by Mrs. Lee, of Boston, U.S. [Hannah Farnham Sawyer Lee].
(Author of "Three Experiments in Living")
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.2 #51 (18 Dec 1847).
The following remarks were written very soon after the death of the distinguished artist, to preserve the reminiscences of a visit to his studio.
There are no recollections more useful than those connected with departed worth. The memory of the good operates as a talisman against evil spirits, they come not near the place hallowed by the recollection of the pure on earth, who are now the blessed in Heaven.
It is refreshing to the mind and heart to quit this every day working world, and dwell on genius and excellence, as we knew them embodied, with the certainty that no blight can come over them, and that they are safe from the vicissitudes of human change.
A visit to the studio of Washington Allston was always deeply interesting, but now he is no more, the recollection of it is like one of his own pictures, softened and blended by an aerial atmosphere.
On the morning of a cold autumnal day, I was invited by him to visit his painting room. As we proceeded to it at a short distance from his house, the leaves were falling around, and the foliage had assumed the variety of tints so striking in our American scenery. His residence was a few miles from the city of Boston, and not far distant from the classic halls of Cambridge University, it was one which happily combined retirement with opportunities for society.
When we arrived at the large unornamented building, he requested me to wait in a little porch or ante-room while he made a few preparations. In a short time I was summoned. The room was large and unfurnished, lighted by a sky-light, and windows near the ceiling. Before one of his beautiful pictures yet unfinished, was placed an arm-chair. To this he conducted me, saying with a smile, "I have been sweeping a place for you, I seldom pay my guests such a compliment."
On the easel before me was the picture of King John, nearly completed. "I intend said he to devote the next six months to this, and when it is finished I shall give myself a little time for visiting my friends in Boston." It was a noble picture, and seemed to me hardly to require six mouths of labour.
Against the wall hung a curtain extending nearly across the building. Behind this was his "Belshazzer," already the work of many years. Would that a hand-writing on the wall had warned him to hasten the completion.[1]
A finished picture, stood on an easel, which he called the sisters, one of the heads was in the rich glowing colouring of Titian. It was singularly calculated to call forth the imagination, a historiette seemed at once to present itself to the mind.
He took a number of unfinished sketches from a closet, among them was one representing the fairies dispersing at the dawn of day; some were ascending, others hovering in mid-air, two yet lingered on the sea shore, they were lovers, and too deeply absorbed in each other to heed the orient tinge of morning. This was one of his happy touches of nature.
He also exhibited a number of sea-sketches, but little more than outlined, yet all full of life and meaning. The gathering storm was perfectly delineated, the heavy and threatening cloud, the rushing wind, and mountain wave, and there too was the traveller of the deep, a noble vessel, struggling with the elements.
One sketch he exhibited in a more finished state. It was the Una of his favorite Spenser, sleeping in a wood. The wood, the water-fall, and the whole of the landscape were before you, and on one side the recumbent form of the graceful Una, the representative of truth.
"I was satisfied with my sketch of the landscape and the figure," said the master, "but after all it was only a girl sleeping in a wood—suddenly the idea arose to my mind of making all the light of the picture proceed from the figure, and I found my desire at once accomplished."
What a noble effect of his pencil to produce such an illustration of the light of truth. It was a beautiful sketch. I could not turn my eyes from it; as we both stood looking at it, he repeated in his clear low voice, the following lines, from the third canto of Spenser's "Fairie Queene":—
"From her fayre head her fillet she undight,
And lay'd her state aside: her angel face,
As the great eye of Heaven shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place;
Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace."
He had but one more step to take to complete the originality of his design, and that was to exclude all other rays of light from the picture, making Una the Sun.
I urged him most earnestly to finish the picture. "I think," said he, "of taking the same design, and making Una as large as life."
But why not complete this first? I asked.
"I cannot do both," he replied, "it would take too much time."
I had a presentiment that Una's fate was sealed, and that the light of truth as there represented would never irradiate our lower world. I was right, the sketch alone remains.
He related the little anecdote of Spenser, when Poet Laureate to Elizabeth, which has been recorded elsewhere. She thought his salary of fifty pounds unequal to his merit, and requested Burleigh to make him a present of one hundred pounds. The minister replied that it was "too much for a song." "Give him then," said the maiden Queen, "as much as you ought in reason." Burleigh not exactly appreciating the genius of song, did nothing. At length Elizabeth received from her Poet Laureate, this impromptu:—
"I was promised at a time,
To have reason for my rhyme,
From that time until this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason."
The hundred pounds was immediately sent to him.
I had often visited the studio of Allston in company with others. He was fond of exhibiting his finished pictures to a few friends before they were separated from him; but I had never been alone with him there.
The large unfurnished building with its peculiar light, brought to my imagination the studios of the old painters, of Michael Angelo, Raphael, and the Caraccis, who, I thought, would choose just such a place for their sublime labours.
His "Monaldi," is a novel written in a pure classic style, with all the delicate touches of a painter and a
poet. It was composed twenty years since, and the fashion of fiction changes. An Othello tale of jealousy has now little chance of coping with modern productions of every day life, which are brought home to the heart by daily incidents. It lies before me inscribed by his honoured hand, and as I look over the pages it seems to me to have rather the grace of a poem, than the machinery of a novel, and might be classed with Tasso's beautiful episodes. He proved that he was master of the lyre by a little volume of poems published many years since, and which I believe is now extant. One poem entitled "The Paint King," has been generally circulated, and demonstrates the sportive power of his imagination. His friends are earnestly looking for a memoir of him which they understand is to include his literary works.
I have seen him many years ago in a select evening party, waxing brighter and brighter till becoming the hero of the scene, he enacted the chivalrous knight, and knelt to a "ladye fayre" temporarily selected for the object of his fanciful homage; yet his very gaiety was in keeping, and preserved a character of classic taste.
My pen has dwelt longer on this on than I intended, and having begun it is difficult to arrest its course. Difficult! Alas no. He who partook so largely of the art divine, who, when he laid aside the magic wand of his pencil, could be the life and solace, and joy of the domestic circle; who by his inimitable "ghost stories," could transport us to the shadowy land of departed spirits, has himself gone there, and his remains are deposited in the silent grave. Difficult to stay my pen? Alas no, it falls powerless from my hand.
1. It is well known this was never finished, but it has been exhibited since his death, and perhaps affords the mightiest evidence of his genius.