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Rubens (search for this): chapter 10
of Italy or elsewhere, most of which cost five or ten thousand dollars apiece. I should think there were about thirty in all: perhaps you will not see in the world another such collection in so small a space. There was a little painting by Raphael, about a foot square, of the Saviour praying in the Garden, brimful of thought and expression, which the old man said he should like to have in his chamber when dying. There were masterpieces by Titian, Correggio, Caracci, Guido, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Barochio, Giotto, and Reynolds. He pointed out the picture of an armed knight, which Walter Scott always admired. His portfolios were full of the most valuable original drawings. There were all Flaxman's illustrations of Homer and the Tragedians, as they left the pencil of the great artist. Indeed, he said that he could occupy me for a month, and invited me to come and breakfast with him any morning that I chose, sending him word the night before. From one poet I will pass to another
Joe Hume (search for this): chapter 10
nd unaffected. After dinner we discussed the merits of the different British historians,—Gibbon, Hume, and Robertson. Of course, Gibbon was placed foremost. There was a party at Hallam's after dinner; but I went from that to a ball at Hume's,—Joe Hume's. Sumner was invited, at different times, to dine with Mr. Hume at Bryanstone Square. You doubtless imagine that this Radical, who for twenty years has been crying out retrenchment, is an ill-dressed, slovenly fellow, without a whole coat inMr. Hume at Bryanstone Square. You doubtless imagine that this Radical, who for twenty years has been crying out retrenchment, is an ill-dressed, slovenly fellow, without a whole coat in his wardrobe. Imagine a thick-set, broad-faced, well-dressed Scotchman, who has no fear of laughter or ridicule. I know few persons whom I have always seen dressed in better taste or looking more like a gentleman. I have already written you of Lady Morgan. Her Ladyship, you know, is a fierce Democrat. She was in the midst of professions of democracy during a morning call, when the knocker resounded—as these English knockers do—over the house; and her niece, who was sitting at the window
Joshua Reynolds (search for this): chapter 10
which cost five or ten thousand dollars apiece. I should think there were about thirty in all: perhaps you will not see in the world another such collection in so small a space. There was a little painting by Raphael, about a foot square, of the Saviour praying in the Garden, brimful of thought and expression, which the old man said he should like to have in his chamber when dying. There were masterpieces by Titian, Correggio, Caracci, Guido, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Barochio, Giotto, and Reynolds. He pointed out the picture of an armed knight, which Walter Scott always admired. His portfolios were full of the most valuable original drawings. There were all Flaxman's illustrations of Homer and the Tragedians, as they left the pencil of the great artist. Indeed, he said that he could occupy me for a month, and invited me to come and breakfast with him any morning that I chose, sending him word the night before. From one poet I will pass to another,—Barry Cornwall. You remember
Charles Lamb (search for this): chapter 10
sil Montagu, and has munch of her mother's information and intelligence. There is no place that I enjoy more than Basil Montagu's. He is simple in his habits, never dines out, or gives dinners. I step into his house, perhaps, after I have been dining out, at ten or eleven o'clock in the evening; and we talk till I am obliged to say good morning, and not good night. The Montagus have been intimate with more good and great people than anybody I know. Mackintosh, Coleridge, Parr, Wordsworth, Lamb, were all familiar at their fireside. Mr. Montagu is often pronounced a bore, because he perpetually quotes Bacon and the ancient English authors. But it is a pleasure to me to hear some of those noble sentences come almost mended from his beautiful flowing enunciation. Mrs. M. is one of the most remarkable women I have ever known. Dr. Parr always called Mr. Montagu by his Christian name, Basil; and his wife, Basilissa; and their son, who was no favorite with him, Basilisk. Mrs. M. told
Bryan Waller Procter (search for this): chapter 10
pass to another,—Barry Cornwall. You remember Willis's sketch. He wrote for the public, and to make an interesting letter. I need not say that my object is to give you and my friends truthful notions of those in whom you feel an interest. Mr. Procter—for you know that is the real name of Barry Cornwall—is about forty-two or forty-five, and is a conveyancer by profession. His days are spent in the toilsome study of abstracts of titles; and when I saw him last Sunday, at his house, he was p abused in Blackwood and the Quarterly for his Life of Kean and his editing Willis,—though they had formerly administered a great deal of praise. He had not, however, read their articles; but spoke of them according to what he had heard. Airs. Procter is a sweet person; she is the daughter of my friend, Mrs. Basil Montagu, and has munch of her mother's information and intelligence. There is no place that I enjoy more than Basil Montagu's. He is simple in his habits, never dines out, or give
N. P. Willis (search for this): chapter 10
great artist. Indeed, he said that he could occupy me for a month, and invited me to come and breakfast with him any morning that I chose, sending him word the night before. From one poet I will pass to another,—Barry Cornwall. You remember Willis's sketch. He wrote for the public, and to make an interesting letter. I need not say that my object is to give you and my friends truthful notions of those in whom you feel an interest. Mr. Procter—for you know that is the real name of Barry Cover again he would be a gardener. He spoke with bitterness of Lockhart, and concurred in Cooper's article on his Life of Scott. He said that he himself had been soundly abused in Blackwood and the Quarterly for his Life of Kean and his editing Willis,—though they had formerly administered a great deal of praise. He had not, however, read their articles; but spoke of them according to what he had heard. Airs. Procter is a sweet person; she is the daughter of my friend, Mrs. Basil Montagu, an<
Henry Hallam (search for this): chapter 10
never made her acquaintance or showed her any civilities, though living comparatively in the same neighborhood. Hinc illae lacrymae. When you now read De Quincey's lamentations you may better understand them. A few evenings ago I dined with Hallam. He is a person of plain manners, rather robust, and wears a steel watch-guard over his waistcoat. He is neither fluent nor brilliant in conversation; but is sensible, frank, and unaffected. After dinner we discussed the merits of the different British historians,—Gibbon, Hume, and Robertson. Of course, Gibbon was placed foremost. There was a party at Hallam's after dinner; but I went from that to a ball at Hume's,—Joe Hume's. Sumner was invited, at different times, to dine with Mr. Hume at Bryanstone Square. You doubtless imagine that this Radical, who for twenty years has been crying out retrenchment, is an ill-dressed, slovenly fellow, without a whole coat in his wardrobe. Imagine a thick-set, broad-faced, well-dressed Scotc
Thomas De Quincey (search for this): chapter 10
come a novelist. You will doubtless read the last Tait's Magazine. It contains the first of a series of articles by De Quincey on Wordsworth. Poor De Quincey had a small fortune of eight or nine thousand pounds, which he has lost or spent; and nDe Quincey had a small fortune of eight or nine thousand pounds, which he has lost or spent; and now he lets his pen for hire. You know his article on Coleridge: Wordsworth's turn has now come. At the close of his article, he alludes to a killing neglect which he once received from the poet, and which embittered his peace. I know the facts, which are not given. De Quincey married some humble country-girl in the neighborhood of Wordsworth; she was of good character, but not of that rank in which W. moved. The family of the latter never made her acquaintance or showed her any civilities, though living comparatively in the same neighborhood. Hinc illae lacrymae. When you now read De Quincey's lamentations you may better understand them. A few evenings ago I dined with Hallam. He is a person of plain manners, rather robust, and
Walter Scott (search for this): chapter 10
whom the society of the last quarter of a century had all passed,—he alone unchanged; to talk, with such a poet, of poetry and poets, of Wordsworth and Southey and Scott; and to hear his opinions, which were given with a childlike simplicity and frankness. I must confess his great kindness to me. He asked my acceptance of the new masterpieces by Titian, Correggio, Caracci, Guido, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Barochio, Giotto, and Reynolds. He pointed out the picture of an armed knight, which Walter Scott always admired. His portfolios were full of the most valuable original drawings. There were all Flaxman's illustrations of Homer and the Tragedians, as they ce low. He thought if he could live life over again he would be a gardener. He spoke with bitterness of Lockhart, and concurred in Cooper's article on his Life of Scott. He said that he himself had been soundly abused in Blackwood and the Quarterly for his Life of Kean and his editing Willis,—though they had formerly administered
John G. Lockhart (search for this): chapter 10
profession. His days are spent in the toilsome study of abstracts of titles; and when I saw him last Sunday, at his house, he was poring over one which press of business had compelled him to take home. He is a small, thin man, with a very dull countenance, in which, nevertheless,— knowing what he has written,—I can detect the poetical frenzy. His manner is gentle and quiet, and his voice low. He thought if he could live life over again he would be a gardener. He spoke with bitterness of Lockhart, and concurred in Cooper's article on his Life of Scott. He said that he himself had been soundly abused in Blackwood and the Quarterly for his Life of Kean and his editing Willis,—though they had formerly administered a great deal of praise. He had not, however, read their articles; but spoke of them according to what he had heard. Airs. Procter is a sweet person; she is the daughter of my friend, Mrs. Basil Montagu, and has munch of her mother's information and intelligence. There is <
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