Old Friends [33]
me of portraits. I miss "Portrait of a Lady," "Portrait of a Gentleman;" the names of the sitters are now always given--a concession to the notoriety-hunting proclivities of the present period. Few portraits are more in the style of the palmy days of our school (just after Lawrence) than a study of a lady by Mr. Goodall (687). On the other hand, young Mr. Richmond goes back to the antiquated manner of Reynolds in one of his representations. I must admit that I hear this work much admired by many; to me it seems old-fashioned and lacking in blandness and affability. Mr Waterhouse has a study of a subject from a poem that Mr. Pendennis, the novelist (whom I knew well), was very fond of when he first came on the town: "The Lady of Shalott." It represents a very delicate invalid, in a boat, under a counterpane. I remember the poem ran (it was by young Mr. Tennyson):-
They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast That puzzled more than all the rest The well-fed wits of Camelot: "The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly; Draw near and fear not, this is I The Lady of Shalott."
I admit that the wonder and dismay of the "well-fed wits," if the Lady was like Mr. Waterhouse's picture of her, do not surprise me. But I confess I do not understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, modern painting. Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the Cake--a subject which, as is well known, I discovered in my researches in history. Where is "Udolpho in the Tower"? or the "Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day after He was Deprived of his Victuals"? or "King John Signing Magna Charta"? They are gone with the red curtain, the brown tree, the storm in the background. Art is revolutionary, like everything else in these times, when Treason itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by Royal--mark ROYAL!--Academicians! . . .
From Thomas Potts, Esq., of the "Newcome Independent," to S. Gandish, Esq. Newcome, May 3.
My Dear Sir,--I am truly sorry to have to interrupt a connection with so old and respected a contributor. But I think you will acknowledge, on reading the proof of your article on the Academy, which I enclose, that the time has arrived when public criticism is no longer your province. I do not so much refer to the old- fashioned tone of your observations on modern art. I know little about it, and care not much more. But you have entirely forgotten, towards the end of the notice, that the "Newcome Independent," as becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty and Progress. The very proper remarks on Lord Spencer's portrait elsewhere show that you are not unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close (expressing, I fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language which makes me shudder, and which, if printed in the "Independent," would spell ruin. Send it, by all means, to the "Sentinel," if you like. Send your Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from the "Lady of Shalott," I can find it nowhere in the poem of that name by the author you strangely style "young Mr. Tennyson." {20}
I enclose a cheque for a quarter's salary, and, while always happy to meet you as man with man, must get the notice of the Academy written up in the office from the "Daily Telegraph," "Standard," and "Times." {21}--Faithfully and with deep regret yours,
THOMAS POTTS.
LETTER: From Monsieur Lecoq, Rue Jerusalem, Paris, to Inspector Bucket, Scotland Yard.
This correspondence appears to prove that mistakes may be made by the most astute officers of police, and that even so manifest a Briton as Mr. Pickwick might chance to find himself in the toils of international conspiracy.
(Translated.) May 19, 1852.
Sir and Dear Fellow-Brother (confrere).--The so cordial understanding between our countries ought to expand itself into a community of the political police. But the just susceptibilities of the Old England forbid at this moment the
They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast That puzzled more than all the rest The well-fed wits of Camelot: "The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly; Draw near and fear not, this is I The Lady of Shalott."
I admit that the wonder and dismay of the "well-fed wits," if the Lady was like Mr. Waterhouse's picture of her, do not surprise me. But I confess I do not understand modern poetry, nor, perhaps, modern painting. Where is historical Art? Where is Alfred and the Cake--a subject which, as is well known, I discovered in my researches in history. Where is "Udolpho in the Tower"? or the "Duke of Rothsay the Fourth Day after He was Deprived of his Victuals"? or "King John Signing Magna Charta"? They are gone with the red curtain, the brown tree, the storm in the background. Art is revolutionary, like everything else in these times, when Treason itself, in the form of a hoary apostate and reviewer of contemporary fiction, glares from the walls, and is painted by Royal--mark ROYAL!--Academicians! . . .
From Thomas Potts, Esq., of the "Newcome Independent," to S. Gandish, Esq. Newcome, May 3.
My Dear Sir,--I am truly sorry to have to interrupt a connection with so old and respected a contributor. But I think you will acknowledge, on reading the proof of your article on the Academy, which I enclose, that the time has arrived when public criticism is no longer your province. I do not so much refer to the old- fashioned tone of your observations on modern art. I know little about it, and care not much more. But you have entirely forgotten, towards the end of the notice, that the "Newcome Independent," as becomes its name, is a journal of Liberty and Progress. The very proper remarks on Lord Spencer's portrait elsewhere show that you are not unacquainted with our politics; but, at the close (expressing, I fear, your true sentiments), you glide into language which makes me shudder, and which, if printed in the "Independent," would spell ruin. Send it, by all means, to the "Sentinel," if you like. Send your Tory views, I mean. As for your quotation from the "Lady of Shalott," I can find it nowhere in the poem of that name by the author you strangely style "young Mr. Tennyson." {20}
I enclose a cheque for a quarter's salary, and, while always happy to meet you as man with man, must get the notice of the Academy written up in the office from the "Daily Telegraph," "Standard," and "Times." {21}--Faithfully and with deep regret yours,
THOMAS POTTS.
LETTER: From Monsieur Lecoq, Rue Jerusalem, Paris, to Inspector Bucket, Scotland Yard.
This correspondence appears to prove that mistakes may be made by the most astute officers of police, and that even so manifest a Briton as Mr. Pickwick might chance to find himself in the toils of international conspiracy.
(Translated.) May 19, 1852.
Sir and Dear Fellow-Brother (confrere).--The so cordial understanding between our countries ought to expand itself into a community of the political police. But the just susceptibilities of the Old England forbid at this moment the