Among the pictures is a treasure which seems to be unknown to our German travellers, at least I never saw it noticed:—a genuine portrait of Shakspeare, painted during his lifetime by Barnage. The hypercritics of England will have it there is no genuine portrait of Shakspeare; but it seems to me almost impossible to invent a physiognomy carrying on it such a triumphant air of truth, so fully expressing the grandeur and originality of the man; furnished with all the intellectual elevation, all the acuteness, wit, delicacy, all the genuine humour, whose exhaustless treasures were never so lavished on any mortal. The countenance is nowise what is vulgarly called handsome; but the sublime beauty of the mind within beams from every part. Across the lofty forehead gleam the bright flashes of that daring spirit; the large dark brown eyes are penetrating, fiery, yet mild; around the lips play light irony and good-natured archness, but wedded to a sweet benevolent smile, which lends the highest, the most heart-winning charm to the lofty, awful dignity of the intellectual parts of the face. Wondrously perfect appears the structure of the skull and forehead; there are no single prominences, but all the organs so capacious and complete that we stand astonished before such a glorious pattern of perfect organization, and feel a deep joy at finding the man in so beautiful a harmony with his works.
Two excellent Albrecht Dürers—a pair of female saints in a fantastic landscape—attracted me, particularly by their primitive German character. They are two genuine Nürnberg housewives, dressed in their fatherlandish caps, and taken from nature itself; good-natured, and busied about their saintly affairs.—A picture of Luther, by Holbein, is more intellectual and less fat than usual.
There is a remarkable picture, by Van Dyk, of the Duke of Vieuxville, ambassador from the Court of France to Charles the First, who with chivalrous devotion followed the King into the field and was killed at Newbury. The dress is old, but picturesque;—a white ‘juste-au-corps, à la Henri Quatre,’ with a black mantle thrown over it; full short black breeches falling over the knee, with silver points; pale violet stockings with gold clocks, and white shoes with gold roses. On the mantle is embroidered the star of the Holy Ghost, four times as large as it is now worn, the blue riband ‘en sautoir,’ but hanging down very low, and the cross worn in the present fashion, on the side; it is narrower and smaller than now, and hangs by the broad riband almost under the arm.
The Duke de Guise was not such as I had pictured him to myself:—a pale face with reddish beard and hair; with the expression rather of an ‘intriguant’ than of a great man.—A picture which corresponds better with the character of the person it represents is Count Gondemar, Spanish ambassador to the Court of James the First, by Velasquez; he ingratiated himself with the King by his dog-Latin, in which burlesque form he made free to say anything. He brought the gallant Sir Walter Raleigh to the scaffold by his Jesuitical intrigues.
A picture of Cromwell, by his Court painter Richardson, has a double interest for the family. It was painted expressly for one of the Duke’s ancestor’s, who appears in the same picture as page, in the act of tying the Protector’s scarf. This portrait is not much like the others of the same personage I have seen; it represents him as younger, and of a more refined nature, and is therefore probably flattered. From the hand of a Court painter this is to be expected.
I must only mention two fine and large Teniers’, one of which represents three wonderfully characteristic Dutch boors, meeting in a village and gossiping with their pipes in their mouths; an excellent Ruysdael; six famous Rembrandt’s, and Titian’s lovely mistress. I admired, too, a new specimen of art,—two Sèvres cups with miniatures after Pétitot, by that admirable porcelain-painter Madame Janquotot. The one represents Ninon de l’Enclos, of whom I had never before seen a picture that answered to my idea of her. This expressed her character fully, and is of the most attractive beauty,—genuine French, lively as quicksilver, bold almost to impudence, but too generous and too truly natural to leave any other than an engaging impression on the mind. The other—a gentle, placid, and voluptuous beauty—- was inscribed, Françoise d’Orleans de Valois. As thoroughly initiated in French genealogies and memoirs, you will know who she is. ‘Je l’ignore.’ Each cup cost a thousand francs.
In a beautiful moonlight we drove to Aylesbury, whence I now write.
Uxbridge, Jan. 12th.
This evening I hope to be in London again. While the horses are putting-to I write a few words. We saw Lord Carrington’s park this morning,—for your comfort be it said, the last, at present at least. The garden is nothing remarkable: the house is in the beloved modern Gothic style, but, being simple and unpretending, looks less affected. It is built of stone, without ornament. A good portrait of Pitt hangs in the library. This great man has anything but the face of a man of genius,—and who knows whether posterity will think his deeds betray more than his face?
One thing pretty I observed in the garden,—a thick massy wreath of ivy planted on the turf. It looks as if negligently dropped there. Our excursion was to be closed by the sight of Bulstrode, which Repton describes at such length as the model of parks; but this drop is spared you, my poor Julia, for the Duke of Portland has sold it, and the present owner has felled the trees about which Repton is so enthusiastic, ploughed up the park, and pulled down the house to sell the stone. It was a miserable scene of desolation,—made more miserable by the strange dress of the women at work; they were wrapped from top to toe in blood-red cloaks, and looked like an ill-omened assemblage of executioners.