Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2141 page)

The fifth picture, “The Girl of Sorrento Spinning,” was a transcript of a sketch from Nature, noticed in the account of Mr. Collins’s Italian tour. As he first saw his model turning the flax on her distaff into thread, in the old patriarchal manner, by rolling her reel off her knee into a spinning motion, so he now represented her in his picture, with as much striking truth to nature as he ever attained in depicting the rustic children of his native land. The simple and pleasing originality in the attitude of the little maiden of Sorrento, and the local truth and graceful arrangement of the landscape portion of the picture, caused it to be, perhaps, as generally admired at the period of its exhibition, as its other more important and ambitious companions.

During this summer, Mr. Collins, finding the accommodation in his house at Oxford-terrace, insufficient for his professional purposes, took another adjacent and larger abode, situated in Devonport-street, which presented the unusual attraction of containing a room capable of being converted into a spacious and convenient studio. It is not one of the least curious passages in his life, that he had never possessed a comfortable painting-room up to this period of his career. In all his changes of abode, he had been contented with taking any apartment in the house that afforded a tolerable “light;” resigning every other advantage of high roofs, and fine sky-lights. His first sea-coast scenes were painted in a garret of his house in New Cavendish-street. The “Fisherman’s Departure,” Sir Robert Peel’s “Frost Scene,” and a long series of other remarkable pictures, were produced in a little bed-room of his first abode at Hampstead. From the time of his removal to Bays water, when he began to inhabit larger dwellings, he painted in rooms, which, though less inconvenient than those he had formerly occupied, were still far from possessing the attractions of space and light, now at the service of so many young men, who are only entering on their career in the Art. That he should so long have remained unprovided with a suitable studio, after his circumstances enabled him to build one, must doubtless be a matter of surprise. It may however be accounted for, by many causes. His own singularly low estimate of the intellectual importance of his efforts in the Art; his great fertility of practical and theoretical resource in all difficulties; his early habits of labouring against obstacles; and perhaps, more than all, his habitual unwillingness to spend money upon any comforts, devoted only to his own gratification, easily inclined him to continue to defer any enjoyment of the luxuries of a good studio, from the period when he first attained a position in his profession, down to the year of his life which is under review.

The necessity of watching the progress of the workmen he now employed on his new painting- room, and of gradually collecting together his large store of sketches and prints for another removal, considerably diminished Mr. Collins’s customary visits to the country, after the close of the Exhibition. The following letter to Mrs. Collins, while she was staying at Brighton, notices two of the short excursions proposed by him, for this year; which, however unimportant they may appear in themselves, are yet deserving of mention; for, like all his other pleasure- trips, they produced sketches by his hand, which contributed to increase his resources and his practice in the Art:

“To MRS. COLLINS.

“85, Oxford-terrace, June 28th, 1843.

“I am quite charmed to find you are in such good health and spirits. Yesterday and to-day as far as weather can do anything, and it does much everywhere — must have delighted you. I hope you are much in the open air.

“On Wednesday, I heard some fine music at Mr. Tunno’s. Grisi and Brambilla (the latter a new name, to
me)
were perfectly charming. The night was fearful, as regards weather; but I am happy to say I caught no cold, as I feared I should have done. Leslie’s ‘Life of Constable,’ amuses me much — he and Robert came in for an hour last night. I suppose you saw another letter, in yesterday’s
Times,
from Dr. Pusey. Surely his assailants are doing some good to the true cause, by producing such exposures of their own prejudices.

“I am trying new compositions, as well as old ones — perhaps the latter are the best. I contrive, however, to get out every day. I was present at Willis’s Rooms, at the meeting for the purpose of giving Macready a handsome piece of plate, (valued at £500.) He was so much overcome, that he could not say all he intended — he looked almost miserable. The Duke of Cambridge was in the chair. I was on the platform, and was one of the first to shake hands with our great tragedian, on his leave-taking.

“I must write again on Monday, before I go to Mr. Wells’, at Redleaf. When I return from Kent, I trust to be able to join you at Brighton. I went last night to the British Gallery, and go to-morrow to Lady Peel’s ‘ rout.’ I shall be happy to exchange hot rooms, for the sea-side.

“Yours ever,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

In the summer of this year, America lost her greatest historical painter, and Mr. Collins was deprived of another of his early and well-loved friends, by the death of Washington Allston. Some reference to this excellent and gifted man has been attempted at that part of these pages treating of the year 1818; the period when he and Mr. Collins formed a friendship, which neither ever forgot, though both were separated personally, soon afterwards, when Mr. Allston returned to his native land. That further mention of him, which the event of his death, here related, must appear to demand — and which my own sources of information would communicate most imperfectly — I am enabled to make, in a full and interesting manner, by inserting some passages from a letter to Mr. Collins, descriptive of the death of the great American painter, which the kindness of the writer, Mr. Dana, has permitted me to extract. In Mr. Collins’s reply to this communication will be found an estimate of Allston’s character and genius, which will be read as a gratifying sequel to the mournful particulars of the close of his earthly career:

“To W. COLLINS, ESQ., R.A.

“Boston, Aug. 15th, 1843.

“Dear Sir, — You have no doubt heard of the death of my dear brother-in-law, Mr. Allston; and when I tell you that my letter relates to him, I need not make any apology for writing. For many years an invalid, and at times a severe sufferer, the three last years of his life were those of increased pain and weakness. For the last three months before his death, his strength had greatly diminished; and those who saw him less frequently than we did, were much struck with the change: yet no one feared that he would be taken from us so soon. He continued to work on his ‘Belshazzar’ to the last, though frequently obliged to sit down and rest. Not seven hours before his death, he must have been at work upon one of the most powerful heads in the picture. Mr. Morse, once his pupil in London, now has the brush that he had been using; and which we found fresh with the paint, with which he had given his last touch to canvas. The evening of his death, he seemed better than he had been for a few days past; his spirits bright and cheerful. After the rest of the family had retired, he sat till past midnight, talking to one of his nieces. His manner, always kind, was then unusually so. He spoke of his Art as a form of truth and beauty — of its harmony with our spiritual nature. Indeed, both Nature and Art were habitually looked at by him in this higher relation. But his manner this night was peculiarly impressive; and when he spoke to his niece of his hope that she would remember him, it was singularly serious and touching — as if there had been a mysterious communication to him. After a while, he complained of a pain in his chest; and going up to his wife’s chamber, his niece retired to her own, not having the slightest apprehension of anything dangerous. On leaving his wife’s chamber, he seemed as strong as usual; and in not more than five minutes, she followed him down stairs with something to relieve the pain. In the mean time he had taken out his writing apparatus, which, with his spectacles, was on the table beside him: his feet were on the hearth, and his head resting on the back of the chair, as if he was sleeping, but his eyes were open; and he had gone — and gone, no doubt, without a struggle. I have told you of his death — it was gentle; God took him. But how shall I tell you of his life? I need not do it, for years ago you knew him well: and though the deep religious convictions of his mind, and feelings of his soul, had been making him more and more an humble and confiding child of God in Christ; and his mind had been unfolding daily in his Art, and in great and worthy thought; yet was his spirit always a beautiful one! How often have I heard your name from him; and never without something which made me feel that he remembered with affection him whom he was speaking of. About a week before his death he spoke of you — I doubt not, the feeling was mutual.

* * * * * *

“Could I tell you how many hearts were touched by his death, you would scarcely believe me. Even those who had never seen him — some who had not even seen his works — seemed to be moved by a strange sympathy, as if a good spirit had mystic influences over those who had never known him. Morse was quite broken-hearted, and said to me that he felt as if the great motive to action had been taken from him; for that there could no longer go with him the thought — Will not this please Allston? My friend Bryant, our poet, writes to me of Weir, (one of the four commissioned to paint the National pictures,) ‘Weir, who has just put the last hand to his picture of the “Embarkation of the Pilgrims,” on which he had been earnestly engaged for years, is a man of great simplicity of character and depth of feeling.” It was an encouragement to me during my long labours,” said he to me last week, “that when they should be finished, Allston would see what I had done. I thought of it almost every day, while I was at work.”‘ Such was the confidence with which artists looked up to his true and friendly judgment; and so sure were they that what they had done would give him pleasure. * * *

“I remain, dear Sir, etc., etc.,

“RICHARD H. DANA.”

“To RICHARD H. DANA, ESQ.

“1, Devonport-street, Oxford-terrace, Sept. 26th, 1843.

“My dear Sir, — I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kind and very interesting letter; for although I had heard of the sudden death of our dear friend, I had been informed of few particulars: and the intelligence of his peaceful departure, and of the happy state of his mind, evinced in his conversation with his niece, so short a time before he ‘fell asleep’ is to me, as it must be to all who loved him as I did, most gratifying. I shall have a melancholy satisfaction in telling you all I can recollect of the happy and uninterrupted intercourse I enjoyed with him, in the few years during which I was honoured with the confiding friendship of the best of men.

“My acquaintance with Mr. Allston began in 1811. I was introduced to him by my friend Leslie; and from that moment, until he left England for America, 1 saw more of him than of almost any other friend I had. Every time I was in his company, my admiration of his character, and my high estimation of his mind and acquirements, as well as of his great genius as a painter, increased; and the affectionate kindness he showed to my mother and my brother, upon his frequent visits to our abode, so completely cemented the bond of union, that I always considered him as one of our family. Alas! that family, with the exception of your correspondent, are now no more seen!

“It was in the year 1817, that I accompanied Allston and Leslie to Paris; where we were benefited much by having Allston for our guide, as being the only one of the party who had visited that city before. During our stay of about six weeks, Allston made a beautiful copy in the Louvre, of the celebrated ‘Marriage at Cana,’ by Paul Veronese. As Leslie had professional employment at Paris, he remained there; and we returned together to London. During this visit, I had of course the very best opportunities of becoming acquainted with ray friend’s real character; which, in every new view I took of it, became more satisfactory. The sweetness and subdued cheerfulness of his temper, under the various little inconveniences of our journey, was much to be admired; and his great reverence for sacred things, and the entire purity and innocence of his conversation, (coupled, as it was, with power of intellect and imagination,) I never saw surpassed. Blessed be God, these qualities, these gifts, were effectual to the pulling down of many strongholds and vain imaginations on my part! How then can I be too grateful to Heaven for my acquaintance with one, to whom, and to whose example, I owe so much? It is a source of great comfort to me to know., that although we were for so many years separated by the Atlantic, he yet sometimes spoke of me; and especially that so short a time before his death he had me in his mind.

“Very shortly before the sad news arrived in England, I had fully intended to write to my friend, to thank him for his beautiful and interesting story of ‘Monaldi,’ which he had so recently sent me; making the inscription in his own handwriting, an excuse for sending me a long letter. We had both been wretched correspondents. His name however was always before me; for in my high estimation of his character, I had, by proxy, fifteen years ago, ventured to connect him with my family, as god- father to my second son; who has been christened Charles Allston. And it is perhaps not unworthy of remark, that he, having been left entirely to his own choice as regards a profession, has determined to follow that of a Painter; and is now carrying on his studies at the Royal Academy — I desire no better thing for him, than that he may follow the example of his namesake, both as a painter and as a man.