240

THE FARNLEY COLLECTION.

In the course of one of his foreign tours, Mr. Fawkes, in his travelling carriage circling round the Simplon past those blessed, hospices and through those wonderful rock-galleries, suddenly met a well-known little thick set man walking, with no luggage except a large faded umbrella. It was Turner.

The Farnley collection of Turners, specially valuable (apart from their intrinsic worth) as consisting of ungraved pictures, has for its sun the luminous 'Dort,' a favourite picture of the painter's. It includes some almost monochrome but powerful water-colour Swiss scenes of 1804. One of a jagged glacier with shattered pine and goats is especially fine. There are sketches also of the Colosseum and St. Peter's, somewhat wanting in solidity; a fine fancy sketch of the Pyramids, and a poetical but rather flimsy one of Stonehenge.

A very beautiful cold, bright, frosty morning scene, 'FlounderFishing off Battersea,' is remarkable for two large and very humorous figures of old boatmen, excellent for character. The name of the boat is 'The Owner's Delight;' one little triangular white flounder glitters in the net, and the frost lies white on the rueful old man's beard.

For poetry of time and place, and graceful appropriateness, the 'Ulverstone Sands' delights me; the water on the sands is so transparent-the distance is so truly admirable. The accident to the diligence on Mont Cenis is equally wonderful for local effect, especially for the dazzle and glimmer of snow. The 'Scarborough' is radiant with golden colour; the Swiss scenes are full of graceful figures. The sea in the 'Red Cap' (an oil picture) is perfect for motion and sweep.

The Rembrandt's Daughter' is a beautiful day-dream, and there is a comely, plump prettiness and poetry about the Dutch girl as she stands by her bedside, blanched in the sunshine, and reading the love-letter, which her majestic father, coming in behind, is about to detect.

For twenty-four consecutive years one of those wonders of the North, a goose pie, was sent to Turner from Yorkshire. The twenty-fifth pie was already packed when news reached Farnley of the painter's departure from the reach of his friend's kindness. One of the letters acknowledging the annual present

I am enabled to give, through the kindness of Mr. Fawkes. It is dated December 24, 1849, two years before his death. It is curious, as an intelligent friend of mine remarks, to observe the quaint and somewhat contradictory ceremoniousness of the letter, which, beginning with 'Dear Hawkesworth,' ends with 'your obliged servant ;' a conventional deference that is almost royal. The letter, on which the postmark is 'Queen's Road, Chelsea,' runs thus :

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'Dear Hawkesworth,-Mother Goose came hearsal before Christmas Day, having arrived on Saturday for the knife, and could not be resisted in my drinking your good health in a glass of wine to all friends at Farnley Hall, also wishing happiness and the comp" of the season to all. The pie is in most excellent taste, and shall drink the same thanks on Christmas Day. Many thanks for the brace of pheasants and, hares-by the same train-indeed, I think it fortunate, for with all the strife and strike of pokers and stokers for the railroadstheir commons every day growing worse-in shareholders and directors squabbling about the winding up of the last Bill, to come to some end for those lines known or supposed to be in difficulty.

'Ruskin has been in Switzerland with his whife this summer, and now said to be in Venice. Since the revolution shows not any damage to the works of high Art it contains, in Rome not so much as might have been expected. Had the "Transfiguration" occupied its old situation, the St. Pietro Montoreo, it most possibly must have suffered, for the church is completely riddled with shot and balls. The convent on Mount Aventine much battered with cannon balls, and Casino Magdalene, near the Porto Angelino, nearly destroyed; occurred by taking and storming the Bastion No. 8.

"This is from an eye-witness who has returned to London since the siege by Gen. Oudinot.

'I am sorry to say my health is much on the wain. I cannot bear the same fatigue, or have the same bearing against it, I formerly had-but time and tide stop not-but I must stop

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writing for to-day, and so I again beg to thank you for the

Christmas present.

'Believe me most truly

'Your oblidged Servant,

'J. M. W. TURNER.

W. H. FAWKES, Esq., Farnley Hall.'

The letter is curious also as showing that an involved and confused style, and uncertain spelling, were characteristic of him down to the very close of his days.

Amongst the wonderful examples at Farnley of the versatility of Turner's genius, I must not forget to particularise the Civil War illustrations-elaborate vignettes, full of thought and poetry; and the drawings of birds, wonderful for minute truth and gorgeously delicate in colour. There is a heron's head ludicrously forcible, a peacock that is all green velvet and amethyst, a game-cock that is a perfect constellation of warm colour, and doves all opaline and mother-of-pearl, with varying green, glances of rose and glimmers of purple.

Another old friend of Turner's, Mr. Rose of Jersey, furnishes me with the following reminiscences of Turner en famille; memories undimmed by the flight of twenty-six years :

'I fancy I can see him trudging down the avenue something after the manner of Paul Pry, by which I mean that an umbrella invariably accompanied him. Rain or sunshine, storm or calm, there was that old faded article tucked under his arm. Now, the umbrella answered a double purpose, for by some contrivance the stick could be separated from the other parts; this then formed a fishing-rod, being hollow, with several joints running one into the other. I have seen him sitting patiently. for hours by the side of a piece of water belonging to the property, his piscatory propensities keeping up his excitement, though perhaps without even a single nibble; yet it must not be understood that he was always unlucky, for when fortune favoured him in securing any of the finny tribe, it was not long before we were made acquainted with his success, at which he appeared as much pleased as a boy from school.

'Cowley Hall is about fifteen miles from London. This distance he generally walked, coming in heated and tired, carrying a small carpet-bag, which was kept like a sealed book, never allowing the key to go out of his possession. The ladies tried various means to induce him to give up its possession, ostensibly to arrange his articles of clothing which they presumed it contained, though it must be confessed that female curiosity was the predominating cause; but he clung as tenaciously to his key as a miser to his gold. On one occasion, on his returning from fishing, he came in wet and tired—a sudden shower of rain having fallen when his umbrella had been metamorphosed into a fishing-rod. The servant was sent to the bedroom for his slippers; only one was to be found. Here was an opportunity not to be missed. The ladies ordered the servant to bring down the carpet-bag, hoping doubtless to obtain a glimpse of its contents; but a sly look from our friend, with a peculiar shrug of his shoulders, and the two monosyllables "No, no," effectually put to flight their hopes. As a dernier ressort, one then offered to take his key and bring down the slipper. To that he replied, "I never give it up ;" and they never learnt its contents. "The man with the carpet-bag" was not then known, or doubtless he would have obtained that sobriquet. The name, however, by which he was known at our house was certainly not very euphonious. How it was obtained I can scarcely surmise, unless it was from his manner and his figure, which was short and thick; but it was a common expression on seeing him approach the entrance to cry, "Here comes Old Pogey."

'Mrs. Rone day had a pet spaniel lying in her lap, while Turner sat close by her, reading. A sudden impulse induced her to ask him to make a drawing of her favourite. The R.A. opened his eyes with astonishment, at the same time replying, "My dear madam, you do not know what you ask." The lady ever after went by the name of "My dear Madam," given her by her friends who were present at the time.

'On one occasion, after the ladies had retired, Turner and myself were left alone. On the table stood a large jug of water and a bottle of cognac. Turner never having been very

244

AN AUDACIOUS INQUIRY.

communicative, I could hardly anticipate what was going to take place (and here I must express my regret at not noting down what would have been highly interesting); but he gave me a slight sketch of his travels, adverted to during the course of the evening, but of which, from the lapse of time, I have but a very faint recollection. He took me up and down the Pyrenees, describing various scenes. I recollect asking him if he had seen the Falls of Gavarnie, to which he replied in the negative. He then branched off to various places; one was the Fall of Foyers, in Scotland. This is brought to my mind by the umbrella, for I recollect his stating he had one blown out of his hand by a sudden gust of wind, and whirled down some great depth. During the evening I mentioned my intention of spending a few months in Jersey the ensuing summer. He remarked that, should I cross over to St. Malo, I was to be sure to proceed by the Rance to Dinan, as that river afforded many picturesque scenes, and the views were the most pleasant in that neighbourhood. During the course of the evening his tumbler had never been emptied; first a dash of brandy, then an addition of water, and thus he continued, never entirely exhausting its contents, until it struck two in the morning, when, quietly remarking it was getting rather late, we separated each to our domiciles.

'On one occasion I had the audacity to ask him if he painted his clouds from Nature. One has heard of "calling up a look." The words had hardly passed my lips when I saw my gaucherie. I was afraid I had roused a thunder-storm; however, my lucky star predominated, for, after having eyed me for a few moments with a slight frown, he growled out, “How would you have me paint them?" Then seizing upon his fishing-rod, and turning upon his heel, he marched indignantly out of the house to the water's edge.

'Two ladies, Mrs. R and Mrs. H- -, once paid him a visit in Harley Street, an extremely rare (in fact, if not the only) occasion of such an occurrence, for it must be known he was not fond of parties prying, as he fancied, into the secrets of his ménage. On sending in their names, after having ascertained he was at home, they were politely requested to walk in,