The labours of this great painter to the passions are now at an end; and this is the last page of his eventful and instructive histories. Those which he had formed into a series, added to the single prints, portraits, etc., had become so numerous as to form a large volume. A concluding plate seemed necessary; and we are told that, a few months before he was seized with that malady which deprived society of one of its greatest ornaments, he had in contemplation a last engraving. After a dinner with a few social friends at his own table, enjoying
"The feast of reason, and the flow of soul,"
the board crowned with wine, and each glass circulating convivial cheerfulness, he was asked, "What will be the subject of your next print?" "The end of all things!" was his reply. "If that should be the case," added one of his friends, "your business will be finished, for there will be an end of the painter." With a look that conveyed a consciousness of approaching dissolution, and a deep sigh, he answered, "There will so; and therefore, the sooner my work is done the better." With this impulse he next day began this plate, and seeming to consider it as a terminus to his fame, never turned to the right or left until he arrived at the end of his journey.
The aim of this Omega to his own alphabet was twofold; to bring together every object which denoted the end of time, and throw a ridicule upon the bathos and profundity of the ancient masters.
That the bathos is not confined to the poet, but hath at sundry times and in divers manners been of sovereign use to the painter, I am well convinced. My opinion was originally formed upon the inspection of many ancient and modern pictures, innumerable volumes of ancient and modern prints, and an annual attendance at the Royal Exhibition: it was confirmed by the perusal of some papers on the arts, which came into my possession by one of those fortunate accidents that happen to few men above once in their lives. Walking some years ago through Harp Alley, I observed a porter carrying an old trunk without a cover, in which was a little picture in a broad and deep ebony frame, a few mutilated pamphlets, a parcel of prints, and an old manuscript volume bound in vellum. He laid down his load at a broker's shop; I inspected it, and seeing the book inscribed "Mart. Scrib.," purchased the whole lot, took a hackney coach, and joyfully conveyed my prize home. Eagerly inspecting the contents, I found the picture was Dutch, and turned to a tint sombre as the frame: by the help of clear water I brought out the colours, and—
"Oh! Jephtha, judge of Israel,—what a treasure!"
To have painted it, must have been the labour of a long life. Such a green stall!—such a cabbage!—a cauliflower!—a string of Spanish onions!—a bunch of carrots!—a lobster!—a brass kettle!—and a sunflower!—I never beheld before. So clear! transparent! vivid!—It was forcible as Rembrandt! brilliant as Rubens!—and for finishing—the most accurate works of Denner!—the most delicate pencilling of the Chevalier Vanderweff!—compared with this charming tableau, would appear hasty sketches.
The pamphlets were German, and touched of the transmutation of metals; to discover which, who can calculate the loads of charcoal that have been burnt, the retorts that have been burst, or the heads that have been turned? That this grand arcanum of nature will at some future day be revealed, I have no doubt; and there is little reason to fear but the benefit of the discovery will be reaped by this island;—because, Britain is highly favoured by the gods; and several great calculators have clearly proved, that without some such miraculous assistance, Britain must be undone by her enormous national debt.
The prints were Flemish; but these subjects are foreign to my manuscript. First craving pardon for the digression, to that I proceed.