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In vain did Hayes try to persuade the country gentleman that it was an admirable painting and a correct likeness. His friend as sturdily maintained that he "was not to be done arter that fashion-that the portrait wasn't a bit like un, and he wouldn't give a guinea for a score of such pictures." With coarseness and stupidity on the one side, and anger on the other, a strange scene ensued:

So high at last the contest rose,

From words they next proceed to blows,

When luckily came by a third.

This third was the astonished Mr. Lawrence, who had been below stairs, and knew nothing of the dispute and fracas; but hearing a scuffle in his painting-room, he ran up stairs, and to his surprise, saw the two infuriated combatants, and the portrait, the innocent cause of the battle, knocked off the easel upon the floor.

Having parted "the friends," Lawrence learnt the source of their quarrel. He bore the explanation with great equanimity, and reconciled the parties; nor would he suffer them to leave till they shook hands, embraced, and, probably, hated each other most cordially ever after.

THE TWO SATANS.

In 1794, there had been for some time much gossip in the studios about Lawrence's engagement upon a grand poetic work, which his private friends were admitted to see, during its progress. They fondly talked of the grandeur of the outlines, the magnificent colouring, and sublime sentiment of the picture till their eulogy knew no bounds. The secret of the subject, was, however, preserved intact till the Exhibition of 1797, when the Catalogue revealed: "170. Satan calling his Legions. T. Lawrence, R.A." This was high game for Anthony Pasquin, and at it he flew, and applied to the painter's rash attempt in this path of sublimity, Pope's stinging line

"For fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

"The picture, (says Pasquin) is a mélange made up of the worst parts of the divine Buonarotti and the extravagant Goltzius. The figure of Satan is colossal and very ill-drawn: the body is so disproportioned to the extremities, that it appears all legs and arms, and might at a distance be mistaken

for a sign of the spread eagle. The colouring has as little analogy to truth as the contour, for it is so ordered, that it conveys an idea of a mad German sugar-baker dancing naked in a conflagration of his own treacle; but the liberties taken with his infernal Majesty are so numerous, so various, and so insulting, that we are amazed that the ecclesiastical orders do not interfere in behalf of an old friend."

Such was the scurrilous stuff of the Critical Guide of 1797. But there was another who considered he had a greater right to be heard, and, obeying the epigraph,

'Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen,"

up rose Fuseli: he complained that Lawrence had stolen his Devil from him; and his criticism was, that the figure was the lubber fiend, and not the master fiend of Milton; in short, a fine piece of colour, and a failure. But Fuseli thought no one had the right or power to paint from our great poets but himself.

Lawrence, however, explained the coincidence to Allan Cunningham, who thus relates the story in his Life of Sir

Thomas:

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Fuseli, sir," these were his words, "was the most satirical of human beings; he had also the greatest genius for art of any man I ever knew. His mind was so essentially poetic, that he was incapable of succeeding in any ordinary object. That figure of Satan, now before you, occasioned the only interruption which our friendship, of many years' standing, ever experienced. He was, you know, a great admirer of Milton, from whom he had When he first saw my sketches. many Satan, he was nettled, and said, 'You borrowed the idea from me.'-' In truth, I did take the idea from you,' I said; 'but it was from your person, not from your paintings. When we were together at Stackpole Court, in Pembrokeshire, you may remember how you stood on yon high rock which overlooks the bay of Bristol, and gazed down upon the sea, which rolls so magnificently below. You were in raptures; and while you were crying "Grand! Grand! Jesu Christ, how grand! how terrific," you put yourself in a wild posture; I thought on the devil looking into the abyss, and took a slight sketch of you at the moment: here it is. My Satan's posture now, was yours then.'

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Lawrence's success in the historic style fell short of his portraiture. Nevertheless, this picture fulfilled its object-to

show his brethren in art that he was not a mere face-painter. "The Satan," he said, "answered my secret motives in attempting it: my success in portraits will no longer be thought accident or fortune; and if I have trod the second path with honour, it is because my limbs are strong. My claims are acknowledged by the circle of taste, and are undisputed by competitors and rivals."

DEATH OF LAWRENCE'S PARENTS.

In 1797, his father and mother were living with him in Greek-street; and from his leaving Bath he had fulfilled towards them all the duties of an affectionate and liberal son.

In May of the above year, his mother expired in his house. He writes to Miss Lee: "I have mentioned other griefs in order to turn my thoughts from that pale Virtue, whose fading image I now contemplate with firmness. I kiss it, and not a tear falls on the cold cheek. You can have no notion of the grand severity it has assumed. I think, I cannot but persuade myself, since the fatal stroke, it seems as if the soul, at the moment of departure, darted its purest emanations into the features, as traces of its happier state. Have you seen death often? It cannot be a common effect.

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But half an hour since, I had the dear hand in mine, and the fingers seemed unwilling to part with me. Farewell!"

In the succeeding October he lost his father, who, for the improvement of his health, had removed to Rugby. Lawrence was engaged with a sitter in Piccadilly when a letter reached him, saying that his father was dying. He hurried into the country, but came too late. He writes to Miss Lee: "The cause of my silence is a terrible one,-my father's death. He died before I could reach him; but he died full of affection to us, of firm faith and fortitude, and without a groan."

Lawrence had written four months previously of his father: to his children, whatever difference of character or disposition there may have been, his essentially worthy nature and general love for them make him too dear an object of regard, not to form the greatest portion of their solicitude. To be the entire happiness of his children is perhaps the lot of no parent."

* Lawrence had now removed to No. 57, Greek-street, Soho, where he let apartments to his young friend, Westall, who was then at work for Alderman Boydell.

R

PORTRAITS OF JOHN KEMBLE.

In 1798, Lawrence painted Coriolanus at the Hearth of Aufidius, a work uniting the imaginative with the reality of portrait; or, as the painter called it, "a half-history portrait." He found the noble Roman in the looks and form of John Kemble the figure and posture are fine, and the colouring admirable. But the portrait lacks the heroic spirit of the proud soldier.

Rolla, Cato and Hamlet followed the character portrait of Coriolanus. The Rolla is splendidly painted, but the figure of the chief is gigantic; the child was painted from one of Sheridan's offspring. The picture is very melodramatic; but the play of Pizarro ranks scarcely above fustian.

The Cato, in the painter's words, is "a generalised portrait of Kemble, or rather Cato meditating on the Phædo of Plato, for which I take Kemble as my model. The scene in the fourth act, where the body of the son is brought in, is nobly and powerfully affecting. Perhaps it will be the last picture I shall paint with Kemble for my subject, and I know it will be my best." The painter was in error twofold: it was not his last picture of Kemble, nor is it one of his finest works : Kemble's look is not "native and to the manner," but is too much acting.

Lawrence, however, retrieved his fame in this class of subject in the "Hamlet apostrophizing the skull," in the churchyard scene it is a full-length, life size: it was painted in 1801, and was presented to the National Gallery, by William IV. in 1836. Cunningham justly describes it as a work of the highest kind,―sad, thoughtful, melancholy; with looks conversing with death and the grave; a perfect image of the great dramatist. This picture Lawrence himself placed above all his works, except the Satan; but it far surpasses the Satan in propriety of action, accuracy of expression, and grandeur of colouring. The light touches the face and bosom, and falls on the human skull on which he is musing. It is one of the noblest paintings of the modern school.

VERSES BY LAWRENCE.

Lawrence wrote verses at a very early age. The indulgence of this harmless penchant would, probably, have been left to oblivion, had not his future fame rendered of interest nearly

every incident of his early life. How many which do not survive our teens!

of us write rhymes

The verses with which the painter garnished his letters were "mostly in the despairing Thyrsis strain;" but they were cold and lacked passion. In a lighter style he was more successful, as in the following:—

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THOUGHTS ON BEING ALONE AFTER DINNER.

"How shall I, friend, employ my time,

Alone, no book of prose or rhyme,
Or pencil to amuse me;

No pen or paper to be found,
Nor friend to push the bottle round,
Or for its stay abuse me?

"The servants come and find me here,
And stare upon me like the deer
On Selkirk in Fernandez;

And, quite as tame, they wipe the chairs,
And scrub, and hum their favourite airs,
And ask what my command is.

"I wish one knew the way to change
Customs so barbarous and strange,
So savage and inhuman;

I wish the sex were kinder grown,
And when they find a man alone,
Would treat him like a woman.
"Well, here's to her, who, far away,
Cares not that I am grave or gay;
So now no more I'll drink,
But fold my arms and meditate,
And clap my feet upon the grate,
And on grave matters think.
""Tis, let me see, full sixteen years,
And wondrous short the time appears,
Since, with inquiry warm,

With beauty's novel power amazed,
I follow'd, midst the crowd, and gazed
On Siddons' beauteous form.

"Up Bath's fatiguing streets I ran,
Just half pretending to be man,
And fearful to intrude;
Busied I looked on some employ,
Or limp'd to see some other boy,
Lest she should think me rude.

"The sun was bright, and on her face,

As proud to show the stranger grace,
Shone with its purest rays;

And through the folds that veil'd her form,
Motion display'd its happiest charm,

To catch the admiring gaze.

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