wrong gum. Hence the trouble I am giving you.

January 27, 1890.

I have just received from Perugia the enclosed sample of Gum Dammar, which you were kind enough to say that you would report upon to me. A few drops of this (by-the-bye, I do not know how it is to be dissolved) and the yolk of an egg stirred in water, form the distemper used by my friend Mariani.

I don't know whether I told you that he is rather an interesting fellow. He is one of those extremely dexterous Italian workmen-artists who know and can work in every material, and whose forgeries of sixteenth century bric-à-brac, cassoni, reliefs in pastiglia, &c. &c., have, I am afraid, not infrequently been purchased as original by very crafty persons.

Several friends of mine who use distemper, and he amongst the number, tell me that by putting a preparatory coating of distemper over thoroughly dry oil, you can with perfect safety interpose a layer of painting in distemper between two paintings in oil—an extremely valuable thing for us for recovering quality.

January 31, 1890.

Many thanks for your valuable letter. I have had the information entered in a little book, where I keep the outpourings of your wisdom on matters chemical.

Thanks also for the card, in which you give me a somewhat long name for my Gomme Dammar. I suppose in an appeal to a chemist the first portion would suffice.

February 14, 1890.

Many thanks for your valuable note. I may say in passing that the specimen of "Ruby Madder" sent by Mr. Laurie [296]appears to me to be inferior in brilliancy to both the Rose Madder and the Madder Carmine furnished by Messrs. Roberson; and I have no reason to doubt that the latter colours are perfectly trustworthy.

It will give me great pleasure to receive the dedication of your book, which I look forward to seeing with pleasure, and using with profit.

May 19, 1890.

Many thanks for your note, which seems to open up an interesting point. I gather from what you say that the mode of manufacture of a colour may affect its drying properties over a range extending from drying very slowly to drying very rapidly; and I shall be much interested in hearing what your experiments lead to under this head.

January 30, 1891.

Many thanks for your letter. I see that I had better wait for a final opinion until the few months have expired which you still require as tests of permanence. Meanwhile, I am a little unhappy to see in the case of colour after colour the expression "semi-permanent." I do not quite know what that means. Let me know at your leisure whether it means permanent under certain conditions, and, if so, what; or merely in a general way that the pigment stands, but only pretty well. The Rosso Saturno I quite understand is to be set aside.

Another perplexity is in regard to the Burnt Madder. If the madders are in themselves sound colours, as I have always understood them to be, how do they lose their permanence by burning? I should like to use the Gialetto, and I rather gather from what you say that I may do so. I hear with interest what you tell me of your new varnish. As for myself, I have got to dislike the use of any resins in my work to such an extent that I have completely set them aside. Of course when a picture is finished it requires some gum, not only to protect it, but to bring up the colour to its full value. Will you let me know—but this will do at your leisure, for the time has not come yet—whether [297]a picture being painted as I paint mine, exclusively with Bell's medium and turpentine from first to last, and, I may add, worked on up to the last moment of sending in, i.e. a fortnight later, may on the walls of the Academy be safely varnished with this new material of yours, either alone or diluted with a little poppy oil? I look forward with interest to Heyl's Madder Green.

December 5, 1891.

I shall certainly try the Heyl's Madder Green, which I hear of through you for the first time. Laurie's daffodil cadmium is very pretty. I have got some; but my new delight now is yellow cobalt, which you have found to be absolutely safe, and which is absolutely delightful as a colour.

My tempera is come from Italy, and I am told that it is made of the tails (feelers?) of the cuttle-fish (sepia). Would you like to look at it again from curiosity? I understand that with the reservation that it darkens, I may use it with impunity in, under, and with the oil—that is enough for my purpose.

October 16, 1894.

Will you kindly advise me on the tempera, of which I send a tube? It is used by my friend, Prof. Costa, who gave it me; he likes it vastly. It coalesces with oil; he uses it also by itself between two paintings in oil. I have often longed for something to keep down the greasiness and slipperiness of oil paint when correcting or going over a surface often, oil and water do coalesce sufficiently. The most luminous thing I ever painted (and it has stood like a rock) was painted (or certainly thickly underpainted) with a vehicle made of starch and oil. What this medium is, I don't know. Please advise.

March 7, 1894.

Forgive secretary again.

I am much obliged by your note, and read with great satisfaction what you say about Newman's golden ochre. I [298]shall now, until I hear from you further, adopt the motto "Ex uno disce omnes," and assume that the yellow ochre is equally sound and serviceable; although the colour is so much finer than any yellow ochre of my acquaintance that I cannot quite close my mind to a lurking suspicion that it is stimulated or refreshed by some foreign ingredient.

March 13, 1894.

Many thanks. You send me good tidings. The yellow ochre is by far the finest I have ever seen.

I enclose, because we think (Watts and I) that it will interest you, a specimen of purple lake (not madder), such as Watts has used all his life, which has been baking in the sun for two years; it is slightly browner, but more beautiful than ever, and has, you see, retained its full body; this is remarkable.

June 22, 1894.

Very many thanks for your interesting and exhaustive investigations on the French lakes. I observe that in several cases you mention lakes having cracked. I presume, however, there is no reason to suppose they would do this when embodied with other colours, and that if otherwise safe they might therefore be used. The purple lake used by our friend Watts is furnished to him, I have always understood, by Messrs. Newton of Rathbone Place. I am glad to hear so good an account of the pale boiled linseed oil from May & Baker, Ltd., of Battersea. I do not, however, gather from what you say that there can be any reason for substituting it for Bell's medium, to which I am much attached, and which, as you know, is, with the admixture of one-third rectified essence of turpentine, the only vehicle I use. This note, of course, requires no acknowledgment—anything you may have to say on these various points will abundantly keep until I get a further account of your investigations on the purple lake.

[299]Many thanks for your valuable caution. Amongst the lakes you tried, did you include the garance nuance brun and do. brun foncé? Both are superb colours, and it would be nice to think one might use them. It is very comfortable to feel that one has a conscience one can tune at Shelsley.

April 19, 1894.

I am about now to take up a large decorative painting for the Exchange, a work which cannot be done on the spot on account, inter alia, of the darkness of the place, and will, therefore, be carried out here at the studio on canvas, and then "marouflé" on the wall. Macbeth (A.R.A.), who is also doing one, is using Parris's "Marble medium," in which, a thousand years ago, I painted two figures for mosaic at South Kensington; great brilliancy is obtainable, but I rather fear a certain tendency to look waxy and almost shiny. I myself incline to use Gambier Parry's material, which I have used on the wall at South Kensington and greatly like. But now the question arises, ought the canvas to be prepared? and on this I shall be grateful for your opinion, as the matter is very important. G. Parry told me that canvas either could or should be prepared for his medium, I don't remember which. Roberson's man tells me that Madox Brown and Fredk. Shields (I think) both had canvases prepared for a similar purpose. I shall postpone ordering mine till I have your instructions; till when, and always, I am, in much haste.

April 23, 1894.

Many thanks for your letter. I shall, of course, obey your instructions punctually, and substitute paraffin wax for the ordinary Brecknell and Turner beeswax, as prescribed by Parry himself. I will see Roberson immediately, for I should not think it right, as he ground the colours and prepared the medium throughout for my two large frescoes at South Kensington, to abandon him in favour of Laurie, or anybody else.

You suggest that I should make a little experiment on a small canvas. Do you think that would be necessary? I presume that the material will work exactly as it did before, and that the [300]surface will be—bar the granulation—very much the same as on a wall. I ask this question, because I ought to get to work immediately, and I gather from a reference to your work that it will take several weeks before the process of preparation is complete.

I wish I could throw light for you on the verb "maroufler," and should like to know what subterranean connection there is, or can be, between it and the word "maroufle" which is, as you say, being interpreted, a "rascal."

At all events, when the moment comes for the operation, I must endeavour to obtain information from France, where the process is in very frequent use.

February 27, 1895.

A contretemps has occurred of which I think I ought to inform you, as it relates to the very interesting subject of grounds and pigments.

Robersons, when they came to roll up my fresco to transport it to the Exchange, found that either the ground or the pigment—probably both, as they are of the same substance—was extremely brittle and cracked right across, cracking at a rather abrupt tangent from the circumference of the circle; so that they immediately struck work, and declined to go any further.

As far as the painting itself is concerned, I do not believe that any serious damage is done, because on re-straining it flat, the cracks are barely perceptible, and probably would not be at all perceptible in situ.

Meanwhile, if any question arises as to the ground, it has occurred to me, and it is on this point I wish to consult you, that the cause may be the substitution of paraffin wax for the ordinary wax hitherto used in Gambier Parry's material, which, though perhaps not absolutely so durable as paraffin, is sufficiently so, and very malleable. One does not see what else could have cracked in that abrupt and sharp manner—certainly not the copal, which has oil in it and is further made supple by the oil of spike. If it turned out that the paraffin was the peccant element, I should be, entre nous, rather glad, because it diminished the facility of the work.

This unrolling was begun in very cold weather; if the temperature had been a little higher, nothing of this kind would have taken place. The picture now shows no sign of defect or injury, and is in perfect condition. By substituting ceresin, a paraffin obtained from ozokerite or earthwax, for crystalline paraffin, the chance of cracking is obviated. The ceresin, which should have a melting-point of 150° or 160° Fahrenheit, constitutes a safe substitute for the beeswax commonly employed in Gambier Parry's Spirit Fresco Medium.

Foggia, October 15, 1895.

You will be surprised to get a letter from me with an Italian superscription; I am writing thus early before my return to save time. When I was in Venice the other day, Van Haanen spoke to me, with approval, of a certain vehicle, of which I had already heard before vaguely, the invention of the French painter, Vibert. You probably know of it, as the subject of media has occupied you. There are, it appears, three forms of this medium: the vehicle for painting, the medium for painting into in retouching, and the final varnish. As far as I understood Van Haanen in a hurried conversation—he was a little vague—the painting medium contains no gum, only, he seemed to think, petroleum and oil; I assume that in the final "vernis" there is gum of some kind.

I am perfectly satisfied with Bell's medium and fresh turpentine for the very little use I make of vehicle in painting; but there is always the difficulty of the final varnish in the Academy. I don't like risking mastic or copal so soon on work which contains nothing but oil (and if I ever do use a little, I put poppy oil with it), and the result is that I generally varnish with Roberson's medium, which is safe, but I fear a little inclined to yellow in time.

Now what I want you kindly to tell me, my dear Church, is the exact composition of the three Vibert media, and your opinion about the safety of using all three in the prescribed order; and this I should like to know on my return at the beginning of November (hence my haste in writing), and also whether I can safely use these vehicles on work begun in my usual medium.

[302]It is just possible you may not have heard of the Vibert vehicles; if so, I would ask you to be so kind as to obtain (of course at my expense) a bottle of each of the mixtures and to test them carefully.

A line to say this has reached you would find me at the Hôtel Royal Mazzeri, Via 20 Settembre, Rome.

With kind regards and anticipated thanks.

Hôtel Royal Mazzeri, Rome,
October 22, 1895.

Many thanks for your prompt and amiable answer. I shall be interested to hear on my return the upshot of your analysis; but I hate vernis in painting, as Bocchini tells us the Venetians did, comme la peste.

I am very glad you are getting on so satisfactorily with your work on the frescoes.

In haste (for I have many letters before me).

P.S.—No; I am sorry to say I am no better of my special ailment though my general condition is good.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
November 8, 1895.

Excuse the hand of my secretary.

Many thanks for your note about Vibert's varnishes, which I shall accordingly dismiss from my mind—the varnishes, I mean, not your note.

Dear Friend,—Yesterday evening I received your letter from Florence, and answer at once, partly to tell you how delighted I am at the result of the consultation with Quarfe, as also at your comfort and well-being, and partly because this part of your letter has greatly roused my curiosity for a second, [303]which shall also tell me something about Vienna, Verona, and Florence. At the same time, however, I want to make use of a pause in my work to tell you that the first three coloured contours are completed. To the painting I dedicated all my small skill, and would have died in order to secure that the drawing and composition should produce a life-like effect; I believe also that these pictures will look like frescoes in their surroundings.

Dear Mrs. Pattison,—I saw a paragraph not long ago in the Academy which concerned me deeply; it did not say, but it implied that my dear old friend and master, Ed. Steinle (professor at Frankfurt a/M) is dead. Did you by chance write the note? and do you know when or how he died, if he be indeed dead? His wife has not written to me. I am anxious to have some certainty in the matter.

Browning's obscurity hides a shorthand of which he keeps the key in his pocket. A matter of form, not of matter, as [305]"O.D." hath it. Browning is not abstruse; he is a deep thinker, who therefore (vide "O.D.") requires obscure language; he is a most ingenious dialectician and a subtle analyst; but he is not a great poet on that account—he is a great poet because of his magnificent central heat, and the surface of interests over which he sheds it. All this is rather late in the day to remark, and one would not be exasperated by his friends if one had not a sort of feeling that they have done something to mar him. You say he would not be obscure if he knew it?—distinguons. His obscurity is not intentional—of course—it is inherent in a style which is strongly personal, and therefore sincere—but is it in no degree wilful?—does he not accept, virtually, some such (absolutely false) view of his obscurity as "O.D.'s"? A pity it certainly is; Browning is the last man who in his heart wishes to touch only the few—nobody knows better than he does that that is not the characteristic of the greatest poets, and that not for that is a poet's soul kindled to a white heat. Meanwhile, here is the fact that men of average culture and average brains (I claim both, for an example), and desirous of understanding, as well as full of admiration for his powers, often get at his meaning only by considerable effort, and sometimes not at all, and that not because the thought is obscure, but because it is wilfully written in cypher.

Private.]

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
17/8/91.

Dear Mr. Bailey Saunders,—Complying with your wish, expressed through my sister, Mrs. Orr, I have gone carefully through the Sprüche under the head "Kunst," and have marked certain passages. I have, however, deferred writing till the last moment (I am starting presently for the Continent), partly because I have been overwhelmingly busy, and partly because I am a good deal "exercised" on the whole matter. [306]To speak with entire frankness, I cannot feel sympathy with the idea of the publication, and feel that the connection of my name with it would imply an adhesion which does not exist. On re-reading more than once the maxims and sayings in question, which I had not seen for many years, I find myself confirmed in my earlier impression of them, that their value is in no way commensurate to the authority of Goethe's great name. Some of them are, in my opinion, wholly misleading and some obscure; some commonplace, some irrelevant to the subject. Again, my markings do not by any means always mean assent; and, on the other hand, the discrimination between the value of a marked paragraph is often a nice one, and is not represented by the difference between selection and omission, which, on the face of it, seems assent and dissent. In sum, I ask myself what the outcome is—what is the selection? it does not give to the world an important or instructive intellectual possession; it seems to express the selection of the best by a particular individual (who does not spontaneously desire to make such selections), and in reality does not represent anything that he assents to throughout.

But why a selection at all? I cannot refrain from asking myself. The interest of these particular Sprüche lies in the fact that they are utterances of Goethe's (and he gave them with a context)—but then what is the meaning of a selection?

You see I speak very bluntly in the matter, but also sincerely; and I have at all events shown my good will.—In much haste, yours faithfully,

Fred Leighton.

I am, as I said, just off, but if you wished especially to communicate with me, a line sent here would reach me after some delay.

The Pines, Putney Hill, S.W.,
August 21, 1885.

Dear Leighton,—I doubt very much whether Shelley himself could have answered your question to your satisfaction. His scholarship was that of a clever but idle boy in the upper forms of a public school. His translation from Plato, as Mr. Jowett tells me, and his translation from Euripides, as I know by personal experiment, having carefully collated it with the original text, absolutely swarm with blunders, sometimes, certainly, resulting in sheer nonsense. I fancy he may have been thinking of Aphrodite Urania, and perhaps confounding (as indeed it seems to me that a Greek poet might possibly and pardonably have done) the goddess of divine love with the Muse who was not the Muse of astronomy when she first made her appearance in the Theogony of Hesiod, but simply the "heavenly one" in a general way, as I gather from a reference to the lexicon. I should have thought Calliope or Euterpe a fitter head mourner for Keats: but probably Shelley wished to introduce the most distinguished in the rank of the Muses in that capacity, on such an occasion. And if Urania was in a certain sense the chief of the Nine, she would naturally be most musical of mourners.—Ever yours sincerely,

A.C. Swinburne.

"A broad shoulder of moor, lifted against a great field of sky, is one of the grandest and most pathetic things in nature (see Leopardi). The beauty of moorland is that it has a particular poetry and impressiveness for every condition of atmosphere and weather."

"I am very glad you like Ilkley so much—moors have an immense fascination for me, but all English scenery of whatever kind has charm for me. It has two immense virtues: first, being entirely of its own kind, it never suggests a, to itself, disparaging comparison with the scenery of any other country, and secondly, it is steeped, every fold and nook of it, in English poetry, and is haunted with the murmur of the prettiest of peace-suggesting words: home. I wonder whether you both feel as I do the endearing quality in our old green-brown country."

The Highland Railway Company's Station Hotel,
Inverness.

Accurately the charmingness of Scotland, it is the starting-point for everything. But I observe that at the rate of writing I should fill a volume before I had given you the hastiest account of my journey, so I will e'en cut it short and simply say that, taking it altogether, my too brief stay in the Highlands has been a source of very great enjoyment to me, if not of any particular benefit to my health, for which indeed it has been too short. I have had more than the usual proportion of fine weather, and am corroborated in my old opinion that for beauty of colouring nothing north of the Alps will compare with this most lovely country, and that the wealth and variety of effects of light and shade is altogether unrivalled. Unfortunately, working here is very difficult, all the effects are so bafflingly fugitive; nevertheless, I have made three little sketches which, though hasty, will [309]be of value if only to revive my recollections of the effects they very feebly render; they were all done in one day; and no one day since I did them has been such as to make sketching possible—except this the last and one of the most enchanting, which I have spent delightfully but fruitlessly on the top of a coach.

Many thanks for your letter received last night; as it crossed one from me to the Dad, which I hope he could read (it was writ large), I should not write again at once (having, of course, nothing to say—except that it is, pour changer, a splendid afternoon, and I ought to be out of doors) but that I want you at once to tell the poor old Dad how concerned and sorry I am to hear that he has been so ailing, and ailing so long, and how I wonder at his superb power of recuperation. I don't ask in this letter how the Dad is, because I am sure he will send me a line in answer to my note to him. But I have another reason for writing at once; I want you, please, to thank Lina with best love, for her nice long letter (she does not want a letter written from here), and tell her, before it is too late, that I hope she won't give up her Ballater without a very full trial, because I know that it takes many people a considerable time to get acclimatised to that bracing air. Tell her also that I was myself going to suggest an Ausflug to Braemar; if she goes to the Invercauld Arms let her use my name, and she will be well treated. I should peculiarly like her to see the Lynn of Dee—she will only have to scramble five or six yards off the main road to look down into the stream from under some of the grandest old Scotch firs in Scotland; and I verily believe that the watching for a silent bit of those dark, dark, seemingly bottomless, noiselessly swirling pools, tiny as they are under the hollow grey craig, will, somehow, whisper a big peace and a strange wondering fascination into her being; the whole thing is not bigger than an expensive toy, but it lays a never-failing grip on me.[82]—Affectionate brother,

Fred.

August 22, 1891.

If you can manage it go to a favourite haunt of mine, the Lynn of Dee, quite a tiny tumble of green waters in fantastically scooped grey rocks, no higher than a cottage, under astounding old Scotch firs (by-the-bye the grandest tree in the world to my thinking), where I have sat interminably long looking down into the dark deep pools, from which now and then a salmon leaps. To me no spot about there is so fascinating.

Grand Hotel, Brufani, Perugia,
October 3, 1891.

Dear Lina,—Well, I am glad you got to the Lynn of Dee, though sorry that you could not be there in solitude and see it without sitting in a pool of water. I am glad, too, that you saw the salmon leap; I did not mention that most exciting spectacle because it is not by any means always on view—you were in luck; but what you must make for another time is the bit three or four yards below the fall where the vehemence of the winter torrent has scooped and worn pools so deep that as your eye is drawn down past half-hidden submerged rocky shapes you come at last to absolute dark brown night, and whilst you are conscious of a rapid, swirling current, no sound, no faintest gurgle even, reaches your ear; the silent mystery of it all absolutely invades and possesses you; that is what I faintly tried to put into my "Solitude," of which a photogravure embellishes your staircase. I am vexed that you had so much rain; however, you had a few fine glimpses, and if a rainy day in Scotland is like the Scotch Sawbath, a fine one throws you the gates of Heaven. It is curious how much clearer the air is (when clear) than we get it south of the Tweed.

I am glad that the Dad has rallied so satisfactorily; tell him, with my love, that I have heard from the gentleman in Copenhagen for whom I carved the marble "Athlete." He is benighted enough to say that in his opinion it is one of the most important statues of modern times; and he wants my bust, if there is one, for his collection of portraits.

Inverness, September 13.

Dear Lina,—I can't help feeling a good deal of responsibility about the melancholy, treeless wilds to which I have sent you, because I happen to like them vastly; and I particularly feel that everything will turn on your seeing, not indeed all or nearly all I saw—that is impossible—but as much as your strength will allow; take your courage, therefore, in one hand, your goloshes in another, and your umbrella in a third, and from the car—abseits—see the whole coast-line close to the rocks overlooking the sea; there is not an inch that won't reward you. There is a bit not more than half a mile from Malinmore (to'ards Malinhead), that is, though small, quite Dantesque in its grim blackness (a few wet feet im Nothfall won't hurt you). Of course, to do this well you must be in cars every day to take you in all directions to the point from which to make your Abstecher—sometimes towards Glencolumskill and the Hog's Back beyond (magnificent), sometimes towards Malinhead, where you must see every little bay, including the Silver Strand.

At first sight the breaking up of the weather is a bore, mit Seitenblick auf Ihnen—but is not as bad as it seems; bad (dirty) weather suits these parts, and the day will not dawn in which I shall have forgotten certain dramatic sunsets and the swooping of certain storm-clouds like the flight of huge fiery birds of prey, more than once witnessed and deposed to on canvas by me, over this treeless tract of moor.

20 York Street, Portman Square, W.,
January 13, 1887.

My dear Sir Frederic,—I have just received your most kind and generous note, and thank you and the Council for so promptly complying with my request to retire from the R. Academy as an active member.

To do it was much worse than making a will; but, having done it, I am greatly relieved.

Had it been earlier it would have been wiser; but as delay has not forfeited the esteem of my dear President and others, I am thankful and content.

But one word of parting advice I crave to offer, which my admiration of your rule and guidance in your high office constrains me to make.

Many of us have remarked that you draw upon your strength too severely; my parting words then are, and please accept, follow, and forgive them:—

Spare yourself when you can, that you may long be spared to give yourself, when you ought.

And now farewell, from your loyal and affectionate old friend,

Geo. Richmond.

San Martino, September 20 (1889).

Dear Dad,—I received your letter two or three days ago, but have deferred answering till I could say something one way or another about my health, for of course I have nothing else to tell of in these high latitudes. Well, I am in fairly good trim, and as well as I am likely to be till I leave, for San Martino will be shorn of my presence on Friday next as ever is (my address for the first fortnight in October will be Hotel Brufani, Perugia). On the other hand, if you were to ask me whether I am "as fit as a fiddle" or a "flea," or "as a strong man requiring to run a race," or "a giant refreshed," or "a bridegroom coming forth from his chamber," or whatever simile you like, I am obliged to own that I am not. I am aware that the air is superb, and when I get on to an exposed slope and open my mouth like a carp I am further aware at (and for) the time—so to speak, "for this once only"—of very gratifying symptoms; then they are fugitive, and my average condition is perhaps a little less satisfactory than on Hampstead Heath. On the other hand, of course, such air must in some occult way be benefiting my tissues, and I shall no doubt, as the stock phrase is, "feel so much better afterwards." Meanwhile, I undergo much humiliation; whilst ladies make with comfort and ease delightful ascents to neighbouring peaks, I humbly pant up an anthill or two, resting at every third yard—puffy, helpless, effete. And lest I should console myself with inexpensive commonplace about my years, &c. &c., I have before me two acquaintances, not climbers by trade, one 65 and the other (most charming of men, Sir James Paget) 73, who put in their twelve, sixteen, or even at a pinch eighteen or twenty miles to my one, and back again without turning a hair or having a vestige of fatigue! Ugh!!

I am most truly sorry that your strength did not enable you to see Manchester; but it is wonderful that you do what you do on the doorstep of 89!—Your affectionate son,

Fred.

Tours, October 30, 1890.

I hope, when I get back next week, that I shall find the old dad fairly well. More can't be expected; and especially I hope [314]to find Lina drawing within sight of the end of her anxious toil.[83] I am delighted to hear that she means to leave town again for a bit—a good bit, I hope. Tell her with my love that she is to make herself very comfortable, and not to look at the money, but send for a cheque whenever convenient. She must, in justice to herself, do her work under the most favourable circumstances she can command.

I have, of course, no particular news; I have been visiting till now. (I am going to-morrow to Blois and Chambord.) Nothing but old familiar scenes with the old familiar enjoyment, in the more serious sense of the word, but not of course with the old buoyancy of spirit—that must necessarily fade with every year now, and I must be content with an occasional little flicker of the waning candle. I have, however, been better in health during the second than during the first half of my holiday. In Rome I was the whole time with old Nino,[84] whom I further took on a Giro to Siena and Florence. I also gave him a commission: very few things could give him so much pleasure (inside—he is not demonstrative!), and nothing is now so needful to him. His lameness is not as bad as I had feared; but he had a bad attack of his enemy, rheumatism, at Florence, and had to bolt back to his people. Of course, too, his anxiety about Georgina, my god-daughter, who has only just pulled through a terrible illness, has put a heavy strain on him in every way.

Weather has broken up; of late bitter cold, to-day cold plus rain, worthy of London.

Verona (Italy again!),
October 2, 1893.

Dear Gussy,—I hope you are not very savage with me for not writing sooner. I've had a tremendous "Hetztour" through Germany—thirty towns in thirty days; a Yankee might be proud of it; and over an area contained between Lübeck (N.), if you please, and Berne (S.), Vienna (E.), and Colmar (W.), and I have made notes everywhere, and I have a game knee, with the result (not so much of the game knee as of the hurried travelling) that I have had little time for writing anything beyond notes of immediate necessity. But you will be savage at hearing that I never received your Munich letter (alluded to in Lina's last), either at the hotel or "Postlagernd"—can you remember at what date you wrote it? I would try to recover it—I hate losing letters, don't you? Thank Lina for her letter, and say that I am concerned at the very poor and shabby account given of her. She was going to send for the doctor; I hope he was able to help her (though I don't know on what plea one expects that of a doctor). By this time you may have recovered from your cure. What a rickety lot we are! At Perugia, where I shall be on Wednesday, I am going under physic for my knee, which, though hardly more than an inconvenience, is a very depressing prospect. I have written to Roberts, who has sent me prescriptions which I shall have made up (to-morrow) by his namesake in Florence. My journey has been, I am bound to say, in a high degree interesting and sometimes delightful. (I wonder whether you were ever at Hildesheim—its amazing picturesqueness, Renaissance houses, carved and painted, are enough to make your hair curl for the rest of your natural life.) But I have not bought a single German novel, after all the trouble you took twice over, except Soll [316]und Haben, which I have just begun; how amazingly altmodisch and stodgy it is, but evidently very clever. I have grown very indolent about reading in trains. Wednesday I reach Perugia—Thursday I shall take a holiday—Friday I shall—but enough! In Berlin I saw dear old Joe (Dr. Joachim)—(the only person I did see, except Malet, the Ambassador, a very old friend of mine—very snug and good little bachelor dinner there—"just as you are"). He (Joe) seemed very fit after "les eaux" somewhere, and sent you kind messages. He was pleased at my calling, and came next day to see me off at the station.

One of the last times that I met him actively employed was at a committee meeting of the Athenæum. He had some pain and difficulty in climbing the stairs to the committee-room, and evident pain in speaking; but because he felt that the candidate he proposed ought to be elected, and that no one else would propose him with more earnest conviction than he could (and he was the best proposer of a candidate I have ever heard), he came there at all risks to himself and would have done so against all opposition and all disadvantages, simply because he thought it his particular duty to do so. This is only a type of the manner in which he treated all his official work during those last years of physical suffering which he fought so bravely. Watching him, it was then I recognised that he was on the same plane as the seaman who never strikes his flag, and at the last goes down practically unvanquished.

Dear Rivière,—Many thanks for your most kind words. I have been deeply touched by the generous, and, I must almost say, affectionate attitude of my brother members in this painful conjuncture. How much I value your friendship, you, I am sure, know.—Sincerely yours always,

Fred Leighton.

Dear Wells,—Although letters do not leave these wilds daily and take an unconscionable time, as I now find, on the way, I trust this will reach you in time for the first varnishing day, on which I believe you hold the general meeting; it carries with [319]it warm and grateful—and envious greetings to you all. These you will, I know, deliver to my brother members at lunch, for then only is the whole body gathered together. They, knowing me, will understand my humiliation at not being under arms and at my post at this season. I wish I could ask you to tell them that I see much sign of betterment in my condition: the slowness of my cure—if cure it be—is, of course, depressing; but I shall comfort myself on Thursday with the thought that perhaps, at some time between one and two, you are wishing well to one who claims to be a faithful friend to you all. I look forward keenly to what will, I feel sure, be the admirable performance of our dear old Millais. Unfortunately, I have not the remotest notion of where I shall be when the news might reach me—in Africa or in Europe—but reach me it will in time. You perhaps think of me as basking in the sun between blue skies and blue seas. How different are the facts! Blustering winds, occasionally rain, chilly atmosphere, everything murky and without colour! A change should not be far off, for this sort of thing has prevailed for a month and more. I did not bargain for it.

I hope, my dear Wells—and indeed I do not doubt—that you are getting on well and comfortably with your vice-regency, and am always yours sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

Tangiers, April 25, 1895.

Dear Lina,—The day before yesterday I received your nice long letter—you had not yet got mine from Gib.—and yesterday one came from poor Gussy, and I am going, as you will both believe when this reaches you, to kill two birds with one epistolary stone. First, let me say that I am grieved—I dare hardly say, surprised, for it is, alas! a wicked way you both have—to hear that neither of you has derived any benefit, to speak of, by your outing, and you indeed, poor dear, appear to be a little worse. The fact is that at our ages, con rispetto, when one happens to have pretty homes, one does miss them under the discomforts and shortcomings of lodgings or inns. As for me, though I am fairly comfortable here, I have whiffs of a certain "House Beautiful" in Kensington which are very tantalising. How am I? Well, I think I may at last claim a little improvement, of course I give [320]myself every chance, and am superlatively, disgracefully lazy, and put myself to no tests; but I notice this, that though I have my regulation three attacks (when not more) a day, they are milder, I think, and I know that I can get rid of them almost immediately by certain respiratory exercises my Swede taught me. This I assume is again no more capsules, we shall see.

Yes, I do perfectly remember the old home in St. Katherine's at Bath, and should hugely like to see it. I hope when the old inhabitant goes off, it will fall into reverent hands.

No, I have not yet tackled Nordau. I am looking forward to him much, but have so far, except some Pater (Greek studies), mostly fribbled; two or three Spanish novels; a few short tales by Hardy, clever, but his figures are talking dolls, taught out of a book; L'Innocente, dull, but not so coarse as I had understood. "Tales of Mean Streets"—now there, if you like, is powerful stuff. For pithy terseness and absolute sobriety of means, for subtle and humorous observation and scathing directness, they are unrivalled; but oh! what a picture! what a state of things, and who shall ever let the light into the tenebrous and foul depths? But how funny too, and grim; the old woman who pockets the ten shillings given for port, in order that she may have mutes at the funeral! Have also read "Keynotes." Clever, one or two even powerful, but other than I expected. Who is the woman? half Norse? half Irish? The writing is bad; intentionally, apparently; a cross between an interviewer and Ibsen for scrappy abruptness. Her keynote is belief in the immeasurable (but not explained) superiority of women, whom no man can understand; well, certainly, I don't know wo sie hinaus will.

I have had more kind notes, this is a kind world tout de même. When stodgy, elderly Englishmen talk to me of the number of people who love me, I feel quite a lump in my throat. Of another kind, but pretty, is the enclosed from W. Watson, the poet, whom I admire, you know; nice also the telegram. I wrote a menschlich letter when her husband died (I have known them nearly forty years), and again a pretty letter t'other day about the wedding.

But I must finish this scribble. I shall be gone when you [321]get this, write Algiers (poste restante), I shall get it some time or other, but am still vague.

Love to poor Gussy.—Afft. bro.,

Fred.

66 Cheriton Road, Folkestone,
April 18, 1895.

Dear Sir Frederic Leighton,—May I venture to say, somewhat superfluously, what a delight it was to be made free of your Palace of Art on a recent Sunday, and how highly I valued the privilege. Mr. Wilfrid Meynell had already made me happy by reporting the generous things you had said about my verses. I wish the great pleasure thus given me were not alloyed by the news of your temporarily impaired health. But in common with the rest of the world I hope those sunnier regions to which you perhaps feel more spiritually akin than to our own may quickly renew your full energies.

Pray forgive anything which may be intrusive or otherwise unwarrantable in this letter, and believe me, dear Sir Frederick, with very grateful sense of your kindness, and pride in your good opinion, yours sincerely,

William Watson.

Sir Frederic Leighton, Bart., P.R.A.

Telegram.]

April 16, 1895.

To Sir Frederic Leighton,
2 Holland Park Road,
Kensington, London.

Profondement touchée de votre si bonne lettre et aimables vœux pour ma fille, je vous en remercie de tout mon cœur, y voyant une nouvelle preuve de votre amitié. Je regrette vivement pas avoir le plaisir de vous revoir avant longtemps, mais suis sure penserez à moi.

Comtesse Paris.

Buckingham.

Hotel d'Europe, Alger,
May 9, 1895.

Dear Wells,—I got your first kind letter three days ago at Tlencen, and this morning, on passing through this place, your very interesting account of the Banquet. I know you will not resent a very brief acknowledgment; I have one day here only, and a large pile of letters, with a good many of which I must deal, however laconically, at once. I need not assure you that your most kind words, like so many manifestations of friendship that I have received, touch me to the quick and will not be forgotten. That my dear old friend Millais could carry away his audience by his earnest and intense personality, I was quite certain. I rejoice in my heart at his success, apart from what I feel about his affectionate and warm expressions. It is worth while to break down, to be treated with such infinite kindness as I have met with everywhere amongst my colleagues and friends. I know you will like to hear that I am at last very decidedly better; in another month—for I don't mean to come home sooner—I really expect to be externally quite patched up—of course, the warning and the constant threat will remain by me, but I shall try to be careful, and hope yet for long to be the devoted servant of my brother members in the Academy. Meanwhile, believe me, always sincerely yours,

Fred Leighton.

P.S.—I trust you have not suffered in your throat, which is a frequent anxiety to you from the necessity of much speaking. I know how trying that is.

Hotel d'Europe, Alger,
May 21, 1895.

Dear Lina,—In an hour or two I leave for Europe, and in three weeks I shall be home again in comfortable Kensington.

I am grieved that you should have been worried—as well you might—by that idiotic report that I should not return to society or my profession (I wonder who invented it!), but you were fortunately soon relieved; I think I told you about the trouble Reuter and Hardy took in the matter. By-the-bye, [323]you were right in supposing that the "long walk" was also a figment of the correspondents.

I am very glad to hear that you and Gussy are both at all events a little better at last. My bulletin is chequered, but certain things are satisfactory; in the first place, I see that fine weather and sun and pure air and the rest of it have nothing whatever to do with my condition; this, as I can't choose my climate, is distinctly reassuring; also, the fact of my having been much better shows that I may hope distinctly for much improvement: in the other, a certain relapse which is now upon me shows how needful caution is, only it is disappointing to have had to go back to capsules. I have had in the main a most enjoyable time; have been very fortunate in the weather, inasmuch as the heat has not yet been intolerable, and I have done some work which will be useful perhaps and certainly delightful as a reminiscence and suggestion. A variety of untoward things, one on the top of the other, no doubt quite account for my, I hope not durable, relapse, and I have no doubt when I write again I shall be able to report fresh improvement. The odd thing is, the bad effects last so curiously. I understand hot railway journeys, bad food, &c. &c., telling on me, but I have been now two whole days and a bit in Algiers in utter idleness, and a great deal on my back, and yet this morning I got an attack lying in bed! but don't let this disturb you—for several weeks I was much better and required no capsules at all. This short little note will reach you, I suppose, on Friday morning; a line on that day or on Saturday or Sunday, just to say that it has reached you would catch me at the Hotel Continental, Rue Castiglione, Paris. Please tell me, on the altogether improbable chance of my "looking in" on the Channel Islands, what the best hotels are—I must be comfortable. Best love to Gussy.—From your affectionate old brother,

Fred.

P.S.—I wrote to the P. of W.'s secretary, asking him to say how much H.R.H.'s kind words had gratified me—I enclose the answer, which is nice, I think.

Dear Briton Rivière,—Very many thanks for your kind and thoughtful note. Do not think of postponing your motion; I have already been the innocent cause of the postponement of two very contentious motions in Council; I could not think of standing further in the way—pray, therefore, proceed with it. I had a nasty attack at that meeting but have felt no after effects, and am no doubt slowly mending. In haste, yours ever sincerely,

Fred Leighton.

Imperial Hotel,
Pembroke Street, Cork,
Thursday, September 5, 1895.

Dear Lina,—I was glad to glean from your letter of last Thursday that, taking it all round, you are having a fairly good time, and Gussy ditto. (I can't stand wind either, it aggravates my system.) I've never seen Mull—should like to—but not being a sociable bird (like you) should wish to have no acquaintances. Is it Napier of Magdala? if so, I knew the old lord of that ilk; indeed, to be accurate, I knew him even if it was not so; or Lord Napier of Ettrick? if so ditto, ditto. It is always the previous lot I knew. By this time you will have been to Lindisfarne[86] (lovely name!)—if you did not enjoy the sands and the Abbey you need not call on me again. I suppose you are at home now. In a week or two I shall no doubt know how I am. Just off to Killarney, then Galway, then Malinmore, County Donegal, where I shall be from (say) the 10th to (say) the 17th, your affectionate old brother.

Hotel Bristol, Naples,
October 18, 1895.

Dear Lina,—I am sorry that you and Gussy don't see your way to going to Bayreuth, since it is your health that seems to stand in the way; other reasons are all my eye. I KNOW from Gussy's own mouth that she would particularly like to hear the Siegfried Tetralogy at Bayreuth (and this may be the last time of giving it there), I know also that, given, of course, the Fürsten Loge with its facilities, you would like to go, because you have said so. Well it will remain open in case you change what you, fondly and perhaps sincerely, regard as your minds.

I am very glad you take such a very sensible view of my ailment, because it makes it more easy to speak of it; I also live in the hope and, almost, expectation, that it will fizzle out some day of its own accord, and this enables me to bear up against the entire absence at present of any improvement. I have at last finished my "Nordau," which I have read through from cover to cover; it is a very vigorous and remarkable book and of riveting interest to any one who likes polemics (from outside) as I do. The author is at his best when he is dissecting a particular victim—say Nietzsche—on the other hand one is not a little repelled by his astoundingly unparliamentary insolence, his not infrequent disingenuousness and spitzfindelei and his curious narrownesses and lacunæ. The Böcke die er schneidet when he gets on the subject of graphic art are quite comic. The fact is he is in some respects absolutely devoid of perception, like an otherwise most intelligent and cultured man who should have no ear for music. What, for instance, can we say of a man who asserts, as a truism, that æsthetic and sexual(!) feelings (not sensual but "geschlechtlich") are not merely akin but actually cover one another to a very large extent! I doubt whether there is anything chaster than the sense of beauty in abstract form; he has no inkling of this. When all is said and done he is himself [327]in some measure a cryptodegenerate, if I may so call him; degeneracy is a Zwangsvorstellung with him, he sees it everywhere; a curious instance is his seeing it in the fondness of English writers for alliteration; of course he knows, with his wide culture, better than I do that this assonance of the beginning of words dates from the dawn of our literature; he might, no doubt, say, "Yes! it is a Rückschlag," but he would therein give another proof of his ineptitude in æsthetic matters. In every Art, iteration, of which alliteration is a form, has ever been a powerful source of expression and charm. Meanwhile his last, remarkable, chapter "Therapie" takes a good deal of the sting out of the book; he owns that certain peculiarities—excess of sensibility and the like—are present in nearly all art, that it is, in fact, only a question of a degree and, he adds, in a passage which Gussy has marked, "Who shall say where, exactly, madness begins?" Amen! And that little (or large) spice of something which might be madness if there was much more of it, has given to us poor mortals some of our keenest delights—"more grease to its elbow," say I, in my vulgar way. But, I say! Nietzsche!! eh?—I've also read J. Kowaleski, with great interest—but, crikey! what a creature to live with!!

Tell Gussy, with my love, that I have got the usual two seats (Queen's Hall) for the November Wagner. Tell her to keep the day open.—Afftly. yrs.

Fred.

"His last study from nature was painted in Rome in October 1895, for the unfinished picture of 'Clytie,' exhibited in the Royal Academy, 1896. It was a study of fruit, and he enjoyed working on it for several hours, though he was then ill; and I believe that the hours he passed in the courtyard of the Palazzo Odeschalchi painting these fruits, which he had arranged on a marble sarcophagus, afforded him, perhaps, the last artistic pleasures he ever enjoyed. It is true that after this he went to the Vatican, to Siena, and to Florence, where he saw for the [328]last time the masterpieces with which these towns abound. But, standing before the great works of the masters of the past, he could only sigh.

"He worshipped children, and his pictures of children with fruit and flowers are among the most delicious and spontaneous work ever done by him in painting. And I can see him again, during the last visit he paid to Rome in 1895, on his knees before my little girl, to accede to her request that she should have a lock of his hair as a remembrance."

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
December 3, 1895.

Dear Lina,—The grand leaves in a mossy pot, and the sweet flowers, and the poems, and your letter, came all together. I know you will let me answer you both on one piece of paper. I know, dears, how true is your love, and though I am not a [329]demonstrative person, it is very precious to me. I know you will both like to hear that after an hour's innings between L. Brunton, Dr. Tunnicliffe his partner, Roberts, and three most ingenious scientific instruments, and after tapping and auscultating of my wretched ear cap fore and aft, it was pronounced that (in some mysterious way) I am not worse, but better; well, I am glad to hear it; meanwhile my medicine is being strengthened, and will be again in the (pretty certain) event of its requiring more strength. L.B. quite hopes to rig me out for the May banquet. Much love to both from affectionate old brother.

2 Holland Park Road, Kensington, W.,
December 14, 1895.

Dear Wells,—Many thanks for your kind letter, relying on which I hasten to "nail" you for the 27th; I shall be very much disappointed if you say me "nay." I never give a long notice, in part so as to bring about a little shuffling of cards, and relieving my guests of a certain monotony of routine which might in the end irk them. I need not assure you that I am most warmly sensible to the vigilant and truly friendly interest which you manifest concerning my health; believe me, if I differ from you in not believing in the efficacy or feasibility of a suspension of activity for a year or two, it is in no unreasoning or perverse spirit (and let me, by-the-bye, say in passing that I have, for a few days past, certainly been a little better). Putting aside for a moment the fact that I have for the next year, and more, definite professional obligations in the way of commissioned work (which is, unfortunately, not incompatible with having a certain number of unsold works!), to withdraw from Academic duties would mean leaving England for the period in question; it would be morally impossible to remain here, apparently in robust health, congratulated constantly, as I am, on my healthy appearance, going about unrebuked by a very cautious doctor (Lauder Brunton), taking the pleasures of life apparently without any stint (as a matter of fact I am very quiet and regular, and under continuous medical treatment), and then shirking all its [330]duties; but experience has shown that I gain nothing by absence—by change of climate and the rest; and, on the other hand, my temperament being what you know, the withdrawal from my active life would infallibly prey on me and have a marked effect on my health through my spirits; this is also the opinion of Lauder Brunton. My care must be to live quietly but not idly, and thus try to mend gradually, as I doubtless shall, in the hands of my doctor and my masseur. If, which God forbid, I am pronounced still unfit in May, I will bow, with whatever bitterness, to the judgment, but till then I must not forego hope. Meanwhile, you have all done me infinite service in prohibiting the "Discourse" for this year—I can't say how grateful I was for that! I shall also avoid, as far as may be, all controversy at our table; that is the worst thing of all by far, for yours sincerely always,

Fred Leighton.[87]

January 13, 1896.

My dear Leighton,—I have just come back from Italy, and hope that it is not too late to tell you with how much satisfaction I read of the mark of honour that has been accepted by you. I am not a passionate admirer of the legislative feats of the House of Lords, but so long as it stands, it is well that such a man as you should sit there. I hope that the thing has given you pleasure, and for my poor part I rejoice both as a friend and as a humble admirer of art and genius that this honourable recognition has fallen to you.—Yours sincerely,

John Morley.

Not a word of reply, I pray.

When it was announced on Wednesday that the Queen had been pleased to confer the dignity of a Peerage of the United Kingdom upon Sir Frederic Leighton, Bart., President of the Royal Academy, who is a native of Scarborough, having been born here sixty-five years ago, the Mayor (Alderman Cross, J.P.) sent the following telegram:—"Sir Frederic Leighton, 2 Holland Park Road, London, the Mayor, Corporation, and inhabitants of Scarborough present their hearty congratulations on the honour conferred upon you.—The Mayor, Scarborough." The next morning the following reply was received:—"The Mayor of [332]Scarborough,—Sincere thanks for congratulations from my birthplace.

Leighton."

Dear Mrs. Barrington,—... Since you are good enough to offer to change the tickets for tenners, I will ask you to do so, and thank you in advance. Yes, Mackail's book, which oddly enough I have read—for, alas! I never read now—is an exquisite bit of work.

At half-past ten this morning, by which time a dense crowd had collected in the neighbourhood of the Royal Academy, the workmen commenced to remove the numerous wreaths from the Central Hall, where the body of Lord Leighton has rested since Saturday night, and to load the huge floral car. Prominent among these wreaths was one from the Princess Christian; but that from the Prince and Princess of Wales was conveyed in a separate carriage by representatives of the Prince and Princess, General Ellis and Lord Colville of Culross. The wreath consisted of choice white flowers rising from a bank of delicate green foliage, and attached was a card written by the Princess of Wales, and inscribed as follows:—

Then follow the words, "A mark of sincere and affectionate regard, esteem, and admiration for a great artist and much beloved friend, from Alexandra and Albert Edward." At the head of the card were the words, "To Sir Frederic Leighton." [337]There was also a wreath from the Empress Frederick, bearing the words: "From Victoria, Empress Frederick," in the Empress's own writing.

The Queen's wreath for the funeral of Lord Leighton was sent from Buckingham Palace this morning to Colonel the Honourable W. Carington, by whom it was conveyed to St. Paul's Cathedral. The wreath is composed of laurel, entwined with which are immortelles, and it is tied with broad satin ribbon. Attached to the wreath is an autograph card from Her Majesty, with the following inscription: "A mark of respect from Victoria, R.I."

About five minutes to eleven the coffin was removed from the Central Hall, and carried through the vestibule into the quadrangle. A detachment of the Artists' Volunteers was drawn up here, and saluted the coffin as soon as it emerged into the open by presenting arms. The remains were placed in a glass hearse, and the volunteers took up their position at the front and sides. The pall-bearers, relatives, and others meanwhile formed in procession, and punctually at eleven the cortège left the Academy, the crowd reverentially uncovering as the hearse passed into the street. The whole length of the route, from Piccadilly to St. Paul's, was lined with people; but the crowds were quiet and orderly, and maintained a clear space for the funeral cortège without the assistance of the police. The volunteers marched with arms reversed, and the remains of the deceased artist were carried to their last resting-place with every manifestation of mournful regret. Flags were at half-mast on many public buildings, and as the solemn procession passed slowly along, the remains were reverently saluted by the crowd. Passing into Pall Mall by Charing Cross, the procession wended its way through Northumberland Street, proceeding thence along the Thames Embankment, New Bridge Street, and Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's being reached shortly before noon.

The service in the Cathedral, which occupied an hour, was at once picturesque as a spectacle and impressive in its solemnity as a religious function.

More than an hour before the time appointed for the arrival of the funeral cortège, the space available to the public in St. [338]Paul's was occupied, and a few minutes after eleven o'clock, visitors of distinction, who had been provided with special invitations, began to fill up the reserved seats in the transept.

Among those present were representatives of the Royal Family, the German Emperor, and the King of Belgium, members of both Houses of Parliament, including the Speaker; delegates from learned bodies and artistic associations, as well as from the art committees of various provincial municipalities.

The first lesson was read by the Dean, and the succeeding passages were given by the Bishop of Stepney; but the greater part of the service was undertaken by the Archbishop of York, chaplain of the Royal Academy. The musical portions of the service were exceptionally fine, and included, as a somewhat unusual feature, a trombone quartette.

Lord Salisbury had promised to be one of the pall-bearers, but found himself unable to attend. The pall-bearers were Major-General Ellis, representing the Prince and Princess of Wales; the Duke of Abercorn, Sir Joseph Lister, Sir J. Millais, Sir E. Thompson, Sir A. Mackenzie, and Professor Lecky.

After the coffin was lowered into the crypt by a central opening directly beneath the dome, the two sisters of the late Lord Leighton came to the front, and took a last look at it. When the coffin was lowered many beautiful flowers were placed upon it, and again, after the opening was covered up, the space was more than covered by further wreaths sent by various Academicians, the Royal Academy, students, and personal friends, many of whom lingered some time after the conclusion of the solemn ceremony.

Scarborough Evening News, February 3, 1896.