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Title: The Life, Letters and Work of Frederic Leighton

Volume II

Author: Mrs. Russell Barrington

Release Date: May 20, 2011 [EBook #35935]

Language: English

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The Life, Letters and Work of
Frederic Baron Leighton

Of Stretton

VOL. II

"I am a workman first, and an official after."—Fred. Leighton, 1888.

"Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille, Doch ein Character in dem Strom der Welt." —Goethe.

The Life, Letters and
Work of
Frederic Leighton

BY

MRS. RUSSELL BARRINGTON

AUTHOR OF "REMINISCENCES OF G.F. WATTS," ETC. ETC.

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II

LONDON
GEORGE ALLEN, RUSKIN HOUSE
1906

[All rights reserved]

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press

LORD LEIGHTON
From the portrait by G.F. WattsToList

CONTENTS

 

PAGE INTRODUCTION

1

CHAPTER I

 

FIRST STUDIO IN LONDON, 1859-1863

36

CHAPTER II

 

ILLUSTRATIONS FOR CORNHILL MAGAZINE—FRESCO FOR LYNDHURST CHURCH—ASSOCIATE OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY—MRS. LEIGHTON'S DEATH, 1863-1865

91

CHAPTER III

 

JOURNEYS TO THE EAST—CONSTANTINOPLE—SMYRNA—ATHENS—DIARY "UP THE NILE TO PHYLÆ," 1866-1869

128

CHAPTER IV

 

ROYAL ACADEMICIAN—MUSIC—ARAB HALL, 1869-1878

188

CHAPTER V

 

LEIGHTON AS PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY, 1878-1896

223

CHAPTER VI

 

LIFE WANING—DEATH, 1887-1896

312

APPENDIX

 

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS

341

LORD LEIGHTON'S HOUSE

362

LIST OF DIGNITIES AND HONOURS CONFERRED ON FREDERIC LEIGHTON

380

LIST OF PRINCIPAL WORKS

381

INDEX

393

ERRATA

 

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME II

1.

Portrait of Lord Leighton

(

Photogravure

)

By G.F. Watts.

To face Dedication

2.

Head of Young Girl

(

Colour

)

A wedding gift to H.R.H. The Prince of Wales, who graciously gave permission for the painting to be reproduced in this book.

To face page 1

3.

"Eucharis," 1863

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stephenson Clarke.

9

4.

"A Noble Lady of Venice," 1866

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of Lord Armstrong.

10

5.

"Greek Girls Picking up Shells by the Seashore," 1871

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of the Rt. Hon. Joseph Chamberlain.

18

6.

Portrait of Mrs. Sutherland Orr, 1861

57

7.

Pencil Sketch for "Michael Angelo Nursing his Dying Servant," 1862

Leighton House Collection.

93

8.

Original Sketch for "Samson Wrestling with the Lion"

Designed as an illustration for Dalziel's Bible. Leighton House Collection.

94

9.

Original Drawing for the Great God Pan, Illustrating Mrs. Browning's Poem, "Musical Instrument"

In "Cornhill Magazine," July 1861. Leighton House Collection.

102

10.

"An Evening in a French Country House," Illustrating Mrs. Adelaide Sartoris' Story, "A Week in a French Country House," Published in the Cornhill Magazine

, 1867

By kind permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co.

103

11.

"Drifting." Second Illustration for same

104

12.

Lord Leighton

Photograph taken at Lyndhurst, 1863.

107

13.

Fresco for Lyndhurst Church—"The Wise and Foolish Virgins," 1864

111

14.

"Greek Girl Dancing," 1867

By kind permission of Mr. Phillipson.

125

15.

Sketch for a "Pastoral," 1866

Leighton House Collection.

125

16.

Sketch in Oils—"Egypt"

(

Colour

)

131

17.

"S. Jerome." Diploma Work, 1869

Gallery in Burlington House.

188

18.

"Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon"

189

19.

"Heracles Wrestling With Death for the Body of Alcestis," 1871

By kind permission of the Fine Art Society.

190

20.

"Summer Moon," 1872

By kind permission of Messrs. P. & D. Colnaghi.

193

21.

"A Condottiere," 1872

The Walker Fine Art Gallery, Birmingham.

193

22.

Study for Figure in Frieze, "Music," 1886

Leighton House Collection.

193

23.

Study of Man's Figure for the "Arts of War," 1872

Leighton House Collection.

193

24.

Study of Man's Figure for the "Arts of War"

Leighton House Collection.

193

25.

Study of Man's Figure for the "Arts of War," 1872

Leighton House Collection.

193

26.

"Antique Juggling Girl," 1874

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of Mr. Hodges.

194

27.

"Clytemnestra from the Battlement of Argos Watches for the Beacon Fires which are to announce the Return of Agamemnon," 1874

(

Photogravure

)

Leighton House Collection.

194

28.

Study for "Clytemnestra"

Leighton House Collection.

194

29.

Study for "Summer Moon"

(

Colour

)

Executed by moonlight in Rome. Given by the late A. Waterhouse, R.A., to the Leighton House Collection.

194

30.

"The Daphnephoria," 1876

By kind permission of the Fine Art Society.

197

31.

"At a Reading-desk," 1877

By kind permission of Messrs. L.H. Lefevre & Son.

197

32.

Original Study for "An Athlete Struggling with a Python," 1876

Given by the late G.F. Watts to the Leighton House Collection.

199

33.

"Nausicaa," 1878

201

34.

Study for Group in the "Arts of Peace," 1873

Leighton House Collection.

202

35.

Study for the Figure of Cimabue, carried out in Mosaic in the South Court of the Victoria and Albert Museum, 1868

Leighton House Collection.

203

36.

Study for the Figure of Niccola Pisano, carried out in Mosaic in the South Court of the Victoria and Albert Museum, 1868

Leighton House Collection.

203

37.

Sketch of the Prince and Princess of Wales, attended by Lord Leighton, when present at a Monday Popular Concert in St. James's Hall

Drawn at the time by Mr. Theodore Blake Wirgman.

216

38.

Portrait of Sir Richard Francis Burton, K.C.M.G., 1876

218

39.

View of Arab Hall, 1906

Leighton House Collection.

221

40.

Portrait of Professor Giovanni Costa

Executed at Lerici in 1878.

222

41.

"Elijah in the Wilderness," 1879

255

42.

Study for the Figure of "Elijah"

Leighton House Collection.

255

43.

"Neruccia," 1879

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of Mrs. C.E. Lees.

255

44.

"The Bath of Psyche," 1890

(

Photogravure

)

The Tate Gallery.

255

45.

"The Light of the Harem," 1880

By kind permission of the Leicester Gallery.

256

46.

Drawing of Complete Design for "And the Sea Gave up the Dead that were in it," 1892

256

47.

Study for "Music." A Frieze, 1886

Leighton House Collection.

256

48.

Study for "Andromeda," 1890

Leighton House Collection.

256

49.

Study from Clay Model for "Perseus," 1891

Leighton House Collection.

256

50.

Study for "Phoenicians Bartering With Britons"

Leighton House Collection.

256

51.

"Cymon and Iphigenia," 1884

(

Photogravure

)

The Corporation of Leeds.

256

52.

Sketch in Oils for "Cymon and Iphigenia"

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson.

256

53.

Study for Sleeping Group in "Cymon and Iphigenia"

Presented to the Leighton House Collection by G.F. Watts.

256

54.

From Bronze From Small Model in Clay by Lord Leighton of "A Sluggard," 1886

Leighton House Collection.

258

55.

"Needless Alarms," From Bronze Statuette, 1886

Leighton House Collection.

258

56.

"The Last Watch of Hero," 1887

Corporation of Manchester.

259

57.

Sketch in Oils for "Tragic Poetess," 1890

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson.

259

58.

"Atalanta," 1893

By kind permission of the Berlin Photographic Co.

261

59.

"Flaming June," 1895

By kind permission of Mrs. Watney.

261

60.

Study for "Flaming June"

Leighton House Collection.

261

61.

"Fatidica," 1894

By kind permission of Messrs. T. Agnew & Sons.

261

62.

Studies for "Fatidica"

Leighton House Collection.

261

63.

"Memories," 1883

By kind permission of Messrs. P. & D. Colnaghi.

266

64.

"The Jealousy of Simœtha the Sorceress," 1887

266

65.

"Letty," 1884

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Henry Joachim.

266

66.

Studies From Dorothy Dene for "Clytie," 1895

Leighton House Collection.

268

67.

Sketch in Oils for "Greek Girls Playing at Ball," 1889

(

In Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson.

274

68.

"Bacchante," 1892

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of Messrs. Henry Graves & Co.

287

69.

Sketch in Oils for "Bacchante"

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson.

287

70.

"Der Winter"

Drawing by Eduard von Steinle.

304

71.

Sketch in Oils for "Solitude"

(

Colour

)

By kind permission of Mrs. Stewart Hodgson.

310

72.

"Summer Slumber," 1894

(

Photogravure

)

By kind permission of Mr. Phillipson.

316

73.

Sketch for "Summer Slumber"

Presented to the Leighton House Collection by H.M. The King.

316

74.

"The Fair Persian," 1896

By kind permission of Sir Elliott Lees.

324

75.

"The Spirit of the Summit," 1894

334

76.

Study for "Lachrymæ," 1895

Leighton House Collection.

335

77.

"Clytie," 1896

By kind permission of the Fine Art Society.

336

78.

Memorial Monument in St. Paul's Cathedral to Frederic Baron Leighton of Stretton

340

79.

View of Hall and Staircase of Leighton House, given by Lord Leighton's Sisters to the Public as a Memorial to their Brother

By kind permission of Mr. J. Harris Stone.

340

HEAD OF YOUNG GIRL
Wedding present from Lord Leighton to H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, who has graciously allowed the painting to be reproduced in this bookToList

THE LIFE OF LORD LEIGHTON

INTRODUCTIONToC

Sir William Richmond, R.A., and Mr. Walter Crane have kindly contributed the following notes:—

It was in 1860 that I first knew Leighton. We met over affairs connected with the Artist Rifle Corps at Burlington House, and afterwards at the studios of various artists, where discussions took place regarding the formation and means of conduct of the Corps. On several occasions I walked home with Leighton to his house in Orme Square.

I don't think I have ever known a man who grew more steadily than Leighton did. The effort of his artistic life was to remove the effects of a certain mannerism and over-education in his early artistic life. His knowledge was wonderful, his powers of design without immediate consultation with Nature were phenomenal; he feared the facility in himself and went always to Nature, that out of her manifold gifts he should be inspired directly by them. And this constant study had its drawbacks as well as its merits, because in one sense it stood in the way of the development of an abstract power of invention. If ever an artist made the most of his conscious abilities, Leighton did. His character was so curiously simple on the one hand, and so complicated on the other, that a balance between a very emotional and extremely accurate temperament had to be found, and it was found. How far a certain charm of spontaneity was obscured a little, perhaps by erudition and a sort of Aristotelian preciseness, it is not for me to say. There is in all things a balance which, when once obtained, reduces the weight in both scales. But we must take a life as it has been made by circumstances, by early training and after influences; and probably most men who are in earnest,—and Leighton was pre-eminently in earnest,—find their proper issue finally. That the best of Leighton's work will live, I am convinced; that it will hold its own when a great deal of other work praised, admired, even worshipped during the life of his contemporaries shall be dead, I feel quite assured; and one may very justly be asked—Why? The simple answer is that it was thorough, definite, sincere, accomplished. Leighton never put out his hand towards the limbo of vulgarity or fashion. Like Virgil, like Mendelssohn, Leighton was a stylist, and his life's work showed a perfection of attainment upon the lines which he drew out for his progress almost to my thinking unrivalled in the work of any of his contemporaries. Here and there he struck a deep note of poetry, here and there he was like a Greek for his simplicity, here and there his work shows the luxury of the Venetians, the restraint of the Florentines, but never perhaps the majesty of M. Angelo or the strong charm of Raphael. His art was eclectic; still it was Leighton, and could have been done only as the result of great natural gifts, assiduous study, force of character, and, withal, independence of vision. His love of beauty was his own personal love, not learnt, hardly perhaps inherited, but spontaneous and lasting. This devotion to beauty may have sometimes led his emotions away from character, which sometimes is very nearly ugly as well as very nearly allied to the highest beauty, which Bacon says has always something of strangeness in it. The pursuit of beauty, per se, may be purchased at the expense of character.

But Leighton was always pulling himself up; and when he found himself too facile, too ornate, he resolutely set his mind to correct any tendency in that direction by fidelity to Nature, sometimes even to her ugly movements. Excess was not in his nature, which was curiously logical; his mind was swift, far-seeing; in debate he was admirable, always seeing the weak point of an argument at once, and "partie pris" was his abomination. A man so gifted in the essence and laws of form, so learned in the construction of the human frame, so deeply sensitive to line and movement as well as to structure, surely would have given to the world great works of sculpture. Indeed he did, but not enough! One regrets that—still one must accept the fact that form is but little cared for in this country, and Leighton sinned by reason of his love of form; by many he was called not a painter because he did not smear, did not trust to accidents, did not leave works half done—because he was sincere to his conviction that a work of art must be, to last, complete "ad unguem." The present craze for incompleteness, for sketches instead of pictures, for unripe instead of ripe fruit, must die as all false notions die; the best, the rightest will live; and when the present ephemeral fashion has worked itself out, the nobility of Leighton's works, his best, are certain to take their place in the estimation of those that know as surely as that they are good.

How many out of the multitude really, if we could test them, care one jot for the Elgin Marbles, for the Demeter of Knidos, for the vault of the Sistine Chapel?—very few. Really great things never can be accepted by the commonplace. How should they be? for to understand the highest in music, in architecture, sculpture, or painting, the observer or listener must have a spark in his constitution which is a portion of the flame that burned white heat in the soul of the conceiver. How can such an attitude of intimate sympathy belong to the many? It never has, and probably never will. Great men are rare, and those who are mentally or organically made to comprehend them are rare also. The great can afford to wait because they are immortal. In all one's dealings with Leighton what did one find? a noble nature, restrained, charitable, in earnest; and if in many discussions as to the desirability of certain events, certain compromises, certain acts of conformity, one did not agree with Leighton, one knew "au fond" that the attitude was quite logical, not hastily arrived at, and the position taken up was to be strenuously held: and it was that power of consistency which made Leighton so trustworthy. He was fearless when his principles were touched, he was loyal to his associates in the Academy even if he did not see eye to eye with them, and he was loyal to his art and to his friends. If Leighton had chosen politics for his career he would probably have been Prime Minister, just as Burne-Jones might have been Archbishop of Canterbury had he continued his early and very remarkable theological studies. All really great men have endless possibilities. It is more or less chance which decides the direction of ability, which, once discovered, forcibly, dominantly present, must find opportunities for its highest development and achievement in the tenure of the goal. It was ability and natural gifts that made Leighton great, industry that nourished his greatness, and stability to principle which made it lasting in his lifetime, and must for all time stamp his work. The thing that really engages one's interest about a great man is not so much his "technique" as his general disposition and character, which forms for itself a suitable "technique" by which his achievements have been manifested. Should any one by-and-by describe the "technique" of Joachim, the supreme violinist, he would probably interest a few, but in reality he would say nothing really valuable, excepting inasmuch as he touched upon first principles. The "modus operandi" of an artist's life is moulded by his personal aims, the means are those by which he found his own way of stating them; and one doubts very much if, after all, the points which differentiate one man's work from another's are not those which have obliterated the conscious efforts, preserving just the touches which genius gives beyond and above all laws that may be learnt. Verse no doubt is much dependent for its beauty on the system of the arrangement of syllables, and the music they make when harmoniously handled upon the final perfection which they reach, and so become rule-making instead of being the result of rule-following. Hence lies that unaccountable beauty which is the inexplicable result of the ego—that taste, that selection, that special word which creates an impression immediately, and which seems inimitable even, and obviously the only one which could have been used; that is style—the very essence of the ego which cannot be copied, or indeed again brought into relation with the idea. And isn't that the reason why the copy of a picture can never be really like an original? even if the "technique" is identical, it lacks that last touch, that last word which transcends tradition, almost transcends thought, for it is just the thought which has been summed up in a moment of inspiration, uncalculated, spontaneous. Leighton was far too wise a man to believe in the constant recurrence of inspirations: he knew that the moment when the whole spirit is ready to act is involuntary; he knew that to reach the supremacy of that moment, labour was necessary; that in labour is the foundation of the building for that moment of inspiration. One may question if the first vision in Leighton was very strong—strong as Blake's, strong as many artists whose powers of attainment were much less than Leighton's, but whose vision was clearer at the outset. Rougher minds than Leighton's have produced more epic effects, and a ruder, less accomplished "technique" has borne with it more original, more trenchant ideas. Leighton was not a mystic; he dealt with thoughts which he embodied in forms that he saw, but which he also made his own in their application; that was his genius of originality. The rugged verse of Æschylus had no place in his temperament, much as he admired it; the polished diction of Virgil bore more similitude to Leighton's inspiration. Sometimes one missed in his work just the touch of the rugged which would have given more grace by comparison, by contrast. His grace of diction, his oratory, his writing, was sometimes over-refined, and missed its mark by over-elaboration. The very speciality of Leighton was completeness. One has seen pictures in his study only half finished, which had a charm of freshness that vanished as each portion became worked into equal value. But that fastidiousness was his characteristic, it was part of him; and therefore we must not deplore it. His originality was exemplified by his power of taking pains, his power of will to do his very best according to his guiding spirit of thoroughness. Temperaments are so different. Whistler could not be Leighton. Because we admire the one, it is not necessary to decry the other; that is weak criticism, or rather none at all. The spirit which inspires the impressionist is not the spirit of design, but a limited observation in a very restricted area. We can have the Academic as well as the Impressionist: both are useful as foils to each other, and it is just as narrow of the Impressionists to want all men to see nature and art as they see them, as it has been for the Academics to see "nothing" in the newer if more limited system. I believe that Leighton's real love was early Italian art; all that came to him after was the result of growth. His enthusiasm for Mino da Fiesole, for the earlier Raphaels, for Duccio of Siena, for Lorenzetti, was evident and absorbing; other enthusiasms were more branches from the stem than its roots. He loved line; he found it there: he loved restraint of action, pure sensuous beauty; he found it in early Italian Art. The reserve of emotions touched him in Greek Art—its suavity, its almost geometrical precision, the tunefulness and melody of its rhythmical concords. His love of music was on the same lines: Wagner never appealed to him as Mozart did; it was too strenuous, too busy in changes of key, too incomplete in the finish and development of phrases. It was not that he liked dulness—not a bit; he was emotional, often gay, often depressed—excitable even; but to him Art was an intellectual more than a purely emotional system, and he liked it to be finished, consistent, perfect—and those qualities he strove for, without a doubt he obtained in a high measure. It will be long before we see again the like of Frederic Leighton, a man complete in himself.

W.B. Richmond.

June 1906.

I first met Leighton about 1869 or '70, I think. I went to one of his receptions at the Studio in Holland Park Road, at the time he was showing his pictures for the Academy. I think his principal work of that year was "Alcestis," or "Heracles Wrestling with Death." About the same time Browning's poem of "Balaustion's Adventure" appeared, in which he alludes to Leighton and this very picture in the lines beginning:

"I know a great Kaunian painter"

(if I remember rightly).

I availed myself of a friend's introduction, and presented myself. One recalls the courteous and princely way in which he received his guests on these occasions, and the crushes he had at his studio—Holland Park Road blocked with carriages, and all the great ones of the London world flocking to see the artist's work.

About this time, or shortly before, he had done me the honour to purchase two landscape studies I had made in Wales from among a number in a book, which was shown him by my early friend George Howard (now Earl of Carlisle), and I remember his kind words in sending me what he deemed "the very modest price" I had asked for them.

His kindness to students and young artists was well known. He would take trouble to go and see their work, and he was always an admirable and helpful critic.

I remember, on my first visit to Rome in the autumn of 1871 (on our marriage tour), going into Piali's Library one evening to look at the English papers. No one was there, but presently Leighton came in. He did not remember me at first, but I recalled myself to him. He was very kind, in his princely way, and gave me introductions to W.W. Storey, the sculptor, and his great friend, Giov. Costa, and he called at our rooms to see my work, in which he showed much interest. In a letter I had, dated March 1st, 1872, written from the Athenæum Club, he speaks of some drawings I had sent to the Dudley Gallery, one he had seen on my easel in Rome, and he says: "I have seen your drawings, all three—one was an old friend; of the other two, the 'Grotto of Egeria,' with its 'sacrum numes,' most attracted me through its refined and sober harmony. The quality of your light is always particularly agreeable to me, and not less than usual in these drawings"; he goes on to say he is glad to hear I have "made friends with my excellent Costa, who as an artist is one in hundreds, and as a man one in thousands"; he adds, "Have you sketched in the 'Valley of Poussin'? It strikes me that old castle would take you by storm."

I saw Leighton again in Rome in 1873, meeting him on the Palatine, among the ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars. He was with a lady who, I believe, was the author of the story published in The Cornhill, "A Week in a French Country House," for which Leighton made an illustration. (His black and white work was always very fine, and I recall seeing some of his drawings on the wood for Dalziel's Bible and "Romola.")

Later, he came to see us when we settled in London, in Wood Lane.

I had further relations with him about the time he was building the Arab Hall, when (through George Aitcheson, his architect) I designed the mosaic frieze. On some sketches I made for this he writes: "Cleave to the Sphinx and Eagle, they are delightful—I don't like the duck-women." With regard to these Arab Hall mosaics, he said that he hoped to have more, and eventually "to let us loose (Burne-Jones and myself) on the dome."

After this, I saw something of Leighton on the committee of the South London Fine Art Gallery, Peckham, in its earlier days, when he was chairman, and helped to pilot the institution from the somewhat exacting proprietorship of its founder towards its ultimate position as a public institution.

From the aristocratic point of view, he certainly had a keen sense of public duty, and probably laid the motto "Noblesse oblige" to heart.

I met him again at the Art Conference at Liverpool, when a trainful of artists of all ranks went down together, and some notable attacks were made on the Royal Academy. Leighton was tremendously loyal to that institution, which I notice is always stoutly defended by its members, whatever opinions they may have expressed while outsiders.

I suppose we differed profoundly on most questions, but he was always most courteous, and, whatever our public opinions, we always maintained friendly personal relations; and I may say I always entertained the highest admiration for Leighton's qualities, both as an artist and as a man.

At the time when the election for the presidency of the Academy was in view (after the death of Sir Francis Grant), it was said that Leighton was the only man, and that if they did not elect him the institution would go to pieces; but probably as president he had less power of initiative than before.

I remember, after one of our committees at his studio, he drove me home to Holland Street in his victoria; and as he set me down at my door, he pointed to a little copper lantern I had put up over the steps, and said, "Is that Arts and Crafts?"

His fondness for Italy was well known, and I think he went every autumn. I recall meeting him at Florence in 1890, while staying at the delightful villa of Mrs. Ross (Poggio Gherardo), when he came to luncheon.

In death he was as princely as in life; and on the day of his burial at St. Paul's I was moved to write the following as a tribute to his memory, which will always be vivid in the hearts of those who had the privilege of his friendship:—

Beneath great London's dome to his last rest The princely painter have ye borne away, Who still in death upholds his sumptuous sway; Who strove in life with learned skill to wrest Art's priceless secret hid in Beauty's breast With alchemy of colour and of clay, To recreate a fairer human day, Touched by no shadow of our time distrest.

What rank or privilege needs art supreme— Immortal child of buried states and powers— Who can for us the golden age renew? Let worth and work bear witness when life's hours Are numbered: honour due, when, as we deem, To his ideal was the artist true.

Walter Crane.

"EUCHARIS." 1863
By permission of Mrs. Stephenson ClarkeToList

Having settled in England in 1860, Leighton found that there, contrary to his expectations, his sense of colour became developed; and with this his individuality as a painter asserted itself. Between the years 1863 and 1866 he painted pictures which proved that, as a distinct artificer in painting, he had found himself, and was no longer under the controlling influences of German or Italian Art, though, unfortunately, hints of German methods in the actual manipulation of his brush clung more or less to his painting to the end. From boyhood Leighton's power of designing, his sense of beauty in line and form and of dramatic feeling, his extraordinary facility in drawing with the point, proved his genius as an artist; but it was not till the early sixties that his pictures proved him to be possessed of individual distinction as a painter, probably because the method of handling the brush associated with the teaching which, in other respects, commanded his reverence and admiration, were alien to his finest artistic sense. No later works are to be found more notable in luminous quality of painting than "Eucharis," 1863, and "Golden Hours," 1864; none in strength and solidity of texture, or in beauty of distinguished handling, than "A Noble Lady of Venice," about 1865; none in richness of arrangement combined with the fair aerial atmosphere appropriate to a Grecian scene, for which Leighton had so native a sympathy, than "A Syracusan Bride Leading Wild Beasts in Procession to the Altar of Diana," 1866.[1] Later works may claim a greater public prominence among his achievements, but for actual individuality and feeling for the beauty which appealed most strongly to Leighton in colour as in form, none he painted after evinced any fresh departure.

"A NOBLE LADY OF VENICE." 1866
By permission of Lord ArmstrongToList

As early as 1852, at the age of twenty-one, Leighton wrote to Steinle from Venice: "I must candidly confess that great as my admiration for Titian (& Co.) was, yet the well-known art treasures here have seized me and entranced me anew. You, dear master, are so familiar with all these things that there is nothing I can write you about them; but on one point I am fairly clear, namely, that the admirers and imitators of Titian (particularly the latest) seek his charms quite in the wrong place, and I am convinced that the impressiveness of his painting lies far less in the ardour of his colouring than in the stupendous accuracy and execution of the modelling." In another letter to Steinle he refers to the necessity of mastering the capacities of the brush in order to render form in a complete manner independently of the function of the brush to render colour.

"Those who place the brush behind the pencil, under the pretence that form is before all things, make a very great mistake. Form is certainly all important; one cannot study it enough; but the greater part of form falls within the province of the tabooed brush. The everlasting hobby of contour (which belongs to the drawing material) is first the place where the form comes in; what, however, reveals true knowledge of form, is a powerful, organic, refined finish of modelling, full of feeling and knowledge—and that is the affair of the brush (Pinsel)."

In January 1860 Leighton wrote to Steinle: "You will perhaps be surprised, but, in spite of my fanatic preference for colour I promised myself to be a draughtsman before I became a colourist," and in fact Leighton was fighting, throughout his whole career, against allowing the sensuous qualities in his art to override those which the teaching of Steinle had proved to his nature to be the most truly elevating and ennobling. Up to the age of thirty he had been overshadowed by the influence of others in the matter of actual technique in painting. From the time he settled in London he freed himself from the tutelage of all masters. As we have read in his letters, his intention was to do so in 1856 when he painted "The Triumph of Music;" but at that time he failed in finding his real self in his painting of that picture, and fully realised that he must reculer pour mieux sauter, returning in the autumn of that year to Rome to be fed by the greatest art of the past, and to study again, "face to face with Nature—to follow it, to watch it, and to copy, closely, faithfully, ingenuously—as Ruskin suggests, choosing nothing and rejecting nothing." The studies of a Pumpkin Flower (Meran), Branch of Vine (Bellosquardo), Cyclamen (Tivoli), reproduced in Chapter III., and others, were made during this autumn of 1856.

In a letter written to Mr. M. Spielmann, a few years before his death, Leighton describes the procedure he pursued in accomplishing a serious work.

"In my pictures,—which are above all decorations in the real sense of the word,—the design is a pattern in which every line has its place and its proper relation to other lines, so that the disturbing of one of them, outside certain limits, would throw the whole out of gear. Having thus determined my picture in my mind's eye, in the majority of cases I make a sketch in black and white chalk upon brown paper to fix it. In the first sketch the care with which the folds have been broadly arranged will be evident, and if it be compared with the finished picture, the very slight degree in which the general scheme has been departed from will convince the spectator of the almost scientific precision of my line of action. But there is a good reason for this determining of the draperies before the model is called in; and it is this. The nude model, no matter how practised he or she may be never moves or stands or sits, in these degenerate days, with exactly the same freedom as when draped; action or pose is always different—not so much from a sense of mental constraint as from the unusual liberty experienced by the limbs to which the muscular action invariably responds when the body is released from the discipline and confinement of clothing.

"The picture having been thus determined, the model is called in, and is posed as nearly as possible in the attitude desired. As nearly as possible, I say; for, as no two faces are exactly alike, so no two models ever entirely resemble one another in body or muscular action, and cannot, therefore, pose in such a manner as exactly to correspond with either another model or another figure—no matter how correctly the latter may be drawn. From the model make the careful outline on brown paper, a true transcript from life, which may entail some slight corrections of the original design in the direction of modifying the attitude and general appearance of the figure. This would be rendered necessary probably by the bulk and material of the drapery. So far, of course, my attention is engaged exclusively by 'form,' colour being always treated more or less ideally. The figure is now placed in its surroundings, and established in exact relation to the canvas. The result is the first true sketch of the entire design, figure, and background, and is built up of the two previous ones. It must be absolutely accurate in the distribution of spaces, for it has subsequently to be 'squared off' on to the canvas, which is ordered to the exact scale of the sketch. At this moment, the design being finally determined, the sketch in oil colours is made. It has been deferred till now, because the placing of the colours is, of course, of as much importance as the harmony. This done, the canvas is for the first time produced, and thereon I enlarge the design, re-draw the outline—and never departing a hair's-breadth from the outlines and forms already obtained—and then highly finishing the whole figure in warm monochrome from the life. Every muscle, every joint, every crease is there, although all this careful painting is shortly to be hidden with the draperies; such, however, is the only method of insuring absolute correctness of drawing. The fourth stage completed, I return once more to my brown paper, re-copy the outline accurately from the picture, on a larger scale than before, and resume my studies of draperies in greater detail and with still greater precision, dealing with them in sections, as parts of a homogeneous whole. The draperies are now laid with infinite care on to the living model, and are made to approximate as closely as possible to the arrangement given in the first sketch, which, as it was not haphazard, but most carefully worked out, must of necessity be adhered to. They have often to be drawn piecemeal, as a model cannot by any means always retain the attitude sufficiently long for the design to be wholly carried out at one cast.[2] This arrangement, is effected with special reference to painting—that is to say, giving not only form and light and shade, but also the relation and 'values' of tones. The draperies are drawn over, and made to conform exactly to the forms copied from the nudes of the underpainted picture. This is a cardinal point, because in carrying out the picture the folds are found fitting mathematically on to the nude, or nudes, first established on the canvas. The next step then is to transfer the draperies to the canvas on which the design has been squared off, and this is done with flowing colour in the same monochrome as before over the nudes, to which they are intelligently applied, and which nudes must never—mentally at least—be lost sight of. The canvas has been prepared with a grey tone, lighter or darker, according to the subject in hand, and the effect to be produced. The background and accessories being now added, the whole picture presents a more or less completed aspect—resembling that, say, of a print of any warm tone. In the case of draperies of very vigorous tone, a rich flat local colour is probably rubbed over them, the modelling underneath being, though thin, so sharp and definite as to assert itself through this wash. Certain portions of the picture might probably be prepared with a wash of flat tinting of a colour the opposite of that which it is eventually to receive. A blue sky, for instance, would possibly have a soft, ruddy tone spread over the canvas—the sky, which is a very definite and important part of my compositions, being as completely drawn in monochrome as any other of the design; or, for rich blue mountains a strong orange wash or tint might be used as a bed. The structure of the picture being thus absolutely complete, and the effect distinctly determined by a sketch which it is my aim to equal in the big work, I have nothing to think of but colour, and with that I now proceed deliberately, but rapidly."

So far Leighton explained the conscious processes he went through in creating his pictures; but does this explanation record truly the real agencies which brought about the result we see in his finest achievements? I should say no,—most emphatically no. Where we can trace the sign of these processes, there the picture fails in the power of convincing. No such process produced "Eucharis" nor the "Syracusan Bride." The process may have been gone through in painting the procession, but it is obliterated by touches instinct with a true painter's inspiration. All teachable qualities Leighton could teach on the lines of soundest principles. His extreme modesty left others to find out that where his preaching left off the real work began in his own pictures. No one knew better than Leighton that no theoretic knowledge ever made an artist; no teachable processes ever made a beautiful picture; no one knew better that head without heart never produced any work that was truly cared for.

"God forgive me if I am intolerant," he wrote to Steinle, "but according to my view an artist must produce his art out of his own heart; or he is none."

"The chord that wakes in kindred hearts a tone, Must first be tuned and vibrate in your own"

were the words with which he ended his first address to the students of the Royal Academy.

In the world's estimate of things and people, classification plays at times a pernicious part. Classification in art matters may be tolerated as useful only in the education of the non-artistic. Invariably the most convincing touches escape the possibility of being reduced to so dull a process of reckoning. Art marked by individual spontaneity, emanating from the ego of the artificer, refuses to be levelled down into a class. Critics seem at times to be strongly tempted to fit an artist's achievements into certain classes, because they have previously made up their minds as to the class the work belongs to. Hence the perversion often of even an intelligent critic's estimate: certain squarenesses exist which will not fit into round holes, so, for the sake of classification, the corners must be shaved off. Surely no artist ever existed who evaded being comfortably fitted into either a square or a round hole more completely than did Leighton. Every serious work he undertook was an entirely separate performance from any previous invention—a new venture throughout—and, once decided on, carried through with absolute conformity to the original conception. Therefore any classification, beyond his mere method of working, is more sterile in producing a just estimate of Leighton's art than of those workers who are in the habit of painting pictures in which the same motive recurs. Essentially original in his conceptions as in his aims, and vibrating with receptiveness, he sounded nevertheless every impression he received by unchanging principles adhered to as implicit guides. He had within him at once the steadiest rock as a foundation, and the most fertile of serial growths on the surface. Abiding rock and surface flora alike had had their earliest nurture, it must be remembered, in foreign parts, under other skies than that of our veiled English light—under other influences of nature and of art than that of our English climate and schooling—and it is partly owing to this fact that it is not realised by those who have never seen nature under the aspects which most delighted him, that Leighton's conceptions were directly and invariably inspired by nature. Those who are conversant with Italy and other Southern countries will possess the key to much that is misjudged by others in Leighton's work. Scenes which entranced his sensibilities as a boy, and, lingering ever in his fancy, gave subjects for his paintings when his art was mature, may appear to one without special knowledge of the South as mere echoes of classic art. When he was thirty-one Leighton exhibited the picture "Lieder ohne Worte."[3] It is no record, probably, of any particular place, nor of any particular fountain; but when strolling on a road in or near a southern town or village in Italy, a view which might originally have inspired the motive may be seen at any moment. Encased in a wall near Albano is a fountain which certainly recalled to me the picture as, in the bright light of a May morning, the song of nightingales in the grand foliage of overhanging magnolia trees echoed the sound of the water springing from the glistening lip, and flowing over the clean curve of the marble basin into the trough below. There was the same lion's head which served as spout, the same arrangement of ornament encircling it; also a finely shaped pitcher placed below to catch the water, and—more recalling than any detail—was the echo of the real motive of the picture—the dream-like poetry of the sunlit scene, with the musical accompaniment of trickling water. Had Leighton painted a Discobolus, it would probably never have occurred to most English critics that nature and living action had inspired the work. Above the lake of Albano is a road—"the Upper Gallery"—where every day are to be met men playing the game. Any one watching it may see repeated over and over again the action in the well-known statue. Nature inspired the creations of the great ancients, and it was also invariably first-hand impressions from nature that inspired Leighton's creations, whatever superstructure of learning he added in the course of their development. Living in Italy when his feelings were most sensitive to impressions, the origin of the suggestions he imbibed is to be found in her atmosphere, colouring, and the scenes which surrounded him when his imagination was most free and fertile. Later, when he lived in England, his travels in Italy and Greece supplied him with the subjects for the most beautiful sketches he made direct from nature. No one, I believe, has ever painted the luminous quality of white, as it is seen under heated sunlight in the South, with the same charm as Leighton. The sketches he made of buildings in Capri[4] are quite marvellously true in their rendering of such effects. He made equally beautiful studies of mountains and sea, under the rarefied atmosphere of Greece. He seemed always happiest, I think, when the key of his pictures and sketches was light and sunlit; in such pictures, for instance, as "Winding the Skein," "Greek Girls Picking up Shells by the Seashore," "Bath of Psyche," "Invocation," and others remarkable for their fairness and their light, pure tone.

Leighton's sympathies were adverse to the more sensuous qualities in painting. Often, in discussing the works by Watts, he would strongly discourage those who were, he considered, unduly influenced by the charm of the great painter's quality and texture, from endeavouring to aim at it in their own work. Such a treatment, Leighton maintained, might be legitimate as the natural expression of the intuitive genius of one gifted individual, but was not the treatment to copy by the student on account of any intrinsic merit. He had almost an aversion to any process which obtained effects through roughness and inequality of surface. His genuine youthful predilection, which he retained consistently throughout his life, was for the early Italian art and Italian method of painting al fresco. "To see the old Florentine school again is a thing which always enchants me anew, for one can never be sated with seeing the noble sweetness, the child-like simplicity, allied with high manly feeling, which breathes in it. But I speak to you of plain things which you know far better than I."—(Letter to Steinle from Florence, 1857.)

GREEK GIRLS PICKING UP SHELLS BY THE SEASHORE. 1871
By permission of The Right Hon. Joseph ChamberlainToList

After Leighton became President of the Royal Academy he made Perugia his halting-place for some weeks during his autumn travels, while he wrote his biennial discourses for the students. He invariably stayed at the well-known Brufani Hotel,—Mrs. Brufani, with whom he made great friends, always reserving the same two rooms for him, from the windows of which he could watch the sun set behind the glorious piles of Umbrian mountains to the west of Perugia. From these windows he also made sketches in silver point of the distant ranges, each form modelled with exquisite delicacy and perfection, though in faintest tones. Other inmates of the Brufani supposed he lived in his two rooms, as he was seldom seen elsewhere in the hotel; but Leighton had found a restaurant which, like his old quarters in Rome—the Café Greco—was the resort of the artists living in Perugia. There he would lunch, and then repair to the Sala del Cambio. Sitting on the raised seat near the window, he would, day after day, spend an hour or more revelling in the beauty of the frescoes by Perugino. Then he would mount to the Pinacoteca and take a deep draught of enjoyment from the tempera paintings of Perugino's master, Benedetto Bonfiglio, Leighton's favourite of favourites ("They are all my Bonfigli!" he would exclaim), whose angels' aureoles rest on wreaths of roses, and whose lovely work Perugia seems to have monopolised. The old paintings of Martino, Gentile da Fabiano, Pietro da Foligno, and their followers Leighton also loved, likewise the later work of Bernardino Pinturicchio and Lo Spagna, pupils with Raphael of Perugino. Among his greatest favourites were the painted banners—the Gonfalone—which are peculiar to the Umbrian cities. He loved the freshness of their quality—the result of a first painting never retouched—the masterly ease of the workmanship, full of tender, gracious beauty. These days were Leighton's real holidays, where, in rapturous admiration of the art he loved so profoundly, he put behind him for the time the weight of official responsibility, and the no less exhausting social duties of his life.

Had Leighton been able to devote himself to the method of painting in fresco, and to work in a warm, dry climate, which admits of painting into the wet surface of plaster without danger of the wall retaining the moisture, he would, undoubtedly, have felt a freer impulse to work rapidly and more spontaneously than when his touch was controlled by the complicated procedures in oil painting. In the process of painting al fresco, colour, in a sense, models itself—its absorption into the wet plaster softening the edges of one touch into another; hence, over a first painting no half obliteration is necessary, and any elaborate finish is avoided. Being obliged to complete before the plaster was dry, Leighton could not have yielded to the temptation to over-refine his surface; and his splendid power as a draughtsman, allied to his sense of beauty, would have found a perfectly spontaneous, happy utterance. As a boy he had imbibed one great principle, and from this principle he never deviated. He wrote, "The thoroughness of all the great masters is so pervading a quality that I look upon them all as forming one aristocracy." In his sketches alone did Leighton relax from the strain which absolute thoroughness involves; and then, in all the fervour of æsthetic inspiration, colour would fly on canvas, chalk or paper, with a charm of quality and exquisite grace of line and form which, as Mr. Briton Rivière remarks, is the very best that can be obtained from a great artist thoroughly trained, but which condition Leighton would never admit into what he considered his serious work. He writes to his father from Rome, January 1853: "I was deeply impressed with the glorious works of art I saw in Venice and Florence, and was particularly struck with the exquisitely elaborate finish of most of the leading works by whatever master; the highest possible finish combined with the greatest possible breadth and grandeur of disposition in the principal masses. Art with the old masters was full of love, refined,—sterling." Leighton formed his standard from these old masters, and never for a moment allowed his standard to be replaced by another. In certain types of Englishmen chivalric loyalty develops at times into obstinacy. Leighton, with all his passion for Italy, his artistic sensitiveness, his excitability, his finely wrought nervous temperament, and his intense power of sympathy, had also in his blood something of the old English Tory, which made him adhere and remain loyal to the strongest impressions of his youth. Catholic and generous as he always proved himself to be when it was a question of considering the work of others, when he was considering his own he ever maintained absolute consistency with the tenets of his early illuminations. Speaking of his extraordinary sense of duty and the consequent tension involved, Mr. Briton Rivière writes:—

"No doubt the constant wear and tear occasioned by the perpetual strain of mental and physical watchfulness did much to shorten his life; I think it sometimes injured his own work as an artist, because, though a great artist can never be evolved except by years of patient work and strenuous effort to do his very best always, yet, on the other hand, it is often the happy, easy work and absolutely spontaneous effort of the moment by such a hand which is his very best. Such happy, easy work probably Leighton would seldom allow himself to do, and never would leave at the right moment, but would still strive to make better and more complete. He must still elaborate it and try to make it more perfect; and this it was that made his enthusiastic admirer Watts sometimes say, 'How much finer Leighton's work would be if he would admit the accidental into it.'"

A fact, little suspected by the public, certainly affected the element of strength in some of Leighton's works. Besides often suffering from a positive want of health, his normal physical condition was far from robust; and, as appears in his letters, he suffered much through weakness and irritation in the eyes from the time he was a boy. He did not wear his physical (or any other) distress on his sleeve, and experienced many hindrances in his work never dreamt of, even by his intimate acquaintances. These might not have been so serious had he been willing to sacrifice all other duties in life to his own special vocation; but though he realised that Art, the language of beauty, was his main passion, his conscience would not allow him to make this passion an excuse for avoiding help to his generation on other lines, if he distinctly felt he could do so. In the happiest of surroundings, with his life unburdened by public responsibilities, he painted "Cimabue's Madonna"; and, for pure vigour in the manipulation, this painting has a robust quality which is scarcely to be found in any other of the larger works which followed, though these may possess many other virtues, and evince a more definite individuality, than does the early work.

Leighton's art appeals to the artists (comparatively few in England) possessed of cosmopolitan culture—also to many who love beauty, a sense of refined distinction in feeling and in form and in the arrangement of line. Beyond these it appeals also to the great public outside the radius of specialists, a public which is impressed by a sense of beauty and achievement without possessing the knowledge of experts. It is not much cared for by the disciples of either of the latest schools in England, and in France, which have governed fashion in the matter of taste for the last twenty years. In the first place, it appeals but little to those to whom the highest province of art appears to consist in conveying didactic sentiments and poetic ideas through a language of form and colour—to suggest thought to the brain rather than beauty to the eye. Respecting this theory of the province of art, Leighton expresses himself clearly in his second address to the Royal Academy students in December 1881:—

"Now the language of Art is not the appointed vehicle of ethic truths; of these, as of all knowledge as distinct from emotion, though not necessarily separated from it, the obvious and only fitted vehicle is speech, written or spoken—words, the symbols of ideas. The simplest spoken homily, if sincere in spirit and lofty in tone, will have more direct didactic efficacy than all the works of all the most pious painters and sculptors from Giotto to Michael Angelo; more than the Passion music of Bach, more than a Requiem by Cherubini, more than an Oratorio of Handel.

"It is not, then, it cannot be the foremost duty of Art to seek to embody that which it cannot adequately present, and to enter into a competition in which it is doomed to inevitable defeat."

That so great a painter as Watts should have taken a contrary view, and preached this contrary view as that which inspired his own conscious aims, was quite sufficient to secure to it many adherents. He preached his doctrine, moreover, with a most convincing argument, but one which cannot logically be used in favour of it, namely, his own great genius as a painter. Watts was essentially a painter—one who at his best ranks with the best painters of all times.

Mr. Arthur Symons, writing on "The Psychology of Watts,"[5] quotes a popular preacher who affirmed that "Critics who approach his (Watts') work from the side of technical excellence do not interest him at all. His endeavour has been to make his pictures as good as works of art as was possible to him, for fear that they should fail altogether in their appeal; but, beyond that, their excellence as mere pictures is nothing to him." "Now," writes Mr. Symons, "it is quite possible that Watts may have really said or written something of the kind; he may even, when he set himself down to think, have thought it. The conscious mental processes of an artist have often little enough relation with his work as art; by no means is every artist a critic as well as an artist. But to take a great painter at his word, if he assures you that the excellence of his pictures 'as mere pictures' is nothing to him; to suppose seriously that at the root of his painting was not the desire to paint; to believe for a moment that great pictorial work has ever been done except by those who were painters first, and everything else afterwards, is to confuse the elementary notions of things, hopelessly and finally. And so, when we are told that the technical excellence of Watts' pictures is of little consequence, we can but answer that to the 'painter of earnest truths,' as to all painters, nothing can be of more consequence; for it is only through this technical excellence that 'Hope,' or 'The Happy Warrior,' or 'Love and Life,' is to be preferred to the picture leaflet which the district missionary distributes on his way through the streets."

All who knew Watts intimately and watched him working day by day can testify that he spared no labour, time, or patience, in working over and over on a picture in order to attain the finest quality in the actual surface which his material—paint—could possibly produce.

Neither the disciples of the original brotherhood of the pre-Raphaelites nor those of Burne-Jones care, as a rule, for Leighton's art. Though starting as one with the pre-Raphaelites, Burne-Jones, possessing a remarkably fine intellect, a subtle fancy, a rich inventiveness in the detail of design, an exquisite sense of grace, and great genius as a colourist, developed so distinct an individuality that his followers cannot be precisely identified with those of the pre-Raphaelites. Leighton fully appreciated the genius of Burne-Jones, and did all in his power to secure his adherence to the Academy; but he had no sympathy for that feeling in art evinced by Burne-Jones' followers, which is so essentially rooted in purely personal moods that even distortion of the human frame is condoned, so long as prominence is given to the suggestion of such moods.

Imbued with a rare, peculiar refinement all its own, a kind of æsthetic creed sprang up in the later days of the nineteenth century apart from the arid soil of commonplace respectability and tasteless materialism. Burne-Jones painted it, Kate Vaughan danced it, Maeterlinck wrote it, the "Souls" (rather unsuccessfully) attempted to live it, the humourists caricatured it, the Philistines denounced it as morbid and unwholesome. Leighton was tolerant and amused, but could not be very solemn over it. And, assuredly, already this creed has been whisked away into the past by fashions diametrically opposed to it in character. Its text may be found in Melisande's reiterated refrain, "I am not happy"—though the unhappiness does not seem ever to have been of the nature of the iron which entered into the soul, but rather the shadow of sadness, adopted with the idea that such a condition betokens a more rare and tender grace than the radiance of joy can give. Every mood of the subjective has been lately in fashion in æsthetic circles, and is still rampant in much of the up-to-date (or down-to-date, as it may be) conditions of the present taste. This is probably consequent on the leadership of those artists who possessed not only genius and sense of beauty, but a peculiar charm of texture in their work which seems a native adjunct to certain temperaments. It is a purely personal manner, and crops up without reference apparently to any special school of art. In Sodoma we find it allied to a development of the splendid completeness of Italian Art; again in the Celt, Watts, to a lofty imagination and to a Pheidian sensibility for noble form; it appears in the work of the Jew, Simeon Solomon; and is an element in Burne-Jones' lovely quality of painting especially noticeable in his water-colour drawings—and, on a smaller scale of workmanship, in the pictures by Pinwell. It is more a matter of quality than of colour, and yet it is only colourists who have possessed it—most obviously, however, where the key of colour is restrained almost to monochrome. A hint of it can be found in Tintoretto's paintings, where few positive tints are prominent, as in some of the ceiling paintings in the Ducal Palace at Venice. There is a something which this special handling suggests which possesses a very subtle charm, the charm of dreamland,—less tangible, less real than direct appeals from nature. A slight mystery seems to veil the vision like a reflection swayed by the surface of the water. It is less explicit than any real object, and only suggests completion without quite achieving it; there is something left out from the aspect of nature, something added from the ego of the artist. There are those to whom such a treatment suggests a deeper truth than can any wholly explicit expression, because they feel forcibly that mystery is the soul of all earthly conditions—"we see through a glass darkly." There are others—and Leighton was among these—who are so strongly imbued with a sense of the wonderful and marvellous in actual creation that they need no art, no veiled suggestion of the hidden, in order to realise that our lives are wrapped in mystery from the cradle to the grave. This quality in painting alluded to, fits in with that taste in literature which prefers hints to assertions—that insistency on the value of what is, after all, but a fugitive phase in special temperaments—that setting most value on the principle of suggestion rather than of definition, of which we hear so much. The devotees of Maeterlinck delight in the shadow of a thought rather than the thought arrêté; they feel that a further stage of refined culture is reached in worshipping a style you have to get somehow behind, rather than one in which thoughts are fully and frankly expressed. Doubtless it requires a more subtile weapon to catch the fleeting aroma, the hint of a thought trembling in the brain and giving it permanent existence in Art, than to carve the expression of a complete idea explicitly with cameo-like precision, be it in the form of words or a visual impression—the wise sayings of a Solomon or a Bacon, the sculpture of a Pheidias or the painting of a Leonardo da Vinci. The actual visible facts in the aspects of nature, which were of such entrancing interest to Leighton, become of less and less interest to the wide public as the human intelligence is trained more and more through books, less and less through the eye; our modern conditions making the world we live in, more and more ugly and uninspiring to the echoing tune of nature within us. Even if we recede into the depths of the country, we find the signs all round us of the sense of beauty being deadened, the revulsion against ugliness having ceased—corrugated iron supplanting thatched roofing, and the loveliest, most rural spots in England year after year newly deprived of some special charm they have possessed for centuries. Those who seek for beauty have been led to find it in the unreal—the things which might be, but are not. We cannot help it, but we certainly become more artificial as our civilisation becomes more complicated, and everything we see around us grows uglier. It is because the general public has so little genuine interest in Art or love of beauty, however great may be its professions, that the tendency has developed to care for the art which appeals rather to the mind and the æsthetic sensibilities generally, than to the actual vision.

This reign of the subjective has brought in its train the undue monopolising of the world's most ardent interest in one passion. French novels of great literary power secured to it the monopoly in France, and magnates in æsthetic culture have grafted it on to our English taste. This strongest and most beautiful feeling in human nature has been so monotonously forced upon us in literature à tort et à travers—the assumption that this is the only feeling worth serious consideration has been dwelt on with such a tiresome pertinacity—it has been so often caricatured, so often debased in books and pictures, that even the real thing itself runs a danger of palling. This human passion may be the greatest, but it is not the only great feeling with which the lives of men and women are enriched; and surely the absorbing prominence which has been given to it latterly in literature is out of proportion with its real position in healthy lives. Little sympathy seems left for other deep and stirring emotions. In Leighton's art we find no monopoly of this kind either recorded or suggested. He painted the passion of lovers in the "Paolo and Francesca," but with no more sincere interest than he did other feelings; than, for instance, his fervent and reverent worship of art in "Cimabue's Madonna," or in the ecstasy of joy in the child flying into the embrace of her mother in "The Return of Persephone," or in the exquisite tender feeling of Elisha breathing renewed life into the Shunammite's son, or in that sense of rest and peace after struggle in the lovely figure of "Ariadne" when Death releases her from her pain; or in the yearning for that peace in the "King David": "Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest."

As the climax of nature's loveliest creations Leighton treated the human form with a courageous purity. In his undraped figures there is the same total absence of the mark of the degenerate as there is in everything he did and was; no remote hint of any double-entendre veiled by æsthetic refinement, any more than there is in the Bible, the Iliad, or in the sculpture of Pheidias.

To quote lines that were written about Leighton very shortly before his death:—

"There is truly to be traced in the feeling of his art that 'seal on a man's work of what is most inward and peculiar in his moods'; the sign of individual intimate preferences and of the moving power which certain aspects of beauty have had upon the artist's innermost susceptibilities, though these may be somewhat veiled and distanced by being translated through the reserved form of a classic garb. Perhaps it is this reserve which invests Sir Frederic Leighton's art with the special aroma of poetry which Robert Browning found in it to a greater extent than in any other work of his time.[6] Whether in his larger compositions, in the complicated grouping of many figures, such as the Cimabue picture being led in procession through the streets of Florence, the 'Daphnephoria,' 'Heracles struggling with Death,' the 'Andromache,' the 'Cymon and Iphigenia,' and others; or those simpler compositions, such as the 'Summer Moon,' 'Wedded,' 'The Mountain Summit,' 'The Music Lesson,' 'Sister's Kiss,' in all can be traced the sentiment of a poet inspiring the touch; not overriding by any assertiveness of sentiment the complete scheme of the picture, but lingering here and there with a wistful loveliness which has to be sought for within the barriers of the formal classic design. And it is this reticence in the expression of individual sentiment, this subduing it to the larger conditions of a more abstract style of art which, though it will never make Sir Frederic Leighton's work directly popular, gives to it a quality of distinction. In such reticence is an element of greatness which probably will only be duly appreciated when the more transient moods of thought in the present generation have passed. His work lacks altogether the sentimental, brooding-over-self quality, which, when allied to genius, is contagious, and gives an interest of a subtle, but perhaps not altogether wholesome kind to some of the best work of this era."

And again after his death:—

"Beauty of every kind played on a very sensitive instrument, when it made an appeal to his nature, giving him very positive joy: no complication of subtle interest beyond the actual influence being required before a responding echo was sounded, because so pure and innocent was this joy he had in the charm of beauty;—so also attendant on his personal influence, there was no power of mesmerism, nor of the black arts. In every direction it was healthy and bracing. Even a Nordau could have discovered no remotest taint of the degenerate!"

It is the emotions which art suggests outside itself which have been viewed by one school as more interesting than art itself, and it is the sensuous qualities in painting—colour and texture—which are the visible agents, and convey more readily these suggestions of emotions in our northern temperaments than do beautiful lines and forms. Our northern temperaments also love symbolism and mysticism, therefore are apt to favour the art that meets a veiled condition of things; and the perfection of complete finish in nature's form is no longer held up as a standard for the student to aim at. Leighton had no sympathy with the artificial, neither had he any with the shadow put in the place of the substance. The actual was ever sufficient for him, for in nature herself he never failed to find sufficient inspiration. The mind of the Creator in matter is what the ingenuous artist temperament searches for and is inspired to record; whereas it is, on the one hand, phases of human moods, selections from human passions, good, bad, and indifferent, which are made to saturate the feeling in much of our modern art, or, on the other hand, aspects of nature's moods given without the framework of her structure, and without the detail of her perfection.

It may be argued, however, that there are among the most beautiful effects in nature those which are not fully distinct to the sight—the shimmering iridescence on a shell, where one colour is seen sparkling against another through a film, or the waving branches of a willow, the liquid shifting of a flowing stream, or the endless effects of cloud and mist in a northern sky. To express this in paint requires an appropriate treatment in the manipulation of the pigment itself. Watts' theory was that you have to unfinish the record of certain facts in order to render the truth of the whole fact (see also Steinle's criticism on Leighton's head of "Vincenzo," 1854). He would, therefore, film his painting over with a scumble of white, and only partially repaint the surface, in order to get at that whole truth which includes the bloom of atmosphere and the veil of northern mists. Leighton is thought at times to have erred on the side of explicitness, and the texture of his surface is apt undoubtedly to lack the vibrating quality which carries with it a beauty of its own. This is partly accounted for by the fact that he had imbibed the rudiments of his teaching in a school whose followers were not sensitive to the finest qualities in oil painting, but also probably from his extreme desire to give expression to his sense of the intense finish in nature.

Doctrinaires of the very latest fashion in art insist that nothing comes legitimately within the province of the pictorial, except the impression of nature transmitted to the physical organ detached from memory, experience, and mind. By this faction the eye is treated solely as a machine. Sound as may be the doctrine that art has nothing to do with what the eye cannot see, or with those facts which experience alone teaches us are there, it is also no less true that the human eye sees, according to its intuitive power of transmitting to the brain, the different component parts of the actual object of its vision. It was no knowledge of anatomy which enabled Pheidias to see every subtilty of form in the human figure with consummate insight—any more than it was a knowledge of the laws of the flow and ebb of the tides, which enabled Whistler to give an actual sense of the swaying surface of the waves in "Valparaiso Bay"; again, it was no knowledge of botany which enabled Leighton and Millais to reproduce the structure of plants so perfectly, that they evoked unmitigated admiration as botanical studies from so high an authority on botany as Sir W.C. Thistleton Dyer. We may be told that what we really see is only the relation of tone, of light and shadow; but the fact that the architecture of the whole visible world, the meaning-full construction of all things that nature builds, is being constantly realised by our sight, makes the truth of this theory at least doubtful. That our eye cannot discern these natural objects without light goes without saying; further, that light and shadow shape the forms to be rendered by the brush is also true: but the assertion that what we see is only light and shade playing upon form, is shutting the door on another equally obvious truth. The eye, gifted with a natural sense of form, records ingenuously to the brain the sense of projecting and receding planes, the foreshortening of masses, the straightness, slant, or curve in a surface or in a line. A complete and exhaustive result may be achieved in a painting through this sense of form, as in the work of Van Eycke and of Leonardo da Vinci; or a shorthand record may be made, as in that of Phil May's sketches. But we feel that in both the sense of the whole form has been felt. However, volumes would not exhaust the arguments for and against the so-called impressionist's view of art; so-called—but surely a term unfortunate and misleading, and in nowise explanatory. Every touch a true artist ever puts upon canvas is a record of an impression—whether that impression comprises the structure, light and shade, true colour and tone, all combined,—or only certain surface qualities extracted from its entirety and enforced so that the most obvious appearances start into relief, giving doubtless a sense of vitality to a work, but remaining nevertheless only a partial record of the object. Needless to say, Leighton sought to record his impressions of nature in their entirety, and this necessitated a balancing of their component attributes. The startling element is never found in his art.

He viewed the influence of art as one which should perfect the life of every class; should purify in all directions the debasing elements of materialism and self-interest; should put zest and gratitude into the hearts of all men and women who can see and feel, by awakening a sense of the perfection and beauty of nature, art forming an explanatory and illuminating link between her and mankind—a translation of her perfection transmitted with all reverence by the artificer;—a perfecting beautiful pinnacle in the erection and development of a noble human being.

No words could better describe Leighton's high endeavour in training his own mind and those whom he tried to influence, than the following, written by Lord Acton and quoted by his friend, Sir M. Grant Duff.[7] "If I had the power," writes Sir M. Grant Duff, "I would place upon his monument the words which he wrote as a preface to a list of ninety-eight books he drew up, and about which he still hoped to read a paper at Cambridge when he wrote to me on the subject last autumn. 'This list is submitted with a view to assisting an English youth, whose education is finished, who knows common things, and is not training for a profession, to perfect his mind and open windows in every direction; to raise him to the level of his age, so that he may know the forces that have made the world what it is, and still reign over it; to guard against surprises and against the constant sources of errors within; to supply him both with the strongest stimulants and the surest guides; to give force and fulness, and clearness and sincerity, independence and elevation, generosity and serenity to his mind, that he may know the method and lay of the process by which error is conquered and truth is won, discerning knowledge from probability and prejudice from belief; that he may learn to master what he rejects as fully as what he adopts; that he may understand the origin as well as the strength and vitality of systems, and the better motives of men who are wrong; to steel him against the charm of literary beauty and talent, so that each book, thoroughly taken in, shall be the beginning of a new life, and shall make a new man of him.'" In a like spirit Leighton sought to arrive at viewing art; and what Lord Acton sought to effect by the general culture of men's minds and natures through reading, Leighton sought to effect in his special vocation by inducing other artists to study all that was greatest in Art from a wide and unprejudiced point of view—making it their own, so to speak, by thoroughly realising and appreciating the qualities in it which make it great. Each true masterpiece in Art, he urged, should be thoroughly taken in, and should be the beginning of a new effort. On the other hand, he sought to make the student "learn to master what he rejects as fully as what he adopts, that he may understand the origin as well as the strength and vitality of systems, and the better motives of men who are wrong." His desire was to guide art into the current of the world's best interests—the current in which good literature is so forcible an agent—on the highest, broadest, most catholic lines. He endeavoured to do so by his example as a working artist, by his Discourses, by his labours for the public in every direction where the Art of his country was concerned, and more directly by his influence on those with whom he personally came in contact.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This picture has, I believe, unfortunately left the country. It was suggested by a passage in the second Idyll of Theocritus: "And for her, then many other wild beasts were going in procession round about, and among them a lioness." Sketches for portions of the picture and the squared tracing for the complete design can be seen in the Leighton House Collection. The full-length portrait of Mrs. James Guthrie was exhibited the same year as this second processional picture, which appeared on the walls of the Academy eleven years after the "Cimabue's Madonna." The head of the central figure, the Bride, Leighton painted from Mrs. Guthrie. The following charming letter from Mrs. Norton, the most notable of Sheridan's three beautiful daughters, refers to this picture:—

3 Chesterfield Street,
April 9.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I was so amused by the little grandson's observation on the picture that I cannot help writing about him. I asked him "what he thought of it"? He said, "Oh! it was beautiful! but you told me it would be beautiful—Mr. Leighton was like a man in a story! you did not look so much at him as Carlotta and I did, but I suppose you have seen him before, and you did not seem to pity the little panther! There was, in the picture, a little young puppy panther, and one of the young brides was coaxing it so tenderly, and looking down at its head; and she was one of the prettiest and kindest looking of all the brides (it was the side of the picture furthest from the screen); and I could not help thinking, 'Ah, my poor little panther! you little know when the brides get into that temple, and she gets married, how she'll forget all about you, and get coaxing other things, her husband and her children'; and I felt quite sorry for the panther." So spoke my grandson (just as I felt sorry for the cripple beggar).

Now, as I am quite sure no one else will take this view of what is the principal interest in your glorious procession of youth and hope, I thought it as well to let you know, that you might give that little panther his due importance (a little leopard, I think he is), and not suppose him a subordinate accessory! That whole procession was tinged with mournfulness in Richard Norton's eyes for that little leopard's sake. I shall see that "Dream of Fair Women" again in the Exhibition, and admire it, as I did to-day, in a crowd of other admirers, I know. I do not mind the crowd. I see over them and under them, and through them, when there is anything so worth being eager about.—Believe me meanwhile, yours very truly,

Caroline Norton.

[2] In a letter from Leighton to his mother, the following sentence occurs:—"Will you please explain to him" (his father) "that I am not going to model the drapery of my figures, but the figures themselves to lay the drapery on, as my models could not fly sufficiently long for me to draw them in the act; it is of course a very great delay, but the result will amply make up for the extra trouble, I hope."

[3] The picture has left the country, but sketches of the complete design are among those in the Leighton House Collection.

[4] Lent by Lady Wantage to the Exhibition, in Leighton House, of the smaller works and sketches in 1903.

[5] Outlook, July 15th, 1905.

[6] When standing with me before Leighton's picture "Wedded" in the studio Robert Browning exclaimed, "I find a poetry in that man's work I can find in no other."

[7] "The Late Lord Acton." The Spectator, July 5, 1902.

CHAPTER IToC

FIRST STUDIO IN LONDON

1859-1863

In 1858 Leighton was represented on the Royal Academy walls by two pictures, "The Fisherman and the Syren"—a subject from Goethe's ballad,

"Half drew she him, Half sunk he in, And never more was seen"—

and by a scene from "Romeo and Juliet," both small canvases painted in Rome and in Paris.[8]

Leighton at this time received an encouraging letter from Robert Fleury, from whom he had learned much:—

Que parlez vous de reconnaissance, mon cher Monsieur Leighton? de l'amitié je le veux bien, et je reçois, à ce titre seulement, le dessin que vous m'avez envoyé. Ne me suis je pas fait plaisir en vous reconnaissant du talent et en vous rendant la justice qui vous est due? si vous m'avez donné l'occasion de vous faire part de ma vieille espérance n'est ce pas une preuve de l'estime que vous faites de mes conseils? Puisque vous m'offrez généreusement votre amitié, je l'accepte de bien bon cœur, et votre petit dessin me restera comme un gracieux souvenir de vous.

Robert Fleury.

Paris, le 18 Mars 1858.

In the autumn of 1858 Leighton was back in Rome, and it was at that time the King, then Prince of Wales, first visited his studio. "I myself had the advantage of knowing him (Leighton) for a great number of years—ever since I was a boy—and I need hardly say how deeply I deplore the fact that he can be no more in our midst," were the words spoken by the King—thirty-nine years after this first meeting—at the Royal Academy banquet, which took place after Leighton's death, 1st May 1897.

He worked in Rome till his pictures were finished for exhibition in the spring, 1859.

He wrote to his mother:—

It is my particular object and study to go to no parties, in the which I have succeeded admirably. I go often to Cartwright's in the evening, that don't count; now and then to Browning, now and then to the play, see a good deal of Lady Hoare; and that reminds me that Hoare sent you some game the other day, which, however, was returned, as you were not forthcoming. By-the-bye, when I say I have made no acquaintances of interest, that is not true; Odo Russell, son and brother of my friends, Lady William and Arthur Russell, and our diplomatic agent here, is a great friend of mine, and particularly sympathetic. I see him often at Cartwright's, who is his alter ego; also I know and like Miss Ogle, who wrote that (I hear) exceedingly remarkable novel, "A Lost Love." She is a country clergyman's daughter in a remote corner of Yorkshire, and wrote this book when she had, I believe, never lived out of a circle of "kettles." She is not young, but agreeable and quaint.

I am just finishing the largish studies of a very handsome model here, and am about to send them off for exhibition. They seem very popular with all who see them, and are, I think, my best things.

1859.

Dearest Mammy,—I find to my annoyance that I have mislaid your kind letter, so that I must answer as best I can from memory.

That the French and Austrians have been formally requested by the Pope to withdraw their troops from the States of the Church is, I have ascertained from good authority, true, though how on earth you can have known in Florence so long ago a thing which has only just happened, and which is still in great measure a secret here, is what I can't make out; but, dear Mamma, I trust this won't prevent your coming to Rome in April, as there is no chance of the evacuation being carried into effect by that time. There will be particularly (indeed exclusively) on the side of Austria a great demur and pourparler, inasmuch as the consequences of this step will probably be most serious to her; so that for the next few months we need fear nothing. I trust you will come; however, of course I dread the responsibility of insisting too much. You will see how matters look in a few weeks. I am just about to despatch to the Royal Academy some studies from a very handsome model, "La Nanna." I have shown them to a good many people, artists and "Philistines," and they seem to be universally admired. Let us hope they will be well hung in the Exhibition. Talking of exhibitions, you will be rather amused to hear that my "Samson" has been refused at the British Institution, which this year is particularly weak and insignificant. It is gone in to the Suffolk Street now, unless too late. Neither I nor anybody else has the least idea what is the cause of this strongish measure. I have sent my "Negroes" to Paris, and if it is not too late the "Juliet" and "Paris" will go there also. I think they will be well hung, as they are godfathered by Mr. Montfort, my kind and valuable friend. This afternoon the Prince of Wales came to my studio, with Colonel and Mrs. Bruce, Gibson, &c. &c. Gibson spoke in the very highest terms of my pictures, so of course all the others were delighted!

Tuesday Morning.

I have not been able to answer your letter till now, and indeed even now I am interrupting my work to do it; I will answer all your questions categorically. First, about the brigands—I have made inquiries, and have heard of nothing new since these two cases about five weeks back, and am told that now the roads may be considered safe; indeed, no time is generally so good for travelling as just after an accident of that kind, as the authorities are on the look out: if you go by vetturino, there will in all probability be other vetturini on the road, and you will start together and arrive together from and to the different stations on the road. You quite misunderstood the sense of my letter, dear Mamma, if you imagined that I knew nothing of rumours of war, &c. &c.—so far from not knowing what is going on, I live in a hot-bed of politics, what with Cartwright and what with Odo Russell. I expressed my surprise that you should speak with confidence of the withdrawal of the French troops when the official news of the Pope's formal request to that effect could not yet have reached Florence, for the reason that it had not taken place; with the Florentine politicians the wish must have been father to the thought. What really will happen is impossible to say; they won't withdraw till the Austrians do—that is pretty certain; the French, I think, like to mislead people about it. A French general told a friend of mine that in six weeks they would all be gone, but Antonelli, who ought to be the best authority, told Odo Russell they would not go for six months, though the occupation has already ceased (as the Moniteur expresses it) "en principe." You see, dear Mamma, that it is entirely impossible for me to give you any definite information at a moment when nobody seems to know what is coming next. I should be very much disappointed if you could not come; if you settle to come, let me know in time to look for rooms at an Hôtel, and tell me what you expect to give. My work would not allow me to go to Florence. My pictures for the R.A. this year are three portraits in different sizes and attitudes from the same model, all dressed—one a small half-length, the other a kit-cat, the third a small head the size of my hand—this I have sold to Lady Hoare for forty guineas. It has been much coveted—Lady Stratford de Redcliffe wanted a repetition (I never do repetitions), and Mrs. Phipps seemed quite distressed it was sold. The Prince and his party told O. Russell they liked my studio better than any they had seen in Rome. My "Pan" and "Venus" are stowed away in London.

Besides the three portraits of a model mentioned in his letter, exhibited at the Royal Academy, 1859, Leighton sent "Samson and Delilah" to Suffolk Street. For studies of this picture, see Leighton House Collection.

Later, from Naples, he wrote:—

Wednesday Morning, 1859.

I scribble two lines in haste before starting to Capri to announce my safe arrival here in the middle of the day on Monday. I found here several letters from England; but, as I had presumed, that report about the sale of all my pictures was a canard. Lord Lansdowne wishes very much for a repetition of my small profile of Nanna, but as I refused to make one for Lady Stratford, I of course can't for him. George de Monbrison has very kindly consented to give up his Nanna to the Prince,[9] but is evidently sadly disappointed—so much so, that I have written to offer to do what I could not under any other circumstances, i.e. copy it for him.

This place is in great beauty. I have been received with the greatest hospitality by the Hollands, with whom I have dined and supped both days.

Yesterday I breakfasted with Augustus Craven,[10] who photographed me. He is a great adept at this art, and devotes much time to it. He has a most lovely house here, looking out on to the sea.

I have nothing to add for the present, and I will write again from Capri.

This visit to Capri produced the famous drawing of the Lemon Tree.[11] Mr. Ruskin wrote: "Two perfect early drawings are of 'A Lemon Tree' and of a 'Byzantine Well'" (see List of Illustrations), "which determine for you without appeal the question respecting necessity of delineation as the first skill of a painter. Of all our present masters, Sir Frederic Leighton delights most in softly-blended colours, and his ideal of beauty is more nearly that of Correggio than any since Correggio's time. But you see by what precision of terminal outline he at first restrained and exalted his gift of beautiful vaghezza." In letters to Leighton, Ruskin refers to these drawings:—

1860.

Dear Leighton,—Unless I write again I shall hope to breakfast with you on Friday, and see and know evermore how a lemon differs from an orange leaf. In cases of doubtful temper, might the former more gracefully and appropriately be used for bridal chaplet?—Most truly yours,

J. Ruskin.

15th December 1882.

Dear Leighton,—Of course I want the lemon-tree! but surely you didn't offer it me before? May I come on Tuesday afternoon for both? and I hope to bring "Golden Water," but I hear there's some confusion between the Academy and the Burlington Club. "Golden Water" is perhaps too small a drawing for the Academy—but you'll see.

I wish the lecture on sculpture you gave that jury the other day had been to a larger audience, and I one of them.—Ever affectionately yours,

J. Ruskin.

17th November.

Dear Leighton,—I brought up the "Byzantine Well,"[12] but was forced to trust my friend, John Simon, to bring it across the Park to you, and then forbid him till I wrote you this note, asking you to spare a moment to show him the "Damascus Glass and Arab Fountain." He is, as you know, a man of great eminence, with a weakness for painting, which greatly hinders him in his science.—Ever your loving,

J.R.

I can't get lectures printed yet.

With reference to differences of opinion which had arisen between them on certain art questions, Ruskin wrote in 1879: "I expected so much help from you after those orange (lemon) trees of yours!" Later (1883) he wrote: "The Pre-Raphaelite schism, and most of all, Turner's death, broke my relations with the Royal Academy. I hope they may in future be kinder; its President (Leighton) has just sent me two lovely drawings (the 'Lemon Tree' and the 'Byzantine Well') for the Oxford Schools, and, I think, feels with me as to all the main principles of Art education."

After his visit to Capri Leighton returned to London. He stayed with Mr. Henry Greville, and while there wrote to his mother the following letters:—

19 Queen Street,
Wednesday Morning, 1859.

I have so far altered my plans that I stay on until Saturday morning instead of going to-morrow with Mrs. Sartoris as I had intended. I have still a call or two to make, and, besides, am going to dine to-morrow with Mario and spend the evening of Friday at Lord Lansdowne's, whose invitation I got though I had not called on him. I suppose that a card was sent me because my name was on the old list. I have since met him (at Henry's party), and he made himself very amiable, renewing the invitation by word of mouth. I have just been spending two or three days at Old Windsor with Miss Thackeray, who has been kindness itself as usual; the weather was divine, and we took exquisite drives. Chorley[13] also has been a kind friend to me; he took me twice to the Handel Festival, seating me, conveying me, breakfasting me, and, but that I was engaged, would have dined me. The Festival was, as you have no doubt read in the papers, most successful, the choruses, considering the enormous difficulty of training such masses of people (2000!) were excellent; the quantity of sound produced was, of course, enormous, still there was no din, nothing stunning, only an exceedingly dense and close-textured quality of sound. The solo singers varied in excellence. Clara Novello shone by the quality of her voice, which carries any distance, and by the correctness of her singing, but to me she is entirely without charm, and left me as cold after the great song of the Nativity in the "Messiah" as if she had not sung at all. Miss Dolby sang well throughout; she was remarkable for the excessive decorum and simplicity of her singing. She finishes a phrase with great breadth; her voice, to some people disagreeable, is to me very simpatica, and she gave me altogether the greatest pleasure. Sims Reeves, whom but a few days back I heard sing so badly at Liverpool, astounded me here by the remarkable care and study he brought to bear on his solos. He sang in the "Messiah," beginning with "Behold and see if there be any sorrow," &c. He sang exquisitely; and in the "Israel" he sang "The enemy said" (a very ungrateful song) as well as possible. He was vociferously encored, and well deserved it. —— was simply abominable, without a redeeming point. ——, though less aggressively bad, was too insignificant to say much about at all. Of course, altogether, the solos, especially the more vigorous ones, were too weak for the choruses; that could not be otherwise short of having four pair of Lablache lungs. Costa led to perfection; it was a sight to see him.

Friday, Paris.

Dearest Mamma,—I write you a few lines just to announce my safe return to Paris. You have no doubt by this time got the box back again. Henry was, as always, very kind to me, and I spent three days very simply at his house. I had intended, when I left this, to stay only two days in London, but those days being Saturday and Sunday, I remembered that all the Galleries were shut, and therefore, being most anxious to see the new Veronese, I stayed over Monday. I was delighted with the pictures in the National Gallery and also at Marlborough House, but the annual exhibition at the British Institution is deplorable. I have decided, on the advice of Buckner, Colnaghi, and others, to send my "Niggers" ("A Negro Dance"—water-colour—from sketch made in Algiers) to the Suffolk Street Exhibition (where I shall be well hung through Buckner's intervention) if I get done in time: it will be a hard race, as the Exhibition opens a month sooner than the R.A.

I reached home Tuesday evening at 10½ o'clock, after a good passage; I was, however, suffering from a shocking indigestion, and, to crown all, was kept awake till four in the morning by a ball immediately under my bed. Next morning I had to paint away at Gallatti (my model) willy nilly (particularly nilly), feeling seedy and frightfully cross. However, my "Gehazi" is now as near as possible finished, and to-morrow I go in for the "Niggers." I hope, dear Mamma, you will let me hear at once what Lina or Suth. write; I am most anxious to hear more.

Good-bye, dear Mamma. Best love to all from your most affectionate

Fred.

Friday, 26th.

I am happy to say I have just done my "Niggers," and though too late for the ordinary mode of conveyance on account of an accident in the papers, I am saved by the exceeding kindness of a secretary of the Sardinian Embassy, a great friend of mine; it will be taken over on Monday night by a messenger under the seals of the Embassy, and will just arrive in time. On Sunday I hope to show it to Monfort, Fleury, and Scheffer. I will let you know their verdict.

From America I have good and bad news. The bad is that my "Pan" and "Venus" are not being exhibited at all on account of their nudity, and are stowed away in a cupboard where F. Kemble with the most friendly and untiring perseverance contrived to discover them. This is a great nuisance. I have sent for them back at once; they know best whether or no it is advisable to exhibit such pictures in America, but they certainly should have let me know. I have written to Rossetti about it to-day, expressing my regret and desires, and have added "my pictures have been exposed to the wear and tear of several long journeys not only entirely for no purpose, but, being shut out from the light, they are even suffering an injury; meanwhile I am neglecting the opportunity of showing and disposing of them in England, a possibility which I might willingly forego for the sake of supporting an enterprise in which I am interested, but not to adorn a hidden closet in the United States." Fanny Kemble was charmed with the pictures, went often and pluckily to the forbidden cupboard, and said she only wished she could afford to buy them.

Friday.

Since I last wrote I have had a note from Rossetti, the Secretary of the American Exhibition, giving me a piece of information about my "Romeo" which can't fail to gratify you. He said that, had my picture not been bought by Mr. Harrison, a public subscription would have been opened to procure it for the Academy of Arts at Philadelphia. Rossetti answers me (as indeed I did not doubt) that he had not the remotest notion of the fate of "Pan" and "Venus." He has written on my request to beg they may be sent back at once to Europe. By Henry Greville's urgent advice I have given notice that I shall send the "Orpheus," as they have applied for more pictures; things were selling so satisfactorily that there was scarcely anything left to exhibit in Boston. I am glad to be able to reassure you about the "Niggers." Sartoris did like them exceedingly even before they were anything like as good as they are now. Cartwright, who is not géné to dislike, is enchanted with them, and says if they are not sold at once people are fools, for he has not for some time seen anything he likes so much. Puliza Ricardo and other "publics" like it extremely. Robert Fleury considered it highly original, and said that if he only saw one little head in it he would say, "c'est d'un coloriste." R. Fleury, you know, blames very roundly what he does not like. Montfort, my most candid adviser, was delighted, and said of a particular bit "je vous assure c'est tout à fait comme Decamps." This is unconditional praise. Again I consulted him about its chances of success in the gallery of water-colours. He said, "Comme aquarelle je vous promets qu'il n'y en a pas beaucoup qui font comme cela;"—about water colour being infra. dig., showing myself competent in two materials can only raise me. Poor Scheffer was unwell and could not come. You see, dear Mammy, you need not be so uneasy. I fully appreciate your and Papa's anxiety about my pictures; but it has too great a hold on you when it makes you think that I am entirely reckless and foolish, and that rather than give in I should tell a lie and say it was too late to withdraw a picture when it might still be done. Many thanks for the extract about Sutherland which, however, I had already seen, Henry Grev. having sent it me a week ago. My "Niggers" arrived in time by great luck. Buckner godfathers them.

In haste with very best love, your affectionate boy,

Fred.

19 Queen Street, 1859.

I have got, through the kindness of Elmore (R.A.), a sort of studio at the other end of the world; I believe I told you this in my last note; I suppose my things will come over in a week or less. I am in great doubt about being able to paint in that studio, and about its having been any use to come over to London without the possibility of a really good locale: however, here I am. I shall brush up my acquaintances and see a good deal of my friends. Don't reckon on my selling anything—I don't at all. My picture is hung so that it is virtually impossible to see it. I went to look at my "Niggers" in Suffolk Street, and am confirmed in the idea (that also of my friends) that it is my best work. I have as yet nothing worth writing about, so good-bye, dearest Mamma, best love to all.

2 Orme Square, Sunday, 1859.

Having got on Monday last into my studio and been very busy ever since, this is absolutely the first moment I have found to sit down and write to you.

You will wish to know some particulars about my studio. Of course after Paris and Rome it is a sad falling off—narrow and dark, though I believe, for London, very fair; when I live here I must have a much larger light or I shall go blind—however, I must not look a gift horse in the mouth. I have had to furnish—this costs me about nine or ten shillings a week; I keep a servant (a stupid, pompous, verbose, dirty, willing, honest scrub) to run my errands and clean my brushes, &c. &c., at half-a-crown a day; models are five shillings a sitting here—ruination!—men with good heads there are none—women, tol-lol!—a lay figure, twenty-five shillings a month; in short, historical painting here is not for nothing; I am working at my "Samson" picture; God knows how I shall finish it in so short a time! Dearest Mammy, I shall have but a very short peep at you this year, I am very sorry to say—I lost a full month waiting for this wretched studio. I don't see my way through my work before the middle or even end of the second week in August, and I cannot well give up going to Scotland though only for a very few days, as I have accepted so long ago. I am to go there on the 20th; after that I must rush back post-haste to Stourhead to finish Lady Hoare; all this will make me very late for Italy, as I am anxious to revisit the north of that country and study the Correggios a little at Parma before going south. I shall be obliged to scamper across the country. I must be in Rome or the neighbourhood in October; I am going to finish my Cervara landscape on the spot.

I am in very fair health, London decidedly agrees with me, and I don't suffer as much as I expected from the obligato spleen of blue devildom. I need not say this is a source of immense congratulation to me.

When the picture "Nanna" returned from the Royal Academy, where it was exhibited in 1859, Leighton sent it to Bath, writing to his mother to announce its arrival.

London, 1859.

Dearest Mammy,—I scribble a word in haste to announce to you that I have sent "Nanna" off to Bath for you to see, she wants varnish very badly as you see, but is not dry enough for that yet. You must mind and put her in the right light, the window must be on the left of the spectator—the more to the left of the picture you stand yourself the less you will see the want of varnish. If you stand to the right of the painting you won't see it at all. Please send "Nanna" back when you have shown to whom you wish, as she is overdue at Paris.

Saturday Morning, 1859.

I returned yesterday from the Highlands, and have at last time to write you a little word. My stay in the North has been most satisfactory, I have enjoyed myself thoroughly, and have felt particularly well in the keen bracing air of the mountains. My time has been spent exclusively in walks, rides, and drives, for the weather was great part of the time too uncertain to allow of sitting out to paint (even had there been time), whereas no amount of showers prevented our going out, and indeed to those showers I owe seeing some of the most superb effects of colour, light and shade, that I ever beheld. We used sometimes to have three or four duckings in one ride, drying again in the sun, or not as the case might be, and never catching even the phantom of a cold, so healthy and invigorating is the breath of those healthy hills. I said I painted nothing and bring home an empty portfolio (all but a flower I drew one very wet morning), but I have studied a great deal with my eyes and memory, and come back a better landscape painter than I went. On my road home, at Dunkeld, where I lingered a day (exquisite spot), I jotted down in oils two reminiscences of effects observed at Kinrara with which I am rather well pleased—one is a stormy Scandinavian bit of cloud and hill, the other a hot sunny expanse of golden corn and purple heather, which looks for all the world like a bit of Italy. Mind, they are the merest little sketches, but accurate in the impression of the effect.

I go on Monday morning to Stourhead, where I stay till Saturday, and start Monday week for the Continent. Please send me a line to Stourhead. How are you, darling? and Lina and Gus? and Papa? Have you had any more drives?—Your loving boy,

Fred.

On returning to England Leighton took up his abode in his first studio in England. Hitherto he had paid visits to London,—Rome, and subsequently Paris, being his real home, for an artist's true home is in his studio. In the autumn of 1859 he settled in 2 Orme Square, and from that time to his death London became his headquarters.

After having settled into his studio in Orme Square in the winter of 1859, he wrote to Steinle and to Robert Browning the following letters:—

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater, London,
December 5, 1859.

My dear Friend and Master,—What a long time it is since I heard from you! my last letter, despatched from Rome, has had no answer.

I enclose a photograph of a memorial tablet which I executed in Rome last winter for my poor widowed sister. The monument is of white marble with black mosaic decoration; the four dark circles are bronze nails, which secure the marble tablet to the wall.

When I had finished work in Rome, I went south and spent five weeks in Capri. You would hardly believe, dear Friend, how this wonderful island delighted me. I made vigorous use of my visit and executed a fairly large number of conscientious studies. I also took the opportunity to visit Paestum for the first time. I may say that the Temple of Neptune gave me the most exalted architectonic impression that I have ever received; I shall never forget that morning. The two neighbouring temples, however, are not worth looking at, except from a painter's point of view.

Meanwhile, the season being advanced, I was obliged, with real regret, to give up my plan of going to Frankfurt, and to hurry back to England. Here I am now permanently established. I confess that I did not pitch my tent here without some anxiety; I had not spent a single winter in England since my earliest childhood, and I had good reason to fear that to me, with my love of sunshine, it would prove a little harsh. I also feared the climate for my bodily health. However, "native air" appears to be not altogether an empty phrase, but I find myself, notwithstanding the fog, well and in good spirits. Man must indeed carry the sun in his heart—if he is to have it. Of work in particular, I have nothing much to say. Later, in the course of the winter, I will report more at length.

Meanwhile, dear Master, write to me very soon. Tell me whether you still think of your pupil, and especially tell me about your certainly numerous works.—Your grateful pupil,

Leighton.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
London, January 12, 1860.

I spoke little in my last letter of my present work, partly perhaps because of the feeling I have already described, but partly also because I intend to send you a photograph directly the picture is finished, which will not be till spring. It is a commission, and the subject is religious. There is only a single figure, and I would describe it to you now, but that I fear you would imagine the picture much more beautiful than I can paint it, and you would consequently suffer a disappointment later on in my work which would be painful to me. For the rest, I am striving as hard as I can to make it fine and simple. You will perhaps be surprised, but, in spite of my fanatic preference for colour, I promised myself to be a draughtsman before I became a colourist.

And now adieu, my dear Friend. Directly I can show you anything in "black and white" you shall hear from me again, and I shall expect from you, as my old master, the most unsparing criticism; that is the greatest proof of love you can give me.

Fred Leighton.

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
January 29, '60.

Dear Browning,—It is not till the other day that I at last received from Cartwright your Rome address, or I should have written to you some time ago; before it was too late to wish you a merry Xmas and health, happiness, and all prosperity for yourself and Mrs. Browning in the present year. I don't know that I have anything worth telling you to write about, for all the little incidents which have their importance for the space of a day, all appear too trivial to write about after a lapse of a week or two. Still I write to assure you I keep up my most affectionate remembrance of you, and to beg that you won't entirely forget me. I received your kind letter at the beginning of the winter, and was truly concerned to hear that Mrs. Browning had been so alarmingly unwell; I trust that the air of Rome, which once before was so beneficial to her, will have strengthened and recruited her again this time. Dear old Rome! how I wish I could fly over and spend a week or so with you all in my old haunts. I suppose I shall never be entirely weaned of that yearning affection I entertain for Italy, and particularly for Rome and the "Comarea." You must have it all to yourselves this year. What a delight it must be to see neither Brown, Jones, nor Robinson.

I suppose Cartwright, Pantaleone, and Odo Russell are the staple of your convivial circle; and, by-the-bye, how much more freely Mrs. Browning must breathe this winter without certain daily visitations which I remember last year. I wonder whether you will write to me and tell me what you are doing, socially and artistically; everything about you will interest me.

As for myself, you would not believe it, in spite of my old habits of continental life and sunshine, I take very kindly to England; it agrees with me capitally, really better than Rome. I am fattening vue d'œil. The light is certainly not irreproachable, still I can work, and don't find that my ideas get particularly rusty. On the contrary, for colour, certainly my sense seems to be sharpened in this atmosphere.

I am soldiering too. I drill three times a week, and make as bad a soldier as anybody else. The Sartoris, you know, are no longer in London—a great loss to all their friends—but I go pretty often to see them in the country, and have spent many a happy day there in the course of the winter. By-the-bye, do you hear or know anything of those two drawings I did of you and Mrs. Browning? If so, will you give the one of you to Hookes that he may send with some other things he has? And now, dear Browning, "vi leverò l'incomodo," and will bring this very tedious epistle to a close. Remember me most kindly to Mrs. Browning, to Cartwright and his wife, to Odo Russell, B——, Pantaleone with better half, Storeys, and last, but not least, dear little Hatty! Love to Cerinni; tell me about him. Good-bye.—Believe me, very affectionately yours,

Fred Leighton.

I am hand-and-glove with all my enemies the pre-Raphaelites. Woolner sends his affectionate remembrances.

Leighton writes to his sister in Italy:—

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
March 12.

My dear Gussykins,—You may have heard from Mamma that I went to Paris to hear Madame Viardot in "Orphée." What wonderful singing! what style! what breadth! what pathos! You would have been enchanted, I am sure. Do you know the music? It is wonderfully fine and pathetic, the first chorus particularly is quite harrowing for the accent of grief about it. Madame Viardot's acting, too, is superb—so perfectly simple and grand, it is really antique. And when you consider all she has to overcome—a bad, harsh voice, an ugly face, an ungainly person; and yet she contrives to look almost handsome. She enters heart and soul into her work; she said it was the only thing she ever did that (after fifty performances) had not given her a moment's ennui. I am afraid there is no chance of her singing it in England this year, if at all; I don't believe the Covent Garden audience would sit through it.[14]

I also saw Gounod's new opera, "Philémon et Baucis," and was disappointed. Nothing but the care and distinction of the workmanship redeems it from being a bore; the subject is ill adapted for the stage, and is dragged through three acts with portentous efforts. Striking melodies there are few, charming accompaniments many; all the pretty music (or nearly) is in the orchestra—c'est la sauce qui fait avaler le poisson. The introductions to the first and second acts, but particularly the latter (a little motif on the oboë), are charming; there is also a capital chorus. All this, however, is an impression after one hearing; I might alter my mind on hearing it oftener, but I think not.

In the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1860 Leighton sent one picture only, "Sunrise—Capri."

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, September 15, 1860.

My very dear Friend,—I was almost afraid that you would think that I had entirely forgotten you, but this would be a very undeserved interpretation of my long silence. No, my dear Master, you still live in my constant memory, in my most grateful recollection.

When I last wrote, I promised to send you a photograph of my large picture. This work has taken up my time far beyond my expectations, and I always put off writing in order not to send you an empty letter. At last it is thus far, and I enclose both the large photograph and some little ones, in the hope that you, dear Master, will be interested also in the unimportant works of your old pupil.

Have I already told you the subject of my religious picture? I think not. At the turning-point of a very critical illness, the lady who commissioned my picture dreamt that she, as a disembodied spirit, soared up heavenwards in the night.[15] Suddenly she was aware of a point of light in the far vault of heaven. This light grew, developed, and soon she saw coming forth from the night the shining form of the Saviour. Full of confidence she approached the holy apparition. Jesus, however, raised His hands and, gently repulsing her, enjoined her to return to earth, and during her life to make herself worthier to enter the company of the blessed. She awoke, recovered, and ordered the picture.

You will be able to imagine, my dear Friend, how little contented I am with my work; however, I am accustomed to show you my weaknesses, and I therefore send you also this unsatisfactory work. As regards the photograph, it is in certain respects successful, although it makes the whole picture four times too dark.

I send also a portrait of my sister; a head of an English soldier, who lost an arm at Balaclava, and recently died of consumption; and finally a photograph after a drawing on wood, which I drew for a book, but which has been incredibly disfigured by the engraver. Fortunately I had the drawing (although bad) photographed before I sent it to be engraved.

But enough of me and my affairs.

And you, dear Master, what are you working at? Are your cartoons all finished? Shall you soon begin your frescoes? What other beautiful things have you composed?

Do not punish my long silence, but send me a couple of lines to tell me what interests me so deeply. So soon as I have finished anything new (and I have many pictures in prospect) I will send you another specimen of my handiwork.

Meantime I beg you will remember me most cordially to your wife and daughters, and to my other friends in Frankfurt. And yourself do not altogether forget, your loving pupil,

Fred Leighton.

It was in 1860 Leighton joined the Artist Rifle Corps. It was also then he first made the acquaintance of Sir William B. Richmond (now Chairman of the Leighton House Committee).

December 12, 1860.

Dearest Mammy,—I have deferred until now answering your kind letter that I might be able to announce to you a little circumstance which took place yesterday, and which, though not of any real importance, may give you and Papa pleasure. I was yesterday raised to the rank of Captain; I command the 3rd Company—Lewis was at the same time made Captain of the 2nd—his election of course came before mine; he has done three times more for the Corps than I have or could have done—he lives very near and goes every day—as a man of business, and a very clever one, he has entirely organised the bookkeeping department, and in fact has been altogether the vital principle of the Corps. I was chosen next for having shown some zeal in this service and some little capability for teaching. The vacant lieutenancies go to Nicholson (the musician) and Talfourd. One of the ensigncies has been given to Perugini, contingent on its being lawful for him to hold such commission; another to old Palmer. So much for our volunteering. I wish we had a commander. The next question in your letter I thought I had answered in my last—however, though Ruskin stayed about three hours and was altogether very pleasant, he did not say anything that I could quote about my paintings. He was immensely struck by my drawing of a lemon-tree, and was generally complimentary, or rather, respectful, that is more his genre. I don't think, however, that he cared for Sandbach's picture—which leads me to the third point in your letter. Neither of the S.'s have seen their picture; last time they were in London, having made no definite appointment, I missed them. He wrote to say that when he came up to town again, he would fix a day to call on me. Gibson, the old traitor, never turned up at all. By-the-bye, I see you ask whether I shoot much—no, not often; I am an ordinary, average shot—my unsteady hand prevents my shooting well. My general health is pretty fair. Many thanks, dearest Mammy, for your kind wishes and congratulations on that melancholy occasion, my birthday—it is a day I always hate—fancy my being thirty!!! About marrying, dear Mamma, you must not forget it requires two to play at that game. I would not insult a girl I did not love by asking her to tie her existence to mine, and I have not yet found one that I felt the slightest wish to marry; it is no doubt ludicrous to place this ideal so high, but it is not my fault—theoretically I should like to be married very well.

In another letter to his mother Leighton writes on the subject of marriage: "If I don't marry, the reason has been that I have never seen a girl to whom I felt the least desire to be united for life. I should certainly never marry for the sake of doing so." The same subject is again alluded to in a letter written in 1863, from Leighton's mother to her younger daughter who was in Italy. The letter begins by referring to a servant who was dismissed by Leighton.

"He has such an effect on him by his profound stupidity and intense conceit he can't keep him, for if he did, the irritation would render him wicked if he indulged it, and ill if he repressed the same—at least that's Fred's feeling just now. He means to take an Italian servant if he can find one.

"Fred has received an invitation to Sandringham (the Prince of Wales). If he has not found a suitable servant we are to lend him ours—Ellen's husband, a very superior person. I must not forget to tell you that we saw ——'s new baby, a very dear little thing. Freddy was enchanted with it. He noticed him more than ——, who is a delightful little chap, and after caressing it several times with exceeding tenderness, he suddenly grew red in the face, and said, 'I must nurse him,' which he did for a long time, to the wonder and admiration of Miss —— and the nurse. For my part, it gave me actual pain to see that proof of his strong love for children, believing that he will never have any of his own. He declares he has never seen a girl he could marry. Of course this shows he is unreasonably fastidious; more's the pity!"

PORTRAIT OF MRS. SUTHERLAND ORR. 1861ToList

2 Orme Square, April 10, 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—I have deferred writing until now that I might be able to tell you the result of my little "private view," now over. I am happy to say I have a great success. The "Vision" pleased many people much, but was altogether, as I expected, the least popular; the subject, though very interesting, was less attractive to the many, and besides I have progressed in painting since the date of that picture. My little girl at the fountain, christened for me by one of my visitors, "Lieder ohne Worte," has perhaps had the greatest number of votes.[16] The "Francesca,"[17] on the other hand, has had, I think, the advantage in the quality of its admirers. Watts, for instance, and Mrs. Sartoris think it by far my best daub.

By-the-bye, you will be particularly pleased to hear that Lina's portrait has had an immense success, and indeed, on second thoughts, perhaps it was more admired than anything else. The "Capri" and the "Aslett" were also much liked. Mind, dear Mamma, this letter is "strictly confidential," because although, of course, you want to know what people say of my pictures, anybody else seeing this letter would (or might) suppose I was devoured with vanity.

I have just made an unexpected acquaintance in the Gladstones, who sent me, I don't know why, a card for two parties. It was very polite of them, and of course I went. This is a very egotistical letter, dear Mamma, but I know that is what you want.

I am very sufficiently well, not strong, but never ill. I marched to Wimbledon with the Volunteers last Monday, and got wet several times but did not catch cold.[18]

London. 1861.

Dear Papa,—If the Public receives my pictures as favourably as the Private has done, I shall have no cause to complain; as far, at least, as the maintenance and increase of my reputation is concerned. I should, however, have liked the "market" to be a little more "brisk."

Tom Taylor and Rossetti (Wm.), the only critics that came (as far as I know) besides Stephens, were, as far as I can judge, both of them much pleased with what they saw. I know at least that both spoke well of my pictures behind my back.

As for Ruskin, he was in one of his queer moods when he came to breakfast with me—he spent his time looking at my portfolio and praised my drawings most lavishly—he did not even look at the pictures. However, nothing could be more cordial than he is to me.

I bolted out into the passage after you when you left the other day to tell you that one of the gentlemen you saw come in was Sir Edwin Landseer, but you had disappeared.

Paris. Monday.

Dearest Mother,—I must wind up with bad news, which I hope you will bear well: my pictures are badly hung, ill lighted, and almost entirely ignored by the press.[19] Of course this is au fond, a bitter disappointment to a man of my temperament, especially after all the praise my work got before the Exhibition. However, I shall wear a brave face, and who knows but that some good may arise to me out of this? My little energies will be sharpened up and my tenacity roused. I trust in some future day, as long as hope lives. God bless you, Mammy; best love to dear Gussy. From your affectionate son,

Fred.

May 1, 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—Life being a pump handle, first up then down, you won't be too much surprised to hear that after the real success my pictures had on "private view" they are with one exception (the landscape) badly hung, "The Vision" over a door, the others above the line, which will make it impossible to see the finish or delicacy of execution which is an important feature in them. I have not seen them myself, but am told this by those who have. Don't take on, dear Mammy, nor let Papa worry himself about it. Things come right in the end, and I know that many people will be much annoyed at this treatment of me. Millais, like a good fellow that he is, spoke up for me like a man, though he himself feels so differently on art from what I do. My good friend Aïdé is furious. After all perhaps, though badly hung, the pictures may still be seen well enough to be judged, that is all I really want, then perhaps some of the papers will speak up for me. I am glad I let so many people see them at the studio, those at least know what the pictures are like. Of one thing be sure: if my works have real value, public opinion will in the long run force the Academy to hang me—but enough of this subject.

The Prince of Wales saw a photo-portrait of me in Valletort's book the other day and begged him to ask me for one. I have had some new ones done, and mean at the same time to send H.R.H. a photograph of each of my larger pictures, "The Vision," the "Francesca," and "The Listener," which, by-the-bye, I have christened on the suggestion of a lady friend of mine (a sister of Cockerell's) "Lieder ohne Worte."

Landseer said nothing that was worth repeating, though he gave me one or two useful practical hints. He is eminently a practical man, and I suspect in his heart sneers at style. He was, however, I believe, pleased with my things.

9 Park Place, St. James's,
Sunday, May 5, 1861.

Dear Mrs. Leighton,—I know that the news of the bad hanging of your son's pictures has reached you (unpleasant tidings generally travel fast) and I hasten to tell you, what I hope may a little mitigate the annoyance you must have felt about it, that they are spoken of in terms of great eulogium by both the Times and Athenæum. I was afraid that their unfortunate placing might have prevented the possibility of any justice being done them by the public critics, but after all the Times and Athenæum are the most influential and leading of all our public journals. Mrs. Orr's portrait is consistently praised by all the papers, even by those which review the others less favourably. Fortunately, the pictures were well seen in the studio by numbers of people of all classes before they went to the Academy, and excited very general admiration in those who felt no particular interest either in art or in your son; while his friends, and those who know, were delighted not only with the works themselves, but at the visible indications in them of increased power in all ways. They have been thought by all whose opinion is of value a great advance upon what he has hitherto done. All this will, I hope, be pleasant to you; what will be so most of all will be to know that he took the exceeding trial and vexation of the abominable hanging of his pictures with the most perfect temper, and an admirable desire to be just about those who were doing him this ill turn. You will care for this, as I do, more than for any worldly success his talent could have brought him. I think he is looking well, although he complains a little of feeling tired. I daresay it is nothing but the weariness that must make itself a little felt after a great and all-engrossing exertion. His volunteering occupation is quite invaluable to him, giving him the exercise he never would otherwise get. I think he seems to like his life in London, where he has many friends, so many that if you were here you would no longer feel as jealous about me as you once owned to feeling—do you remember? I do not apologise for writing all this to you, for although excess of zeal may be a sin in the eyes of others, and even indeed of those whom one would die to serve, a mother will hardly count it as such when her child is in question. With best remembrances to Mr. Leighton and your daughters, I am, ever faithfully yours,

Adelaide Sartoris.

To his father Leighton wrote:—

1861.

As to the article in Macmillan, I don't in the least deny its value as far as it goes and quo ad the public; it is in that sense very gratifying to be spoken of in such flattering terms in a periodical of some standing, but I can't individually feel much elated at the praise of a critic who in other parts of his article shows he is not au fond a judge; as for what he says in interpretation (I am not now alluding to the praise), it is so verbatim what I said myself to those who visited my studio, that I suspect he must have been of that number. I remember, it is true, telling you before I began to paint "Lieder ohne Worte" that I intended to make it realistic, but from the first moment I began I felt the mistake, and made it professedly and pointedly the reverse. I don't think, however, that we understand the word realistic alike; the Fisherman and Syren which you quote was as little naturalistic as anything could be, and, while you urge me to take up some subject possessing that quality, I would point out that the Michael Angelo and the Peacock Girl both fulfil that condition—to my mind to a fault. I have sent in (or am about to) a formula which I received to fill up, stating what I would contribute to the Great Exhibition of 1862 (International). I have offered the Cimabue, four "Nannas," the "Lieder ohne Worte," "Francesca," and the "Syren." I have obtained permission for all.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
30th April 1861.

My dear Friend and Master,—When I last wrote you I promised in the spring to send you photographs of my pictures for the exhibition. I have just received some prints and hasten to enclose them.

One of them (the girl by the fountain) gives, as is so often the case, an entirely false impression of the picture, in that the drapery of the principal figure should be much darker, and that of the retreating figure much lighter. I have called this picture "Lieder ohne Worte." It represents a girl, who is resting by a fountain, and listening to the ripple of the water and the song of a bird. This subject is, of course, quite incomplete without colour, as I have endeavoured, both by colour and by flowing delicate forms, to translate to the eye of the spectator something of the pleasure which the child receives through her ears. This idea lies at the base of the whole thing, and is conveyed to the best of my ability in every detail, so that in the dead photograph one loses exactly half, also the dulling of the eyes, which are dark blue in the picture, gives a look of weakness in the photograph that is not quite pleasant.

The second subject is, as you will know well, the old, ever-new motive of Paolo and Francesca. I endeavoured to put in as much glow and passion as possible without causing the least offence; this picture also would, perhaps, have pleased you in colour. How I should like to show it to you, my dear master! However, you will no doubt send me your candid opinion of the photographs in a few lines, and not spare criticism.

I am exceedingly curious to know how your work is getting on. What are you working at just now? When is the fresco to be begun? What easel pictures have you undertaken? I want to know all that. I also hope with all my heart, my dear master, that your health keeps good, that your wife and children are all well. Please remember me most kindly to your family and all in Frankfurt who remember me. And yourself, my dear friend, keep in remembrance.—Your grateful pupil,

Fred Leighton.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater, London,
June 30, 1861.

My dear Friend,—Forgive my not having thanked you sooner for your kind note. The same thing has happened to me as to you: work has left me but little leisure for writing. Now, however, my hearty thanks for the open sincerity with which you have spoken of my latest work, I am only sorry that you have not gone into it even more closely. I shall endeavour in my present works to diminish the excessive mannerism of the lines, which will be all the easier for me as I am now painting principally from nature; in my last picture the subject permitted that but little. In any case I hope, dear master, that you will always speak to me with the same candour; it is the best proof to me that I still possess your friendship.

I am extremely eager to see how far your works have got on. Amongst them, however, my dear friend, keep in remembrance your grateful pupil,

Fred Leighton.

P.S.—I notice with regret that already I do not write a German letter with my former fluency.

In a letter to his sister, Mrs. Matthews, January 24, 1860, Leighton wrote: "I am horrified to hear the account you give of Mrs. Browning. I knew she was a confirmed invalid, but had no idea that one of her lungs was already gone! What will poor Browning do if she dies? He adores her, you know."

London, July 1861.

Dearest Mammy,—Thanks for your kind letter, which I have been unable to answer till now. I had heard of poor Browning's bereavement; we were all very much shocked at it, knowing, as we do, how entirely irreparable his loss is. I wrote a few lines to him that he might know how sincerely I grieved with him; I don't at all know what were the circumstances of her death, we have no particulars.

Leighton undertook to design the monument over Mrs. Browning's grave in the English Cemetery at Florence. The work appealed to him in every sense, and remains as a permanent memorial of those friendships which made the years spent in Italy so full, so rich, so entrancing. With reference to the monument Browning writes:—

Chez M. Laraison,
Ste. Marie, Près Pornic, Loire Inférieure,
August 30, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—Don't fret; you will do everything like yourself in the end, I know; wait till the end of October, as you propose. I cannot return before the beginning of it, though I would do so were it necessary, but it is not, for I have only this morning received the notification of which I told you, that "the marble is in the sculptor's studio." We shall therefore be in full time.

The portrait you saw was the autotype which I lent to Mr. Richmond, and concerning which I wrote to him before leaving London, directing that it should be sent to you. He engaged to let you have it whenever you desired. I therefore enclose (oh, fresh attack on your envelopes and postage stamps!) a note which I presume he will attend to, and which you will of course burn should he have sent the portraits meanwhile. I have also two others nearly like that portrait, taken the same day with it, which I was unable to find, but which shall be found on my return.

Dear Leighton, I can only repeat, with entire truth, that you will satisfy me wholly. I don't think, however, you can make me more than I am now—Yours gratefully and lovingly,

Robert Browning.

Continuation of letter to his mother:—

I am glad to hear Papa reported favourably of my work, and that you like the photographs of my pictures now in the Exhibition. I am very glad also that Gussy liked the receding figure in the "Lieder ohne Worte," as it was a favourite also with me, the tallness of said figure was inseparable from the sentiment of it in my mind. I have a photograph of that picture still remaining; I will give it to Gus when she comes through, I can get myself another some future day. I am getting on tol-lol with my pictures, but am rather anxious just now about the extreme difficulty of getting a peacock. I want to buy one to have the skin prepared, and if I don't get one soon they will all lose their tails; and there I shall be—in a fix! A friend of mine has written to Norfolk, and hopes to get me one. The season, even in the extremely moderate form in which I take it, is a fatiguing affair. I get up late and never feel fresh and vigorous. I have serious thoughts of entirely giving it up next year. I will go now and then to stay at people's houses, but not to their parties—le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle. A propos of country houses, I am going to spend a few days with Lady Cowper at Wrest Park towards the end of this month; there are to be theatricals and great hilarity. And now about Bath, I hope, dearest Mammy, you won't be hurt if I propose to come at the end of the first week in September instead of the last week in August. The fact is I have a great "giro" I want to make, and if I could take Bath in the regular progress it would be both a great convenience and a saving of expense. I mean to stay three weeks in Bath and have thoughts of painting a pot-boiler of little Walker if he is still handsome. I wish Papa would look after him, and let me know what he is doing and how he is looking. These are my plans: I want, whilst the summer is still hot and green, to visit South Hampshire, New Forest, Isle of Wight, South Devon, North Devon, and so work my way round to Bath, whence to Stourhead for a few days; then to Mason in Staffordshire, and then back to London. My pictures will be done long before the Exhibition next opening, so I can manage all this. I shall visit the following people: Sartoris, Aïdés, perhaps Morants, I hope Tennyson, Lady E. Bulteel, and look in at Mount Edgcombe—the rest of the journey will be purely artistic.

Clovelly, Sunday.

Dearest Mammy,—I could not find time to answer your note (for which best thanks) before I left Ventnor. I am now in one of the most picturesque spots on the north coast of Devon—the rendezvous of painters and tourists, the pays de cocagne of Hook and one of the chief lions of my trip.

The places I have visited so far are Salisbury, Exeter, and Bideford; with the latter I was much disappointed, and think it far below its reputation; not so Salisbury, which is a most interesting town, full of quaintness and character beyond my expectations; it has, however, a look of decay and depopulation about it which makes me feel awfully low-spirited. The Cathedral, perhaps, altogether rather disappointed me—though of course much about it is very beautiful; then, too, its general (internal) aspect is entirely marred by a brutal coat of whitewash laid on in the last century, covering up the marble columns and killing out all life and colour. Unfortunately, it would cost very many thousands to restore the church and its ancient glories.

To-morrow I start for Ilfracombe—the next day for Lynton.

Again, later:—

Many thanks for your letter just received and for all the kind wishes therein contained, which I most warmly return for you all—a double portion to dear Taily in honour of her birthday.

I will come on the 8th if I possibly can, and bring some little sketches to show you.

I shall exhibit this year IF I get done in time, but I can't hurry—it is entirely immaterial whether I exhibit or not—I would rather, of course.

We have begun drilling, but it will be many weeks before we get to rifle-shooting—this is the sort of thing we are doing now. Our uniform is plainness itself, all grey, and the cheapest in London.

I weather the cold so-so—I have a gas-stove beside my fireplace, but am still tolerably cold when it comes very sharp.

My dinner with Millais was put off till Monday next—I think Millais charming and so handsome.

I am exceedingly sorry, dear Mamma, you have reckoned on me for cotillon figures—with the exception of the one I led at Bath once, I have not seen one for years, and have not the faintest notion what is done—I will, however, back anybody else with great zeal.

I was indeed truly sorry to hear of Lord Holland's death—I had expected it for some time; nothing could exceed their kindness to me, and the House is an irreparable loss to me.

I hope to have a very merry Christmas Day. I am running down to Westbury (the Sartoris); there is to be a tree; I come up again of course Monday morning.

I am never ill. I take my human frailty out in never being very well—never equal to much fatigue.

London 1861.

My dinner at Millais' yesterday was very pleasant. I like him extremely, and his wife appears an agreeable person. I met there John Leech, the man who does all those admirable caricatures in Punch—he is a very pleasant and gentleman-like person.

I don't feel sure whether I told you that I am about shortly to send my "Paris and Juliet" with the "Samson" to America on spec. Mrs. Kemble will do all she can to godmother them; I got a very kind letter from her from Boston the other day—she has asked me to send her a little sketch of Westbury with the pictures—of course I shall.

The following letters from Mrs. Fanny Kemble reveal the interest which this friend took in Leighton and his pictures, also the genius of the writer in penning delightful epistles:—

Revere House, Boston,
Friday, December 9, 1861.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—It was very kind and amiable of you to write to me of Westbury and my sister; you cannot imagine the forlornness one feels when, to the loss of the sight of those one loves, is added that bitter silence which leaves one almost ignorant, as death does, of all the conditions in which our friends remain. God knows, written words are a poor substitute for the sound of a voice and the look of living eyes; still, when they are all that can reach us of those towards whom our hearts yearn, it is miserable not to be able to obtain them. The friends with whom I constantly correspond see and know little or nothing of her, and so no one of them can in any degree supply me with the news that I most desire from across the sea—how it is faring with my sister; so I am very grateful to you for your intelligence, which was just what I would give anything for (though not in itself, perhaps, very satisfactory) out here, where I think you have none of you an idea how banished I feel. Now, my dear Mr. Leighton, to your business, about which I began my inquiries almost immediately after my return to this country, but only received the last of these communications last night, and you perceive the other was incomplete without it. You must command me entirely in any and every thing that I can do to forward your aims, and I will promise to be severe in my obedience to any instructions you may like to give me. New York is undoubtedly a better market for pictures, and therefore a better place to exhibit them than this, but I do not know anybody whom I trust there. Mr. Ordway, however, seems inclined to take charge of your pictures if they are exhibited there.

Good-bye. Do not fail to employ me in this matter to the fullest extent that I can be of the least use to you; it will be a great pleasure to me to help you in any way that I possibly can.—Yours very truly,

Fanny Kemble.

I wish you would send me out some sketch of Westbury with your pictures, if they come. I wish for one very much. I wish you could see the world here just now—a sky as pure and brilliant as it is possible to conceive, and every bough, branch, blade of grass and withered leaf coated with clear crystal and blazing with prismatic colours. There are, every now and then, sentiments in this sky that I have seen in none other. There are certain points of view in which Boston, rising beyond broad sheets of water that repeat them still more tenderly, seems to me worthy of a great painter. But do not come out and try unless you are quite sure of going back, or you will break your heart.

Revere House, Boston,
Friday, February 7.

I feel terrified, when you speak of my determining what is to be done with your pictures when they arrive in Boston, for assuredly I am utterly incompetent to any such decision, and can only refer myself to the judgment of my friend Mr. Cabot, who will certainly advise for the best in the matter, but who, nevertheless, is not infallible. I should think it rather late in the season for exhibiting them here, but again would not take upon myself to say. I do not know what the percentage on sale here is, but presume it is not higher than in London. But here people exhibit their pictures at a shilling a head, i.e. put them in a room hung round with black calico, light up a flare of gas above them, and take a quarter of a dollar from every sinner who sees them. Two of Churche's pictures (he is a great American artist, though you may never have heard of him) have been, or rather are, at this moment so exhibiting—his "Falls of Niagara," and a very beautiful landscape called the "Heart of the Andes." Both these pictures were exhibited in London, I know not with what success; they have both considerable merit, but the latter I admire extremely. Page had a "Venus" here the other day, exhibited by gas-light in a black room; but indeed, dear Mr. Leighton, it sometimes seems to me as if you never could imagine or would consent to the gross charlatanry which is practised—how necessarily I do not know—here about all such matters. Certainly your gold medal should be trumpeted—and your profession of art and your confession of faith, and anything most private and particular that you would not wish known, had better be published in several versions in all the newspapers of the United States. Your pictures must be placarded over all the walls in all the sizes of type conceivable, and all the colours of the rainbow. If you will write me your personal history, and rampant puffs of your own performances, I will copy them and send them to those sources of public instruction, the enlightened public press. Moreover, I will go and sit before them daily and utter exclamations of admiration on every note in my voice, and if anything else remains to be done I will do it; but you must not make me in any way responsible for the result, because it is not in the least likely that you will write yourself up to the mark of puffing as practised here. Basta—I will take the very best advice and do the very best I can about the pictures, and rejoice in my heart to see them myself, that I can assuredly promise you. By-the-bye, I gave your address only a few days ago, to be sent to a person now in Europe negotiating with French and English artists for pictures to exhibit. I wonder if he will find you and enlighten your mind about art in America. Thank you for the account of Westbury and its Christmas festivities, and thank you, thank you for the sketch of the home you are so very kind as to promise me; it will be a blessed treasure to see, for you cannot conceive the dreary heart-sickness that utterly overcomes me here sometimes. To-day I was singing the quartette in "Faust" that we used to sing, and was obliged to stop for crying. I wished extremely to have a photograph of the house, and, if I could only have afforded it, should have asked you to sell me every sketch you took about the place. The skies here are beautiful, wonderful in their transparent purity. They seem to me of a different texture from any other I ever saw, more diaphanous, and there is a colour in them when they are quite free from clouds that surpasses in delicacy all other skies I have seen. It is like the complexion of the young girls here, a miracle of evanescent brilliant softness. My winter is wearing along pretty tolerably. My Christmas was passed entirely alone, but I am quite used to that. I am beginning to be much occupied about the plans and drawings for a house, which I am thinking of building on some land I own in Massachusetts. It is a great undertaking, and really at fifty years old seems hardly worth while, and yet, till I am ready for my coffin, I must have some place in which to rest my head. Perhaps some fine day—who knows?—you will come to see me there. That would be a very pretty plot, and I think I need not say how welcome you would be, dear Mr. Leighton, to yours very truly,

Fanny Kemble.

Lenox, Tuesday.

A thousand thanks, my dear Mr. Leighton, for the minute account of Westbury—as I cannot know anything about my sister, it is something to know how her house is settled and decorated, and how the place where she lives looks. The red velvet drawing-room sounds gorgeous, and it must be very becoming to the pictures. Of your pictures that have "wandered west" you may be sure I should have written you, if I had had the good news to give you that either of them was sold, but I am sorry to say this is not the case. The New York Exhibition is now closed, and the pictures have been sent back to Boston, where they are at present hanging in the Athenæum under the care of Mr. Ordway, who wishes, but does not much hope, to be able to sell them. It seems that one or two people asked the price of the pictures in New York, but considered it, when they received the information, "rather a tall price." I am a little consoled at the ill success of this venture of yours, by Henry Greville's writing me that your hands are full of orders, for which you are to be well paid. Your small acquaintance, Fanny, who left me this morning after a visit of a month, propounded to me the expediency of desiring the purchaser of the reconciliation of old Capulet and Montague to buy as its pendant the "Paris and Juliet"; and though she has no personal acquaintance with the lover of art in question, she said, when she got to Philadelphia she should set about intriguing to that effect; and she had my full permission to try and to succeed. I wish I could tell you anything pleasant in return for your description of the rooms at Westbury, but I have nothing very cheerful to impart. I have been quite unwell, and am still very far from flourishing; my spirits are much depressed, and the life I lead, of incessant worry and discomfort with servants and all one's domestic arrangements, is something quite too tedious to relate—and that indeed it would be impossible to realise, as the Yankees say, unless you witnessed it. I saw Hetty Hosmer three days after her arrival in Boston. Her father is a hopeless invalid, and she will certainly not leave him while he lives; but I suspect that he is likely to die before this year ends, and then she will return to live in Italy. The State of Missouri has voted two thousand pounds for a statue of Colonel Benton, one of its "great men," to be erected by her, which, of course, is a whole plume of feathers in her cap.

Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; believe me always yours most truly,

Fanny Kemble.

You must not fail to write to me any directions that you wish observed about your pictures, while they remain here. I am only too glad to try to serve you.

Lenox, Berkshire, Massachusetts,
Monday, March 12.

Pictures of very high pretensions are exhibited, like the scenes in a theatre, by gas-light, and advertised in coloured posters all over the streets like theatrical exhibitions. However, it is no use vexing your soul with what neither of us can help. I cannot and will not accept the responsibility of disposing of your pictures; but I will get the best advice I can about them and follow it, and spare no personal pains to have them advantageously dealt with; only, I hope it will not be very long before they arrive, because my own stay in Boston is now drawing to a close, and after the end of the present month I shall be at Lenox, a remote village in a lonely hill district one hundred miles from Boston, or rather I should say seven hours distant from the nearest railroad station, which is six miles away again from Lenox. When once I come here—for I write at this moment from this snowy wilderness—it will be to remain for the next nine or ten months, so you see I must make all arrangements about your pictures before taking my leave of civilised communities. I came up to this place from Boston yesterday to look at a house that I think of hiring for a year, and shall return to the city next week. I have left your pictures (should they arrive during my absence) to the charge of a friend of mine who is one of the directors of the Athenæum, and will see that they are properly received. Thank you a thousand times for the promised likeness of Westbury, which will be a treasure to me. What a contrast is my recollection of that charming place, to the abomination of desolation of the dreary savage winter landscape of low black hills, bristling with wintry woods and wide, bare, snow-covered valleys, that stretch before me here at this moment. I am well, but much worn out with my last course of public readings, which I had just ended in Boston. My daughters are well, and write to me tolerably frequently; the eldest seems happy and contented in her marriage; your small acquaintance, Fanny, writes to me from Savannah of sitting with the doors and windows wide open, and wiping the perspiration from her face in the meantime; and here everything is buried in snow. I shall wait till I return to Boston to finish this, as I shall hope to send you then news of the arrival of your pictures.

Wednesday, March 14.

Your pictures are arrived, my dear Mr. Leighton; they reached Boston last week while I was absent at Lenox. I only returned yesterday evening, and found a letter from Mr. Cabot announcing that they were at the Athenæum; thither I went this morning, and spent a most delightful half-hour in looking at them. I like the "Samson" very much indeed; I think it is beautiful, and am charmed with the treatment of the subject, though you have chosen a different moment for illustration from the one I had imagined. This evening I have been having a long conversation with Mr. Ordway about the future destinations of the pictures. I am little sanguine, I regret to say, about their being bought here, for the only rich picture purchaser that I know here has a predilection for French works of art, small tableaux de genre, and Troyon's landscapes. However, it must be tried. Mr. Ordway says he will exhibit your pictures in the Athenæum, which (should they be sold while there) will save you your commission, because, being an artist himself, he will not charge you any. If after due experiment they do not seem likely to sell here, we will send them to New York, and then to Philadelphia; in short, the best that can be done for them shall, as far as my agency is concerned, you may be sure.

Boston, Thursday, March 15.

I have this moment received your letter of the 25th February, for which I thank you very much. It does not require any further answer with regard to your pictures, of the safe arrival of which I wrote you word last night. I did not tell you, by-the-bye, that they are both slightly streaked across from side to side with what Mr. Ordway thinks must have been small infiltrations of sea-water; he says the pictures are not injured by them, nor do they indeed appear to be so in the least, and that he can wipe off the stains with no damage whatever to them. Thank you for all you tell me of my sister; it is not much, indeed, nor very cheerful, but it is more than reaches me through any other channel, and far better than the miserable conjectures of absolute ignorance. Dear Mr. Leighton, thank you a thousand times for the portrait of Westbury—it is exactly what I wished for—but, oh, why could there not be the lovely upland beyond, and the sheep slowly rolling up and down the slopes, and the tinkle of the bell, and you and she and they and all of us. Oh dear, if you could conceive what it is to me to be here, you would know a thousand times better than I can tell you how precious such a memento of there is to me. Thank you, too, for the good inspiration of telling me about the change of place of the pictures at Westbury; it is wonderful how much one small particular has power to bring the whole of what surrounds it, back to the mind, and what vividness it gives to the picture that, in spite of the distinctness with which it was stamped upon the memory, becomes so soon, and yet so unconsciously, obliterated in the minor parts that give it charm and vitality. I spent a long hour to-day again looking at your pictures and wishing most heartily that I could afford to buy them both. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; I shall leave this open till to-morrow, in case I should hear anything more about them before I go. I enclose the receipts for what I have paid. I suppose it is all right, but it seems a most monstrous price for mere conveyance, and indeed reminds us that our humorous forefathers called stealing conveying.

Lenox, Berkshire, Massachusetts,
Friday, April 27.

Your pictures are at present in the New York Exhibition. Mr. Ordway tells me that it is extremely rare for pictures to sell without the intervention of dealers. In this country they cry down and undervalue all pictures that are not expressly committed to them, and the ignorance of the rich shopkeepers who purchase works of Art, is so excessive that they do not feel safe in making any acquisition without the advice and permission of some charlatan of a dealer, to whom these wiseacres come saying (verbatim, so Mr. Ordway informed me), "I want some pictures; can't you recommend any to me?" and then, of course, the picture-dealer recommends what brings him the highest percentage; and the man who buys pictures exactly like looking-glasses, window-curtains, or any other furniture for a new house, departs satisfied that he possesses a work of Art. The things that are bought and sold here in the shape of pictures, and the things that are said about them, vous feraient pouffer de rire, if you did not live in this country. If you did, they would be like many other proofs of the semi-civilisation of the people, that would be rather doleful than otherwise to you. Thank you for all you tell about my sister and her children. I feel very much both for my sister and Anne in their separation. I have just parted with my maid Marie, who has lived with me fifteen years, and who leaves me now because her health is so much broken down that her physician tells her, she must go to some other climate or she will die. So she is gone, and here I remain absolutely alone, looking, not for the "wrath to come," but what may be supposed no bad instalment of it—the advent of four new servants with whom I am to begin housekeeping in my small cottage next week. Just before leaving Boston I saw Hetty Hosmer. She has come home to her poor old paralytic father, who, I suppose, is not likely to live very long. Whenever the event of his death happens, Hetty will gather up her substance, and depart hence for the rest of her natural or artistic life. She is very little changed in appearance, and only a little in manner. She seemed very glad to see me, and so was I to see her, for she represented to my memory a whole world of things and places and people that I am fond of. I have not seen Lord Lyon, and do not expect to do so, as I understand he does not mean to stir from Washington all the summer, and thither I shall assuredly not go, though I would go a good way to see him. I'm told he lives in dread of being married by some fair American, and it is not always a thing that a man can escape; but he is too good for that, and I trust will not succumb to these intrepid little flirts. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton; I have a settled nostalgia, which is the saddest thing in the world. Your sketch of Westbury is always before me, and your letters are the most kindly return you could possibly make, for any service that you could require of me. I wish with all my heart I might have the great pleasure of writing you, now that one of your pictures was sold.

Addio.

Lenox, Friday, June 7.

Thank you, dear Frederic Leighton, for your letter and the photographs, by means of which, and your description, I have a sort of vision (not quite what the Yankees call a "realising sense") of your pictures. The girl at the fountain is charming,[20] the other beautiful and terrible, as it should be.[21] I can well imagine the beautiful effect the sentiment of the picture must receive from that regretful return, as it were, of the daylight that has set upon the poor people for ever. In the English newspapers that are sent to me I looked eagerly among the notices of the Exhibition for your name, and read the meagre little bit allotted to each picture. I was especially delighted with the critic who thinks your "Paolo and Francesca" too earthly in the intensity of their passions. The gentleman apparently forgets that it was not in Heaven that Dante met these poor things. With regard to your other pictures, dear Mr. Leighton, I think you are right to withdraw them from America. I wish with all my heart that I could have presented myself with one of those pictures; however, that is one of the vainest of all human desires. My income is already docked of two hundred pounds this year by the disastrous state of public affairs; but, of course, if one is in the midst of a falling house, one can hardly hope to avoid bruises and broken bones. The attitude of England is highly unsatisfactory to the North, who now choose to consider the whole action of the Government a crusade against slavery—which it is not, and was not, and will not be except in the New England state where the Abolitionist party has always been strongest, and where the character of the people is more of the nature to make fighters for abstract principles. The Southerners hate the Yankees, and vice versâ, for this very reason; and if the crisis comes really to anything like fighting, the New England, especially the Massachusetts men, will probably fight very maliciously as against slaveholders, and the slaveholders against them as Abolitionists, which they now are, pretty much to a man. A huge volunteer force is levying and being prepared for action; but in spite of the very unanimous feeling of the North and North-West, and the warlike attitude of the South, I shall not believe in anything deserving the name of war till I see it. The South is without resources that can avail for a six months' struggle. The North has a huge, unarmed, undisciplined force of men at its command; but the Southerners do not want to fight, and neither do the Northerners; but if any combination of circumstances (and of course matters cannot stand still, especially with the border states all au pied en l'air) should occasion any collision accompanied with considerable effusions of blood, I believe the North would pour itself upon the Southern States and annihilate the secessionist party. It is extremely difficult to foresee the probable course of events, but I believe eventually the Southern States will be obliged to return to their allegiance, and then I believe the North will, once for all, legislate for the future limiting of the curse of slavery to those states where it now exists, and where, of course, under such circumstances, it would very soon cease to exist, as if it cannot extend itself it must die. In one sense slavery is undoubtedly the cause of the present disastrous crisis—and in the profoundest sense, for the character of the Southerners is the immediate result of these infernal "institutions"; and but for Southern slavery Southern "Chivalry," that arrogant, insolent, ignorant, ferocious and lawless race of men, would never have existed.

Oh, how thankful I shall be to be at home once more! Farewell, dear Mr. Leighton; pray, if there is anything special to be done about your pictures, write to me and let me have the pleasure of doing something for you. Oh, I am so enraged that I could not get them sold; and yet though you may not think it, I should have thought it a pity for them to have to live the rest of their lives here. Thank you again for the photographs; I look at them constantly. All such things are like being lifted into another atmosphere from that which surrounds and stifles one here. Believe me always your obliged and sincere friend,

Fanny Kemble.

Emil Devrient's was the best Hamlet I ever saw. It would not have been if my father's had not been too smooth and harmonious. I hope I shall see Fechter's.

Lenox, Thursday, October 11.

How good an inspiration it was that made you send that beautiful photograph to me! It came to me really like a special providence, on the day when I had parted from my children for an indefinite time, and with more than usual sadness and anxiety; for my eldest child's health has failed completely since her confinement, and she came to me for a visit of ten days only, looking like the doomed, wan image of some woman whose enemies were wasting her by witchcraft. My small comfortless home was intolerably lonely to me, and towards sunset I went out to find some fortitude under the open sky. I wandered into a copse of beech trees that clothe the steep sides of a miniature ravine with a brook at the bottom, and here gathered a handful of the beautiful blue fringed gentian (do you know that exquisite flower that grows wild in the woods here?). The little glen with its clusters of mysterious blue blossoms was all but dark, but, emerging from it, I stood where I saw a wide valley flooded with the evening light, and hills beyond rising in waves of amber and smoke colour and dark purple; it was so beautiful that it cannot be imagined. The autumn has turned all the trees into gold and jewels, like the enchanted growth of fairy-land, and the whole world, as I saw it from the entrance of that shadowy dell, looked as if it was made of precious metals and precious stones. I was very sad, and stood thinking of our Saviour and the widow of Nain, and how pitiful He was to sorrowful human creatures, and with some sparks of comfort in my heart I returned home, where I found your letter waiting for me. I have told you all this of my previous state of mind and feeling, because—without knowing that—you could not conceive how like an express message of consolation your work appeared to me. May it be blessed to many hearts for admonition and for consolation as it was to mine, dear Mr. Leighton. It is no wonder that it seemed to me beautiful, and I do not think I shall ever sufficiently disconnect it with this first impression, to be able to judge of its merit as a work of art; it was, as I said before, a special Providence to me. I long to have it framed and hung where I can see it constantly. I have within the last few days moved into a house which I have hired for the next two years. It is all but in the village of Lenox, and yet so situated that it commands from the windows of every room a most beautiful prospect. The whole landscape is a harmonious confusion of small valleys and hills, rolling and falling within and around and beyond each other, like folds of rich and majestic drapery. Oh, what lights and shadows roam and rest over these hill-sides and in the hollows between them! The country is very thickly wooded, and the woods are literally of every colour in the rainbow, all mixed together under a sky, the peculiar characteristic of which is not so much softness or brightness, as a transparent purity that seems as if there was no atmosphere betwixt oneself and the various objects one sees. I expect this would make it difficult to paint these beautiful aspects of nature here; but, oh, how I do wish you could see it, for, in the matter of American autumnal colouring, seeing alone is believing. The house itself is very tolerably comfortable, but hideous to behold both within and without; and I have begun my residence in it under rather depressing circumstances, i.e. without being able to obtain the necessary servants for the decent comfort of my daily existence. Ever since the beginning of May I have been endeavouring, in vain, to procure and keep together a decent household. Not for one single week have I had my proper complement of people in the house, and I have done every species of house-work myself, from cleaning the cellar and kitchen to washing the tea-cups; it is a state of things as incredible as the colour of the autumn woods, and as peculiar, thank God, to America. I am now making my last experiment by trying coloured servants. Their manners and deportment are generally much better than those of either the Irish or American, and they seem capable of personal attachment to their employers, which neither of the other races are. The incessant worry, discomfort, and positive fatigue that I have undergone during the whole summer has completely shaken my nerves, so that I have been in a sort of hysterical condition of constant weeping for some time past. I trust, however, it will not be so wretched now, for I am at any rate close to the village inn, and if I am left without servants, can go there and get some food; it is a state of existence qu'on ne s'imagine pas. You will not wonder, after all this, to hear that I declined a ticket to the Prince's ball at New York, to which the whole population of the United States are struggling to get admittance; but at the best of times "I am not gamesome," and feel as if I had swept my own rooms quite too recently to be fit company for my Queen's son. Thank you, dear Mr. Leighton, for all you tell me about my sister and the children; she never writes, you know, and so I am thirsty all the time for some tidings of her. It is very sad to be so far away and hear so seldom from those one loves. Good-bye, God bless you; and thank you once more for the "Vision." I am sorry I cannot tell you of the sale of either of your pictures; they are in the Boston Athenæum, very safe, and highly ornamental to it, but not, I regret to say, sold. If you wish me to do anything more about them, you must write me your directions, which I will fulfil with every attention and accuracy of which I am capable.

Lenox, Sunday, November 11.

I trust before long you will receive your children safe and sound. I wish the two hundred pounds I have lost this year had been invested in one of those pictures instead of in St. Louis. Thank you for your account of Adelaide and her children; it is not much, but it is all that much better than nothing. The state of the country is very sad, and any probable termination of the war quite out of calculable distance. England, no doubt, will maintain her absolute neutrality in spite of secession, cotton, and anti-slavery sympathies; it is her only part. Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton.

I beg you will not scruple to write me now if there is anything more that I can do, either in the matter of the pictures or any other by which I can be of use to you here.

New York,
Sunday, March 10.

I am sure you have not forgotten the charming farmhouse at West Mion, to which you and your sketch-book were the means of introducing us, —— farm: well, his brother is one of the richest shopkeepers in New York—and, upon the strength of my visit to the paternal acres in Hampshire, his wife, a funny little specimen of vivacious vulgarity, called upon me, and I, of course, upon her. I was shown into a drawing-room at least thirty feet long, with two massive white marble chimney-pieces, green silk brocade curtains and furniture to match, magnificent carpets, mirrors, gildings, hideous works in marble on scagliola pillars—in short, the most marvellous palace of shopkeepers' beaux ideaux that you can conceive; through this to a beautifully fitted-up library; through this to a picture gallery, noble seigneur, pensez y bien! Oh, my dear Frederic Leighton, it was enough to make one fall down and foam at the mouth, to see such a hideous collection of daubs and to think of the money hanging on those walls; and then I thought of your pictures, and why the wretched man couldn't have procured them for some of his foolish money; and then I begged your pardon internally for the desecration of imagining your pictures in such company; and then I gazed amusedly about me, and at length gave tongue: "Mr. ——," said I, "this is a vastly different residence from the old homestead in Hampshire." The worthy man could not see in my heart which way the balance of preference inclined, and answered with benignant self-satisfaction: "Ah, well, you see, ma'am, they've been going on there for the last I don't know how many hundred years, just about in the same social position; they haven't a notion of the rapidity of our progress here." I hate to advise you to have your pictures back, for there really does seem to me to be a greedy desire for pictures (I cannot qualify in any other way the taste which covets and buys such things) here; but I suppose pictures, at any rate, must be what these people want, and will not buy dear and good ones, when cheap and nasty do as well. I think, while I am here in New York, I shall take the liberty of making some further inquiry as to whether the great print and picture seller here does not think they could be seen to selling advantage in his shop; in short, it throws me into a melancholy rage to think what pictures are bought while yours are not. The state of this country is curious—strange and deplorable beyond precedent in history, it seems to me; and it is absolutely impossible to foresee to what issue things are tending. The opinions one hears are all coloured by the particular bias of the speaker, and the confusion is so great in the general excitement of sectional partisanship that even one of the members—and a very influential one—of the peace convention sent to Washington for the purpose of proposing terms of conciliation—which should not, however, compromise the Northern principles—said that nothing had been done, that all was "sound and fury, and signifying nothing"—or if anything at present, the confirmed secession of the Southern, the disruption from the North of the Northern slave States, and, not impossibly, civil war. Of course, the more time elapses in palavering before the first fatal blow is struck, the less probability there is of its being struck at all; but, on the other hand, the longer the present state of things continues, the more accustomed people become to the idea of the dismemberment of the Union, and therefore, though the clangour of an appeal to arms diminishes, so I think does the prospect of anything like "making up" the family quarrel—indeed, if it were patched, and soldered to the very best, I do not believe that it will ever "hold water again"; but it is impossible to foresee from day to day what may be the turn of events.

If I live till a year from this summer I will be in England in July, and if I live till the November after that I will be in Rome, and you and Edward and Adelaide have my full permission to come too.

Good-bye, dear Mr. Leighton. Your letters are a great comfort as well as pleasure to me; I am extremely obliged to you for them.

I showed my daughter the photograph of your "Vision," and she was enchanted with it. She has not a cultivated or educated taste in matters of art—this country affords no means for such a thing—but she is a person of very fine natural perceptions and great imagination and sensibility, and she was so charmed with it that I hope you will not think it foolish or impertinent in me to tell you of it.

The last political news I have is that the border or Northern slave States will probably not join the cotton states, in which case the latter will, of hard necessity, very soon be compelled to abandon their absurd and infinitely perilous position; but one does not see the end of it all, for if they do come back into the Union, it will be under a burning sense of humiliation which will hardly facilitate their future intercourse with the North, for humiliation and humility are difficult things, and the cotton Lucifer under coercion will not be a pleasant devil to deal with.

Lenox, Saturday, September 7.

You owe me nothing, and you will owe me nothing, dear Mr. Leighton, for expediting your pictures to England. When I wrote to Mr. Ordway about them desiring him to send them back to you, and to let me know the amount of any expenses he incurred in doing so, his reply was that the mere cost of packing and putting them on board ship would not be worth charging you with, and that the possession of your pictures in his gallery was well worth the small outlay of merely despatching them to you. I hope they will reach you safely. I am sorry, sorry they have not remained here; but latterly, as you will easily believe, people's minds have been little inclined to the peaceful arts or any influences of beauty and grace; moreover, the pockets of the wealthiest amateurs are affected, as those of their poorer neighbours are, by the public disasters. My own loss this year is two hundred pounds of my income. What it may be next year, or how far my capital itself is safe, is more than anybody can tell. We are to be taxed moreover beyond all precedent in this country hitherto, and as it is already nearly the dearest place in the world to live in, what with onerous imports and the failure of interest from one's investments it will be simply ruinous. Thank you for all you tell me of my sister and her children. I am beginning to see them again, as the time when I may really hope to do so draws nearer. I am sorry for what you and all my friends tell me about Harry's strong dramatic propensities. Of course, if he is fit for nothing else, or fitter for that than anything else, he had better become an actor, and his being so in England need not prevent his being a worthy fellow and respectable and respected member of society. I am, however, much reconciled to what at first disappointed me extremely—my not being able to bring him out to this country; for if he should eventually take to the stage, here that is simply in most instances equivalent to taking to the gutter. My daughters are both with me just now, and Fanny desires me to remember her very kindly to you. The incidents of the war which reach the other side of the water no doubt strike you as amazing enough; but anything more grotesque than the daily details in the midst of which we live, you cannot conceive. A young gentleman, a friend of ours who has just returned from his share in the campaign in a three months' volunteer regiment (he has entered the regular army, as a very large proportion of the volunteers did as soon as their three months' amateur service expired), described to us a volunteer corps which happened to be encamped in the neighbourhood of his company. He said they were one of the finest bodies of men he ever saw. Lumberers, that is, wood-fellers from the forests of Maine and New Hampshire, perfectly brave and reckless and daring—perfectly undisciplined too, to the tune of replying to their officers when ordered to turn out on guard, "No, I'll be damned if I do," with the most cheerful good humour. Thereupon the discomfited "superior" simply turns to some one else and says, "Oh, well—you're so and so—go." Good-bye; I shall rejoice to see you again, and be once more at home among people who know how to behave themselves.—Believe me, always yours most sincerely,

Fanny Kemble.

After the Prince Consort's death in 1861 Leighton wrote the following letter to his younger sister, who was in Italy:

I have just returned from a fortnight in Bath, where I have at last finished the Johnnies,[22] I believe, and hope you will like them; they are at all events much improved. I am glad for the poor lad that the corvée of settling is over; he was dying to get back to his work. If zeal and enthusiasm can make an artist, he ought to become one.

I don't attempt to give you home news, as you are amply supplied with that article by Mamma. Everybody here is in great sorrow for the poor Queen. She bears up under her overwhelming grief with admirable fortitude, and expresses her anxious desire to do her duty as he would have wished it, but she speaks of all earthly happiness as at an end. The tender sympathy manifested by the whole nation is touching, but deserved.

Whether there will be war or not, the beginning of the year will show; it is, I think, more than probable; there is no probability of the Americans giving up Mason and Slidell. If we do fight, it will be agreeable to feel that we are supported by the sympathy and approval of all Europe; that we are entirely in the right is universally recognised, even by those who have no love for us. Sooner or later, a war with America was, I fear, unavoidable. There is a limit to what even we can overlook. All this need not prevent your coming to England that I can see; it won't stop the Exhibition, nor make any perceptible difference in anybody's doings, except perhaps the picture buyers.—Your very affect. brother,

Fred.

Sunday, 1862.

Arrived here safe and sound on Thursday night, and began my work on Friday. I am making studies[23] for the "Eastern King" which I shall begin to paint shortly after New Year. I found the frame for the large "Johnny" on my return. It improves the picture very much, and looks very handsome. I also found a letter from Henry Greville waiting for me. He says the Queen bears up admirably, because, she says, he would have wished it, but that she always talks of her earthly career as at an end. The equerries, &c., will remain attached to the court.

In 1862 Leighton sent eight pictures to the Royal Academy, and six were accepted. Before the sending in he writes to his father:—

1862.

Dear Papa,—I am afraid I don't take exercise very regularly, still, I walk a little nearly every day.

With regard to the volunteering, the zeal for the matter is necessarily not what it was when every third man really expected to be called to defend the country. Nevertheless, the movement is not dead, but has found a level on which I fancy it will remain; the shooting will keep it together a good deal. We (the artists) shall join the great business at Brighton on Easter Monday.

Had I thought you would have taken my remark about the M. Angelo and the Johnnies so much to heart, I should have thought twice before I made it. Against what I said you must set the paragraph in the Athenæum two or three weeks back—my doubt is not whether they will be admired—I think they will be that—my only question is whether they will be cared for. Mrs. Austin admires and likes the M.A. beyond anything, and if she could afford it would, I believe, buy it at once.

You will perhaps be surprised to hear that the pictures from which I expect most are the three which you have not seen—the "Eastern King" and the two others I mentioned in my last. One of them is Pocock's smaller order, a girl with a swan (not with peacocks as the Athen. says)—the other is a kitcat of a girl listening to a shell. Both these are very luminous, and are in that respect the best things I have done.

And later:—

London, 1862.

Dear Papa,—I think I may confirm the report made to you of the success of my pictures, particularly the "Odalisque" and "Echoes" (by-the-bye, I have just received a letter from somebody who wants to know if they are sold). What the papers say, you have seen. You will be glad to hear that I have received congratulations on all sides, which gives me the idea of being tolerably secure; at all events, I got no such last year, nor indeed at all since the "Cimabue." That two of my pictures should not have been accepted does not indeed surprise me, and least of all would it do so if they were rejected on the score of number, but I have reason to suspect that they were not liked; in fact I know it. I have put my name down as a candidate for associateship.

I don't think I have anything of interest to communicate; nobody has as yet asked the price of the "Eastern King" or the "Michael Angelo." There is no mistake now about what people in this country like to buying point; whether I shall conform to their taste is another question.

Pocock liked the "Michael Ang." much, but did not seem to wish to have it. The same remark applies to the Johnnies.

Millais has been, and liked the yellow woman[24] extremely. I think he liked them all of their kind, but the yellow woman was his favourite by far. Stephens has also seen my pictures. He seemed altogether much pleased, but most especially with the design for the "Eastern King," which is also Fred Cockerell's favourite.

To his mother he wrote:—

1862.

I have deferred answering your letter till now, that I might be able to inform you definitely of my fate as regards the Royal Academy. I have just been there; I must tell you at once the least pleasant part of my news—they have rejected the large "Johnny" and "Lord Cowper." On the other hand, the other pictures are well hung; two (the "Odalisque" and the yellow woman), very well, being on the line in the East Room. The "Michael Angelo," the "E. King," and the shell girl are just above the line and well seen—the small "Johnny" just below the line. I think the pictures all look well, though not so luminous as in the studio. I am confirmed in my opinion that the Academy Exhibition is a false test of colour; what looks sufficiently silvery there is chalky out of it. The "Odalisque" looks best from general aspects. Lady Cowper wrote me a very nice note about the rejection of her son's portrait, and said she was delighted to get it so soon. I am sorry about the large "Johnny," because my chance of selling it is much diminished.

That Leighton received great encouragement from personal friends there can be no doubt. The following is one of very many letters he received which expressed warm appreciation.

64 Rutland Gate.

My dear Mr. Leighton,—I do not know how to express my thanks to you. I have this moment come home and found your beautiful drawing, and can hardly hold my pen, I am in such a state of delight at possessing such a reminiscence of my favourite picture. You really do not know what pleasure you have given me, and I think it too kind of you to have parted with this to give to me. One thing you may be quite sure of, that the "Eastern King" will receive the greatest homage to the end of days from his devoted admirer and your sincere friend,

Mary Sartoris.[25]

Past Midnight, Tuesday.

Among Leighton's friends was Charles Dickens. The following notes, written in 1863, have turned up in a packet of miscellaneous correspondence:—

Office of "All the Year Round,"
No. 26 Wellington Street, Strand, London, W.C.,
Thursday, April 9, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—I owe you many thanks for your kind reminder. It would have given me real pleasure to have profited by it had such profit been possible, but a hasty summons to attend upon a sick friend at a distance so threw me out on Friday and Saturday in obliging me to prepare for a rush across the Channel, that I saw no pictures and had no holiday. I was blown back here only last night, and believe that I shall deliver your message to Mrs. Collins to-day; that is to say, I am going home this afternoon and expect to find her there.

When the summer weather comes on, I shall try to persuade you to come and see us on the top of Falstaff's Hill. A hop country is not to be despised by an artist's eyes.—Faithfully yours always,

Charles Dickens.

Gad's Hill Place,
Higham by Rochester, Kent,
Saturday, July 18, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—Shall I confess it? I never went out to breakfast in my life, except once to Rogers'. But what I might have done under this temptation is a question forestalled by my having engaged to go down to Bulwer Lytton's in Hertfordshire on Monday, to stay a few days.—Cordially yours,

Charles Dickens.

It was in 1863 that Leighton paid the notable visit to his friend of the Roman days, George Mason, to whom the world's Art owes so much. Assuredly, without Leighton's encouragement and help, those lovely idylls which stand with the most precious treasures of the English school of painting would never have been created. Mason had returned to England in 1856; he married and settled in his own manor-house, Wetley Abbey. Children were born and expenses increased, and little or nothing was there with which to meet them. After Rome England seemed a hopeless place to work in, and Mason's surroundings were quite dumb to his artistic sense. Leighton, when he heard of his depression and poverty, sought him out in his rural retreat, beamed mental sunshine on his spirits, made him walk with him, pointing out the pictorial beauties of Mason's own native country, and ended by taking him a tour through the Black Country. Mason's poetic sense was again awakened; an artistic purpose was again inspired; and, feeling the despair of hopeless poverty removed (Leighton was ever ready with substantial aid), he painted the pictures for which the world has so much reason to be grateful. When in 1872—nine years after this visit—George Mason died, Leighton arranged for a sale of his pictures and property, from the proceeds of which his wife and children obtained an income of £600 a year. Leighton wrote to Mrs. Matthews at the time of Mason's death: "Poor Mason's death has been a great shock to me, though indeed I should have been prepared for it at any time. His loss is quite irreparable for English Art, for he stood entirely alone in his especial charm, and he was one of the most lovable of men besides."

FOOTNOTES:

[8] The critics, judging from the following extracts, were amiably inclined towards him that year:—"Among the pictures familiar to London loungers of 1858, is Mr. F. Leighton's scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a work lost and, it may be submitted, undervalued, owing to the disadvantageous place given it in Trafalgar Square. The depth and richness of its colour, the picturesque manner in which the story is told, the contrast in some of the heads, that, for instance, of Friar Lawrence, hopeful in the consciousness of knowledge of Juliet's secret, with that of the entrancing maiden of Verona, or again with that of the weeping nurse, whose grief is a trifle too accentué. The truthful conception and careful labour of this picture have now a chance of being appreciated, and but that Pre-Raphaelitism is resolute not to give in, might fairly have entitled it to the prize bestowed elsewhere."—Athenæum, 1858.

"We will take the second-named gentleman first, and come at once to his 'Fisherman and Syren.' The picture is not of any commanding size, nor does it relate any very exciting legend. The story is of the mystic Undine tinge, and with a shadowy semblance in it to that strange legend, current among the peasants of Southern Russia, of the 'White Lady' with the long hair, who, with loving and languishing gestures, decoys the unwary into her fantastic skiff, then, pressing her baleful lips to theirs, folds them to her fell embrace, and drags them shrieking beneath the engulfing waves. The 'Fisherman and Syren' of Mr. Leighton has something of this unreal, legendary fatality pervading it throughout. There is irresistible seductiveness on the one side, pusillanimous fondness on the other. That it is all over with the fisherman, and that the syren will have her wicked will of him to his destruction, is palpable. But it is not alone for the admirable manner in which the story is told that we commend this picture; the drawing is eruditely correct, most graceful, and most symmetrical. The syren is a model of form in its most charming undulations. The fisherman is a type of manly elegance. That Mr. Leighton understands, to its remotest substructure, the vital principle of the line of beauty, is pleasurably manifest. But there is evidence here even more pleasing that the painter, in the gift of a glowing imagination, and a refined ideality, in his mastery of the nobler parts of pictorial manipulation, is worthy to be reckoned among the glorious brotherhood of disciples of the Italian masters—of the grand old men whose pictures, faded and time-worn as they are, in the National Gallery hard by, laugh to scorn the futile fripperies that depend for half their sheen on gilt frames and copal varnish. This young artist is one of Langis' and Nasasi's men. He has plainly drunk long and eagerly at the painter's Castaly. The fount of beauty and of grace that assuaged the thirst of those who painted the 'Monna Lisa' and the 'Belle Jardinière'; who modelled the 'Horned Moses' and the 'Slave'; who designed Peter's great Basilica, and the Ghiberti Gates at Florence."—Daily Telegraph, 3rd May 1858.

[9] The Prince of Wales, who lent the picture to the exhibition of Leighton's works at Burlington House, 1897.

[10] Mr. Augustus Craven's wife, née Pauline la Ferronnay, was the authoress of the famous book, Le Récit d'une sœur, in which several of the most charming scenes took place at Naples.

[11] Mr. George Aitchison wrote: "In 1859, while at Capri, he drew the celebrated Lemon Tree, working from daylight to dusk for a week or two, and giving large details in the margin of the snails on the tree."

[12] The drawing had been lent to Ruskin at the time he was lecturing at Oxford.

[13] Leighton knew Mr. Chorley through Mrs. Sartoris. He accompanied the great cantatrice when she made a tour abroad. "Mrs. Kemble's children and their nurse are with them, and Mary Anne Thackeray, a life-long friend, and Mr. Chorley, and the great Liszt, who subsequently joined them in Germany."—Preface by Mrs. R. Ritchie to "A Week in a French Country House," by Mrs. Adelaide Sartoris.

[14] Leighton was perfectly right. "Orphée" was produced at Covent Garden, and the great artist, Madame Viardot, sang in it superbly. The opera was given after one or two acts of a well-known work, and I can vouch for the fact, having been one of the audience, that the house was very nearly empty at the close of "Orphée," Lord Dudley and a very few true lovers of music only remaining in the stalls to the end.

[15] The lady was Mrs. Sandbach, a Hollandaise, who was Maid of Honour to the Queen of Holland. In after years, on an occasion when she and I paid a visit together to Leighton's studio in Holland Park Road, she recounted the incident above related by Leighton, which happened in the palace at the Hague when she was in waiting. She also added that from her description Leighton painted what she had seen in her dream to perfection; but that he subsequently added two amorini, which in her opinion did much to mar the otherwise true feeling of the picture.

[16] See sketches in the Leighton House Collection. The picture itself is, I believe, in America.

[17] Ibid.

[18] A visitor to Leighton's "private view" wrote him the following suggestions:—

13 Chester Terrace, N.W., Easter Monday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Pardon intrusion. I thought much of your beautiful pictures after my yesterday's visit, and I anticipated a struggle with the difficulty you mentioned of worthily naming them.

Don't think me impertinent for volunteering the result. It seemed impossible without verbal description to explain the sacred subject to the profane imagination, while a prose translation of its sentiment must be heavy and subversive of romance.

I think, were I fortunate enough to own the picture, I would call it "Not Yet," and I would put some little lines in the catalogue, which, for aught any one knows, might have come from some volume of rhyme, and which should explain that it is a story of a dream, and that the rejection is not final: something in this spirit, only better:—

"Not yet—not yet— Still there is trial for thee, still the lot To bear (the Father wills it) strife and care, With this sweet consciousness in balance set Against the world, to soothe thy suffering there. Thy Lord rejects thee not." Such tender words awoke me, hopeful, shriven, To life on earth again from dream of heaven.

For the beauty at the fountain I once thought the best title might be some couplet like the following:—

"So tranced and still half-dreamed she, and half-heard The splash of fountain and the song of bird."

But my wife, from my description of the picture, suggested a name better suited to the "suggestiveness" of the work:—

"Lieder ohne Worte": don't you think it rather pretty?

In the multitude of counsellors some one says there's wisdom, and this liberty we take with you may beget some thought that had not struck you.

I have Mr. Cockerell's commands to express to you the gratification his visit afforded him and his sense of your kindness and attentions.—I am, faithfully yours,

Ralph A. Benson.

Another friend wrote of "Lieder ohne Worte," adding a poem suggested by the "Francesca":—

Trinity House, E.C., 8th April 1861.

My dear Leighton,—If you did not paint better than I write you would not be the man of abounding promise that you are.

What I meant to say was that Law and Restraint are healthy life and the infraction of them ghostly death and dissolution, and that meaning is in your picture, whether you know it or not. Your "dæmon" may have put it there, but then you can trust your dæmon.

Still, best love to the little girl at the fountain, who knows that though Speech may be silver, Silence is Golden.—Ever yours, with many thanks,

Robin Allen.

Fred. Leighton, Esq.

Leighton's "Francesca di Rimini."

"That day they read no more." Virtue grows faint, One hand lies powerless, the wife's sweet face Is half-convulsed by loss of self-restraint. Outstretched to resist, remaining to embrace, The extended arm will clasp her guilty lover, And all the bright, pure world beyond for her be over.

Their very forms grow blurred and change their colour Into dim snaky wreaths of purple pallor, Fading away with Honour's fading Law Into the pale sad ghosts that Dante saw; Which we too see, crowned with departing glory, When Leighton's genius deepens Dante's Story.

R.A.

6th April 1861.

[19] D.G. Rossetti, in a letter to William Allingham, May 10, 1861, writes: "Leighton might, as you say, have made a burst had not his pictures been ill-placed mostly—indeed one of them (the only very good one, Lieder ohne Worte) is the only instance of very striking unfairness in the place."

[20] "Lieder ohne Worte."

[21] "Paolo and Francesca."

[22] These two pictures were painted from John Hanson Walker. Leighton sent both to the Royal Academy Exhibition of 1862 with the titles "Duet" and "Rustic Music." The first only was accepted.

[23] See water-colour and chalk drawings: Leighton House Collection.

[24] "Sea Echoes."

[25] The Hon. Mrs. Alfred Sartoris, sister-in-law of Leighton's friend, Mr. Edward Sartoris.

CHAPTER IIToC

ILLUSTRATIONS FOR CORNHILL MAGAZINE—FRESCO FOR LYNDHURST
CHURCH—ASSOCIATE OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY—MRS. LEIGHTON'S DEATH

1863-1865

In 1860 Leighton drew his first illustration for the Cornhill Magazine:—

Translation.]

Friday, 30th November 1860.

My dear Friend and Master,—Best thanks for your dear letter of the 7th, thanks also especially, because in your kind praise you do not spare criticism also; you could give me no better proof that you still esteem and love your old pupil. I feel the justice of your remarks about the drapery of the Saviour very much, and can only say in my excuse that I have treated this kind of subject very little, for I am only really a profane fellow; but should I at some future time again treat such a theme, I should endeavour to avoid similar faults. I send you this time, for fun, a proof impression of a woodcut after a drawing I made for one of our good monthly periodicals (The Cornhill Magazine). It seems to me to be not bad for wood. It illustrates a poem, and represents Ariadne kneeling on an eminence, looking out for Theseus. This as a preliminary; I hope to send you something in April.

Dearest Mammy,—My wretched picture is causing more delays! I am very sorry to say I shan't be able to get to Bath before Wednesday evening. I am due at Stourhead the 27th; this I cannot defer any more, as I must be on duty with the Rifle Corps at the beginning of September, and can't do all I have to do in less than a week—this will, however, still leave me three weeks, all but two days, at Bath.

I enjoyed myself at Panshanger very much—did I write to tell you who our party was? In case I did not, it was as follows: Henry Greville, Lord and Lady Katherine Valletort, Lord and Lady Spencer, Mrs. Leslie, Lord Listowel, Mr. Clare Vyner, and Mr. E. Lascelles—all young people; so that it was very pleasant.

There are, as you know, most beautiful pictures at Panshanger—a magnificent Vandyke, a splendid Rembrandt, Correggio, Andrea del Sarto, and two beautiful Raphaels.

G. Smith sent me a kind note and a cheque to fill up for drawing in the Cornhill ("Ariadne"). I put ten guineas, telling him that I could not, as a general rule, interrupt my work for that sum, but that I would not take more because the cut had turned out so extremely bad.

I am going to expend the money, adding a few pounds, on a cup, to be shot for in the spring by our Rifle Corps. Arthur Lewis has already given one, and another of our men has promised a second prize to go with my cup. My picture will be finished by the time I go to Bath. My eye is too accustomed to it to know whether it is successful; I shall know better when I return from the country.

I have no news, so good-bye, dear Mammy. Best love to all.—From your very affectionate boy,

Fred.

I go to Windsor (to Miss Thackeray) for two days next week; that also is an old invitation; I have no time for it, but must go. I keep my parties going tolerably, but shall give that up with a few exceptions when I settle here; it makes work impossible from unavoidably late hours, and produces a general deterioration of mind and body, mostly the former; the Hollands I shall always keep up—they are most kind; I dine there frequently and meet interesting and remarkable people.

Very remarkable drawings in pencil on other lines followed the celebrated "Lemon Tree"—surpassing in dramatic truth of expression any Leighton had executed since the early design he drew of the "Plague in Florence in 1850."[26]

SKETCH FOR "MICHAEL ANGELO NURSING HIS DYING SERVANT." 1862
Leighton House CollectionToList

The group of drawings for "Michael Angelo Nursing his Dying Servant" are among those preserved in the Leighton House collection, but were not seen by the public before Leighton's death. Though slight, they are among the most admirable he ever achieved in subtle tenderness of feeling and expressive truth of drawing. The feeble twitching clutch of the hands of the old man—announcing the speedy approach of Death—is a convincing proof of imaginative realism of a high order. This group of sketches, however, exemplify the curious artistic discrepancy which at times existed, especially before and about the time when the Michael Angelo was painted, between Leighton's pictures and the studies he made for them—a discrepancy which had no reference to his feeling for colour, but simply arose from an absence of sensitiveness for texture. In turning from the drawings to the painting, we find the noble feeling and conception, the lines and forms of the design much the same in all; but the heavy and yet insufficient texture of the actual surface mars the full conveying, even in the completed painting, of the feeling of the motive—so imperative is a simultaneous union of the idea with a happy echo of it in the touch of the human hand, if a work of art is fully to convey its message. Leighton's genius for using the point is referred to in a letter from Mrs. Browning, on the subject of a drawing he had made of her husband:—

Copy.]

Dear Mr. Leighton,—The portrait is beautiful, and would satisfy me entirely except for a want of strength about the brow, which I must write of, because I can't trust Robert himself with the message. I think the brow is feeble, less massive than his, with less fulness about the temples. In fact, your temple is hollow, instead of full. Will you look at it by the original? The eyes and mouth are exquisite. Your pencil has the expressiveness of another's brush.

How much I thank you for having put so much of my husband on paper is proved by the very insolence of my criticisms.—Most truly yours,

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

April 1.

In the same category as the Michael Angelo studies may be placed the first sketch of "Samson Wrestling with the Lion," designed as an illustration for Dalziel's Bible. This drawing is also in the Leighton House Collection, also the original drawings for "The Spies' Escape" and "Samson at the Mill." The following was written with regard to it: "An animal model never 'sits.' The artist must catch the action he wants from fleeting suggestions. His imagination alone can guide his pencil when he depicts such action with realistic power. It is in a pencil drawing of a lion that we find the work that evinces, more distinctly perhaps than does any other of Leighton's utterances in art, the highest kind of imagination in the drawing of form in action, namely in the sketch of 'Samson Wrestling with the Lion' for the illustrations in Dalziel's Bible. Where, indeed, for vigour of invention, can we find a drawing to surpass these few pencil lines? The sinews in the legs and claws of the animal are drawn up, clenching the vacant air with a quivering grip; the tail straightened stiffly through the strain of the wrestling; the whole animal convulsed with the force of the struggle. This is treatment of form no model could suggest, no knowledge evolve, no labour or industry produce. A true imagination alone can inspire such vivid realism." The other subjects Leighton illustrated were "Death of Abel," "Moses Viewing the Promised Land," "Samson Carrying the Gates," "Abraham and the Angel," "Eliezer and Rebecca at the Well," "The Slaying of the First-born."

ORIGINAL DRAWING FOR "SAMSON AND THE LION" IN DALZIEL'S BIBLE
Leighton House CollectionToList

In 1862 Leighton illustrated George Eliot's great novel "Romola." He writes to his father:—

Tuesday.

Dear Papa,—Though I am not able, I am sorry to say, to report the sale of any more of my pictures, you will be glad to hear of a commission just given me by G. Smith of the Cornhill which is very acceptable to me. I am to illustrate (by-the-bye this is "strictly confidential") a novel about to appear in the Cornhill from the hand of Adam Bede. It is an Italian story, the scene and period are Florence and the fifteenth century, nothing could "ganter" me better. It is to continue through twelve numbers, in each of which are to be two illustrations.

I am to have for each number £40; for the whole novel, therefore, £480. I have conferred with the authoress to-day, and am to get the first-proof sheets this week. The first number will be published in July. Miss Evans (or Mrs. Lewes) has a very striking countenance. Her face is large, her eyes deep set, her nose aquiline, her mouth large, the under jaw projecting, rather like Charles Quint; her voice and manner are grave, simple, and gentle. There is a curious mixture in her look; she either is or seems very short-sighted. Lewes is clever. Both were extremely polite to me; her I shall like much.

I have no other news; no one asks about my pictures, though their success is decidedly great; hard times! Are you writing to Gussy? if so will you tell her that I mean to give her some lessons with Hallé when she comes to London? she shall have three a week for a month. Tell Lina with my love not to be jealous, it will be her turn next. How is she? and how is Mamma? Give them my best love, and believe me, your affectionate boy,

Fred.

That George Eliot should write a Florentine story at a time when Leighton was available to illustrate it, was certainly a most fortunate coincidence. Each scene which he represents is impregnated with a feeling which records the strong hold Italy had on his artistic resources. With a few exceptions, these illustrations for "Romola" are the last examples of his art, when a dramatic or a humorous treatment was a prominent feature of the designs. The last picture exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1897—the passionate, despairing figure of "Clytie"—was notably one of these exceptions. Unfortunately Leighton's letters to George Eliot respecting the "Romola" drawings cannot be found, and were probably destroyed before the author's death. The following were preserved by Leighton:—

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Friday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Thanks for the sight of the Vignettes. They are satisfactory.

Your delicious drawing was with me all day yesterday and made the opera more delightful to me in the evening. I never saw anything comparable to the scene in Nello's shop as an illustration. There could not be a better beginning.

I should very much like to have a little conversation with you, and will arrange to see you at any hour that will best suit you, in the evening if you like, any time after the morning working hours, which last till two o'clock. I know your time is very precious to you just now, but I think we shall both benefit by a little talk together after you have read the second proof.—Yours very truly,

M.E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Wednesday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I feel for you as well as myself in this inevitable difficulty—nay, impossibility of producing perfect correspondence between my intention and the illustrations.

I think your sketch is charming, considered in itself, and I feel now with regret that if we had seen each other and talked a little together after you had read the proof, the only important discrepancy might have been prevented. It is too late for alterations now. If it had not been, I should have wished Bardo's head to be raised with the chin thrust forward a little—the usual attitude of the blind head, I think—and turned a little towards Romola, "as if he were looking at her."

Romola's attitude is perfect, and the composition is altogether such as gives me a very cheering prospect for the future, when we have more time for preparation. Her face and hair, though deliciously beautiful, are not just the thing—how could they be? Do not make yourself uneasy if alteration is impossible, but I meant the hair to fall forward from behind the ears over the neck, and the dress to be without ornament.

I shall inevitably be detestable to you, but believe that I am

(Unfinished)

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Thursday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Unmitigated delight! Nello is better than my Nello. I see the love and care with which the drawings are done.

After I had sent away my yesterday's note, written in such haste that I was afterwards uncomfortable lest I had misrepresented my feelings, the very considerations you suggest had occurred to me and I had talked them over with Mr. Lewes—namely, that the exigencies of your art must forbid perfect correspondence between the text and the illustration; and I came to the conclusion that it was these exigencies which had determined you as to the position of Bardo's head and the fall of Romola's hair. You have given her attitude transcendently well, and the attitude is more important than the mere head-dress. I am glad you chose Nello's shop; it makes so good a variety with Bardo and Romola. In a day or two you will have the second part, and I think you will find there a scene for Tessa "under the Plane Tree." But perhaps we shall see each other before you begin the next drawings.—Ever yours truly,

M.E. Lewes.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Monday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Your letter comforts me particularly. I am so glad to think you find subjects to your mind. I have no especial desire for the view from S. Miniato, and indeed a plan we started in conversation with Mr. Smith this morning, namely, to have moderately sized initial letters—the opening one being an old Florentine in his Lucco and generally the subjects being bits of landscape or Florentine building—seems to do away with any reason for having the landscape to begin with. The idea of having Tessa and the mules, or Nello's sanctum, smiles upon me, so pray feel free to choose the impression that urges itself most strongly. Your observation about the "che, che" is just the aid I besought from you. With that exception, I have confined myself, I believe, to such interjections as I find in the writers of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and in them, curiously enough, this exclamation now said to be so constant and "to mean everything" (according to our authority) does not seem to occur.

Thank you. Pray let me have as many criticisms of that kind as you can. I am more gratified, I think, by your liking these opening chapters than I have yet been by anything in these nervous anxious weeks of decision about publication.—Very truly yours,

M.E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Tuesday Evening.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—I am enchanted! purely delighted! which shall I begin with, to tell you that I delight in Baby's toes or that exquisite poetry in the scene where Romola is standing? Is it not a pleasant change to have that opening made through the walls of the city, so as to see the sky and the mountains? In the scene with Baldassarre and Tessa, also, the distant view is charming. Tessa and her Babkin are perfect—Baldassarre's is, as you say, an impossible face to draw, but you have seized the framework of the face well, both in this illustration and the previous one.

I want to tell you that a man of some eminence in art was speaking of your drawings to a third person the other day as "remarkable" in a tone of genuine admiration. I don't know whether you care about that, but it is good to know that there is any genuine admiration in one's neighbours.

I am glad to have the drawings left. I shall go now and have a long look at them. The February number will soon be out of my hands, but you will have it when it pleases the pigs—or printers.—Ever yours truly,

M.E. Lewes.

Park Hotel, Little Hampton,
Sussex, September 10, '62.    

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Thanks for your letter, which I have received this morning.

My copy of Vasari has a profile of Piero di Cosimo, but it is of no value, a man with a short beard and eyes nearly closed. The old felt hat on his head has more character in it than the features, but the hat you can't use.

Of Niccolo Caparra it is not likely that any portrait exists, so that you may feel easy in letting your imagination interpret my suggestions in the First and the Fifth Parts of Romola. There is probably a portrait of Piero di Cosimo in the portrait room of Uffizi, but in the absence of any decent catalogue of that collection it was a bewildering and headachy business to assure oneself of the presence or absence of any particular personage.

If you feel any doubt about the new Romola, I think it will be better for you to keep to the original representation, the type given in the first illustration, which some accomplished people told me they thought very charming. It will be much better to continue what is intrinsically pretty than to fail in an effort after something indistinctly seen. If you prefer the action of taking out the crucifix, instead of the merely contemplative attitude, you can choose that with safety. In the scene with Piero di Cosimo, I thought you might make the figures subordinate to those other details which you render so charmingly, and I chose it for that reason.

But I am quite convinced that illustrations can only form a sort of overture to the text. The artist who uses the pencil must otherwise be tormented to misery by the deficiencies or requirements of the one who uses the pen, and the writer, on the other hand, must die of impossible expectations. Apropos of all that, I want to assure you again of what I had said in that letter, which your naughty servant sent down the wind, that I appreciate very highly the advantage of having your hand and mind to work with me rather than those of any other artist of whom I know. Please do not take that as an impertinent expression of opinion, but rather as an honest expression of feeling by which you must interpret any apparent criticism.

The initial letter of the December part will be W. I forgot to tell you how pleased I was with the initial letter of Part V.

I am very much obliged to you for your critical doubts. I will put out the questionable "Ecco!" in deference to your knowledge. I have a tremulous sense of my liability to error in such things.

I don't wonder at your difficulty about the modification of com into ciom. The writers of the fifteenth century, speaking of the insurrection of the Ciompi which occurred in the previous century, say that the word was a corruption of the French compère, the same word of course as compare, constantly on the lips of the numerous French who were present in Florence during the dictatorship of the Duke of Athens. The likelihood of the derivation lies in the analysis of transition in the meaning of words compère and compare, like the English "gossip," beginning with the meaning of godfather and ending with, or rather proceeding to that of companion. Our "gossip" has at least parted with its secondary meaning as well as its primary one.

The unlikelihood of the derivation lies in the modification of the sounds, and I felt that unlikelihood as you have done. But in the absence of a Max Müller to assure me of a law to the contrary, I thought the statement of Tuscan writers a better authority than inferences. I ought to have written "is stated by the old historians."

I am really comforted by the thought that you will mention doubts to me when they occur to you. My misery is the certainty that I must be often in error.

Mr. Lewes shares my admiration of the two last illustrations.—Ever yours truly,

Marian E. Lewes.

F. Leighton, Esq.

16 Blandford Square, N.W.,
Tuesday.

Dear Mr. Leighton,—Since I saw you I have confirmed by renewed reference my conclusion that gamurra was the equivalent of our gown, i.e. the constant outer garb of femininity, varying in length and cut according to rank and age. The poets and novelists give it alike to the peasant and the "city woman," and speak of the girdle around it. Perhaps it would have been better to call Tessa's gown a gamurrina, the word sometimes used and indicating, I imagine, just that abbreviation of petticoat that active work demands.

If you are going to see Ghirlandajo's frescoes—the engravings of them I mean—in the choir of Santa Maria Novella, I wish you would especially notice if the women in his groups have not that plain piece of opaque drapery over the head which haunts my memory. We were only allowed to see those frescoes once, because of repairs going on; but I am strongly impressed with a belief—which, au reste, may be quite false—in the presence of my "white hood" there. As to the garb of the luxurious classes at that time, a point which may turn up in our progress, I think the painters can hardly be believed to have represented it fully, since we know, on strong evidence, that it ran into extravagances, which are even in contrast with the general impression conveyed not only by the large fresco compositions but by the portraits. You must have had sufficient experience of the eclecticism in costume which the artist's feeling forces upon him in the presence of hideous or extreme fashion. We have in Varchi a sufficiently fit and clear description of the ordinary male costume of dignified Florentines in my time; but for the corresponding feminine costume the best authority I have seen is the very incomplete one of a certain Ginevra's trousseau in the Ricordi of the Rinuccini family of rather an earlier period, but marking even there the rage for embroidery and pearls which grew instead of diminishing.

I imagine that the woman's berretta, frequently of velvet embroidered with pearls, and apparently almost as prevalent as our bonnet, must have been that close-fitting cap, square at the ears, of which we spoke yesterday. I trouble you with this note—which pray do not think it necessary to answer—in order to indicate to you the very slight satisfaction my anxiety on this subject can meet with, and the obligation I shall be under to you if you will ever give me a positive or negative hint or correction.

Approximative truth is the only truth attainable, but at least one must strive for that, and not wade off into arbitrary falsehood.—Ever, dear Mr. Leighton, yours very truly,

Marian E. Lewes.

Leighton preserved the records of a friendship with Mr. Robin Allen,[27] established and for most part continued through a correspondence which lasted for many years from the early 'sixties. The letter sent with the following poem refers to Leighton's illustration to Mrs. Browning's poem, "Musical Instrument," of which the original drawing is reproduced. (See List of Illustrations.)

Trinity House, E.C.

My dear Sir,—If I send this to the author of a lovely illustration to a lovely poem, it is not for its worth, but to give me an excuse for saying that I go out of town for a month next Wednesday, and hope that I may call on you on my return, perhaps get leave to show you over Loughton Woods in the autumn.—Believe me, my dear sir, yours truly,

Robin Allen.

F. Leighton, Esq.

Sequitur To Mrs. Browning's "Musical Instrument" in the "Cornhill Magazine" of July 1860.

A greater God than the great god Pan Planted the reed in the river, And he is the only God who can Break through its heart without killing the reed, And make of its very life indeed An organ, to utter His psalm as the Giver.

This greater God than the beast-god Pan, As He watches the reeds in Time's river, Counts for best poet that perfect Man Who holds lightly his song, at its loftiest strain, So he live a man's life!—and at all cost and pain Is a reed among reeds in the river.

R.A.

"THE GREAT GOD PAN"
Original Sketch for Illustration to Mrs. Browning's Poem in the Cornhill Magazine, 1861ToList

"AN EVENING IN A FRENCH COUNTRY HOUSE"
Illustration for Mrs. Adelaide Sartoris's story, "A Week in a French Country House," published in the Cornhill Magazine, 1867
By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co.ToList

In a letter to his mother Leighton expresses a warm admiration for these lines by Mr. Robin Allen.

In the autumn of 1863 the following letter to his mother mentions a notable visit to Compiègne. The charming story Mrs. Edward Sartoris wrote, which appeared some years later in the Cornhill Magazine, "A Week in a French Country House," owes its local colour to this home at Compiègne to which Leighton refers. It belonged to Mr. Edward Sartoris' brother-in-law, the Marquis de l'Aigle. For this story Leighton made two admirable illustrations—"An Evening in a French Country House" and "Drifting." Leighton is supposed to have suggested the character of Monsieur Kiowski, the Polish artist in the story; and the figure in the boat holding the rudder in "Drifting" he certainly meant to represent himself, while the figure singing is Adelaide Sartoris—drawn, as shown by the head-dress, from the sketch Leighton made in 1856. (See List of Illustrations.)

Commencement of letter missing.]

1862.

I have a fit of the blues instead.

I hope for the sake of my pictures that I shall soon get over them (the blues, not the pictures). I believe if I could find models I should recover at once; but I foresee that I shall have no such luck.

I had a delightful time at Compiègne—the place is charming, the house comfortable in the extreme, and the life the perfection of unconstraint (if that is English); I have told you already how hospitable and kind my host and hostess were. I have, of course, no news to give you yet, except, by-the-bye, that the bailiffs were in the house the other day because Mr. and Mrs. Gedy had not paid £3, 5s. 6d. taxes; they stayed two days in the house, and if the money had not come, would have walked off with some of my furniture. I wish I had a house; they are beginning a house on Campden Hill, and would build it for an artist after his own designs.

Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Sartoris, the admirer of "Eastern King," were also among the visitors during this week in a French country house, and write the following anecdote:—

"Those who knew Lord Leighton require no record of his kindness and unselfishness. For those who had not that privilege the following little anecdote may be interesting. In the late autumn of 1863 we were all staying with my sister-in-law, the Marquise de l'Aigle, at Francport, near Compiègne. Mrs. Sartoris was also there and Mr. Leighton. There was to be a service on the Sunday in a little neighbouring village church for some children who had made their first communion, and it occurred to Mme. de l'Aigle to have some special music on the occasion, and profit by the glorious voice of Mrs. Sartoris, who kindly offered to sing. Mr. Leighton also volunteered to take the tenor part in various sacred pieces. We were all to help in the concerted music, and the old curé was in the seventh heaven of delight at the prospect of such a grand service. Our dismay can be imagined when three days before the service Mr. Leighton announced that he must leave us as business required his presence in London. 'Oh!' we all exclaimed, 'what shall we do? the tenor pieces must be given up; the curé will die of grief,' &c. ... 'No, no,' said Mr. L., in his cheery way, 'don't change anything; I shall be back all right on Sunday morning in time to sing;' and so, sure enough, he did return, having travelled two nights to London and back. He never would tell us why he had gone; and it was not till long afterwards that it transpired that he had made the hurried double journey to help a struggling artist, whose work he wished to bring forward and introduce to some influential person. He attained his object, and thought nothing of the time and trouble involved, only glad to have been a help to one who needed assistance, and also to keep his promise by singing in the little village church."

"DRIFTING"
Illustration for Mrs. Adelaide Sartoris's story, "A Week in a French Country House," published in the Cornhill Magazine, 1867
By permission of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co.ToList

In 1863 Leighton began painting the fresco of "The Wise and Foolish Virgins," which he presented to the Church at Lyndhurst. It was painted on the plaster wall above the altar at the east end. While at work on it, he stayed with his old friend Mr. Hamilton Aïdé, who formed one of the happy company of intimes of the Roman and Lucca days. Several visits to this charming home in the New Forest were made before the work was finished.

In the following letter to Steinle he mentions his first experiment in Mr. Gambier Parry's medium for painting in fresco.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater.

My Very Dear Friend,—When I last wrote I asked you when the German exhibition of which you spoke was to take place, and whether it was to be held in Cologne itself; but as I received no answer I supposed that this exhibition either had not come to anything (as I have seen nothing about it in the newspapers), or that it did not seem sufficiently important to you for me to go specially to Germany for it. Nevertheless, I would have gone to Cologne, if it had been in any way feasible, exclusively on account of you and your works, which I am very anxious to see; unfortunately, however, I could not arrange it, and must content myself with learning from a letter (if you will write me one) how your work succeeds, and how far you have got with it. Two walls are already finished, are they not?

As for myself, I am fairly industrious. Amongst other things, I am painting at present the composition which you have already seen, of Michael Angelo and his old servant Urbino. I have endeavoured to keep the action of the figures simpler and smoother than in the first sketch; and, in fact, I think the picture will please you better than the drawing. For the rest, I am sick of painting small pictures, and would like to undertake something large; but it is not very agreeable to paint pictures which will probably remain always hanging round one's neck.

I think I shall very soon test the public again in this respect—but what I shall paint I do not know. A friend of mine (Mr. Gambier Parry), a great art devotee and first-rate amateur, has discovered a medium to replace fresco painting in our damp climate. I have seen his experiments, and have myself painted a head under his rules,[28] and to my complete satisfaction. The result is scarcely to be distinguished from fresco, and is quite as easy, indeed even easier to achieve. At the same time this method has advantages which buon fresco does not possess; it dries exactly as one lays it on (and is then flat), it has no deposit (Ansätze), and one can go over it as often as one likes. The wall (a granular lime wall) is saturated with the same preparation as you paint with. This preparation, which is stone hard against water, can always dissolve itself with moisture, so that one can retouch it perpetually, at the same time the whole of one's palette is available. My friend is going to publish his system; I will then, if you like, tell you exactly about it.

And now, farewell, dear Master. Remember me most kindly to your wife and children, and keep in remembrance your friend and pupil,

Fred Leighton.

He wrote to Steinle in 1862 that he was making studies for the Lyndhurst fresco, and expected to finish it that summer; but it was apparently only begun in August 1863.

Translation.]

2 Orme Square, Bayswater,
April 22, 1862.

My very dear Friend,—When I last wrote to you, I promised and hoped that this time I should be able to send you some photographs of my latest works, but unfortunately at the last moment time ran short. My pictures are only just ready for exhibition, and I must send them off unphotographed. In order that you may not think I have been idle, I write these lines; also because I am unwilling, my dear Master, to fade entirely from your memory. I am exhibiting eight pictures this year, an unusually large number. But the case is not so bad as it looks at the first glance. Two only of these pictures are important in size and subject. One of them you already know from a former composition. It represents Michael Angelo with his dying servant Urbino. In the principal idea I have not deviated much from the first sketch, but have endeavoured to treat the whole with more unity and the details with more simplicity than in the drawing which you saw, and the faults of which you pointed out to me. This picture is life-size, and extends down to the knees.

The other is of a somewhat fanciful description. I have imagined one of the three holy kings, when he sees the Star in the East from the battlements of his palace. The picture is curious and open to much fault-finding, but I think it will please you by a certain poetry in the conception. The shape is long and narrow. The king, half life-size, almost turns his back upon the spectator, and is, in the midst of the dark night, only lit by the mystic rays of the Star. In contrast to this pure light one sees, quite at the bottom, through an arch, into the hot lamp-light, which illuminates a gay orgy. I have allowed myself a certain amount of pictorial licence, which may well surprise the general spectator at first glance, but which to me heightens the poetical impression of the whole.

Five other pictures are smaller, and three of the subjects are idyllic or fanciful (e.g. a shepherd playing on a flute, an Oriental girl with a swan, &c. &c.), all carried out with great love, and certainly my best works.

At present I am busy making studies for a large wall painting (the "Wise and Foolish Virgins"), which I am giving to a church. I shall execute it this summer, and tell you more about it.

Now, my dear Friend, I have given you a long and full report of myself; I hope you also will tell me what you are doing. I am very anxious to know how the Cologne frescoes get on. How I should like to see them! Perhaps I may manage it this autumn. In the meantime, however, write to me, and believe me to be, your devoted pupil,

Fred Leighton.

PORTRAIT FROM A PHOTOGRAPH OF LORD LEIGHTON TAKEN IN 1863ToList

April 1863, Saturday.

Dearest Mamma,—You have seen in the papers that the Review at Brighton went off capitally. I enjoyed my day very much, and though I was a little tired and very sleepy for two days after, was altogether the better for it. It was a stiff day's work too—nine or ten hours without sitting down, and with the additional responsibility of having the command of the Artists' Company. I was sure you would be pleased at the reception of my "Fruit Girl"[29] by my brother artists—you must understand, though, that this applies chiefly to the younger men (and not to all of them), for there are several of the older painters who strongly object to my style of painting and are bent on suppressing it.

Will you thank Papa for his hint about the Athenæum—I am pretty sure he is mistaken about it, but I shall take measures about it—indeed I have.

I spoke to Charles Greville (Henry's brother) and told him I thought I should be coming on before very long; he very kindly overhauled the lists and said he thought I might be up by the end of the summer, and, what was still more kind, seeing me unseconded, he put his name down as seconder.

Forest Bank, Lyndhurst,
Thursday, August 6, 1863.

If I was not more explicit about being with Aïdé, it was because I made sure you knew it. You will be pleased to hear that when after many péripéties I did begin my fresco I got on capitally; I have now finished the task for this year, having painted three life-size figures, with a good bit of background, in four days. I worked hard for it, and am rather tired—head and eyes; otherwise flourishing.

I am delighted with my new fresco material (Parry's)—the effect is excellent—nearly as fine as real fresco. Everybody seems much pleased with what I have done, particularly the parson. I like it myself; I enjoy working at it immensely; it is my real element. I find it (for mere manipulation bien entendu) absurdly easy.

The following letter from Mr. Gambier Parry explains the "fresco material" Leighton used.

Highnam, Gloucester,
August 3, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—In reply to your last note about the use of the wall itself rather than of canvas, there can be no doubt on the subject, if only the plaster is good and well put on. You speak of two or three months to get it dry. I assure you that that is not near enough. When the surface feels dry to your hand you must not suppose that it is all dry inside, and if the wall is new, I doubt a year being enough to dry it. The water must evaporate somewhere—it is drawn to the surface of interiors because they are the warmest.

You ask whether the rough cast on the wall must be scraped off before you wash the wall for painting. If by the rough cast you mean rough plaster, which is a totally different thing to rough cast, certainly use it as it is. The coarser the plaster the better, because it is all the more porous, so long only that it is of the best materials (viz. perfectly washed sand, and good lime), and well put on a good wall. Nothing in the world could equal it for painting upon, except a surface of coarse clean Bath stone, with all its pores open. If you have such plaster as I have just described, and both it and the wall thoroughly dry, nothing could be better. The smooth surface, with what granulated texture you please, can be got according to the directions in my paper—viz. after two or three washes of pure diluted medium, give another or two more of the same, with dry whiting and a little white-lead, then go ahead while it is all fresh, viz. two or three days after the process of preparation has been completed.

Take care in painting not to rub it up too much, for fear of drawing up the glossy resins to the surface away from the wax. Paint right into your prepared surface solidly and with decision in the way of fresco painting, not as oil. Keep the brush clean, and the volatile oil in the dipper clean, and then, oh! how shall I envy you your power to use them all![30]

At the Ely ceiling, which is of hard wood not porous, but prepared with three coats of oil white-lead, I am painting with

 

Liquid Measure.

Pale drying oil

2

Japan gold size

2

Turpentine

2

Artist copal

1

well shaken up every time it is used. The colours are all ground up in it, and then painting is done as in water-colour, using pure spirits of turpentine as a vehicle. Colours dry extremely rapidly and with a dead surface. The stuff looks horribly black, but the colours are not materially affected by it. Of course it is not to be compared with my former medium, because there is that bane of the palette oil in it, but I used it because of its great facility (used transparent like water-colour on a white ground), and because the surface was hard, so that wax might (in great heat) shrink or play tricks on it, as it has done in Murillo's pictures and many others.—Ever most sincerely yours,

T. Gambier Parry.

If I can do anything for you, command me; we go to Scotland on the 14th.

London, April 26, 1863.

Dearest Mamma,—You were no doubt surprised to see a sock arrive in Bath in solitary grandeur, unaccompanied by any sort of note. The fact is, for some days past I have been working at a rate which made me altogether unfit for correspondence. I have just returned from Lyndhurst, where I have been doing a bit more fresco—and very stiff work it was—up and at work at seven, and at it best part of the day, perched generally on an uncomfortably narrow ladder, and with my head almost blown off by the agreeable but overpowering smell of the vehicle with which I painted. The result is as far as it goes tolerably satisfactory—everybody there is delighted, and though that, of course, does not prove much, it is at all events agreeable to me that they derive so much pleasure from my work. The stained-glass window, too, which has been executed at my desire from Jones' designs, gives great satisfaction—is a lovely piece of colour, and (which was, to me, of paramount importance) does not hurt my fresco, though, of course, in the nature of things, it outshines tenfold in point of brilliancy; hence the folly, to my mind, of ever putting glass and wall painting in immediate juxtaposition. I shall go and paint another slice in June, after which Aïdé leaves, so I may not be able to finish my work till he returns in autumn. On my road to Lyndhurst, I paid a visit to Lady Dorothy Neville (Lady Pollington's sister) at Dangstein—a very beautiful place near Petersfield.

On Monday week the Royal Academy opens—I shall be curious to see what pictures they have taken; my work at present will be a woodcut for Dalziel—then that for the Cornhill—then a drawing for Cundall's Bible—Mrs. Magniac's portrait—the cartoon for the remainder of the Lyndhurst fresco—then perhaps a new picture. I wish some one would buy the old ones!

Have you read "Sylvia's Lovers"? Don't read "Salammbo"—it is hideous.

Dearest Mamma,—My chair has arrived safe and sound; once more, my very best thanks for it.

Aïdé is one of the most excellent men that ever lived—I like him extremely.

By-the-bye, I am made one of the ensigns in our Rifle Corps, so that when you come to town you have a chance of seeing me strutting about with a sword.

I write in haste. Good-bye, best love to all.—From your very affectionate boy,

Fred.

THE FRESCO PRESENTED BY LORD LEIGHTON TO LYNDHURST CHURCH—"THE WISE AND FOOLISH VIRGINS." Completed 1864ToList

In a letter to his father dated 1864 Leighton announced the completion of the fresco, "The Wise and Foolish Virgins." The design of the whole and the lines of the draperies in each figure are all admirable, and the work is one which proves Leighton's powers of achieving rapidly, and under great difficulties, a complete work and one in which his great sense of beauty is very salient. There is also sufficient dramatic feeling in the gestures and expressions of the faces. Perhaps the most interesting (because the most spontaneous) attitude in the figures of the wise virgins is that which is kneeling, profile-wise, under the figure of the angel, who is indicating to her the presence of her Saviour. She seems dazed with awe and rapture. Her arm is caught up with a sudden unstudied angularity of movement which, though not so beautiful intrinsically as are most of those in Leighton's work, is very expressive, and produces a happy effect amid the more obviously arranged lines in the rest of the design. Among the many drawings preserved in the Leighton House Collection made for this fresco there is a slight but very sensitive sketch for this figure, also a finished pencil drawing for the head of Christ. The model who sat for this head was the Italian whom Leighton painted in "Golden Hours," and whom Watts used for the picture he (many years after its execution) entitled "A Prodigal." The type of this model may be felt by some to have been an unfortunate one to choose for the central imposing figure in the design of the fresco. It is, perhaps, weak—too good-looking in a commonplace style for such a subject.

Ruskin, on seeing the photograph of this work, wrote to Leighton (a postscript to a letter): "I was much struck—seriously—by the photograph from your fresco; it is wonderfully fine in action."

Leighton wrote to Steinle on receipt of his criticisms on the Lyndhurst fresco:—

Translation.]

3rd December.

My dear Friend,—Just now returned from a long journey (to Constantinople and Athens), I find two very welcome letters from you, by which I see with great pleasure that your old pupil may still reckon upon your invaluable friendship and sympathy, and I see it all the more certainly because you enclose a kind but pertinent criticism of the photographs I sent you.[31] I agree entirely, and can only pretend in my defence that it was difficult, with the long space (all having to be filled) and the altar standing in the middle of it, not to fall into rather a panic. That, after all, is but a lame excuse, and I hope that you will always rap me over the knuckles with the same friendly sincerity.

My dear Friend, the idea of appearing as a collaborator beside you, my master, would be in the very highest degree delightful and flattering to me. It is therefore only after mature deliberation, and in the firm confidence that you will at least appreciate the sincerity of your Leighton, that I have to decline with real regret Herr Bruckmann's flattering invitation. You, more than any one else, will agree with me that an artist can execute no first-rate work, indeed dare undertake no work, that is not a genuine expression alike of his feelings and his convictions. I must candidly confess I cannot agree about a complete illustration of the Shakespearian plays, those masterpieces already in existence as exhaustively finished works of art; it seems to me that in literature only those subjects lend themselves to pictorial representation which stand in the written word more as suggestion. Subjects perhaps which are provided in the Bible or in mythology and tradition in great variety, or are not already generally in possession of the minds of the spectators of living plays (e.g. the Greek Tragedies). It is for the most part a struggle with the incomparable, already existing complete—which is quite intimidating to my capabilities. Do not take this ill, my dear Friend, and do not consider it too great a presumption that I, your pupil, declare so plainly against you where you think so differently. To go back over one detail, I must also confess that to me a coloured cartoon is not a natural mode of expression; a drawn, or a grey in grey (grau in grau) painted cartoon—well enough. A size five feet high is to me, for a suggestion of colour, at least five times too large; just as little could I give a suggestion of form in this size. Colour is not necessary; but if one should use it in half life-size, it is too noble and poetic, I think, for one to venture, so to speak, to clarify it. Will you forgive me for all this, dear master? However, I shall see with deep interest the progress of the beautiful work which you will certainly execute.

I have heard with some sorrow of the burning of the venerable Dome, and am just writing to Otto Cornhill in respect to a lottery which is to be arranged for the re-erection of the tower.

I have read what you tell me of your dear family with great pleasure; please remember me most kindly to your wife and children; also to my old comrades V. Müller, Wecker, and the rest. I am very glad to hear that G. Wecker, the apostate, has returned to art. He was, undoubtedly still is, a very gifted man, but had to guard somewhat, had he not? against the ornamental.

But my letter is becoming too long.

Farewell, my dear Master; take nothing amiss from your grateful, devoted pupil,

Fred Leighton.

Friday 10, 1864.

Dear Papa,—You will be disappointed, after waiting so long, to receive no paper after all, and a skimpy note instead. I am amused at the studied ill-nature of the Spectator; I wonder who V. is. The author of an article on sensation pictures in the Realm, in which I am flatteringly quoted, is by Mrs. Norton. En somme I think my "Golden Hours" is the most successful of my pictures (perhaps more than anything since "Cimabue") and the "Orpheus" (deservedly) the least. I am about to begin two new pictures. Mrs. Guthrie's portrait—a full length—is postponed for her health till the winter.

1864.

I should not leave the place I am in except to build; a mended house would be most unsatisfactory and temporary. I feel sure I shall nowhere get standing room for a house for less than £28, still less room for a house and large garden. If I find the terms exactly as I expect and my lawyer (Nettleship) satisfied with the title I shall, I think, close the bargain, the more so that another painter (I don't know who) is after it.[32] I am staying for a day or two at Dangstein (Lady Dorothy Neville's). I met here last night Mr. Henry Woolfe, who very kindly offered me introductions to one or two charming Venetian families (Mocenigo) which will be very pleasant for me, as I want to see a Venetian interior. Gambart has paid the £1050 for "Dante." The "Honeymoon" was bought by a Cornhill dealer yclept Moreby.

I will let you know how all goes off on Saturday at the Council, meanwhile best love to Mamma.—From your affectionate son,

Fred.

August 23, 1864.

I found your letter on returning from Lyndhurst this morning. I may as well tell you at once that I have finished my fresco, retouching a great deal of what was already painted, and I think I may add, greatly improving it—so much for that.

With regard to the draft, my assent was only general and preliminary (besides being subject to the approval in the details of my solicitor) and bound me to nothing. My surveyor and solicitor have conferred together and with Lady H.'s agent, and though the agreement is not yet signed, the matter is virtually settled. I have several minor clauses altered which had been inserted originally in the general draft to meet cases different from my own. With regard to the title, I was surprised and vexed to hear that it was stipulated that no title should be called for. My lawyer told me that this was frequently the case—that he would go to Doctors' Commons to see the Will to ascertain the truth of the statement that the property was Lady H.'s in fee simple (as it is). Even this he said did not legally exhaust the matter, as there might be encumbrances not alluded to in the Will. He said, however, that many other leases had been granted on that property on precisely the same terms, that the matter turned on the character of the landlord, and that, en somme, I ran but little risk. Since then I have seen him, and he tells me that he has fortunately been able to ascertain through a very respectable firm of solicitors, who have seen the titles, that it is all right; he has therefore not thought it desirable to put me to the expense of investigating the Will—so far so good. As to the possible expense of the house, my dear Papa, you have taken, I assure you, false alarm. I shall indeed devote more to the architectural part of the building than you would care to do; but in the first place architecture and much ornament are not inseparable, and besides, whatever I do I shall undertake nothing without an estimate.

You need never fear that I shall take otherwise than it is meant the advice that your experience and interest in me suggest to you. You will also, I am sure, allow for the difference of feeling between yourself and an artist who lives by his eyes.

A line will find me at Venice, poste restante, all September. I am just off.

Best love to Mammy.—From your affectionate son,

Fred.

I knew neither Poole nor Jones. Grant said he thought it probable I should be an R.A. before long.

Venice, September 20, '64.

My dear Papa,—Many thanks for your letter, which reached me safely a few days ago. I do indeed contemplate building my house so as to be enlarged at a future day. I find, however, that I shall probably be obliged to build at once rather more than I absolutely require for practical building reasons, but I need not therefore furnish more than I require. About the well I am now entirely in the dark. It would never have occurred to me to ask myself the question, Are there not pipes or something? With regard to the Will, if the perusal of it only cost a guinea, it might have been worth while to look at it, though Palmer and Nettleship thought it superfluous; but then P. and N. tell me it would cost £20! to have it gone over, and as my expenses with Browne (Lady H.'s agent) are already very great—he makes a preposterous charge, which I can't dispute, for the agreement—I don't think I shall care to add to them.

My architect is Aitchison, an old friend.

I wrote to the Academicians (Poole, Grant, and Jones) almost immediately on hearing from them, and expressed a hope, vague but polite, that we might meet on my return. Poole I should like to know; he is a man of poetic mind. I need scarcely tell you that the idea of my being elected President (!!!) for many years to come is simply ludicrous, even if there is a chance of my ever having the offer of that dignity.

I am quite aware that people do talk of it laughingly, but I don't think it goes beyond "chaff" yet. No doubt many other young artists are chaffed in the same way with imaginary dignities. I am delighted that Mamma is better; I should have said this before but that I have answered your letter systematically. I trust the improvement will be lasting.

I congratulate you on Colenso's visit, and shall be very anxious to hear from you how it went off.

As for myself, I am very snugly ensconced in a little mezzanino on the Grand Canal, with a sort of passage which I use as a studio and a bath-room, inasmuch as it opens straight on the water, and enables me to take a very jolly swim every day. I am not attempting a picture, but am making a sketch for one which I shall probably paint on the spot next autumn, staying here a couple of months or so. Meanwhile I have got several heads in hand—studies, not for sale, for use—and a few sketches in Saint Mark's, which I think promise well. Et voilà.

I stay here a fortnight longer, so that a letter written on receipt of this would still catch me; after that Rome is the safest address. I shall be there from the 20th to the 28th of October.

Best love to Mamma, and believe me, your affectionate son,

Fred.

In the preceding letters mention is made of the final arrangements for the building of Leighton's house in Holland Park Road. Mr. George Aitchison, R.A., his old friend, undertook to be the architect. It was begun in 1865, and first occupied by Leighton in 1866.

Referring to opinions expressed regarding Florentine Art, past and present, Leighton wrote to his younger sister: "——'s remark about ——, if I remember it, was utter bosh and pedantry. The Florentines of the end of the fifteenth century were emphatically realists, though their realism was animated by a higher genius and a deeper humanity than the modern Italians exhibit, though they, by-the-bye, are mostly not realists but mannerists. The chief characteristic of English Art is (I speak of course of the better men) originality and humanity on the one hand, and on the other, absence of acquired knowledge and guiding taste. Some day I will write you a lot more about it."

Fully launched into the English art world, deeply interested in every phase of sincere work produced by contemporary brother artists, Leighton nevertheless adhered in his own practice to the views and principles which he held from the time he became Steinle's devoted pupil. To a question which referred to his art development, asked by Mrs. Mark Pattison when she was about to write an account of his life in 1879, Leighton answered, "I can only speak of what is not a change but virtually a growth, the passage from Gothicism to Classicism (for want of better words) i.e. a growth from multiplicity to simplicity. Artists' manners are not changed by books!" "As regards English artists," he writes in the same letter, "I can only of course speak with great reserve. Elmore treated me with marked kindness, lending me a studio. Millais, Rossetti, Hunt were most cordial and friendly, though I openly told them I was wholly opposed to their views; but, indeed, few men have more cause to speak well of their brethren."

The artistic events of the years 1862, 1863, and 1864 culminated in Leighton being elected an Associate of the Royal Academy. His old friend, Mr. George Aitchison, wrote at the time of Leighton's death: "In 1860 he took a studio at Orme Square, Bayswater. It was during this time that his conversation was so brilliant and so free from restraint. I remember a summer afternoon I spent with him, Mason, and Murch on the terrace at the Crystal Palace, when he gave vent to the freest criticism on books, artists, philosophy, science, and the methods of teaching, and deplored the waste of time to students of making large chalk studies, when everything that was wanted could be shown on a sheet of smooth paper, seven inches high, with a hard pencil. He was a great admirer of Boxall and his delicate painting, of Mr. Watts' and Sir E. Burne-Jones' work, and persuaded the last two to join the Royal Academy. In 1864 he was made an A.R.A., and after this he became very cautious of expressing any but the most general opinions on contemporary English art, as his remarks generally got into the papers."

"Eucharis," 1863; "Dante at Verona," and "Golden Hours," 1864, are three works which might be placed in the first rank of Leighton's achievements. In the following letters references are made to the pictures:—

April 29, 1863.

Dear Mammy,—I have just been to the R.A., having been invited to the "Varnishing Day." Four pictures are hung—"Elijah," high, of course, but in a centre place; it looks well, but much darker than in the studio. "Peacock Girl,"[33] very well hung, exactly where "The Vision" was a few years ago; it looks well. "The Crossbowman" and "The Girl with the Fruit"[34] are fairly hung, but look, to me, less well than in the studio. The "Salome"[35] is the one not taken. Altogether I am well treated.

In the following letters from Ruskin his interest is expressed in the pictures exhibited in the Academy of 1863, and for the "Romola" illustrations:—

My dear Leighton,—I've only just had time to look in, yesterday, at R. Ac., and your pictures are the only ones that interest me in it; and the two pretty ones, peacocks and basket, interest me much. Ahab I don't much like. You know you, like all people good for anything in this age and country (as far as Palmerston), are still a boy—and a boy can't paint Elijah. But the pretty girls are very nice—very nearly beautiful. I can't say more, can I? If once they were beautiful, they would be immortal too. But if I don't pitch into you when I get hold of you again for not drawing your Canephora's basket as well as her head and hair! You got out of the scrape about the circle of it by saying you wanted it hung out of sight (which I don't). But the meshes are all wrong—inelegantly wrong—which is unpardonable. I believe a Japanese would have done it better. Thanks for nice book on Japan with my name Japanned. It is very nice too. I wish the woodcuts were bigger. I should like it so much better in a little octavo with big woodcuts on every other page. But I never do anything but grumble.—Faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

My dear Leighton,—The public voice respecting the lecture you are calumniously charged with, is as wise as usual. The lecture is an excellent and most interesting one, and I am very sorry it is not yours.

I am also very sorry the basket is yours, in spite of the very pretty theory of accessories. It is proper that an accessory be slightly—sometimes even, in a measure, badly—painted, but not that it should be out of perspective; and in the greatest men, their enjoyment and power animated the very dust under the feet of their figures—much more the baskets on their heads: above all things, what comes near a head should be studied in every line.

There is nothing more notable to my mind in the minor tricks of the great Venetians than the exquisite perspective of bandeaux, braids, garlands, jewels, flowers, or anything else which aids the roundings of their heads.

It is my turn to claim Browning for you, though I know what your morning time is to you. I must have you over here one of these summer mornings, if it be but to look at some dashes in sepia by Reynolds, and a couple of mackerel by Turner—which, being principals instead of accessories, I hope you will permit to be well done, though they're not as pretty as peacocks.

I have been watching the "Romola" plates with interest. The one of the mad old man with dagger seemed to me a marvellous study (of its kind), and I feel the advancing power in all.

Will you tell me any day you could come—any hour—and I'll try for Browning.—Ever faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

I'm always wickeder in the morning than at night, because I'm fresh; so I'll try, this morning, to relieve your mind about the peacocks. To my sorrow, I know more of peacocks than girls, as you know more of girls than peacocks—and I assure you solemnly the fowls are quite as unsatisfactory to me as the girl can possibly be to you; so unsatisfactory, that if I could have painted them as well as you could, and had painted them as ill, I should have painted them out.[36]

Monday.

Dear Leighton,—I saw Browning last night; and he said he couldn't come till Thursday week: but do you think it would put you quite off your work if you came out here early on Friday and I drove you into Kensington as soon as you liked? We have enough to say and look at, surely, for two mornings—one by ourselves?

I want, seriously, for one thing to quit you of one impression respecting me. You are quite right—"ten times right"—in saying I never focus criticism. Was there ever criticism worth adjustment? The light is so ugly, it deserves no lens, and I never use one. But you never, on the other hand, have observed sufficiently that in such rough focussing as I give it, I measure faults not by their greatness, but their avoidableness. A man's great faults are natural to him—inevitable; if very great—undemonstrable, deep in the innermost of things. I never or rarely speak of them. They must be forgiven, or the picture left. But a common fault in perspective is not to be so passed by. You may not tell your friend, but with deepest reserve, your thoughts of the conduct of his life, but you tell him, if he has an ugly coat, to change his tailor, without fear of his answering that you don't focus your criticism. Now it so happens that I am in deep puzzlement and thought about some conditions of your work and its way, which, owing to my ignorance of many things in figure painting, are not likely to come to any good or speakable conclusion. But it would be partly presumptuous and partly vain to talk of these; hence that silence you spoke of when I saw you last. I wish I had kept it all my life, and learned, in place, to do the little I could have done, and enjoy the much I might have enjoyed.—Ever faithfully yours,

J. Ruskin.

Send me a line saying if you will give me the Friday morning, and fix your own hour for breakfast to be ready; and never mind if you are late, for I can't give you pretty things that spoil for waiting, anyhow.

Leighton writes to his mother:—

I had a kind note this morning from Ruskin, in which, after criticising two or three things, he speaks very warmly of other points in my work and of the development of what he calls "enormous power and sense of beauty." I quote this for what it is worth, because I know it will give you pleasure, but I have NOT and never shall have "enormous power," though I have some "sense of beauty." The "Orpheus" and "Golden Hours" are not in the great room but in the next to it. I have not seen Gambart lately, and do not, therefore, know whether he has got rid of any more of my pictures (by-the-bye, I have sent the "duet"—"Johnny"—to America to an Exhibition for the Sanitary Commission, on the request of Mrs. Kemble's daughter). He will, I think, engrave the "Honeymoon," but probably only photograph the others; by-the-bye (again), Mammy, tell Gussy with my love that I shall present her with a copy of each and shall not "think her greedy," having no thoughts for her but affectionate ones. With regard to the money paid me by Gambart, I invested as soon as I got it £1000 in Eastern Counties Railway debentures, at par, 4½ per cent., this on the advance of Coutts' stock clerk. Lord Ashburton's portrait was scarcely begun.[37] I have offered to try to finish tant bien que mal from photographs, and to give it to Lady A. She is very grateful. The child's picture also goes to the wall, as she won't be able to sit for some time, and would then be changed. Lady A. wanted to pay the price of the sketch as it stood; this I of course refused. She has commissioned me to paint her a fancy picture for £300.

Leighton was for five years an Associate before being elected a full member of the Royal Academy in 1869. During these years the number of important pictures he exhibited each season notably increased. In at least twelve of these works the many-sided Leighton is worthily represented—"Dante at Verona,"[38] "Golden Hours," "David," "Syracusan Bride" (exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1866 and in the Paris International Exhibition in 1868), "Helen of Troy,"[39] "Greek Girl Dancing," "Venus Disrobing from the Bath," "Ariadne Abandoned by Theseus, Ariadne Watches for his Return, Artemis Releases Her by Death," "Actæa, the Nymph of the Shore," "Dædalus and Icarus," "Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon," "Helios and Rhodos." The extreme variety from every point of view which exists in this group of twelve pictures, chosen from the twenty-six paintings and the numerous sketches executed in these five years, would be a proof in itself, if one were needed, of Leighton's extraordinary versatility as regards the motives of his pictures.

"GREEK GIRL DANCING." 1867
By permission of Mr. PhillipsonToList

DRAWING FOR THE PAINTING "A PASTORAL." 1866
Leighton House CollectionToList

In the spring of 1865, after years of delicate health, Mrs. Leighton at the last died suddenly, at her home in Bath. At the time Leighton was staying at Sandringham where he received a telegram announcing her death, and on the same day he joined his family at Bath. It has been said that, as long as a man is blessed by possessing a mother, he still retains the blessing of being—in the eyes of one person at least—a child. To Leighton's tender-hearted nature this blessing was a very real one, as is testified by his correspondence with his mother.[40] The first chapter of Leighton's life seems, in a sense, only to end with this great sorrow.

Translation.]

Frankfurt am Main,
April 30, 1865.

Dearest Friend,—As your last friendly lines of 14th March did not bring your address, I grasp the opportunity offered me by Mr. Tobie André to express to you my heartfelt sympathy on the loss of your dear mother. I remember that you often spoke to me of this mother with true filial affection, and I have secretly blessed you for it; I know now also that you will treasure her memory!—Always, your truly devoted,

Steinle.

FOOTNOTES:

[26] See Appendix, "Lord Leighton's Sketches."

[27] See page 59, vol. ii., poem, Leighton's "Francesca di Rimini," by R.A.

[28] Head painted on the wall of the Vestry of Highnam Church—since destroyed.

[29] "Eucharis."

[30] Sir Hubert Parry writes: "I remember Leighton made a practical test of my father's medium by painting a fine dashing sketch of a head on the wall of the Vestry at Highnam Church. I used to admire it greatly. Unfortunately that Vestry was pulled down; and though efforts were made to preserve the sketch by cutting a great piece of plaster out of the wall, I understand that during the many years when I was hardly ever at Highnam, the plaster crumbled and collapsed." See letter to Steinle.

[31] Photographs of the Lyndhurst fresco.

[32] The ground on which Leighton built his house, 2 Holland Park Road, now preserved for the public.

[33] "Girl feeding Peacocks" (see sketches in Leighton House Collection). Leighton painted a small and exquisite water-colour on ivory of the picture, which was sold at Christie's after his death.

[34] "Eucharis."

[35] See List of Illustrations: reproduction from sketch in Leighton House.

Mr. Frith, R.A., wrote the following respecting the rejection of "Salome":—

10 Pembridge Villas, Bayswater, W.,
April 29, 1863.

My dear Leighton,—We have been unable to hang one of your best pictures—not because it was an excellent work, as the profane world would say—but because we had already placed so many of your pictures that the space due to Leighton was more than exhausted. M.C. Mortlake called us over the coals dreadfully on your behalf, but I, for one, resisted his arguments, and I believe you have to blame me for your picture being returned to you. I should have said nothing about the matter, but for the fear that I might be thought so stupid as not to see the merit of your work. Pray believe that my motive was a good one, and that I have tried to do what is right to you and to the rest.—Ever, dear Leighton, faithfully yours,

W.P. Frith.

[36] Ruskin would not, I believe, have spoken thus of the peacocks in the exquisite water-colour on ivory—presumably a sketch in colour for the picture.

[37] Refers to Lord Ashburton's death.

[38] This picture illustrates the verses in the Paradiso:—

"Thou shalt prove How salt the savour is of others' bread; How hard the passage, to descend and climb By others' stairs. But that shall gall thee most Will be the worthless and vile company With whom thou must be thrown into the straits, For all ungrateful, impious all and mad Shall turn against thee."

"Dante, in fulfilment of this prophecy, is seen descending the palace stairs of the Can Grande, at Verona, during his exile. He is dressed in sober grey and drab clothes, and contrasts strongly in his ascetic and suffering aspect with the gay revellers about him. The people are preparing for a festival, and splendidly and fantastically robed, some bringing wreaths of flowers. Bowing with mock reverence, a jester gibes at Dante. An indolent sentinel is seated at the porch, and looks on unconcernedly, his spear lying across his breast. A young man, probably acquainted with the writings of Dante, sympathises with him. In the centre and just before the feet of Dante, is a beautiful child, brilliantly dressed and crowned with flowers, and dragging along the floor a garland of bay leaves and flowers, while looking earnestly and innocently in the poet's face. Next come a pair of lovers, the lady looking at Dante with attention, the man heedless. The last wears a vest embroidered with eyes like those in a peacock's tail. A priest and a noble descend the stairs behind, jeering at Dante."—Athenæum, April 1864.

The following expresses the admiration of a brother artist, Richard Doyle, for the exiled "Dante":—

54 Clifton Gardens, Maida Hill,
April 5, 1864.

My dear Leighton,—I feel so awkward whenever I attempt to praise a man's works to his face, and I felt that you, yesterday, were so likely to be bored with the repetition of similar speeches from your large influx of visitors, that at the moment of my going I could not bring myself to say what I wished to say—how much I liked your pictures. To-day, however, when "Dante" and "Orpheus," and the music and drawing parties are before my mind as vividly as they were yesterday before my eyes in your studio, I cannot resist sending you a few lines to say what pleasure my visit gave me, although I was "without words."

The "Dante" seemed to me a very impressive picture, and I think one of the most important as well as most successful of your works, historical in a higher sense than the mere representation of an event—an illustration of the man and the time. I could mention many of the figures that especially pleased me, but, for beauty, can only single out that most delightful little child in the foreground, toddling at the feet of Dante, laden with flowers, the childhood and innocence of whose whole figure and face, although we do not see the face, contrasts so beautifully with the worn, ascetic, melancholy Poet. I think these two are a poem in themselves.

The lady in the "drawing lesson" struck me as a charming figure, so graceful, and the painting of her dress as a perfect piece of work. The lady leaning over the instrument in the "music" ("Golden Hours") subject is also a great favourite of mine.

The "Orpheus," although there is a great deal to admire in it, I don't think I liked so well as the others. Perhaps it is that the classic subject does not come home to me, but I say this doubtingly, feeling that it is a picture that would very likely grow upon me.

Anyhow, I end by offering you my most hearty congratulations.—Most sincerely yours,

Richard Doyle.

[39] Referring to Leighton's painting of "Helen of Troy," exhibited in 1865, Mr. Martin Tupper wrote:—

Albury House, Nr. Guilford,
May 23, 1865.

Dear Sir,—It is just possible that the following few words of comment upon your wonderfully spiritualised "Helen of Troy" may be acceptable to you from the undersigned.

The "Helen" of Euripides is very little read amongst us, and yet it is as strangely sensational as "The Woman in White": there being two Helens in the play, the real substantial wife remaining faithful to Menelaus in the island of Pharos, while Juno gives to Paris—out of jealous rage at him for his "judgment" in favour of Venus—"an image composed of ether" in the likeness of Helen.

This Ethereal Presence you have so exquisitely portrayed that it is probable you know the play! only that I think you would then have quoted from it in the R.A. catalogue, in explanation of what confuses some of your ignorant reviewers as to this embodied spirit.

The counterfeit Helen was of "unsubstantial air," a figure marvellously rendered in your picture, and which I can fully appreciate: and you quote a very apposite passage from Lord Derby's "Homer," as that which you illustrate; but if there are reprints of the catalogue, I would suggest the addition of a line from Euripides, as thus:—

"Juno to Paris gave me—yet not me, But in my semblance formed a living image Composed of ether." Wodhall's Eur. Hel.

If haply you do not know the book, inquire at Longman's for the fifth volume of the Greek Tragic Theatre (in English); or, should you prefer it, of course it is extant in the Greek. If not easily attainable in London, I shall be happy to lend you the volume by post. Congratulating you on your difficult and exquisite achievement—I am, dear sir, truly yours,

Martin F. Tupper.

F. Leighton, Esq.

[40]

Warnford Cottage,
Bishop's Waltham.

My dear Mr. Leighton,—I was very sorry indeed when I returned to Park Place on Sunday evening and found that you had been so kind as to call upon me.

I have not ventured to intrude upon you in your late affliction with the expression of a sympathy which cannot have much value for you, but had I seen you when you called I should hardly have refrained from telling you how sincerely I feel for your sorrow.—Pray believe me, yours always most truly,

Fanny Kemble.

Warnford, Thursday, 2nd.

Forest Bank,
Lyndhurst.

My dear Leighton,—I cannot let the post go out without offering you my sincere sympathy on your loss. I know how deeply attached you were to your mother, and am very sure the bereavement is a heavy grief to you. You are right in saying that to me your sorrow comes especially home. My mother sends you her affectionate love, and we both beg you to remember that, whenever you have a few spare days and want quiet, you must consider this home as a temporary home.—Believe me always, in all affection, yours,

Hamilton Aïdé.

My dear Leighton,—I must write to you to express the grief both myself and my wife felt on hearing of the loss which has befallen you. I am well aware that no words can afford consolation against such afflictions, but I should be sorry if you had construed silence into want of sympathy. If you have time I should be glad to hear from you, and to know how may be your father, from whom I have received on every occasion so much kindness. You have much distress to go through, for death has recently touched you in many ways by striking your own family, your friends, and imperilling others to a degree that must have inspired every pain it can produce.

Good-bye, my dear Leighton; remember me to your father, and express to him my deep sympathy with him in his misfortune.—Yours ever affectionately,

W.C. Cartwright.

Palazzi Giorgi, Rome,
January 31.

13 Eaton Place (West),
Tuesday, January 17, 1865.

My dear Leighton,—I heard at the Marqs', on Sunday, of your late bereavement; and, as perhaps the one of all your many friends whose mind the most habitually dwells among thoughts of loss and deprivation, I can assure you of thought of it with sincere concern and sympathy, and just write a line to say so. There is nothing to be said, I well know, which is of any immediate good or alleviation, and time only strengthens affectionate recollection: but after a time, among gentler thoughts which will come, I hope you will, as you may justly, find comfort in thinking that your mother's life was spared so as to permit her to be cheered by the certainty of your success. This is much—especially to a woman's heart.—Faithfully and sincerely yours,

Henry J. Chorley.

CHAPTER IIIToC

JOURNEYS TO THE EAST—CONSTANTINOPLE—SMYRNA—ATHENS—DIARY
"UP THE NILE TO PHYLÆ"

1866-1869

Leighton visited Spain in 1866. There exists apparently no letters or written record of this journey, but he made many sketches remarkable for strong and characteristic colouring.

The letter written to Mrs. Mark Pattison in 1879, already quoted, contains an amusing endeavour on Leighton's part to date the various journeys he had made in answer to questions she had asked.

"I am sorely perplexed to answer this; I can only approach an answer by a sort of memoria technica. I made studies in Algiers for 'Samson Agonistes'; that will give you roughly the period. This visit made a deep impression on me; I have loved 'the East,' as it is called, ever since. By-the-bye, I drew here my (almost) only large water-colour drawing, 'A Negro Festival' [the picture Leighton alluded to as 'The Niggers'], which was thought very well of by my friends. To Spain (into which I had made a raid of a few days on a previous occasion when visiting the South of France for architecture, to which I am much devoted) I went the year of the cholera. I remember this because I was going to Constantinople, but was dissuaded by a friend there because of the ravages of that epidemic. The following year I did go: Vienna, Danube, Varna, Constantinople, Broussa, Smyrna, Rhodes, Athens (the greatest architectural emotion of my life, by far), &c. This was the year before those poor young Englishmen were murdered on Pentelicus, up which I had been with the same guide. My visit to Egypt, and up the Nile on a steamer, given me by the Khedive, was a year before the opening of the Suez Canal; I rode over the Salt Lakes with Mons. de Lesseps and a party of his friends. Damascus a year before I exhibited the 'Jew's House,' I think. Spain, revisited, and Morocco, the year before last. This is a roundabout way of getting about dates, but, contrary to my expectation, I think I have contrived to fix all the chief journeys approximately."

In 1867 Leighton wrote to his father:—

Lloyd Steamer "Adriatic,"
November 28, 1867.

My dear Papa,—As I am likely to be busy during my very short stay in Venice, where I hope to find a letter from you, I take advantage of the leisure which I find in excess on board this steamer to begin an epistle which, however, I shall not close till I have seen yours, in case anything in the latter should require an answer. Of course my getting to the end of even this first page depends upon the state of my feelings—physical, not moral, for I am a poor sailor at best. I told you, I believe, in my last how much I had enjoyed and, as I hope, profited by my stay in Rhodes and Lindos. I am uncertain whether I added that I had received great kindness and attention from our consul and his brothers, and also from one or two other gentlemen with whom I became acquainted. Through the assistance of Mr. Biliotti (our consul) I had an opportunity, which could never present itself again, of buying a number of beautiful specimens of old Persian faience (Lindos ware), chiefly plates, which will make a delightful addition to my collection of Eastern china and pottery. I know that you, personally, care little for such things, and have small sympathy with purchases of that nature; you will, therefore, be glad to hear that though I spent a considerable sum, knowing that such a chance would never again be given me, I could, any day, part with the whole lot for at least double—probably treble—what I gave.

The weather, which was very beautiful at the beginning—indeed during the greater part of my stay in the Island—was not faithful to me to the end; it broke up a few days before my departure, and, to my very great regret, prevented my painting certain studies which I was very anxious to take home: on the other hand, I had opportunities of studying effects of a different nature, so that I can hardly call myself much the loser as far as my work in Rhodes was concerned. In Athens, however, the effect of the absolute instability of the weather (an instability of which I have never seen the like anywhere) was that I left that place almost empty-handed, although I stayed there a week longer than I had originally intended. If, however, I got through little or no work, I had infinite enjoyment in the frequent and unvaried study and contemplation of the ruins on the Acropolis. Familiar as I was, from casts and photographs, with the sculptures and some part of the architecture which I found there, my expectations were very highly wrought, but it is impossible to anticipate, nor shall I attempt to describe, the impression which these magnificent works produce when seen together and under their own sky. Indeed, it is quite strange how one seems to read with new eyes things which one conceived oneself to have understood thoroughly before. The scenery about Athens, depending a good deal on effects of light, only rarely displayed its full beauty during my stay; sufficiently often, however, for me to see that it is of exquisite beauty, and that that part of it described by Byron in certain favourite lines of yours does not receive full justice at his hands. I had letters, as you probably knew, to Mr. Erskine, our Minister, and to Mr. Finlay, the historian; both of them received me with the greatest cordiality and kindness, as did also two or three other persons with whom I became acquainted, so that my stay was socially agreeable as well as artistically delightful; but herewith ends my journey, for heavy weather, rain, sleet, fog and the rest prevented my seeing any of the scenery of the Gulf of Lepanto, which I might as well not have visited, and although I passed Zante, Cephalonia, and Corfu under rather more favourable skies, I did not see them to advantage—ce sera pour une autrefois. Your letter, which I have found on my arrival, and for which thanks, does not call for any particular reply beyond that I have painted no figures, though I might have been tempted by several fine heads I saw, but time only sufficed for my landscape studies, which in this journey were my chief care. The extract from the Saturday Review, which is highly flattering, was shown me by Mr. Finlay in Athens.

Of Venice I have nothing to say, except that my first impression of the Gallery, coming as I did straight from the Parthenon, was that everything but the very finest pictures was wanting in dignity and beauty, and was artificial. I was much surprised myself, as the Venetian school always exercises a great fascination over me. You may infer from that what an impression of beauty Athenian Art has left on me. I was incessantly reminded, in looking both at the sculpture and architecture of the Acropolis, of the admirable words which Thucydides puts into the mouth of Pericles: those are the beginning and the end of the Greek artistic nature.

I shall be in London by the 10th, and right glad to get home again—meanwhile, with best love to Taily.—I remain, your affectionate son,

Fred.

Venice, Hotel De L'Europe.

SKETCH WITH DONKEY. EGYPT. 1868ToList

Respecting the knowledge Leighton possessed of the Greek language, he wrote in a letter to a friend, "In Greek I never got beyond Homer and Anacreon. I have just retained this, that, having read a passage in a translation (I generally read Homer in German or Latin), I am able to feel, on referring to the original, its superiority to the foreign rendering."

In 1868 the great desire which Leighton for many years had felt to see Egypt was gratified. In October of that year he wrote to his father from Cairo:—

Beginning of letter missing.]

I find that the Prince (the Prince of Wales) asked him in the said letter to introduce me as a personal friend of his to the Viceroy, adding that he would be obliged by anything he (Col. Stanton) could do for me. This was more than I had expected from what Col. Tait also had written me. Well, to make a long story short, I communicated to Col. S. the ambitious desires that Smart had stirred up in me, assuring him, however, that I should never have dreamt of entertaining them of my own accord. He took my case in hand at once, by asking for an audience, which the Viceroy granted as soon as he should have returned to Cairo; he was too busy to see me at Alexandria. Meanwhile Col. Stanton hinted to the secretary of H.H. what my wish was, but nothing was said to the Viceroy himself. Wednesday being fixed for my reception, I went to his palace of Abbassia with Col. S., and was there received in a pavilion in the open air, which overlooked a tract of country covered with tents in which some 5000 men were quartered. Round His Highness' pavilion were the tents of his chief ministers in attendance. It was rather a picturesque sight. The Viceroy was alone, and, having received us very courteously, and asked after the health of the P. and Pcess. of Wales, made us sit down. He then clapped his hands, and on a word from him long tchibouques were brought, of which the amber mouthpieces were enriched with enormous diamonds and emeralds. A little conversation on general matters then followed between him and Col. S., after which he questioned me about my projects; and after asking whether he could assist me, and Col. S. throwing out a little hint about a steam tug to get me on quicker, he said, "Would you not rather have a steamer to go in? it is the same to me, and you will be more comfortable." Here Col. Stanton, very judiciously and promptly, said he was sure the P. of Wales would be much gratified by this mark of favour to me; so that I have only to name the day, and the vessel will be at my orders, and I shall do all I wish in half the time, or less, it would otherwise have taken me. I bowed myself out with my best thanks, and went home much pleased at my good fortune and at everybody's kindness. I should not forget to say also that Mr. Ross (Lady Duff Gordon's son-in-law, you know) was full of empressement and kindness to me, and Lady D.G. lent me a gun for the Nile. I start in ten days or thereabouts, and hope before that to hear from you, for no letters will follow me and I shall lose sight of everybody for nearly two months. I will write again before I start; meanwhile, when you write which it will be no use your doing till November, address, please New Hotel, Cairo, Egypt.

And believe me, meanwhile, with best love to Taily, your affte. son,

Fred.

Happily, while Leighton lost sight "of everybody for nearly two months," he kept the following diary:—

Wednesday, October 14, 1868.—Went on board, dined and slept.

Thursday, 15th.—Started at about 7 A.M. There had been a storm in the night, and the east was still heavy with clouds; but the western sky was pure and soft.

At about ten caught up the Sterlings, becalmed in their dahabyeh; their crew was making a futile attempt to tow them against the current. I let out a rope and tugged them as far as Benisoëf, which, owing to the additional weight, I did not reach till Friday morning (16th).

The first day's journey up the Nile is enchanting, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. The sky was bright, but tempered by a glimmering haze which produced the loveliest effects; those of the early morning were the most striking. The course of the river being nearly due north, the western bank was glowing in varied sunny lights; the other seemed made up of shadowy veils of gauze fainting gradually towards the horizon. The boats that passed on the left, dark in the blaze of light, looked, with their outspread wings, like large moths of dusky brown; those on the right shone against the violet sky like gilded ivory. The keynote of this landscape is a soft, variant, fawn-coloured brown, than which nothing could take more gratefully the warm glow of sunlight or the cool purple mystery of shadow; the latter perhaps especially, deep and powerful near the eye (the local brown slightly overruling the violet), but fading as it receded into tints exquisitely vague, and so faint that they seem rather to belong to the sky than to the earth. At this time of year the broad coffee-coloured sweep of the river is bordered on either side by a fillet of green of the most extraordinary vivacity, but redeemed from any hint of crudity by the golden light which inundates it. The brightest green is that of the Indian corn—the softest and most luminous that of an exquisite grass, tall as pampas (perhaps it is a kind of pampas, I have not seen it close yet), and like it crowned with a beautiful plume-like blossom of the most delicate hue; seen against a dark shady bank, and with the sun shining through it, it shimmers with the sheen of gossamer.

Frequent villages animate the river's edge; they are built of unbaked bricks coated with mud, and have a most striking effect. The simplicity and variety of the shapes of the houses, with their slightly sloping sides and flat roofs, give them a certain dignity in their picturesqueness which delights me; the colour, too, is particularly agreeable, and is the most beautiful foil to the bronze-brown of the naked, or nearly naked, fellaheen and the indigo of the robes of their wives; to the sparkling white of the doves that swarm in the gardens, and to the cinder-colour of the buffaloes that wink and snooze along the bank. Every village nestles in a dense grove of date-palms, and one cannot conceive a lovelier harmony than that which is made by the combination of the browns below with the sea-green of the sweeping branches and the flame-like orange of the fruit. The acacia (here a large, massive tree, with a vigorous dark green foliage) is frequent in the villages.

The shape of the hills and mountains is very peculiar and striking. It gives the idea of a choppy sea of sand thrown up into abrupt peaks and then uniformly truncated by a sweep of a vast scythe, sweeping everything from horizon to horizon. Here and there a little peak, too low to be embraced in the general decapitation, raises its head amongst innumerable table-lands and gives great value and relief to the general outline.

Meanwhile an occasional train and not infrequent lines of telegraph poles don't add to the poetry of the scene.

Nor the flies to one's comfort! What a curse they are! they infest one's face. I wonder what the epiderm of Egyptian children is made of; you see babies with a dozen flies settled, no, stuck, embedded in and round each of their eyes, and as many in and about their noses and mouths; and they make no attempt to remove them—seem absolutely unconscious of them.

Scenery this afternoon less interesting—river wider—banks more monotonous.

Opposite a place called Magaga, some fine mountains on the east bank, scored with innumerable horizontal lines marking the monotonous parallel strata of which they are composed; a characteristic peculiarity in all the Egyptian hills I have seen as yet. (The finest in outline are the Quarries opposite Sakkara, on the right bank, and like those behind the Citadel at Cairo.)

Spent the night at a village called Kolosana, not having made Minyeh owing to delay at Benisoëf, where we coaled, and took leave of the Sterlings, with whom I breakfasted. The sunset before reaching Kolosana was magnificent, like a sunset at sea; almost as grand in its simplicity. Between the broad flaming sky and the broad flaming river there was only a long narrow strip of dark bronze-green bank, that seemed to burst into flame where the almost white hot sun sank scowling behind it. The after-glow was also very fine, though less grand than I should have expected. The sky was of a deep violet, and the distant rolling sand-tracks wore the most mysterious tints, faint, glimmering, uncanny, vague fawn colours, pale dun browns, and ghostly pinks.

Saturday, 17th.—Started at dawn, and arrived at Minyeh about eight o'clock.

Stayed two hours and coaled.

Obeying the custom of the country, I have presented the crew with a sheep—great satisfaction.

Took a stroll in the Bazaars, which are rather picturesque. Minyeh is a largish place (chef lieu), and, like every second village on the Nile, disfigured by the tall chimneys of sugar factories.

There is a striking line of hills opposite Minyeh, quaintly jagged in outline and curiously regular in the marking of its strata.

Passed Beni Hassan, where I shall stop on my return.

It is curious to see the incessant toiling of the natives at irrigation. The poor people literally make their country every year, and it is marvellous to see how a narrow fillet of water will, as by enchantment, conjure up in a few weeks an oasis out of an arid desert. The land of Egypt is born afresh out of the Nile every returning year.

I observe, with pleasure, in this part of the country those little white-domed tombs of Sheykhs which make such a pretty feature in the landscape of Algeria.

At Minyeh there is one, close to the riverside, in which rests the "Sheykh of the Crocodiles" whose holy dust prevents those man-eating ornaments of the Upper Nile from going any further towards Cairo—below this tomb they never venture.

Not having reached Manfalût by sunset, we have drawn up for the night by the bank of the river, nowhere in particular. This entire freedom in our movements (I should say mine, for the steamer stops exactly where, when, and as often as I choose) is very agreeable. Less pleasant is the storm of flies and insects of every kind, that rush in literally by myriads as soon as candles are lighted within reach of shore; my tablecloth is darkened with thousands of little flies no larger, wings and all, than a moderate flea; the nuisance is intolerable.

A wonderful sunset again this evening. The western bank like yesterday was low and brown and green, but, unlike yesterday, it was alive with the sweet clamour of many birds. On the eastern side the long wall of rock which seems to enclose the whole length of the valley of the Nile came flush, or almost flush, to the water's edge; and with what an intense glory it glowed! The great hills seemed clad in burnished armour of gold fringed and girt below with green and dark purple; but the smooth face of the water was like copper, burnished and inlaid with sapphire.

I sat in the long gloaming enjoying the soft, warm, supple air, and watching the tints gradually change and die round the sweep of the horizon, and across the immense mirror of the Nile as broad as a lake. It was enchanting to watch the subtle gradations by which the tawny orange trees that glowed like embers in the west, passed through strange golden browns to uncertain gloomy violet, and finally to the hot indigo of the eastern sky where some lingering after-glow still flushed the dusky hills; and still more enchanting to watch the same tones on the unruffled expanse of the water, slightly tempered by its colour and subdued to greater mystery. A solemn peace was over everything. Occasionally a boat drifted slowly past with outspread wings, in colour like an opal or lapis lazuli, and then vanished. It was a thing to remember.

I hear an altercation between Ottilio (my Italian waiter) and a stoker who has put down his grease can on one of the Pasha's smartest plates. "O—(adjective)—Madonna! se si può vedere una carogua simile! e se me la rompi pas? costa più di te—sa!"

My young dragoman having fastened a hook to a bit of string, and the bit of string to the stern of the steamer, has been waiting some hours for a fish. After the first hour he reasoned with himself, and said: "Brabs (perhaps?) he know!"—then, dolefully, "He come touch the 'ook, and then he go run away!"—cela c'est vu. To-morrow to Asyoot. 10½ P.M. Just been on deck again. Dragoman still fishing! He says, "I tink he won't." I incline to agree with him.

Sunday, 18th.—Started about six. Reached Syoot, or rather El Hamza for Syoot, which is a mile inland, at eleven. Between Manfalût and Syoot the Nile takes an immense sweep west, and assumes altogether a tortuous course; the plain opens out, the eastern mountains recede, and for the first time an important chain closes in on the west. Game is already beginning to be abundant. I saw a sandbank full of pelicans and geese just below this place. I wish I could get at the names of the small birds I see here, which are mostly new to me; an Arab invariably answers your questions on this subject by the word "asfoor," i.e. a bird—thankee! The peasants here all wear a loose dark brown robe like that of a Franciscan monk; and as they squat fishing on the brown bank of the river with their skull-caps and black beards, I fancy I see the monks of the Thebaïd coming, as in old days, to get their daily meat out of the Nile.

Irrigation seems to go on more actively even than lower down; I saw to-day no less than twenty-four shadoofs all in a row, and in full play. The men that worked them, mostly naked, were of every colour between a new halfpenny and an old shoe, and the effect of them all toiling away and surrounded by groups of squatting onlookers was very striking.

Hosseyn, my servant, the angler, is having his head shaved on deck; when he has done I shall visit the town.

Meanwhile I have had a visit from the government doctor, a rather intelligent man who made his studies in Pisa.

Pipes and coffee as usual.

Here comes Hosseyn clean-shaven. He is a nice boy, eager and willing—but wants varnish; he can never address me without scratching his spine at its lowest extremity; Audrey herself could not have done it in a manner more naïvely unconventional. Though only twenty, he has had two wives; not liking the first, who snubbed his relations, he gave her three months' wages and dismissed her. To avoid further unpleasantness he then married his cousin: "She good woman—very quiet—good tongue."

The village at which we have landed is very picturesque. The mud and brick architecture is here carried out with some care and is entirely delightful. The walls are mostly crowned with an openwork finish made by a simple arrangement of the bricks which is most effective. Sometimes, as, for instance, in the cemetery, they are surmounted by crenulations like those we see in the old Assyrian monuments; the heads of the doorways are decorated with a charming sort of diapered ornament, capable of great variety and produced entirely by the arrangement in patterns of the bricks; the patterns being painted black and the ground filled in with white. The woodwork in the windows is also very pretty, and altogether the general aspect of the houses most novel and striking.

Beyond the village I wandered into a delightful garden; a half cultivated wilderness of palm and gum trees in which one came on unexpected pergolas, and lovely garden trees all pouring out their most intoxicating scents under the fiercest sun I ever walked beneath. I saw oleanders, the flowers of which were as thick as roses and smelt like a quintessence of nectarines; there were also some beautiful olive trees with weeping branches—a thing I had never seen before—and with berries as large as plums. Overhead, amongst the yellow dates, sat doves the colour of pale violets.

Syoot itself is beautifully situated amongst groves and gardens; except in that it is brown and not white, it reminded me much of an Algerine town; it is very unlike Cairo. The rock-cut tombs in the mountain above the town are so mutilated and disfigured that little can be made of them; but they have that stamp of vastness which is so characteristic of all the ancient monuments of this country.

The view from the height is very fine. The river has barely begun to fall yet, so that everything is reflected in the great sheets of water that cover the land. At evening I saw the sunset through the tall palm trees, with the domes of Syoot dark against its flaming light.

For a fine showy assertion that looks very original and striking, but is not calculated for pedantic verification, commend me to a Frenchman. The other day, at Boulay, Mariette Bey, the creator and the curator of the Museum of that ilk, and a man of high standing as an Egyptologist, told me that the Nile was turned into its actual course by a great chain of hills at Syoot which, serving as a rampart, alone prevented it from following its obvious tendency to flow into the Red Sea. "Il allait évidemment se jeter dans la Mer Rouge;" in fact, but for this hill, there would have been no Lower Egypt, that country being literally the child of the Nile which alone prevents the sands of the central deserts from ruling over the whole breadth of the land. Here was a dramatic revelation of coincidences! Here was a startling suggestion of contingencies!

It fairly took your breath away! without that hill no Nile north of Syoot! half Egypt would not have been! No Memphis! Memphis with its wisdom! No Alexandria with its schools! No Cairo with its four thousand mosques! No Pharaohs! No Moses! (The poor devil of a sculptor who drowned himself in his own fountain because he found he had made his Moses too short might have died in his bed.) No Cleopatra! (turn in your grave, noble dust of Antony!)—"forty centuries" would have had no Pyramids from which to look down on the conquering arms of Buonaparte. Mr. Albert Smith's popular entertainment would have been shorn of half its glories! Let me breathe! To what fantastic proportions did that hill grow as one thought of it!

Alas! then, for prosaic fact; and oh! for unimaginative maps! On consulting the latter I observed that, by the time it reached Syoot, the Nile had been flowing for nearly two hundred miles in a north-westerly direction, away from the Red Sea rather than towards it; and on visiting the spot I saw, oh confusion! that the hills which bore the responsibility (according to Mariette) of making the history of the world what it is, were on the western bank of the river!—there, at least, or nowhere, for a vast plain closes in on the east.

This evening more visitors on board—lemonade and cigars—pour changer; Consuls, &c. &c.—tedious.

Monday, 19th.—Left Syoot at six, and arrived at Sohag before three. Suffered a good deal in the morning from spasms of some sort, and was not in a frame of mind to appreciate the scenery. Was, moreover, driven near the verge of exasperation by the steersman (Reis Ali), who droned select passages from the Koran, sotto voce, within two yards of my ears from 8 A.M. till 2 P. ditto; the same four bars over and over, for ever and for ever in one unceasing guttural strain. I trust the pious exercise did more for his soul than for my temper. Hosseyn informs me that he is about to buy a lamb, and "make him big sheep." It appears that, during a serious illness three years ago, he vowed a votive sheep to Sitteh Zehneb—the granddaughter of the Prophet—on condition that he should recover. Since then he has put her off (oh, humanity!) with candles and occasional prayer; now, at last, he is going to fulfil his vow. Admire thrift combined with piety, and observe the economy on the lamb.

Habit is a strange thing! Hosseyn, whose manners have been corrupted by evil communication with Europeans, occasionally attempts to use a fork in the bosom of his family—particularly when salad is put before him. On these occasions his elder brother invariably asks him with grim sarcasm whether he has no fingers. Hosseyn desists at once—"Brabs he beat me!—he big!"

This evening I went out shooting amongst the palms and gum trees. It was very delightful, though ferociously hot. The village is charmingly situated; the ground prettily tumbled about, and trees and houses group themselves in the most picturesque manner. (I noticed some new mouldings over the doorways that had a very artistic effect.) I can't shoot at all; but the birds are so plentiful that something is sure to cross your gun if you only fire. I got a hawk, some doves, a dozen little birds nameless for me, and two little green birds of a kind that I have not seen before; they are quite lovely; must ascertain what they are called. The sun had set when I reached the boat, and all the dark plumes of the palm trees stood clear over the black outlines of the village; above, the new moon, a keen, golden sickle.

Hosseyn has given up fishing. "Oh, oh! nasty fish! he to laugh me!"

Was much amused this morning by the device and trade-mark on a tin of jam. (Jam, if you please, of Messrs. Barnes & Co. of Little Bush Lane and Tooley Street.) The device was "Non sine labore"—and the trade-mark?—a beehive?—no!—the Pyramid of Cheops! Excusez.

Some twenty miles above Syoot, or, say, fifteen, the eastern chain of mountains makes a bend towards the river, and for some distance ranges near it; the stream, in its usual tortuous course, sometimes flowing for a few hundred yards towards them and then for a few hundred yards in the opposite direction. I wonder whether one of these bends served as a foundation, or rather as a blind, for Mariette's astounding assertion that the Nile "allait évidemment se jeter dans la Mer Rouge." Did he "to laugh me," as the fish did by Hosseyn? Or did he merely mean to say that, if the Valley of the Nile had not turned north-west between Keneh and Manfaloot, it might have turned north-east? If so, joke for joke, I prefer the great Pyramid on the jam-pot of Mr. Barnes of Little Bush Lane and Tooley Street.

Tuesday, 20th.—Started at about half-past five, and reached Disneh in the evening. There was a dead calm in the morning, and I congratulated myself, not for the first time, on my steamer; in a dahabieh I might have taken a week, and more, over the stretch of river I have just covered in a day; and the scenery just here, though fine, is monotonous. I am sorry for the Sterlings, who will, I fear, be unusually long getting up. This afternoon I saw Sheykh Selim, a sort of St. Simeon Stylites without the column. This holy man's peculiar form of piety consists in sitting stark naked on the bank of the river and exacting presents in money and kind from all passers-by.

Hosseyn had spoken to me at great length of his wisdom and piety, and assured me that when the crocodiles, which are numerous about here, presented themselves before the eyes of the Sheykh, he merely waved his hand and said "Biz, biz!" whereat they fled, rebuked. He informed me also that no boat refusing him tribute could expect to get on—it would infallibly be becalmed until his holiness was propitiated. To my surprise I found that my captain, a sensible old gentleman in other respects, believed this just as firmly, though he expressed his faith more vaguely. When I asked him whether the Sheykh's power extended also to steamers, which did not wait on the wind, he said: "Well, Allah was great, and though, certainly, a steamer might, no doubt—so well appointed a steamer particularly—might, no doubt, get past—yet who should say? Allah was great!" In fact he believed with the best; so, of course, I said, by all means let the Sheykh be propitiated. Accordingly when we hove in sight of the little mound where he sits, and has sat for God knows how many years, we turned the steamer (a vessel of seventy-five horse-power) and ran straight in for the bank at considerable risk, it struck me, of not getting off again. The whole crew then went ashore in great excitement, headed by the captain, and surrounded the Saint, kissing his hand and salaaming. As I did not wish to hurt the old gentleman's feelings by not kissing his hand, I stayed on board and looked on. Sheykh Selim is a very vigorous-looking old fellow of the colour of a very dusky mahogany table; his hair and beard are woolly and of a dirty white; his countenance, as far as I could judge from a little distance, good-humoured and sagacious. He squats on the ground with his knees up and his arms folded across them. He inspects his presents, and asks for more. After the levée was over, and when our crew were about to come on board, he called after them and asked for roast meat, and then again a second time for oil wherewith to anoint himself. "There," said Hosseyn triumphantly, "he know everything! he know we have roast meat—how he know that?"

I was amused at the intellectual superiority of Ottilio, the Italian waiter. "Quanto sono stupidi questi Arabi!" For my part I don't see much more difficulty in swallowing Sheykh Selim than a stigmatised nun or a winking picture—I told him so.

We should have reached Keneh to-day, but the coals were bad, and we had to stop at Dishulh, three hours this side of that place. Where was thy favouring grace, O Sheykh? It appears that, like the gods of ancient Greece, the Sheykhs of Egypt have their little misunderstandings; I am told that on one occasion Selim, having a few words with another holy man thirty-five miles up the river, by name Sheykh Fadl, and waxing wroth, threw a stone at him (what are thirty or forty miles to a saint?) and blinded him of one eye; whereon Sheykh Fadl returned the amenity by throwing "some fire" at Sheykh Selim, thereby sorely burning him. "I have seen the scar," my coxswain informs me.

Killed another fatted sheep for the crew.

Wednesday, 21st.—Arrived at Lougsor (El Uker) about three. It was too hot for sightseeing, so I waited till evening and went out shooting in a boat; at least I went out with the idea of shooting—if possible a pelican or a crane—but the birds were too shy—I could not get within fair shooting distance; wounded a pelican, but could not get after him in the deep mud. Got belated on the river, and the crew had to pull hard for an hour and a half to reach the steamer; fortunately there was a moon. Anything more good-humoured or more ineffective than the way in which the sailors pulled and shoved, I never saw; they hopped in and out of the boat in the shallows, up to their hips in the water—pushed, tugged, rowed and sang die era im piacus; they can do nothing without the accompaniment of some rhythmic, droning refrain, which they can keep up for an indefinite time. Anything will do; my fellows pulled on this occasion to the following words—

"Min Minyeh fi Benisoef,"

which is as who should say—

"From Henlee to Cookham Reach,"

giving the stroke and the emphasis on the last syllable.

In the evening was visited by Mustafa Aga, H.B.M. Consular Agent, one of his sons, the Turkish Governor (Hassan Effendi), and the local doctor. Mustafa is a very courteous old gentleman, with half a nose, and much respected by all who know him; I observed that Saïd, his son, would not smoke in his father's presence, in accordance with an Arab custom, which did not much remind me of the manner in which "the gov'nor" is treated in England.

On Thursday morning, 22nd, I started to see the tombs of the kings, leaving the eastern bank and Karnak for my return. It was a lovely morning, and I crossed the Nile before the air had had time to get thoroughly heated. On the other side I found horses, kindly lent me by Mustafa (whose son accompanied me), and donkeys for the rest of the party. There were a good many of us, and we made a very absurd-looking procession—en tête, a couple of fine brawny Arabs, one of whom has been the guide to these ruins since Champollion; then Saïd and I on our horses—mine a good-looking chestnut, caparisoned with scarlet finery; behind us, on their respective donkeys, the captain in full uniform holding a large umbrella over his head, Hosseyn in his Arab dress, the French cook in his official white jacket and cap, the Italian waiter with a large handkerchief over his head, and the engineer; further behind, lesser menials and the hamper. I forgot the Turkish Cawass in uniform and armed to the teeth. Hovering round, brandishing water-bottles, was a swarm of Arab boys and girls, in sizes, and of various qualities of chocolate; they were dressed in the most fantastically tattered remnants of dark brown shirts that I ever saw; there was one little monkey of a dull ebony colour turned up with pale blue, whose form was revealed rather than covered by a few incoherent brown shreds of garment, and who was inexpressibly droll from the way in which he cocked his little head demurely on one side with a half-consciousness of insufficient drapery.

The ride to the tombs, which takes about an hour, and the latter half of which lies through an arid valley, is very striking from the form and colour of the mountains. Nothing announces that one is approaching the city of the dead, and it is not till you stand before them that you become aware of the plain square openings which lead down to these magnificent last resting-places of the kings. It was a right royal idea this, of the old rulers of Egypt, to plunge these shafts into the bowels of the rock, and give themselves a mountain for a tombstone over the palace which was their grave. The design of these houses of the dead is simple and apparently always much the same: a long corridor, sometimes with lateral galleries, sometimes with recesses or small chambers on each side, leads downwards by a not very rapid incline to a great hall, in the centre of which is the sarcophagus which contained the mummy of the king in its magnificent case; these cases have of course been all removed. All these lateral chambers were also originally filled with mummies—those, I believe, of the relations of the sovereign. The walls of these subterranean palaces and the ceilings are adorned throughout with coloured hieroglyphs and flat sculptured "graven images" representing mostly sacred and mystical scenes, but often, also, illustrating the different trades and crafts practised by the Egyptians. These paintings are of high interest from an ethnographic point of view—Poynter would have a fit over them. In the innermost places scores of bats dart about in intense alarm. The effect of the scanty light from the candles on these painted walls and on the dark bony forms of the Arabs is extremely fine—what your literary tourist would call "worthy of the pencil of Rembrandt."

After lunching in a shady spot we took an anything but shady ride to the temple-palace of Koorneh, and from thence to the Memnonium. Both are very interesting, but the latter by far the finest; there is about it a breadth and a vastness, together with much elegance and variety, that are very impressive. Nothing that I have seen is comparable to the monuments of Egypt, for the expression of gigantic thoughts and limitless command of material and labour; withal there is about them something stolid and oppressive that is unsatisfactory; and as I looked at these vast ruins, vivid memories of Athens and its Acropolis invaded me, and the Parthenon in all its serene splendour rose before my mind; mighty, too, in its measured sobriety, stately in the noble rhythm of its forms; infinitely precious in the added glory of its sculptures; lovable as a living thing; and then more, perhaps, than ever before, I felt what a divine breath informed that marvellous Attic people, and what an ineffaceable debt of gratitude is due to them from us, blind fumblers in their footsteps.

I was less struck than I had expected to be by the two colossal statues, of one of which it was poetically fabled by the ancients that a mysterious clang rose from it as the first rays of the rising sun smote its forehead. The myth is more striking than the statues, though their size and isolation give them something impressive. I had expected them, too, I don't know why, to be in a desert, and they are in a field. How infinitely grander is the great Sphinx, with its strange, far-gazing, haunting eyes, fixed, for ever, on the East, as if expecting the dawn of a day that never comes; immovable, unchanging, without shadow of sorrow, or light of gladness, whilst the gladness of men has turned to sorrow and their thoughts to ashes before them, through three times a thousand years! Century by century the desert has been gathering and growing round it—the feet are buried, the body, the breast are hidden. How soon will the sealing sands give rest at last to those steadfast, expectant eyes?

In the evening Hosseyn had a great "fantasia" and fulfilled his vow—and spent all his money. He killed his sheep and roasted it, bought some rice and boiled it, some flour and had it made into bread; then mixing the whole, he distributed it in six very large trays; three were put before the crew, one he had placed on the wayside for all comers (and they all came); the other two were sent to the nearest mosque for the same purpose, and with similar results; then, being unable to read himself, he paid five men to recite from the Koran at night, in the mosque, and invited thereto the captain, Mustafa Aga, and his son and several others; he, the while, sitting outside and offering coffee to whoever passed by. When it was all over he came to me radiant: "El Hamdul illah," he said, throwing up his hands, "this is good! I am happy, everybody to be satisfied! this is rich day! El Hamdul illah! my money is all gone! why shall I mind? I spend it for God! brabs something good happen for me, el Hamdul illah!" His delight at the performance of his vow and his absolute faith were the prettiest thing one could see. Talking of faith, I am much struck by the dignified simplicity with which Mahometans practise the observances of their religion; praying at the appointed times without concealment, wherever they happen to be, and as a matter of course.

Friday, 23rd.—Started early and coaled, first at Erment and then again at Esne, after which, being stopped by the night and shallow water, we anchored off a bank nowhere in particular. Heavens, what a hot day! this is indeed "the fire that quickens Nilus' slime," but has a vastly different effect on me. Sketching will be quite out of the question unless it gets rapidly cooler.

At Esne I was visited by the chief magistrate, and by the governor of the province; the former a jolly old bonhomme who offered me snuff, the other a very refined old gentleman with most charming manners. Both were Turks; and as they spoke no Christian tongue our conversation was carried on entirely through a dragoman; I was, however, pleased to find that I recognised several words that I learnt last year at Constantinople; I was glad, too, to hear again that fine vigorous language, the sound of which is extremely agreeable to me. Eastern manners are certainly very pleasing, and the frequent salutations, which consist in laying the hand first on the breast and then on the forehead, making at the same time a slight inclination, are graceful without servility. When an Egyptian wishes to express great respect he first lowers his hands to the level of his knees, exactly as in the days of Herodotus.

Talking of Herodotus, here is a first-rate subject for Gérôme suggested by that author; it is ethnographical and ghastly. The scene is laid in the establishment of an ancient Egyptian embalmer and undertaker, fitted up with all the implements and appliances of the trade; in the background, but not so far as to exclude detail, groups of assistants should be shown busied over a number of corpses and illustrating all the different stages of preparation, embalsamation, swathing, &c. &c. In the centre a bereaved family have brought their lamented relative, and are selecting, from specimens submitted to them by the master undertaker, a style of treatment suited to their taste and means, and expressive of their particular shade of grief. A large assortment of mummy-cases would form appropriate accessories and give great scope for the display of knowledge and the use of a fine brush. It seems to me that so pleasing a mixture of corpses and archæology, impartially treated by that polite and accomplished hand, could not fail to create considerable sensation.

Took a stroll through Esne whilst the ship was coaling. The darker tints of skin are beginning to preponderate more and more; mummy colour is in the ascendant here, together with a fine Brunswick black. The men, I observe, spin in this country. The children are quite fascinating; they have nothing on but a little tuft of hair on the top of their shaven heads; those dazzling little teeth of theirs are wonderful to see, and funny—like a handful of rice in a coal-scuttle. Fine sunset again; the hills, ranged in an amphitheatre from east to west, showed a most wonderful gradation from extreme dark on one side to glowing light on the other. I make the profound reflection that no two sunsets are alike; this remark, however, does not extend to descriptions of sunsets—verb. sap.

When I saw Holman Hunt's "Isabel," his pot of basil puzzled me sorely; I had seen a great deal of basil, and have an especial love for it; but I had never seen it except with a very small leaf. I was sure, however, knowing his great accuracy, that Hunt had sufficient foundation for the large leaf he gave the plant in his picture; the very fellow of it is now before me in a nosegay of flowers, very kindly sent me by the old governor of Esne. As I smell it I am assailed by pleasant memories of Lindos—"Lindos the beautiful"—and Rhodes, and that marvellous blue coast across the seas, that looks as if it could enclose nothing behind its crested rocks but the Gardens of the Hesperides; and I remember those gentle, courteous Greeks of the island (so unlike their swaggering kinsfolk—if they are their kinsfolk—of the mainland), and the little nosegay, a red carnation and a fragrant sprig of basil, with which they always dismiss a guest.

As we lay anchored by the shore in the evening, the dahabiehs came sweeping past in the moonlight; and the faint glimmering of the shell-like sails, and the flutter of the water against the swift, cutting keels, and the silence of the huddled groups, and the dark watchful figure of the helmsman at the helm, were strangely fantastic and beautiful.

Saturday, 24th.—Started at half-past five—passed Edfou (which I leave for my return) at half-past seven. Shall we reach Assouan to-day? Hosseyn's pious orgies have, I fear, turned his head, for I observed yesterday that he has taken to fishing again. "Brabs!—Insha Allah!" His interpretation of dreams is worthy of the ancient oracle-mongers; on the night before his sacrifice he dreamt that he had bought a slave, and then released it: "Wull! the slave is my sheep—is it not my slave? Wull, have I not buy it? Wull, I give it to the beebles—go!—I release it!" Whether the sheep, personally, considered itself released is problematic.

Saturday Evening.—Reached Assouan this afternoon at four, and, after the usual visit from the governor, took a stroll. I don't yet know whether I am disappointed in the place or not. At all events it is quite unlike my expectations of it. I had imagined, I suppose from descriptions, a narrower gorge and higher rocks; in point of fact there is no gorge at all, but the river is narrowed, or, rather, split by several islands and some fine granite boulders cropping up here and there to fret the river, and announcing the rapids; otherwise the country is open enough, and original and striking in aspect; I shall know better to-morrow what I think of it all. I saw during my evening stroll, and for the first time in my life, a group of slaves, mostly girls. If I had seen them subjected to any ill-treatment I should have felt very indignant; but I am bound to own that, seeing them squatting round a fire like any other children, showing no mark of slavery, and occupied in cooking their food, scratching themselves (as well, no doubt, they might!) and looking otherwise very like monkeys, I found it difficult to realise to myself the hardship of their position, however much it may revolt one in the abstract. They were black, and uglier than young negroes generally are; their hair was arranged in an infinity of minute, highly-greased plaits all round their heads; the elder ones were draped; the youngest wore a fringe pour tout potage. This is a noisy night; there is a "moolid" going on on the high bank to which we have made fast, and which borders the public square. A double row of howling dervishes are squatting and rocking and howling after their kind, almost over my head. In the brief lulls during which they take breath for further efforts, I hear from the other side of the river the mournful, weary, incessant creak of the water-wheel (with its blindfold cow or camel plodding round and round and round, apparently for ever), which in this region almost entirely supersedes the hand-worked bucket. The contrast is very curious.

I have just returned the governor's visit. I found him sitting on a sofa in the piazza opposite the Government House, with half-a-dozen hand lanterns brought by the guests in front of him, and on each side a long row of benches (forming an avenue up to his seat) on which squatted and smoked numbers of picturesque folk, who looked to great advantage by the flickering glimmer of the lamps and under the soft warm light of an African moon. I sat in the place of honour, smoked my conventional tchibouque, drank my inevitable cup of coffee, conveyed through my dragoman the usual traveller's remarks and questions (cardboard questions, so to speak, of which I knew the answers) to my host, who, like all the Turkish officials that I have seen, has the manners of a perfect gentleman and much natural dignity.

Sunday, 25th.—Started for Phylæ at half-past seven; arrived there at nine o'clock. The road leads through a broad tract of yellow sand (where, I believe, an arm of the Nile is supposed to have flowed in remote antiquity) along which on either side crop up, in wild, irregular fashion, bumps and hillocks and hills of dark red granite, covered over with innumerable fragments of the same stone, scattered in the most incredible confusion, and having rather a ludicrous appearance of having been left about and forgotten. You could get an excellent notion of the thing in miniature, by hastily spilling a coal-scuttle on a gravel walk and running away.

Above Assouan we are fairly in Nubia, and of course none but the darkest complexions are to be seen; but so large a number of negroes make their way here from the Soudan (the Nubians are not black, but of a beautiful dark cairngorm brown), that the whole place has an air of negro-land which is disagreeable to me. The young men, indeed, both black and brown, are sometimes extremely fine fellows (bar the legs, which are never good), but the girls, as far as one can see them, are tolerably ill-favoured, and the old women, of an ugliness which passes all belief. They are far worse than apes. The ladies in this part of the country gladden the hearts of their admirers by anointing their bodies with castor oil, so that the atmosphere of their villages, however full of sweet suggestion to a native, is much the reverse to a traveller with a nose not attuned to these perfumes; the smell that greets you through an open door is a mixture of the bouquet just named, and a penetrating flavour of accumulated stuffed beasts, and naturally interferes much with my enjoyment.

At Mahatter we left our donkeys and took a boat to Phylæ, a quarter of a mile, which takes half an hour owing to the rapidity of the current just above the cataract. The scenery about Phylæ has been spoken of as Paradise; I never saw anything less like my notion of Paradise, and so far, therefore, I am disappointed. Original and strange it is, in a high degree. It is in fact exactly like the valley of which I spoke a little further back, only that the hills are four times as high, and water takes the place of the sand; the same breaking up of the rocks into a myriad of fragments, putting all grandeur and massiveness of form out of the question—and, with the exception of a few palm trees and a sycamore or two, the same barrenness. Looking up in the direction of Wâdy Halfâ, the mountains appear to grow finer in outline, and a tract of very yellow sand amongst their highest crests is striking and original—gold dust in a cup of lapis lazuli. With the island itself and its beautiful group of temples it is impossible not to be delighted. Nothing could be more fantastic or more stately than the manner in which it rises out of the bosom of the river like a vast ship, surrounded as it is on all sides by a high wall sheer from the water to the level on which the temples stand. One hall in the main temple, and one only, shows still a sufficient amount of colour to give a very good idea of what the effect must have been originally; the green and blue capitals must have been very lovely. It is needless to say that here, as elsewhere, travellers have left by hundreds lasting memorials of their brutality, in the shape of names and dates drawn, painted, scratched, and cut on every wall and column, so that the eye finds no rest from them. This strange and ineffably vulgar mania is as old as the world, and the tombs of the kings at Thebes are scrawled over with inscriptions left there by ancient Greek and Roman visitors. I shall return to Phylæ shortly to make a sketch or two—Insha Allah.

Here, at last, I have found that absolutely clear crystalline atmosphere of which I had so often heard; I own it is not pleasing to me; a sky of burnished steel over a land of burning granite would no doubt be grand if the outlines of the granite were fine—but they are not. Meanwhile, perspective is abolished—everything is equally and obtrusively near, and I sadly miss the soft mysterious veils and pleasant doubts of distance that enchant one in other lands. I think it very likely that in winter one has great compensation from the exhilarating purity of the air; but just now the heat, which is simply infernal, is too trying for me to do justice to these advantages; no doubt the air is light and dry, but I feel unfortunately so very heavy and wet, that I am not in a position fully to appreciate it. Returning to Assouan in the evening, saw a dahabieh that had just got through the jaws of the cataracts, always rather a nervous matter; at least so they say; "to be very dyinger" (dangerous?), according to Hosseyn; the men were chanting a monotonous strain that had little of triumph in it, but rather conveyed a feeling of an always impending calamity escaped this time; it was melancholy and very striking, I thought, in the silence of the gloaming; very likely pure fancy on my part, for I doubt whether more than a couple of boats are lost in a season, and the sailors of the Nile must be well accustomed to the dangers of these rapids; but the impression on me at the time was very strong.

Monday, 26th.—The dragoman of the ship having a swelling of some sort on his arm, an Arab doctor was sent for, and forthwith informed him that his arm was possessed of the devil!! Went to see the island of Elephantina opposite Assouan, but saw nothing to suggest its ancient magnificence. Gave a silver farthing to a funny little child, which (the farthing) being perforated, his mother immediately tied into one of his little oily locks—an ingenious substitute for a pocket. I observed several little boys simply attired in a piece of string tied round their loins—there, Diogenes!

Tuesday, 27th.—Began sketching, but am out of form from the heat. I am working chiefly because I am weary of idleness. I don't much care for the two sketches I have begun; they will therefore probably turn out badly. Going to try another presently.

Tuesday Evening.—Have begun a sketch which interests me more than the others; it is taken amongst the tombs and shrines on the hills south of the town towards Phylæ. As my evening's work was drawing to a close, I heard a shuffling of feet a little behind me, and, turning round, saw, in the full fire of sunset, what appeared to me at first to be a procession of golden apes with dark blue robes, light blue lips, and nose-rings; on closer inspection they turned out to be Nubian women going home to their village. Hosseyn, qui a le mot pour rire, apparently, engaged in conversation with them, and convulsed them with laughter; the flashes of teeth were very funny to see. At last he gave them a few halfpence, and desired them to sing; whereon they set up a series of the most uncouth howls I ever heard; one baboon in particular got up and, using a flat date basket as a tambourine, accompanied her vocal performance with hops and jumps that would have done honour to any inmate of the monkey-house in the Zoological Gardens.

The twilight, walking home, was lovely. The earth was in colour like a lion's skin; the sky of a tremulous violet, fading in the zenith to a mysterious sapphire tint. "Dolce color d'oriental zaffiro."

Slew another sheep—"Allah hou akbar!" (without which formula in the killing a good Muslim must not touch the meat): this sheep is no empty formality, for the unfortunate sailors would never see meat without it; they live on bread and occasional beans. This is the fourth night of the moolid, which is to last the whole week! At this very moment the tambourines of the dervishes are driving me nearly wild with their diabolic din.

Wednesday, 28th.—Got on indifferently with my sketches; only one of them interests me much. The morning was almost cool and really delightful, but the heat was as great as ever in the daytime. I have always been unable to see the extraordinary difference which is said to exist between the length of the twilight in the north, and in southern countries; I could have read large print to-night three-quarters of an hour after sunset. Habit is everything, no doubt, as we are reminded by Herodotus, à propos of a certain people who ate their dead relatives instead of burning them; but I wonder whether I should ever get accustomed to the aching, straining, creaking complaint of the water-wheel far and near, morning, noon and night, morning, noon and night; I can just fancy its becoming attaching as the clacking of a mill.

I have often wondered why, contrary to all analogy, the Spaniards call oil azedo, which at first sight appears to be the same word as the Italian aceto. I find that the word is Arabic: zeyd. Mem.: Look up the etymology of the English word cough, to which no European word that I remember has any affinity, and which rather appears to be onomatopœic. The Arabs say kokh (guttural ending); is this a mere coincidence, and does the word date beyond the Crusades? I find a good many words that have a curious likeness to English. My endeavours to pick up a little Arabic are almost entirely frustrated by Hosseyn's utter inability to pull a sentence to pieces for me. In an Arabic sentence of two words (e.g. azekan tareed—if you please) he could not tell me which word was the verb! literally; I had to find out as best I could. I never saw anything to approach his obtuseness in the matter, except perhaps that of Georgi, my dragoman in Turkey. As I was sketching this evening a Nubian passed me, very grandly draped and erect, and followed by two green monkeys that were fastened by leading-strings to his belt. They toddled very snugly after their stately master and made a queer group.

Sunday, November 1.—I am in a state of appreciative enjoyment of the comforts and civilised cleanliness of my steamer, having just returned from three or four days' roughing in the ruins of Phylæ. "Roughing" is a relative term, and my trials were of a very mild description, for though I slept à la belle étoile (or rather tried to sleep), at all events I had a bed to rest in, and the air at night was delightful; moreover, the commissariat was very satisfactorily managed, so that food and drink were abundant; nevertheless, I must maintain that living in an open ruin is not comfortable. I made two or three sketches, and should probably have enjoyed myself, but that on the second day I was entirely thrown off the rails by the heat whilst sketching; I thought I should get a coup de soleil; I was very indisposed in the evening, and utterly unable to work the next morning, so that I took the place en grippe, and could see nothing but the ugliness of the rocks and the wearing monotony of the hieroglyphs. Picked up in the evening, and liked the place better; made some original and striking reflections about the desirability of health.

Having heard much of the beauty of the full moon at Phylæ, timed my visit to see it, and was entirely delighted. The light was so brilliant that one could read with ease, but at the same time so soft, so rich, and so mellow that one seemed not to see the night, but to be dreaming of the day. The Arabs say of a fine night, "it is a night like milk," but there is more of amber than of milk in the nights of Phylæ. The rising of the moon last night was the first thing of the sort I ever saw; the disc was perfectly golden, not as in a mist, but set sharp and clear in the sky, and exactly like the sun, except that you could look at it without pain to the eyes. The effect of this effulgent light on the shoulder of the hill was magical. The last hour of the afternoon I spent in strolling about the villages, which are picturesque. The cottages are four brown, roofless walls, built of the usual unburnt brick, and coated with mud; but the doorways are always highly decorated with painted geometrical devices which, in the mass of plain, sober brown, have a very cheerful and artistic effect. The people, too, amuse me; a pleasant, gentle, grinning folk these Nubians seem; I like their jargon—after the guttural Arabic it sounds so soft and round, and the women have funny, cooing inflections of voice (pretty voices, often) that are pleasing. Some of the girls are good-looking; chiefly through the brightness of their eyes and the milky whiteness of their teeth. The coiffure of the children is too funny; it consists in tufts of hair of various shapes and patterns left on an otherwise shaven head; often a crest all down the middle and a tuft on each side, exactly like the clown's wig in a pantomime; it is irresistibly droll.

A grand sight is to see the villagers keeping the birds from their crops; they all serve in their turn, men, women, and children; they stand each on a rude sort of scaffold which rises about two feet clear of the corn; they are armed with slings from which they hurl lumps of clay at the birds, uttering loud cries at the same time. Their movements are full of grandeur and character. I wonder Gérôme has never treated a subject so well suited to him. Why, too, has he never painted mine enemy the sakkea, which is even more emphatically in his way, for, besides the scope for fine and quaint forms both in the men and the animals that work it, the accessories are abundant and interesting, and there are ropes in great abundance.

Is the sakkea my friend or my enemy? Its chant is so incessant that I should have to make up my mind if I stayed longer in the country; it would either fascinate me or drive me mad. As I listen in the silence of the evening, the rise and fall, the shifting and swaying of the wind bring its complaint from across the gurgling river in such a fitful way that it has the strangest and most unexpected effects: sometimes I fancy I hear deep, drowsy tones of a distant organ, sometimes the shrill quavering of a bagpipe; sometimes it is like a snatch of a song, sometimes like a whole chorus of voices singing a solemn strain in the sad, empty night; sometimes, alas! too often, like a snarling, creaking door-post.

Phylæ being above the cataracts, my steamer stopped at Assouan, and I went there by donkey as before; returning, I chartered a dahabieh to see the said cataracts, of which for some days I had heard so much; amongst other things, that a ship was wrecked there three weeks ago (I saw it stuck on its rock to-day). The cowardice of the people here, at least in this particular matter, is very funny; too naïf to inspire disgust: my captain, an old sailor, and the nicest old gentleman possible, told Hosseyn that nothing would induce him to go down them; I thought I observed a shade of respectful interest in his reception of me on my return from an exploit which most English women would consider good fun. I make no doubt that when the water is much lower, and your dahabieh shoots a good six or eight feet drop, and goes half into the water besides, considerable excitement may be got out of it; but now that the drop is not or does not look more than about a yard, and that the whole affair consists in a few plunges and shipping a little water, the emotion is very mild, and I own to considerable disappointment, though as far as it went it was pleasant. Nevertheless I did not for a moment regret coming if only on account of the amusement I got out of the sailors and pilots; the latter were men of years; the former, fine, jolly-looking lads as one could wish to see; but their demeanour throughout was infinitely droll; they rested their feet (according to custom here) on inclined planks, up which they ran three steps with their arms well forward to fetch the stroke, getting back into the sitting position as they pulled through the water (and wonderfully fine the action looks in a large crew all pulling well together); but the contortions in which they indulged, the gnashing and grinding of teeth, the throwing back of agonised heads, the frowns, the setting of jaws, the straining of veins, the rolling of eyes, the groans, and, absurdest of all, the coming down on one another's laps and the cutting of crabs, were ineffably grotesque, and would have convulsed me with laughter if I had not controlled myself manfully. Meanwhile the pilots were howling at one another and them with all the vehemence of a violent altercation, and for no discernible reason. When they were not shrieking at one another, the crew took up the usual Arab boatmen's chant (I know no better word); one man gives out a short sentence, or name, or form of prayer (not exceeding four syllables) in a quavering treble, and the rest then repeat it in chorus in a graver key—the effect is very original. As we got within sight of the big cataract and the stranded ship, Hosseyn loudly exhorted the crew to pray to the Prophet, and all the saints who have their shrines on the heights of Assouan, to see them safely through the danger; the invitation was loudly responded to, and everybody who had not an oar to pull held up his hands and prayed with great fervour—which was very pretty, and done with the dignified simplicity which always accompanies an Arab's devotions; but it was certainly disproportionate to the emergency. When we had danced up and down (or rather down and up) three or four times, I had the curiosity to look about for the sailor and waiter I had brought with me from the steamer; they were respectively green and yellow in their unfeigned terror. Then there was a nominal small cataract (the first one is called the great cataract), and indeed I believe there was a third little commotion; then Hosseyn, throwing up his arms, exclaimed, "El Hamdul illah!! finish!!" and it was, as he said, "finish." I am utterly ignorant of the mysteries of navigation, but one figure we executed between the cataracts and Assouan struck me as novel: it consisted in turning entirely round in a wide circle to take (as it were) a fresh start; this manœuvre we performed with much gravity and success two successive times. An elaborate salute from the guns of the dragoman and engineer, responded to with appropriate solemnity by Hosseyn, announced my return to my steamer—and, oh joy! my tub.

In the evening governor of course.

Monday, 2nd.—Resumed work; painted for a couple of hours—badly—in a high wind at an ugly study of a view I don't like. I consider it a sort of discipline. The wind to-day is tremendously high; the dahabiehs will come flying up now. I saw my friend the captain just now sitting on the bank in the midst of an interested circle having his fortune told. There is a blessing for them that wait. Hosseyn has caught a fish! two fishes, to-day! his glee is unlimited, he is radiant; when that boy is at the near end of his fishing rope, he is so absorbed I can't get him to attend to me or to answer a question. His brilliant piscatorial success is an opportune set-off against a chagrin the poor boy had this morning; he was taking a dip somewhere under the paddle-box, and lost, in putting away his clothes (he thinks by a black but improbable theft), a Koran with which he travels and to which he attributes much luck; he was greatly cut up, and after telling me how much he valued the book, proceeded to inform me that it contained a little piece of wood from Abyssinia with something written on it, "some, what you call, scription," which, when worn round the neck, infallibly cured the bite of the scorpion; seeing that this announcement did not impress me as much as he had expected, he asked me with some warmth how I supposed, pray, that the snake-charmers prevented the snakes from biting them if it was not by saying something out of the Bible.

Another sheep to-day; there was some hitch about the manner of the killing which caused a little excitement; his throat was not turned to the sun (or the East?) whilst he was being slaughtered; an important matter. I observe that Turkish officials are not expected to be able to write; my captain can, but I remarked that when his secretary, a poor, wizened little thing, whose nose and trousers are far too short, but whose mouth and ears offer ample compensation through their length, brought him to-day the ship's accounts, he stamped his signature at the foot of the page instead of writing it, although he happened to have a pen in his hand; I was giving him his English lesson. Talking of accounts, the Arabs have a curious way of singing or rather intoning their sums, rocking all the while backwards and forwards like so many Dervishes. I have seen a large house of business (at Sohag) where all the clerks were doing it at once; it was like a madhouse. Oh, Lombard Street, and oh, Mark Lane! what would you have felt at the sight?

Tuesday, 3rd.—My last day at Assouan. Finished my sketches, took leave of the governor, and had a final stroll about the streets of the town, which seemed to me unusually picturesque. I remark that I invariably like a place best the day I leave it; if I am sorry to go, my regret casts a halo over it; if I am glad, my gladness makes everything brighter. How picturesque the people are! their flowing, flying draperies are wonderfully grand. I hope I may carry away with me some general impressions, but the immense multitude and rapid succession of striking things drive individual memories fatally out of the field. Sketching figures is out of the question—the effects are all too fugitive. This was also the last day of the moolid, and high time too; I met in the morning, in a narrow street, a procession of sailors carrying a boat, which they were about to deposit in the tomb of the sheykh in whose honour the moolid is held, and whose name they were loudly invoking. In front, drums and flags, and cawasses firing guns; behind, in front, everywhere, a host of most paintable ragamuffins enjoying the fun; above, over the brown house-tops, dark blue figures of women huddled peering at the procession; over them a blue sky with a minaret standing against it, a palm tree; some doves—there was the picture, it was charming. The children as usual called out, "Baksheesh howaga;" the so-called begging of the people has been ludicrously exaggerated; in the first place, only the children ask for baksheesh (I mean, of course, without the pretext of a service rendered), and in the next, they treat the whole thing as an excellent joke, and evidently have seldom the slightest expectation that they are to get anything. When you approach a village, every child, from as far as it sees you, whether from a window, or a doorway, or half-way up a palm tree, or the middle of the road, holloas out lustily, "Baksheesh, baksheesh," generally with much laughter, and frequently with a universal scamper in every direction except towards you. What I call begging is that importunate whining that clings to you, and harasses you wherever you turn in the south of Italy or Spain, and with which this clamorous performance has nothing in common. I have remarked, with regard to grown-up Arabs, that though they wrangle vehemently with the dragoman on the subject of payment, they invariably show the master a pleasant and satisfied face. I speak, of course, only of my own experience. As strange a thing as a satisfied man is a barking fish; the fish that Hosseyn has caught of late—for Fortune is his handmaid now—all utter a sound which I can only describe as a faint bark; perhaps everybody knows that some fishes do this, but I did not, and my surprise was extreme. They are nasty-looking objects, all fins and teeth (a thick row of little bristle-like teeth). They are fat and shiny and most insipid eating.

Wednesday, 4th.—Started at six down stream; my face is turned towards bonny old England again, and I feel as if I had wings. At Kom Ombo (the first halt to-day) there are some ruins on a rock which crops up abruptly by the riverside in the midst of a flat country. The morning was divine, and the view from the temple, looking north, surpassingly lovely in colour. The form was nothing much; a vast sandy plain (tigered here and there with stripes of green), and in the distance a long low nest of mountain peaks; but the colour!—the gradation from the fawn-coloured glimmering sands in the foreground to the faint horizon with its hem of amethyst and sapphire was as enchanting a thing, in the sweet morning light, as I have ever seen. The temple is fine though heavy, and less delicate in detail than Phylæ. On the under surface of the architrave, between the columns, are some most curious and interesting unfinished decorations, on squares marked out in red, and showing (slight sketch) such as for instance a figure tried two ways on the same spot. The outlines are drawn out, in red also, with extraordinary firmness and freedom. Speaking of the squares, Gardiner Wilkinson—in his, I am told, most erudite, and, I am certain, most dry and heavy, guide-book—says that they were used (in the manner in which "squaring off" is practised in the present day) for the purpose of transferring a design. In this, however, he is obviously mistaken, because the squares are adapted not to the pictures but to the space to be decorated; the hieroglyphs and the figures being adapted to the squares, not the squares to them: that these squares, once made the basis of the decoration and fixing its proportions and distribution, may then have been used also for enlarging a small design, or even, instead of tracing, for transferring one of the same size, is probable enough; but that was not their original function. In corroboration of this view, compare the frets and ornaments painted on the back of the architrave of the Parthenon, which I have examined closely; they are painted in squares marked out with a sharp instrument, and determining the space to be decorated exactly as at Kom Ombo. The case is so entirely parallel as to suggest the idea that the Greeks learnt the practice in Egypt. The great temple of Edfou, where we stopped next, far surpasses anything I have yet seen in Egypt; not so much, perhaps, for any especial beauty of detail—although the sculptures are extremely fine—as for its general aspect, which is superb, and its wonderful state of preservation; many parts of it look as if they had been finished yesterday. The gigantic Propylæa, and the no less gigantic wall which encloses the whole of this fortress-temple, are almost entirely intact, and make it unlike any other ruin I know. The great court, a giant cloister into which one first enters, discloses the temple itself, blocked out in vast masses of light and gulfs of shade, and tunnelled through by a corridor which reaches to its extremest end; the absence of some portions of the roof, by letting the light play fantastically into the inner spaces, only adds to the mysterious grandeur of the effect. A broad, open peribolus runs round the temple, dividing it from the towering mur d'enceinte which encloses the whole building. The western part of the temple is as full of staircases, secret passages, and dark chambers as any Gothic castle. Every square inch of the whole immense fabric is covered with sculptures and hieroglyphs.

I forgot to say that I stopped between Kom Ombo and Edfou at the ancient quarries of Gebel Silsily, from which the material of the sandstone temples was mostly quarried. They are extremely striking, and have a grandeur of their own. It was curious to compare them mentally with the marble quarries of Pentelicus from which Ictinus carved the Parthenon and Pheidias the Fates.

In a tomb at El Kab are some most amusing and interesting sculptures (with the colour almost intact on them) representing the various occupations of Egyptian life, agricultural, &c. The reaping of the corn and durrah is pretty—a vintage and wine-treading pleased me vastly. Had they wine in this district?

Coming upon a magnificent view, stopped the steamer for the night; want to see it by sunrise. The absurd spurious importance my steamer confers on me in the eyes of the natives is too funny. At Edfou I found the whole place en émoi; horses handsomely caparisoned, a most polite governor, sheykhs, and a general profusion of salaams. It appears that the viceroy had the authorities in the different places telegraphed to be civil to me; and God knows they are. I was struck with the magnificence of the population here, the men at least; they are most stately fellows. I should like immensely to paint some of them, but for that there is no time; I can only hope that something will stick to me from this dazzling multitude of fine things. We are now again in the region of doves, whose presence in large numbers affects the architecture of the villages in a most curious manner. Every house has, or rather, is, a dovecot, the chief corps de bâtiment being a tower, or several towers, of which the whole upper part is exclusively affected to the doves. Their sides are inclined like the sides of the propylæa of the temples, with which they harmonise amazingly well; they are divided horizontally by bands of colour which have an excellent effect, recalling strongly the marked parallel strata of the mountains. (There is no more curious study than the concord which constantly manifests itself between national (and notably domestic) architecture, and the nature in the midst of which it grows up.) The construction of these towers is both peculiar and ingenious; they are built up entirely with earthen jars, sometimes placed topsy-turvy, but most often on their sides, and tier above tier like bottles in a cellar. The exterior is then filled in with mud, and the interior presents the appearance of a honeycomb, the cells being formed by the hollow jars; in these jars the doves have their abode. It is easy to see that by turning a few of the jars outwards a very simple but pretty decoration may be obtained; a crest is added at the top by placing jars upside down at certain intervals; the bands of colour are generally divided by a string-course of bricks something after this fashion, but with much variety; and each of these string-courses is garnished with a perfect hedge of branches and twigs projecting horizontally a yard or more, and forming resting places for thousands of doves. Many houses have two towers, and the wealthier people have towers of great size subdivided again into small turrets; but in all cases the height of these edifices is the same, or nearly so, so that the villages received from them a very monumental look. The large towers are divided after the manner shown in the sketch. The natives also make to themselves curious pillar cupboards of mud (about man high), which from a distance have the oddest appearance; they look like raised pies on pedestals.

Thursday, 5th.—Made a little sketch from the paddle-box before starting. Then to Esne to return the visit of my amiable friend, the governor; him of the flowers. There is a temple here; a heavy-looking portico of the Roman period, coarsely executed, but with a grand, cavernous look, buried as it is in the ground which rises all round it to half the height of the columns, so that you have to descend a considerable flight of steps to get at it. At Arnout, or at least within three miles of it, are a few fragments of the Cæsarium. The portraits of Cleopatra and Cæsarion (he is always seated on her lap), which occur here several times, would be of the greatest interest if they were not utterly conventional, and exactly like everybody else in every temple of the date. Got to Lougsor at sunset, and found no letters, no Sterlings, no Lady Duff Gordon. I trust the letters may still turn up before I go, for, if not, I shall probably lose them entirely, through my desire to get them a little earlier. In the evening dined with Mustafa Aga, and met there the American Consul-General, Mr. Hale, who had run up from Alexandria to show the Nile to a friend of his; both are agreeable men (Mr. Hale earned my warmest blessings by lending me a pile of English newspapers); there was also the Consul from Syoot with a friend of his. After dinner the dancing girls were asked in, and, presently, a buffoon who stripped to his waist and performed various antics; he was clever and a good mimic, but became terribly tedious after a short time. His performance was of the most Aristophanic coarseness. With the girls, of whom I had heard so much, I was decidedly disappointed; in the first place they were mostly ugly, one or two only were tolerably good-looking—et encore! Then they were clumsily built, and their dress was quite ludicrous: it consisted in a body fitting tight to the figure and four inches too long in the waist, tight sleeves, a petticoat, in shape exactly like a pen-wiper, and very full, loose trowsers (bags) down to the feet; the whole of printed calico. In front of their waists hung a sort of breloque, or chain, looped up at intervals in festoons, the object of which was to jingle as they moved, and to add to the effect of certain little brass castagnette cymbals which they held on the middle finger and thumb of either hand. A profusion of ornaments hung round their necks. Their dancing is very inferior to that of the Andalusian dancers of the same class, whose performance is full of a quaint grace and even dignity—inferior, too, to the Algerine dancing, to which that of the south of Spain more nearly approaches in character; it is monotonous in the extreme—very ugly for the most part, and remarkable only as a gymnastic feat; sleight of loins, so to speak. These are, however, no doubt, unfavourable specimens; I shall see the best of the kind in Keneh at the house of the Consul, who has come all the way here from that place to invite me thereto.

Friday, 6th.—Went to the palace and temples of Medinet Haboo, with which I was delighted beyond my expectation. What pleased me most, and was an entire surprise to me, was a bit of purely secular architecture—the remains of a royal residence, with its towers flanking the great entrance, its windows of various shapes, balconies, semicircular crenelations, outer wall; in fact, identically such a building as one sees occasionally in Egyptian sculptures, and, curiously enough, as if it were a portrait of it, on the walls of the very temple to which this palace leads. The temple, too (the large one), interested me extremely from the wonderful preservation of the coloured decoration in parts of it; one really gathers an excellent idea of the original effect, and a most brilliant and magnificent (though barbarous) effect it must have been. The columns in the great hall here are of what, for want of a better word, I shall call the "ninepin" pattern; and I think on the whole I prefer it to the bell-capped pattern; because, besides its character and massive strength, there is no suggestion in it (as in the other) of the Doric order, with which comparison is obviously dangerous. As far as I can observe, there is no trace of colour on any of the propylæa, but the pylon is always richly decorated and highly coloured. This decorative importance given to the door must have had a very striking effect, and reminds me of the same peculiarity in the dwellings of Upper Egypt.