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Sixty Years' Memories of Art and Artists IV. I HAD sent home some copies made in the gallery of the Louvre, together with an original painting, the subject of which I had taken from Boccaccio. After many months I received re-turns from them. My brothers in Boston had taken much pains to dispose of them. They had always done everything in their power to encourage and help me, and I felt truly grateful for their sympathy and kindness. Not far from this time, my friend Cooke, who was just beginning to be successful in a career of portrait painting among the English and Americans in Paris, was stricken with a dangerous illness, and the consulting physician declared he must go to the Hotel Dieu to have a difficult operation performed. This was done, but the operation was not successful, and a second was necessary. He languished in the hospital for three months, losing strength and courage. We now decided that he must be removed for the sake of better air and surroundings. We found a little house and garden near the Barrière de l'Etoile, a place at that time much like the country. Here he was placed with a goodhearted old English woman as nurse, and a more faithful and devoted one could not have been found. She had been in Paris for many years doing washing for English residents. She was a character, brave as a lion in defence of what she thought to be right, and she always battled well, with tongue and fist. During the Revolution of 1830, she was in the streets in the thickest of the fight, distributing cartridges to the enemies of Charles X, carrying water to the tired soldiers, thinking of nothing but helping the cause. She escaped unhurt. She could sling French slang with a mixture of English that was most comical. But with all her rough exterior appearance she had a loving heart, and as nurse and guardian to my friend she was the most devoted creature, doing everything for him without hope of much remuneration, and yielding to his lightest fancies and whims. Although Cooke gained somewhat by the change of air and scene, still the dread disease was then sapping his life. Physicians visited him and endeavored to alleviate his condition, but vainly, and he languished for months. His slender means came to an end, but friends sprang up to help him. My good friend, Huber, whom I had continued to visit at the house of M. Guibert, his partner, proposed to give a concert for the benefit of the sufferer. I have already stated that M. Huber was a musician of great ability. He had much influence among a large circle of musicians of celebrity. The concert, which was private, was held at the pianoforte rooms of M. Guibert, and yielded a net profit of 1000 francs, and was indeed a help. Others, too, came forward. Mr. Healey, the artist, knowing the circumstances, immediately interested himself and went among his American acquaintances, and secured about 1500 francs more. Many others were moved to do kind acts for my poor friend. Previous to this we had met in the gallery an English gentleman, a Captain Hanky, an exguardsman, a man of good fortune, and an amateur painter. He came to me one day, saying: "I'm an old soldier, have roughed it a good deal, and know what it is to be short of money. Take these 50 francs. and, when it is convenient, make me a little sketch of this picture," pointing to a Joseph Vernet. The act was so unexpected, so unlocked for, that I was overcome for a moment. It was not that the amount was great, but his delicate way of offering assistance was cheering. And I always admired the bluff, soldierly man. He was always sending some delicacy to poor Robert, and interesting others in his case. Capt. Hanky proved to be a good friend to both of us. Soon after he gave me a commission to copy a cattle picture by Cuyp for 250 francs, but said if I found an opportunity to sell it I could do him another, and before I had completed it, a gentleman coming through the gallery one day saw it, and proposed through the medium of one of the guardians to buy it if it was for sale. He had a courier with him, and they had taken me for a Frenchman. I found the would-be purchaser was Col. Winchester of Boston, and I was delighted to have it go into such good hands. He bought also a beautiful copy Vanderlyn had made of Correggio's " Marriage of St. Catharine." Capt. Hanky often invited me to his house to dine, and it was delightful to meet so many refined English people at his table. It had the effect of softening the rough corners of my manners and improving me generally. The hospitality of Capt. Hanky was unbounded. Meeting him on the street or in the gallery, he would say: " Come tip this evening to dine, and take pot-luck," and I, knowing what " pot-]tick " meant, went accordingly, and enjoyed a delicately-served repast of many courses with great relish. In the evening we had music, and, when some distinguished English gentlemen were present, brilliant conversation. It was here I met many times, Mr. Thackeray in a familiar, quiet sort of way. He was very genial, brilliant and witty, the leading spirit of the dinner table. At this time, Mr. Thackeray was quite unknown to the general public in England or America. It was just before he published his " Irish Sketch Book." He had previously written for the magazines and reviews, and had a certain reputation for brilliant essays and stories. The Irish Sketch Book, illustrated by himself, widened the number of his readers, and added to his fame. It was delightful to sit down with him at a table with paper and pencil, but the principal interest was in watching the telling fancies and characters that he evolved rapidly with his pencil, and apparently without effort. Louis Phillippe was then King of the French, and His Majesty received a good share of Thackeray's attention. With a few touches he reproduced the burly figure and rubicund face of the King. These sketches were truly admirable, fresh ideas directly from the mint of such a brain as Thackeray's. I think, from what he told me, his first intention was to become an artist, and that he began his studies in that direction, but apparently had not the power or patience to complete a picture which he could so easily conceive. I used to meet him at the gallery trying to copy in water colors, and as far as they went the copies were capital, but never complete. He was quite Bohemian in his nature, and detested shams. He knew Paris well, and its Bohemian life perfectly. He spoke French like a native with all its idioms and slang. He was a man of large frame and uncommon height, with a massive head and a broken nose. This nose must have been the cause of his taking the nom de plume of Michael Angelo Titmarsh. I have the most delightful remembrance of William Makepeace Thackeray, and I have always been thankful that my good fortune led me to know him, and that I saw him at his jolliest and best period. I met also many other distinguished men and women at Capt. Hanky's house, and it was an education to me, broadening my ideas, and giving me fresh impulses. Among the many people I became acquainted with during my first years in Paris, were four brothers by the name of Alexander. They were English, or rather, Scotch, and were sons of the Earl of Sterling, so called, who claimed the peerage, and was at that time fighting the English government to obtain possession of what he considered his rights, with how much justice I do not know; but that there was merit in the claim is evident from the fact that the government at last decided to compromise the matter and allow the eldest son Lord Canada to assume the title after his father's death, which occurred in Washington, in this country, in 1857. What connection this country had with their litigation I do not know, but I know that two of the brothers had good situations in the departments at Washington. After the death of Lord Sterling, the eldest son assumed the title, married a lady of wealth in London, and has lived there until now for aught I know. It is of the brothers next in order I wish to write-Charles, Eugene and Donald. Charles was my especial friend, and as he had a good feeling for art, a quick eye for drawing from nature, he went with me on many delightful excursions about the environs of Paris in search of picturesque bits abounding there, even extending our walks as far as Versailles, Enghein, Montemorency and St. Germain. But the island of Bougival, six or eight miles below Paris, and surrounded by the waters of the Seine, was our favorite resort, as well as that of many artists from the city. Francais made fascinating pictures from studies obtained there, as did also Lambinet later. The subjects were very simple but capable of being transformed into charming pictures in the hands of such painters. Many of my first attempts in color were made there, and we always loved the place, for it was ideal in character and away from intrusion. But besides this we had delightful picnics there with a pleasant English family with whom we were acquainted. Mr. Osborne, the father, was an inveterate fisherman of such small fry as were to be found in the yellow, rather muddy waters of the Seine, including gudgeons and other smaller kinds. He spent hours quietly watching his float, content if at rare intervals he had a good nibble. Mrs. Osborne was with us, and two daughters (sometimes three) very charming girls, who sometimes tried the fishing rod, or were busy with their sewing, or putting our lunch in tempting order in some sheltered nook. After trying the fish for awhile and succeeding in landing a few monsters, some three or four inches in length, I slipped away with my sketchbook, leaving the old gentleman flushed with the hope of soon getting a glorious nibble. But these dreams were rarely realized. The fun of trying was there all the same. At last our achievements being ended, we were rowed over the ferry by a piquant little French peasant girl with quaint cap and costume, went to the station, and were whirled back by the Versailles train to Paris, to be lost among the multitudes of the great city. Sometimes we went to the island of St. Ouen much nearer Paris, but preserving all its rural attractions, though so near at hand. The picturesque old stone auberge and the medieval mill, built apparently many, many years ago, have been painted hundreds of times by successive generations of artists. How such spots as these have changed during the many years since I have seen them I can scarcely imagine, but Paris has so enlarged its boundaries that I fancy all the old has been eliminated and modern structures erected. The Osborne family lived in the Rue de Chaillot, at that time a retired quarter of the city, where large gardens were attached to the dwellings with a capacity for many fruits and flowers. It was in this quarter and at that time that Rosa Bonheur and her brothers found many studies for their sketchbooks, such as goats, sheep, etc. The Osbornes had their Monday evenings for receptions, to which my friends the two Alexanders and myself were always invited. We sometimes had literary evenings, and each one wrote a short paper on a subject agreed upon previously, and these were read by one of the number with no names given; then we had to guess the authorship of each-this was very entertaining to all. After this we had games of cards and " Pope Joan" and vignt et un flourished for an hour or two, but our losses or gains did not trouble us as they were very infinitesimal. Caroline Osborne was a bright, beautiful girl, spoke French and English with equal facility and was much beloved by all her friends, but, not being rich, suitors were rare. I had been away from Paris for more than twenty years and lost all trace of the family, when one day after my return there in 1865, I called with Mrs. Champney upon some friends at the Hotel du Louvre. While waiting in the office I cast my eyes out of a window upon the steps of a church near by and there saw a gaily dressed wedding party going up, and my surprise was great when I recognized in the white-robed bride, the tall, handsome figure of Caroline Osborne. I had an impulse to rush out and greet her, but timidity kept me back. I afterwards found my remembrance was perfect-for her marriage to a well-known French gentleman was soon announced in the newspapers. But to return to Lord Sterling. He was a broad-minded, liberal man, of good education and very courteous in his manners. He had lived a long time in France as many English do, but during Napoleon's reign and the wars with England, he was seized with many other travellers, and confined in the city of Verdun, where he remained some years, or until peace released him and his companions. Lady Sterling was Italian and was a striking personality; she managed her large family with skill and the sons and daughters all loved her. She was a most noble woman. But I am running away from my poor friend Robert, languishing upon his bed of illness. I used to go to him once or twice every day, to try and console him and talk over plans for the future, for he still clung to life with tenacity and hope, and would make little sketches for pictures he had in mind. I went into the country every day for the purpose of making studies from nature. Sometimes I would walk out four or five miles from the Barriere de 1'Etoile toward Marly and Bougival, or to the island of St. Onen to sketch the picturesque mill or old auberge there. These excursions were delightful, and only saddened by the fact that my friend could not enjoy them with me. On my return at night I would stop to see him and show him the result of my day's work which always interested him. What long, tiring days they were! With miles of foot travel and hard work, and late bed-time, for my lodging was a mile and a half from my friend's home. This continued for many weeks. I had at last to come to the conclusion that nothing could be done to save him, and early in the autumn he died. To say that I mourned his loss, expresses nothing of what I felt when he left me. He had been my earliest and best friend, and instructor in art. Our tastes and sympathies were alike. He was full of enthusiasm for art-for art's sake. That he would have become one of the most brilliant and characteristic of American portrait painters, I have not a doubt today, and I have by me now some work of his which fully bears me out in stating this. I am not sure but I might say he would have been a remarkable man in composition and figure painting had not his studies been so suddenly arrested. So much impressed was I with all that passed during his long illness and suffering, that, although fifty years have passed since his death, there is scarcely a night passes that he does not visit me in my dreams. There is only one painting of his in Boston on exhibition, and that is in the Boston Museum on Tremont street. It is a copy of Poussin's Judgment of Solomon in the Louvre. It was bought by Mr. Moses Kimball and placed there, but no one looks at these paintings now, and no one knows of its being there. |
