1 Luke Clennell—This unfortunate artist, a native of Morpeth, in Northumberland, and known to the world as an eminent engraver on wood, as well as a painter of no ordinary talent, has furnished one of those cases of human distress and misery which calls for the sympathy and aid of every friend to forlorn genius. In the midst of a prosperous career, with fortune “both hands full,” smiling on every side, munificently treated by the British Institution, employed on an important work by the Earl of Bridgewater (a picture of the Fête given by the City of London to the Allied Sovereigns,) and with no prospect but that delightful one of fame and independence, earned by his own exertions, the most dreadful affliction of life befel him, and insanity rooted where taste and judgment so conspicuously shone. The wretched artist was of necessity separated from his family; his young wife, the mother of his three infants, descended to the grave a broken-hearted victim, leaving the poor orphans destitute. The Print alluded to in this case, representing the Charge of the Life Guards at Waterloo in 1816, was published by subscription for their benefit.
casting glimpses at the pictures and the sprightly females by which they were surrounded, and drawing his Cousin to such subjects as appeared to be most deserving of attention; among which, the fine effect produced by Mr. W. B. Cooke stood high in his estimation, particularly in his View of Edinburgh from Calton Hill, and Brightling Observatory in Rose Hill—Le Keux, in his Monument, also partook of his encomiums—T. Woolroth's Portraits, particularly that of the Duchess of Kent, claimed attention, and was deservedly admired, as well as a smaller one of Mr. Shalis by the same artist; indeed, the whole appeared to be selected, combined and arranged under the direction of a master, and calculated at once to surprise and delight. After enjoying an hour's lounge in this agreeable company,
“Come,” said Dashall, “we will repair to Somerset House, and amuse ourselves with colours.
“Halloo!” said a smart looking young man behind them—“what am you arter?—where is you going to?”
Upon turning round, Dashall discovered it to be the exquisite Mr. Mincingait, who, having just caught a glimpse of him, and not knowing what to do with himself, hung as it were upon the company of Tom and his friend, by way of killing a little time; and was displaying his person and apparel to the greatest advantage as he pick'd his way along the pavement, alternately picking his teeth and twirling his watch-chain. Passing the end of Greek Street, some conversation having taken place upon the dashing Society in which he had spent the previous evening, Tom indulged himself in the following description of How to Cut a Dash.
“Dashing society,” said he, “is almost every where to be found in London: it is indeed of so much importance among the generality of town residents, that a sacrifice of every thing that is dear and valuable is frequently made to appearance.”
“You are a quiz,” said Mincingait; “but I don't mind you, so go your length.”
“Very well,” continued Tom; “then by way of instruction to my friend, I will give my ideas upon the subject, and if perchance you should find any resemblance to yourself in the picture I am about to draw, don't let all the world know it. If you have an inclination to cut a dash, situation and circumstances in life have nothing to do with it; a good bold face and a stock of assurance, are the most essential requisites. With these, you must in the first place fall upon some method to trick a tailor (provided you have not certain qualms that will prevent you) by getting into his debt, for much depends upon exteriors. There is no crime in this, for you pay him if you are able—and good clothes are very necessary for a dash; having them cut after the newest fashion, is also very essential. Sally forth, if on a sunday morning in quest of a companion with whom you have the night previous (at a tavern or confectioner's) engaged to meet at the corner. After having passed the usual compliments of the morning with him, place yourself in a fashionable attitude, your thumbs thrust in your pantaloon's pockets—the right foot thrown carelessly across the left, resting on the toe, exhibits your line turned ancle, or new boot, and is certainly a very modest attitude—your cravat finically adjusted, and tied sufficiently tight to produce a fine full-blooming countenance: corsets and bag pantaloons are indispensably necessary to accoutre you for the stand. When in this trim, dilate upon the events of the times—know but very little of domestic affairs—expatiate and criticise upon the imperfections or charms of the passing multitude—tell a fine story to some acquaintance who knows but little about you, and, by this means, borrow as much money as will furnish you with a very small bamboo, or very large cudgel; extremes are very indispensable for a good dash.
“It is extremely unbecoming for a gentleman of fashion to pay any regard to that old superstitious ceremony of what is commonly called 'going to church'—or, at most, of attending more than half a day in the week. To attend public worship more than one hour in seven days must be very fatiguing to a person of genteel habits—besides it would be countenancing an old established custom. In former times, a serious and devout attention to divine service was not thought improper; but should a gentleman of modern manners attend public worship, to discover, according to the law of the polite, what new face of fashion appears, I need not mention the absurdity of decent behaviour.
?What go to meeting, say?—why this the vulgar do, Yes, and it is a custom old as Homer too! Sure, then, we folks of fashion must with this dispense, Or differ in some way from folks of common sense.'