At present, however, I find in the work of a man not yet spoken of—Mr E. Charlton—more absolute unity, without monotony of repetition—more artistic individuality, in fine. Why is it not already better known? Useless question, as far as the big Public is concerned, when people go into the Exhibition and fancy that some of the best work is the self-assertive work of Mr Brangwyn, that leaps to their eyes. The German proverb says—or Mr Robert Browning once told me that it said—“What has a cow to do with nutmegs?” And what have people who do not understand in the least the spirit of Etching, got to do with modest, thoughtful little records of harbours, quays, and all that lies about them—of warehouse, boat and barge—by this dainty, accurate draughtsman, Mr Charlton, who does not want to knock any living mortals down—metaphorically speaking—by the work of his needle, but to charm them rather, to put on them the spell, wrought on those who are worthy to receive it, by the rhythm of intricate line? The lines that delight me on a quay—in a harbour—by the sheds and steamers of Newhaven or Lymington, say—delight me yet more, because they are refined upon, in the modest etchings of Mr Charlton.
Among contemporary Frenchmen, Eugène Béjot, with his Montmartre and Seine pieces, must unquestionably be named—and some of his work possessed.
And now we come down to grosser matter—to questions of Price. Scattered about the volume, will be found references to prices given for noble prints—and prints not noble—and of these references some are not as representative as they were eight years ago. I will not go into great detail here; but I will say a few things. First, I will say that, broadly speaking, the tendency is towards a marked increase in money value, particularly for good work, and good original work. Some few interesting artists—it is true—scarcely hold their own. The money value of Hollars—not of late years excessive—has not materially increased. Hogarth’s prints are, I consider, quite absurdly cheap—but foolish people, not in the least particular as to the things they read, are sometimes very squeamish as to the things they see. Some Dutch etchers, not discussed much in the course of my volume, are amongst those towards whom sensible interest turns. It cannot be long before the admission is made generally, that Bega—with his truth of action and his magnificence of composition, addressed to tavern themes—is fully Ostade’s equal, and not at all his follower. Of course, the greatest Dutchman—Rembrandt—increases steadily in money value. There is no fine print by Rembrandt which—bought at the current price for it—should not be, in the phrase of stock-brokers, a very “safe lock-up.” Dürers, too, have rightly gone higher; and there must be more and more recognised the happy invention and the perfect craftsmanship of the Behams and Aldegrever.
Interest shifts a little in regard to the Mezzotints after Sir Joshua. The money value of his pretty women—generally of title—has been so high, that, if there is common-sense left in the land, it can scarcely get much higher; but knowing people are beginning, I believe, to buy the less celebrated women—such as the Miss Oliver it may be (in the illustration to the present edition of this book)—and the finer of the mezzotint portraits of men, not only after Sir Joshua, but after Romney. Turner’s “Liber” is looking up again, and the demand for Constables—David Lucas’s smaller mezzotints—will certainly not diminish.
French Eighteenth Century Prints—whether the grave Chardins, the stately Watteaus, or the lighter records of light loves—are worth more than when I wrote eight years ago: partly because well-to-do English people of taste have now taken to buying them. As for the “coloured print”—at the best, rather dainty—it will, I trust, have had its day before long.
The best Modern Etching—whether English or French—is more and more valued. A set of Seymour Haden’s Paris publication, “Etudes à l’Eau Forte”—consisting of twenty-five prints, worth, eight years ago, about thirty guineas together—sells to-day for a hundred and twenty. Still more conspicuous, however, is the rise in Méryons and Whistlers. At the Wickham Flower Sale, in London, last December, Méryon’s print of the Morgue—a Second State—fetched £86; his St. Etienne-du-Mont, £58; his Galérie de Nôtre-Dame, £56. There was no fine Abside at that Sale; but elsewhere a fine First State has fetched over £200, and a fine Second State, £140. As for Whistlers, at the Wickham Flower Sale—to take three instances of different periods in the master’s work—the Kitchen went for thirty-one guineas; the Garden for forty; and Pierrot, Amsterdam, for fifty-six.