Literature of the Victorian Reign, The.. Midas, The Judgment of... Myth, The Shakespearean. Night with the Sardines, A. On the Choice of Books.. Picking up the Pieces: A Comedy.. Poets, Town-Bred.. Reaction of Genius, The.. Romance of a Painter, The.. Seamy Side, The..... Seat in the Chair of Destiny, A....... "Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses." Shakespearean Myth, The..... Shelley, Godwin and.............. Some Aspects of the Present French Republic.. Some Modern Artists Superstition, A Comedy of.. Town-Bred Poets..... Two Ladies: Mrs. Jameson and Mrs. Fanny Kemble. United States, The Historical Aspect of the..... Verify your Compass..... Wines, The Dietetic Use of. Women, Position and Influence of, in Ancient Athens. AUTHOR. .SPENCER WALPOLE 137, 214 247 546 .J. D. OSBORNE. 289 W. M. BAKER....... 513 366 .LESLIE STEPHEN. 344 402 363 .A. P. STANLEY. 150 .LORD HOUGHTON.. 159 A MAGAZINE OF GENERAL LITERATURE. NEW SERIES.] JANUARY, 1879. [No. 31. AT THE ROMANCE OF A PAINTER. T the Salon of 1872 the habitual visitors, who had hitherto passed by Jean Paul Laurens's pictures without so much as bestowing a glance on them, at last stopped to look. The young artist had that year two paintings on exhibition "The Death of the Duke d'Enghien" and Pope Formosus." Astonishment was at its highest; and critics, finding themselves in front of two scenes of history from a brush marked by a terrible energy, sounded, though reluctantly, their loudest trumpets. A painter had been born to us. In his previous works Jean Paul Laurens had given proof of his skill in dealing with vast compositions, and of the exceptional vigor of his pencil. Yet we must acknowledge that his idea, wherein the artist's whole temperament is revealed, had never before been so thoroughly defined, or expressed with such plenitude of power, as in these pictures. In "The Death of the Duke d'Enghien" the soldiers in the ditches of Vincennes; the officer holding the lantern as he reads; the Prince leaning against the wall in an attitude of calm dignity-the entire scene, enveloped in the darkness of night, and thus assuming the odious character of an ambuscade, was grasped, revealed, anathematized with avenging, bloodchilling ardor. The aspect of his "Pope Formosus" was not less terrifying than that of "The Death of the Duke d'Enghien." Formosus, exhumed by order of Pope Stephen VII., who was arraigned before a council as a usurper of the tiara; Stephen pointing out to the bishops assembled in a lower hall the remains of his abhorred predecessor; the dead pontiff's advocate seated in his chair, and hanging his head dolefully, having exhausted all his arguments; the enormous censer with perfumes burning in it— the whole of that frightful assemblage of men and things was studied, grasped, rendered with a rugged force rarely met with in our artists. VOL. VI.-I Since that time Jean Paul Laurens's path, at first narrow and beset with obstacles, has, by an uninterrupted series of successes, been cleared and widened, and he now occupies the front rank among the younger artists of the period. Yet, coupled with that name, which grows greater and greater at each successive exhibition, certain murmurings have been heard. Restless spirits, envious of the progress of a dramatic force in the accomplishment of its purpose, have accused the sturdy painter of "The Pool of Bethesda❞ of delighting in the somber spectacles of life, and paying court too assiduously to death. "When will he cease to show us dead bodies?" was the cry. Vasari, in his "Lives of the most Celebrated Painters of the Renaissance," explains how many a work was achieved only by dint of minute and patient study; he searches into and scrutinizes the intimate relations and characters of the men, and is thus enabled to reveal the artists and their art in broad daylight. Jean Paul Laurens is an artist of wide grasp, and what Vasari realized for genius I will make my grateful task in behalf of a friend whose talent I saw spring into being, develop day by day, and reach at last the plane which I had expected it to attain. I. IN the midst of the treeless yet fertile grainproducing plains of Lauraguais the little village of Fourquevaux, situated as its name implies at the point of intersection of two small valleys, resembles a delightful oasis in the desert. The surrounding country as far as the eye can reach is clothed with dense pastures, yellowing crops, or bristling stubble, according to the season; but here in the streets of the hamlet, acacias, plane trees, and lindens rear their heads above the calcined soil; while behind the château extends a spacious park covered with oaks and chestnut trees-almost a forest. It was here that Jean Paul Laurens was born about the year 1838. His early childhood was spent in lacerating his feet among the thorny brakes of Lauraguais, enjoying the sweets of truancy, while his father and brother toiled in the fields beneath a scorching sun. His natural bent inclined him toward roaming, and impelled by that passion no less than by the desire to evade the schoolmaster's lessons, he frequently strolled far from the paternal roof. He once reached within sight of Toulouse, musing, singing, and sometimes praying. His mother, whom he had known too little, had in her dying moments dropped from her hand on the bedside a small prayer book—“Livre d'Heures Romaines." That tiny volume the child took possession of, and secreted it in the depths of one of his pockets, capacious as a sack. Every morning he carried off the precious relic, and at noontide, when such of his comrades as he could entice to accompany him were 'overcome by fatigue, or surfeited with blackberries, whortleberries, or other species of fruit to be found on shrub or hedge, lay tranquilly napping among the brushwood, he, reclining on the grass beneath the slender shade of an almond tree, instead of giving himself up to the pleasures of the siesta, opened his book, and turning over the leaves one by one, scanned them with anxious attention. A piece of faded ribbon marked the page at which his mother had closed the book to die. The poor woman had left off at the fifty-first psalm, the first verse of which begins thus: "Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy loving kindness." To that final psalm the forlorn little fellow unceasingly turned back; it seemed to him that his mother had need of that prayer in order to gain entrance into heaven, and he repeated it over and over again times without number in her behalf. ing the "good tidings" had hastened to the spot, and were prostrate, worshiping the Saviour; on the right a cow with magnificent horns and with outstretched neck, projecting her warm breath upon the cradle; and high overhead, near the roof of the stable of Bethlehem, angels on the wing. Laurens, who had grown peculiarly excitable since his great bereavement, could not long bear the sight of that wretched print, engraved by one Jacques Berniquet for Barbou, a publisher of Limoges, from an original painting by Carl Vanloo; so hastily shutting the book he began throwing stones at his fellow truants, to get them to their feet, and endeavored to think no more of the picture. But the very next day, seated under the same tree, he returned to his dear torture, and after dwelling several minutes in contemplation of the picture which had thrown him into such a state of perturbation the day before, wonder of wonders! the lad, whose hand was scarce able to trace the letters of the alphabet, attempted to copy it. Who had prompted him to an undertaking so audacious and extraordinary? No one. In attempting his first sketch in open nature, in the plains of Lauraguais, Jean Paul Laurens did but obey the voice which, long ere his time, in the arid wilds of Vespignano, had been heard by Giotto the shepherd tracing the profile of his goats upon the rocks—the imperative voice of his vocation. But the "Livre d'Heures," examined, ransacked in every direction, was exhausted, and still the drawing fever continued unremittingly to prey upon our stripling from Fourquevaux. What now was he to do in the long, long, lonely days? Catching larks with nets, and linnets and goldfinches with birdlime by the springs, and other pastimes of the like kind, for which he had once had a great fondness, enticed him now no longer. Having observed in his prayer book an engraving containing some trees, and calling to mind a number of superb acacias that grew near the outskirts of the village, he forsook his comrades and hurried back again all alone in the direction of Fourquevaux. Once and again he essayed to transfer to a page of his two-cent copy book the beautiful flower-laden leaves of the acacias. But his endeavors were attended with mediocre success; and after a spirited persistence and oft-renewed attempts, he despairingly relinquished the task. In his mother's while the ardor of his artistic instinct. For many a week his pencil and paper lay untouched and forgotten, and he betook himself once more to his rustic sports with a sort of rage, or sought to subdue the nascent restlessness of his spirit in protracted and aimless excursions across the country, returning to the paternal roof completely exhausted and destitute of energy and appetite. But it was vain for him to renounce "making pictures," as he expressed it in his confidential chats with his schoolmates, and with his brother, his first admirer. Pictures alone filled all his dreams; his every thought was centered on pictures, from morning till night and from night till morning. If at nightfall, as he regained the little red-roofed cottage, he heard through the twilight shades a comrade's voice calling him to a game of hot-cockles, the angels in Vanloo's "Nativity" appeared to him flapping their wings and singing, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." A picture immediately presented itself before his eyes, and, spite of his resistance, his overcrowded brain placed the figures and planned out the grounds of a confused sketch, faintly perceived as if in a dream, through the mysterious obscurities of sleep. II. ONE morning in May, 1851, slumbering Fourquevaux was aroused by a din of iron clanking, and people singing at the top of their voices, which caused the good folk of the little village, accustomed to music and songs as are all southern towns, to wonder whether it was an aubade or a charivari. In an instant the whole rustic population was on foot, bustling to and fro, and hurrying to the doors, and all eyes were turned in the direction of the Toulouse road, whence the sound of the unexpected concert seemed to proceed. Down yonder in the light morning vapors, reddened by the sun's first rays, appeared three stalwart blades whose rounded mouths gave vent to a deafening clamor; and behind them a huge, shaggy-coated mule lazily dragging along a dislocated cart. Was it indeed a cart? That long pine case covered with repulsive daubings, and supported by a creaking axle, bore a certain resemblance to every possible species of vehiclecarryall, drag, wagon, truck-but could not with propriety be said to be the exact representation of any particular one. The early troop marched through the village heedless of the suspicious glances showered upon them as they passed, and finally halted in front of the church. At that moment the astonished peasants, men, women, and children, fol Just then the church door was opened halfway, and a priest's nose was seen in the embrasure. "Monsieur Antonio Buccaferrata! Monsieur Antonio Buccaferrata!" cried the alarmed ecclesiastic. M. Antonio Buccaferrata executed a bow denoting the most profound respect; then, laughing, threw down the weapon among the heap of curious objects which his comrades were already engaged in removing from the vehicle. "My friends," said the priest encouragingly to his disconcerted flock, "you have nothing to fear from these gentlemen; they were recommended to me by Monseigneur the Archbishop, and are come to paint the church. They are Italian painters, and have for a long time been working in different parts of the country." Italian painters ! Sure enough, after a few days had elapsed, the walls of the choir of the modest church were surrounded with scaffolding, and our three itinerant artists ascending and descending long flexible ladders, wielding in their hands enormous brushes, and carrying overflowing pots of gray and brown liquids, or sometimes a fluid mixture of a golden-yellow color. From his swaggering air on the scaffolding, the imperious tone in which he spoke, and the liberty which, contrary to all rules of propriety, he took of whistling from time to time an air as he worked, it appeared evident that this Antonio Buccaferrata-tall, slender, graceful in attitude and gesture—was the master of the troop, and that the two workmen who accompanied him were his assistants. These were the Pedroja brothers, Giovanni and Filippo, who brushed away with might and main at patterns of columns, affixed stars to the vaulted portions of the roof, illuminated an arm of the cross on the shoulders of Jesus on his way to Calvary, while Antonio, armed with the glorious palette forbidden to his followers, and grasping in his long, wiry fingers, not a brush for painting doors or shutters, but ten small, delicately pointed brushes, touched the heads, feet, and other nude portions of the fig ures carefully traced beforehand on the walls of possibly thirteen or fourteen issued from the from vast cartoons. group of peasants and walked up to Buccaferrata. Meantime our artists led a reserved life in the land of Lauraguais. Retained at work during the day, when evening came they retired to the first story of the vicarage, where the incumbent of the parish allowed them to lodge; nor were they ever seen loitering about the streets or in the taverns of the village. At most, they now and then sang of a night some lay of their native country, accompanying themselves on the guitar. At all this the good people of Lauraguais felt prodigiously provoked. Piqued at first, they by and by grew downright angry. Fourquevaux could have wished to chat and form acquaintance with those same strangers-in a word, know all about them. Often the Pedroja brothers, when they went for water to the village fountain, were interrogated by glib female tongues; but instead of gratifying the curiosity of any, they kissed the prettiest of the fair querists with a stout good will, and scampered back to the church laughing to their hearts' content. Fourquevaux, in a fury, not only because of being deprived of an opportunity of prattling a while with the new-comers-there is so little amusement in humdrum village life-but chiefly for the reason that they were not admitted to feast their eyes on the painting, which was carefully hidden from view from without by means of large sheets of canvas hanging from the vaulted roof-Fourquevaux burst at last into open insurrection. Taking advantage of the absence of the priest, whose authority might have held them in check, some fifty delegates from the rebel ranks went one day and knocked noisily at the church door. Antonio Buccaferrata rushed to the porch. "Let us see it as it is." "We will not show it." "Monsieur Antonio," said he, "please give me permission to see your pictures." Amid the sullen murmurings of the crowd in revolt, the child's voice burst forth like a sort of music. The master painter, whose fixed, stern gaze was riveted on his enemies, lowered his eyes to look at the young peasant, a long, meager, puny creature; but upon that lank body, overstretched by too rapid growth, sat, between a pair of rather sharply defined shoulders, an admirably intelligent and animated head. Many of the early masters and a few of those of the Renaissance, Raphael and Leonardo among others, have given us a number of St. John the Baptists with curly hair arranged in minute ringlets; and this child of Lauraguais had the same crisp, golden locks, the same wild aspect as the locust-eater of Judea. The rugged forehead, heaving up into a pair of twin protuberances, as if the intensity of thought in that youthful brain sought to break through its prison walls, was singularly beautiful; and the eyes, gray, piercing, and mild, beamed with a sort of restrained enthusiasm. His figure, as he stood, was slightly curved forward, similar to a wheat stalk in his native fields bowing beneath the burden of a too heavily laden ear. Buccaferrata, possibly endowed, spite of his lowly calling, with a mind capable of comprehending the character and nobleness of the human face, took pleasure in contemplating for a moment the graceful model before him. The two workmen hastened to their master's side. The mob fell back, terror-stricken at sight of the clothes and visages of the Pedroja brothers, besmeared with paint of every imaginable color-here a yellow gash, there bright-red spots resembling bleeding wounds. 'Laurens." What do you do?” "I go to school." "Come in." As the child crossed the threshold of the church, surrounded, enveloped by the three artists, the good folk of Fourquevaux suddenly grew calm-had they not in a certain degree had satis "You shall not get in," said Buccaferrata, faction ?-and retired exultant with their half exceedingly pale. "You shall not get in!" echoed Giovanni and Filippo, raising their clinched fists high in air. There was a momentary silence. Both sides stood with eyes fixed upon each other, as if to measure their respective forces. victory, and quite resigned to wait until they should be admitted to see the pictures when finished, entirely finished. Mounted on the scaffolding, where all at once he found himself in full view of the master painter's work, our young peasant stood in It was at that critical moment that a stripling speechless amazement. Ah, what a remove from |