The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 42

The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 42

In the instance of this nondescript lady, this feeling certainly

had not so much weight as it might have had in many others, nor was

the __EXPRESSION__ of it over-gallant, considering that she herself

was a foreigner and educated, if St. Cas and other authors are to

be believed, in one of the most licentious schools of continental

incontinence.

 

One strong argument against the credibility of these persons was the

general venality of all the natives of the country they came from,

which was so flagrant that a man might be bought for five shillings

to swear any thing. The witnesses which the Cat lady intended,

it appears, to produce in her defence, were all from the same

nation--this objection, unfortunately for her, tells both ways.

 

Be that as it may, it appears pretty evident, that at the period

to which I am now alluding Whittington, whether voluntarily or not

I cannot pretend to determine, was separated from the object of

all his hopes and fears;--indeed, how the separation between them

was brought about has puzzled all who have hitherto considered the

subject: some writers suppose that she never had any superior or

supernatural powers, but that she was altogether an impostor, others

positively maintain (particularly one) that she was a person of

prudence, wisdom, delicacy, and virtue.[45]

 

Those who deny her existence at _any time_ in human shape are by no

means few; amongst their number is, as we have seen, my excellent

friend Doctor Snodgrass: these aver with every appearance of truth,

that she was neither more nor less than a domestic cat, but that she

was stolen from Whittington by the monks of the monastery "_Sancti

Stephani apud Westmonasteriensis_," for the purpose of catching

certain great rats which infested their chapel and the adjoining

house, and that the poor Alderman cut a very ridiculous figure when

deprived of his favourite raree-show.

 

Some, on the other hand, incline to believe that Mr. Whittington

got sick of his bargain, and assert that what with caterwauling and

bringing crowds of followers into the gutters of his residence, she

turned out to be so troublesome an inmate, that he got rid of her as

soon as he could, and prevailed on an old maid in the neighbourhood

to take care of her.[46]

 

For me, however, till now, has been reserved the important, the

enviable task of unravelling all the mysteries in which this subject

has been hitherto involved. To me it is granted to reconcile all

contending opinions, and to simplify all the difficulties which have

baffled my predecessors in the attainment of truth. I am enabled, as

I firmly believe, beyond the power of contradiction, to declare to

the world _who_ the Cat was, and _what_ she was. I am competent to

display in its true colours the character of Mr. Matthew Whittington,

to illustrate and make clear his views, his motives, and the other

eight points which I have before noticed to be in dispute, even to

the cause and nature of his death, an event hitherto equally obscure

with his birth.

 

Gifted as I am with this power to illuminate the literary world, is

it not natural that I should feel anxious to make use of it for their

advantage? One consideration alone checks me in my desire to afford

the purchasers of this Tentamen all the information I possess; that

consideration I trust I shall not be censured for attending to. I

confess it is a prudential one, inasmuch as were I in this small

specimen to give my readers all the details, narratives, and general

information I possess, I am apprehensive that the work itself would

not meet with that encouragement which is at present promised, and

which alone can repay me for the labour of years, and that ceaseless

anxiety which an undertaking so diffusely elaborate naturally has

entailed upon its author.

 

 

[Illustration: (end of section icon)]

 

 

 

 

MISCELLANIES, IN VERSE AND PROSE.

 

 

 

 

MISCELLANIES.

 

 

MR. WARD'S ALLEGORICAL PICTURE OF WATERLOO.[47]

 

 

We have the highest respect for the arts and for artists; we are

perfectly aware of the numerous qualifications requisite for a

painter--we know and feel the difficulty, and duly consider the

quantity of talent necessary to the painting even of a bad picture.

The years of probationary labour expended before even the palette

comes into use, the days and nights of watching, and toil after it

is assumed, and the variety of chemical, mechanical, and scientific

knowledge which must be brought to bear upon a subject before the

idea of the painter can be transferred to the canvas.

 

These feelings, and this respect for the art, and professors of

painting, make us slow to censure; and, although we have long had

our eyes upon some of the public exhibitions of the season, we have

refrained from commenting upon them till the common curiosity of the

town had repaid, in some measure, the care and anxiety of those in

whose studies they had their origin.

 

Mr. Haydon, a sonnet-writing Cockney, ranking high in the

administration of the smoky kingdom of Cockaigne, distinguished

himself last year, by exhibiting a picture of the "Entry into

Jerusalem," which, like Tom Thumb's Cow, was "larger than the largest

size." Elated with the success of this immense performance, (of which

one group only was at all finished,) Mr. Haydon, this year, put forth

a work representing "the Agony in the Garden:" the divine subject

saved the silly artist, and we were upon that account silent; else,

for Mr. Haydon, who wears his shirt collars open, and curls his hair

in long ringlets, because Rafaele did so, and who, if it did not

provokingly turn down over his mouth, would turn up his nose at the

Royal Academy, indeed we should have felt very little tenderness.

 

But with respect to Mr. Ward's allegorical picture of Waterloo, we

had different feelings--the picture had good principle about it,

and the weeks, months, and years which have been bestowed upon it

demanded some recompense; the idlers of Piccadilly did not feel the

occasional disbursement of a shilling. In pleasant society Ward's

exhibition-room was as good a place wherein to "laugh a sultry hour

away" as any other; and anxious that Mr. Ward, after having expended

so much time, canvas, and colour, should get something by it, we

have patiently let him draw his reward from the pockets of those

good easy folks, who read newspaper puffs and believe them; and who

go and vow all over London that a picture is wonderful and sublime,

merely because the painter, at the trifling charge of seven shillings

and sixpence, has thought proper to tell them that it is so, in the

public journals.

 

But when we find that this picture was painted for the directors

of the British Institution, founded "for the express purpose

of encouraging the Fine Arts," and is about to be engraved and

disseminated throughout the country, as a specimen of the works taken

under the especial care of that Institution; it really becomes a duty

to save the nation from a charge of bad taste so heavy as must arise

out of the patronage of such a ludicrous daub.

 

This may be a picture painted for the Institution at their desire,

and the execution of it is no proof of their want of judgment,

because they desired to have such a picture, and they have got it,

and we have thereby no proof of their approbation; but since they

have got themselves into a scrape, they certainly should not allow a

print to be made from it, even if they suffer the painting to remain

in existence.

 

If it be possible to imagine one thing upon earth more irresistibly

ridiculous than another, it is the composition of this enormous

thing--the size of it is thirty-five feet by twenty-one--in the

centre appears the Duke of Wellington in a pearl car--under his

feet are legs and arms, and heads in glorious confusion--before him

rides a pretty little naked boy upon a lion--over him in the clouds

are a group of young gentlemen with wings, representing the Duke's

victories, who look like Mrs. Wilkinson's Preparatory Academy turned

out for a bathe; and amongst these pretty little dears are Peace and

Plenty, and a great angel overshadowing the whole party.

 

But this very absurd jumble (at which, through a little hole, Blucher

and Platoff are looking with some surprise,) is by no means the

most ludicrous part of the affair--in the clouds are two persons,

called by Mr. Ward, Ignorance and Error, (one of whom has a dirty

handkerchief tied over his eyes,) beneath whom are dogs' heads with

wings--a tipsy-looking cock-eyed owl trampling a heavy stone Osiris

into the earth--a little calf without a head--a red night-cap--a

watchman's rattle--an old crow--Paine's "Rights of Man"--Voltaire's

works, a sick harpy--a devil sucking his fingers--a hobby-horse's

head, and a heap of chains--here is the allegory--all of which we

shall attempt to explain in Mr. Ward's own words, for he is an author

as well as a painter, and, absurd as are the productions of his

pencil, the nonsense of his pen is, of the two, the most exquisite.

 

In the foreground of the picture is a skeleton evidently afflicted

with the head-ache, before whom runs a little wide-mouthed waddling

frog with a long tail, and beyond these a group which defies

description.

 

The horses (particularly the near wheeler) have a very droll and

cunning __EXPRESSION__ about the eye; but the four persons leading them,

whether considered as to their drawing or colouring, are beneath all

criticism: a pupil of six months' standing ought to have been flogged

for doing anything so bad.

 

In short, the whole thing in its kind closely resembles the overgrown

transparencies painted to be stuck up at Vauxhall, or the Cumberland

Gardens, or for public rejoicings, and ought, as soon as it has

answered its purpose like those, be obliterated, and the stuff worked

up for something else.

 

In a book published upon this performance, Mr. Ward modestly says,

that he is not ambitious to be considered an author, and adds, that

there exists some insuperable objection to his ever being one; but

still, he professes to attempt in his own simple style an explanation

of his own ideas. He feels quite confident of public favour and

indulgence, and then gives us his view of the thing:--as a specimen

of this said style, we shall quote his notions about envy--its

beauty, we confess, is evident--its simplicity we are afraid is

somewhat questionable.

 

"Where shall we find a safe retreat for envied greatness, from

the miry breath or slander's feverish tongue; dark in the bosom

of the ocean's fathomless abyss, on the cloud-cleaving Atlas,

or at the extremity of east or west. High on the gilded dome,

or palace pinnacle, should merit's fairest hard-earned honours

shine, once seated there, the sickly eye of speckled Jealousy,

or Envy's snaky tribe, with iron nerve, and cold in blood, well

scan the mark, and the envenomed javelin cast, with secret but

unerring aim, and what is to screen him from the foul attack? The

shield of Worth intrinsic, bound about with truth, and conscious

innocence, and where that lives, all other covering only tends to

hide its blushing beauties from the rising sun, and dim the face of day.