Joseph Goupy, an ingenious artist, was born at Nevers, in France, and painted landscapes much in the style of Salvator Rosa. He was in great favour with Frederic, Prince of Wales, and frequently attended at Leicester House to draw such designs as his Royal Highness chose to dictate. One morning, on his arrival, the prince said, “Come, Goupy, sit down and paint me a picture on such a subject.” But Goupy, perceiving Prince George, afterwards George III., standing as a prisoner behind a chair, took the liberty humbly to represent to his royal patron how impossible it was for him to sit down to execute his commands with spirit, while the Prince was standing, and under his royal displeasure. “Come out then, George,” said the good-natured prince; “Goupy has released you.” When Goupy was eighty-four, and very poor, he had a mad woman to nurse and maintain, who had been the object of his delight when young; he therefore put himself in the King’s way at Kensington, where he lived. One morning the King saw him, and stopped the coach, saying, “How do you do, Goupy?” asking him also if he had sufficient to live upon. “Little enough, indeed,” answered Goupy; “and as I once took your Majesty out of prison, I hope you will not let me go into one.” His Majesty was graciously pleased to order him a guinea a week for the remainder of his life, which, however, was very brief. He died in 1763.
ATHENIAN STUART.
Goupy, the subject of the above anecdote, was in his time considered the most eminent of fan painters. So fashionable was fan painting at that time, that the family of Athenian Stuart placed him as a pupil with that artist, conceiving that by doing so they had made his fortune. Stuart’s genius, however, in a short time soared to the pinnacle of fame by flying to Athens for those inestimable treasures which will immortalize his name, notwithstanding Hogarth’s satire upon the publication of his first volume; for, indeed, we have not now a student who speaks of Stuart without the honourable prefix of “Athenian” to his name.
PRUDHON AND CANOVA.
While residing at Rome, Prudhon found a friend in Canova, his friendship with whom was the most beautiful, the most noble, the most holy event in his life; in it was included everything, even to self-sacrifice. It consoled Prudhon for his misfortunes in love. “There are three men here,” said Canova to him one day, “of whom I am jealous.” “I know and love you alone,” replied Prudhon. “But me alone?” answered Canova; “do you not also love Raffaelle, and Leonardo da Vinci, and Correggio? You pass all your time with them, you listen to them, you confide to them your dreams, you go from one to the other, and you are never tired of admiring what they produce.” And this was true, for Prudhon was indefatigable in his study of these three masters, whom he sometimes called the Graces. But Correggio was the master whom he loved most. If Prudhon had listened to Canova, he would have spent his life at Rome; but in spite of all his friend’s entreaties, he left, though with a promise soon to return. They never beheld each other again, but they were faithful in their friendship: faithful to such a point that they both died at the same time, as if to meet above. Peter Paul Prudhon (named after Rubens) was born in 1758, and died in 1823.
REVOLUTION AN ENEMY TO ART.
On Prudhon’s return to France his mother was dead, and his wife, as usual, was not very conjugal. France had ceased to be a kingdom, and had not yet become a country. It was the year 1789, and the first rumours of the Revolution swept over the land like some wind foretelling the coming storm. It was the hour of exit for the Arts. Prudhon, who was always resigned, showed his resignation in this instance as well. After embracing his wife and children he set out for Paris, believing that at every epoch, even during a revolution, Paris was the best place for a man to succeed. He reached that city with scanty means, and took up his quarters in an hotel which we will dignify by calling it furnished. He intended to lodge there until he could take a studio; but he got nothing to do, and consequently nothing to eat. He could not continue this mode of life very long, and therefore, although proud and very misanthropical, he determined on applying to the celebrated painters of that period. These may almost be summed up as consisting of Greuze, David, and Girodet. He waited upon Greuze, who was from the same province as himself. “Do you possess talent?” said Greuze to him. “Yes,” replied Prudhon naïvely. “All the worse,” continued Greuze. “A family and talent! that is more than you need to die in want. What the deuce have you to do with talent at a period when we no longer have a heaven, nor a devil, nor a king, nor a court, nor poor, nor rich? I, who address you, am, as you know, as good a painter as most men; and yet just look at my ruffles!” On saying this, Greuze, who was a perfect dandy, and excessively fantastic in his dress, showed Prudhon a pair of ragged ruffles. “If you did not possess talent,” he continued, “the evil would not be so great,—you might daub in portraits for the first comer.” “Did I not say that I had a family?” interrupted Prudhon. “I will paint sign-boards if it is necessary. I will turn mechanic as long as it pleases Heaven I shall be one.” True to his word, Prudhon set up a shop. He painted miniatures; he designed headings for letters, for concert tickets, and for bills. He ornamented visiting cards and sweatmeat boxes. “I undertake,” said he with a melancholy smile, “all that appertains to my business.”