The Duke de Luynes, a French nobleman, has lately given a commission to Monsieur Ingres, the painter, recently Director of the French Academy of Arts in Rome, to decorate his palace at Dampierre with a series of pictures, the subjects of which I have not heard. One hundred thousand francs are allowed to the artist for this work. M. Ingres was a student at Rome, pensioned by his government, at the time Mr. W. Allston and myself were there pursuing the same studies—not, however, aided by a government.
When the melancholy news of the death of my much regretted friend and fellow artist reached here, which was about the time the above favor was granted to M. Ingres, I could not but reflect on the less fortunate destiny of our highly accomplished countryman, whose muse, alas! was doomed to linger out a languid existence in a state of society unfavorable to the arts, or at least where there was little to encourage and sustain them, compared with the capitals in Europe where he had lived and studied. Such an indifference to the arts is not confined to one section of our country, but pervades the whole United States.
It is indeed a subject of regret that so highly-gifted an artist should not have been commissioned to ornament some public building, or private mansion of opulence, with a series of pictures in the free style of fresco, comprising poetical designs and landscapes, in which he was so superior, instead of being subjected to finish a picture which, from some cause, he had become dissatisfied with, for the prosecution of which he found himself debarred of even the advantages of models and costume, not to mention those of a less material nature—the absence of all the great models of art to kindle and inspire his genius, etc. A work of the kind before suggested would admit of a free execution, independent in a degree of models and costume. Such a commission, I am persuaded, would have cheered up his spirit, and called forth fresh images from his fancy. It is ever to be regretted that he was not employed in this way; had he been, our country would no doubt have had a beautiful creation from a highly cultivated and poetic mind, now forever lost.
No one who was ever acquainted with the subject of this notice, but must feel sincere regret, also, that so fair and amiable a character was not soothed in his latter years with all the ease and comfort of mind and body that the world could bestow, which thus far has been seldom if ever the lot of his profession in our country. How many there are who have not undergone half the fatigue, physical or mental, endured by Mr. Allston—not to mention the far greater amount of time and money expended in the acquisition of his profession than in most other pursuits—yet have secured to themselves the means to reach the decline of life in a condition to assure ease and comfort. Such is the unequal compensation of the world.
When I look back some five or six-and-thirty years, when we were both in Rome, and next-door neighbors on the Trinita del Monte, and in the spring of life, full of enthusiasm for our art, and fancying fair prospects awaiting us in after years—and few certainly had more right than my worthy colleague to look towards such a futurity—it is painful to reflect how far these hopes have been from being realized. Such may be the lot of a great many; still we may believe and hope that so melancholy an example rarely occurs.
J. Vanderlyn.”
The Art-Union of New-York have struck a commemorative medal, with Allston’s face on the obverse side; and thus is the great artist rewarded.
Genius, that breaks the fetters encircling the mind, is fated to drink life’s bitterest cup to the dregs. After earth has flung the gem away, she proclaims its value.
Reformers must be martyrs. Every Socrates must quaff his hemlock—every Burns pine in unpitied poverty. In life, the artist appears on the reverse side of the world’s medal—in death, on the obverse.”—Dewey Fay.