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then secured for the National Gallery, and Mr Farrer admits it was
not so secured till after its return from Holland. This is, as far as we
can make it, a plain statement, in abstract, from the evidence. The
Commissioners leave these “discrepancies” where they found them;
so do we. It is a common saying that truth lies somewhere between
two contradictory statements. Wherever it may appear to lie, there
appears but little space, on any intermediate ground, upon which it
could, by any possibility, stand upright. This little history has seen
the picture lodged in the Gallery. We must beg the reader to imagine
it not as yet to have been located, that he may learn a little of its
antecedents. Lord Cowley had placed the picture in the hands of Mr
Thane to keep, where it remained some years. But Mr Lance shall tell
the tale. “After a considerable time, Mr Thane, as I heard afterwards,
had been commissioned to clean the picture, and reline it. A
colourman was employed to reline the picture, a most skilful man,
and, in relining it, I understand, he blistered it with hot irons....
When the picture was returned to Mr Thane in this condition, it
naturally distressed him very much; he was a very conscientious
man, and he became very deeply distressed about it: he saw the
picture passing over his bed in procession. After a certain time, he
thought it got worse, and that the figure of it was more attenuated;
and at length he fancied he saw a skeleton. In fact, the poor man’s
mind was very much injured. It was then proposed that he should
employ some painter to restore the picture; and three persons were
selected for that purpose. Sir David Wilkie, Sir Edwin Landseer, and
myself, were mentioned; but it was supposed that neither Sir David
Wilkie nor Sir Edwin Landseer would give their time to it, and that
probably I might; and, therefore, the picture was placed with me,
with a representation that, if I did not do something to it, serious
consequences would follow to the cleaner. I undertook it, though I
was very much employed at the time; and, to be as short as possible,
I painted on this picture. I generally paint very rapidly, and I painted
on that occasion as industriously as I could, and was engaged for six
weeks upon it. When it was completed, Lord Cowley saw it, never
having been aware of the misfortune that had happened to the
picture. It was then in Mr Thane’s possession, and remained with
him some time afterwards. From that time I saw no more of the
picture until it was exhibited in the British Gallery some time
afterwards, where it was a very popular picture, and was very much
thought of. Since then, I have heard it was sold to the nation; and
twice I have seen it in the National Gallery. I saw it only about a week
ago, and I then thought it was not in the same condition (indeed, I
am certain it is not) as when it was exhibited in the British Gallery
formerly, after I had done it.” This is sufficient evidence that the
picture has been damaged in cleaning. Let us pursue the story
through question and answer.
“Q. 5124. What was the state of the picture when it came into your
hands? There were portions of the picture entirely gone.—Q. 5125.
What portions? Whole groups of figures, and there was a portion of
the foreground entirely gone also.—Q. 5126. Do you mean that
celebrated group which is so often copied—the man in a red coat?
That is original. I think that any man, with any knowledge of art, will
see at once that that is original; and I am only surprised that it has
not been seen that other parts are original also.—Q. 5127. Which
portions of these groups did you chiefly restore? You are very near
the mark when you speak of the red coat; it is the group on the right
hand; the outlines were entirely gone.—Q. 5128. Do you mean to say,
that the whole of the paint was removed from that part of the
picture? Entirely.—Q. 5129. Was the canvass laid bare? Entirely.—Q.
5130. What guide had you in repainting those groups? Not any.—Q.
5131. Did you paint groups that you yourself imagined and designed?
Yes.—Q. 5132. Did Lord Cowley not distinguish any difference in the
groups? Not any.—Q. 5133. What was the extent of paint wanting on
that group which you say you repainted on the right—was it a portion
as large as a sheet of note-paper? Larger, considerably; the figures
themselves are larger than that.—Q. 5134. Was it as large as a sheet
of foolscap? About that size, I should imagine.—Q. 5135. There was a
piece of the original paint wanting as large as that? Yes, in the
foreground.—Q. 5136. It was totally wanting, and the canvass to that
extent laid bare—is that so? Yes.—Q. 5137. And on that bare canvass
you painted the groups of figures we see now? Exactly.—Q. 5138. Will
you have the goodness to describe to the committee any other
portions of the picture where the paint was in a similar or in an
analogous state? The whole of the centre of the picture was
destroyed, with slight indications here and there of men; there were
some men without horses, and some horses without men.—Q. 5139.
That is in the arena? Yes.—Q. 5140. You are speaking of the figures
on horseback? Yes: some riders had no horses, and some horses had
no riders.”
We must curtail the evidence for want of space. It appears that his
brush, taking the number of square feet, went over a great deal more
than half. He is sorry to say it is now gone back to “Velasquez
mutilated.” But are there not infallible judges to discover all this
repainting? “I may mention that, many years ago, when the picture
was at the British Gallery, I was invited by a member of the Academy
to go and look at it; and I went there; Mr Seguier and Mr Barnard
(who was also a picture-cleaner) were present. They said, ‘I know
what you have come for; you have come to see the magnificent
Velasquez.’ I said, ‘Well, I have;’ and, with the greatest simplicity in
the world, I said it gave me a notion that some part had been much
repaired and painted upon: upon which Mr Barnard, the keeper of
the British Institution, said immediately, ‘No, you are wrong there;
we never had a picture so free from repair in our lives.’ I did not
think it at all desirable to make any statement,” &c. He hopes there is
no engraving of the picture, for the group in the foreground, entirely
his, would be detected immediately.
So much for Mr Lance’s doings with this celebrated Boar-hunt,
which, whatever part of it may be by Mr Lance, we are very glad to
see in our National Gallery, and should have been more glad if they
had abstained from cleaning it. But Mr Lance has further amusement
for us. That account is the serious play in which he was principal
actor. We shall see him again in the entertainment. It has a very
excellent title—“Diogenes in search of an Honest Man.” The part of
Diogenes, Mr Lance; the point being, the vain search for a time, but
discovered at last—in whom? In a negro. This was Mr Diogenes
Lance’s satirical discovery. There are countries where the scene must
not be exhibited. He shall tell the story. “Q. 5230. Have you ever
restored any other picture in the ordinary course of your professional
practice? During the time I was engaged upon that picture at Mr
Thane’s, he had a picture belonging to the Archbishop of York, to
which rather an amusing thing occurred.—Q. 5231. What was the
subject of it? It was a picture of Diogenes in search of an Honest
Man, by Rembrandt; a portion of it was much injured. Mr Thane said
to me, ‘I wish you would help me out in this difficulty.’ He did not
paint himself.—Q. 5232. Which Archbishop was it? The Archbishop
of York. I said, ‘What am I to do? tell me what you want.’ He said,
‘There’s a deficiency here—what is it?’ I said, ‘It appears to me very
much as if a cow’s head had been there.’ He said, ‘It cannot be a
cow’s head; for how could a cow stand there?’ I said, ‘That is very
true; there is no room for her legs.’ I fancied first one thing, then
another: at one time, I fancied it was a tree that was wanting; and at
length I said, ‘Well, I will tell you what will do—if you will let me put
in a black man grinning, that will do very well, and rather help out
the subject.’ He said, ‘Could you put in a black man?’ I said, ‘Yes, in a
very short time;’ and in about half an hour I painted in a black man’s
head, which was said very much to have improved the picture.
Shortly afterwards Mr Harcourt came in, and seeing the picture, he
said, ‘Dear me, Mr Thane, how beautifully they have got out this
picture! my father will be delighted. We never saw this black man
before.’ And that is the extent of my picture-repairing.” Mr Lance is a
man of humour. When Mr Harcourt came to examine the picture,
did what his namesake Launce in the play said occur to the painter?
This is “the blackest news that ever thou heard’st.” But no; both
Lances were discreet in their humour, and the one thought like the
other—“Thou shalt never get a secret from me but by a parable.” The
idea of a black man grinning at the folly of Diogenes, in looking for
an honest man among the whites, was a most original piece of
humour, worthy the concentrated geniuses of all the Launces that
ever were.
All the world knew Mr Lance’s powers as a painter of still life; he
has now doubly established his fame, and notwithstanding that his
modesty would look shy upon his performances on the Velasquez
“The Boar-hunt,” as nobody else has been startled by them, we
sincerely hope they will be allowed to remain—that is, as much of
them as the cleaners have spared. We hope, also, that no
experimentalists in nostrums will be allowed to reiterate the attempt
of the fable, and try to “wash his blackamore white.” Let this be the
picture’s motto—“Hic niger est, hunc tu——caveto.”
It is to be feared that picture-cleaning has become a necessary evil,
as patients who have been long under the hands of empirics must
needs have recourse to regular practitioners to preserve even a sickly
life. Empirical nostrums must be got out of the constitution, for by a
habit of maintenance, however advantageous they may appear at
first, they are sure to side with the disease, and kill the patient. There
is the first Mr Seguier’s boiled oil, that terrible black dose—must that
be allowed to remain? Then comes the question, by what desperate
remedies is it to be eradicated? There is the Gaspar Poussin
landscape near the injured Claude “Queen of Sheba,” the “Abraham
and Isaac:” we remember it a very beautiful clear picture. It is now
all obscured; there are large brown patches in the once lucid sky. As
so large a proportion of the pictures in the Gallery are suffering
under this oil-disease, and seem to petition for a ticket to the
hospital, we offer a suggestion made by De Burtin, that experienced
and cautious cleaner, who speaks with utter abhorrence of the oiling
system. He says that he tried every secret of his art without success;
“continuing always my experiments, however, though with little
hope, I have at length had the happiness to find in the application of
this same oil itself the means of so softening the old oil, that I have
afterwards, with spirit of wine, removed both the oils, new and old
together, without at all injuring the picture. Although this plan has
succeeded equally well with four pictures on which I had occasion to
employ it, yet I must not be understood to hold it out as infallible
until, from the number of the cases in which it is tried, and the
uniformity of its success, it shall earn for itself that title; but,
persuaded that the want of other known means will induce
connoisseurs to make trial of this one, I feel desirous to put them in
possession of all the information that I myself have in regard to it.
My four pictures, all painted on panel, were evidently covered with
an oil which gave them an aspect alike sad and monotonous, and
which seemed to be of many years’ duration. I gave them a coat of
linseed oil during the warmest days of summer, renewing once, and
even twice a-day, the places on which it seemed to be absorbed. On
the twelfth day the oil on one of the pictures was become so softened
that it clung to my finger. I then employed good spirit of wine,
without any other admixture whatever, to remove all the oil which I
had put upon the picture; and the pleasure I experienced was only
equalled by my surprise, when I saw the vivacity of the colours
restored under my hands as the spirit of wine removed the old oil
along with the new. After a few days’ interval, the other three
pictures gave me renewed occasion for congratulation by the same
results, and with equal success.”
De Burtin has at least the great merit of having no concealments in
his practice. And here the Commissioners have done well in
recommending that no varnishes be used, the ingredients of which
are kept secret. Mr Farrer thinks he is the only person in this country
using gum damas. He is mistaken—we have used it many years, and
agree with him that it is far less liable to chill than mastic. The
recommendation, also, that, before cleaning a picture, an able
chemist should be applied to, is a proper precaution, which would, of
course, include varnishing. That pictures may not be subject to secret
varnishes, the only one we would have kept secret is that mentioned
by Mr Niewenhuys, the experimentalising in which brought the
indignation of the court of Lilliput on the unfortunate Gulliver.
Picture-scourers have been hitherto a ruthless race—with their
corrosives they take the life’s blood out of the flesh of works, like true
Vampires, and appropriately enough talk of vamping them up. Few
are as conscientious as Mr Thane, to be persecuted with the
“processions” of the skeletons they make. There is an amusing story
illustrated by Cruikshank. A lover, anxious for the safety of his sick
mistress, goes about seeking physicians; he is gifted, for the occasion,
to see over the doors of the faculty the ghosts of the patients they had
killed. It is within doors we would have the picture possessor go. The
outer shop of the cleaner is enchanting—perhaps it may exhibit a
face half of which is cleaned, and half dirty, that, according to Mr
Ford’s notion of looking better and worse, customers may take their
choice of the dingy or the clean. The connoisseur and collector need
have some “Diable Boiteux” to take them unseen into the interior
laboratories where the ghosts and skeletons lie concealed, while the
Medea’s pot is on the fire, whose boiling is to transfer new flesh to
the dry bones, that they may be produceable again, as they often are,
novelties of a frightful vigour and unnatural sprightliness, to be
reduced to an after-sobriety under a regimen of boiled oil and
asphaltum. Even Mr Lance’s work, which was believed to be original,
has been obscured and otherwise damaged. Salvator Rosa’s “Mercury
and the Woodman,” is as if it had been dipped in “the sooty
Acheron.” There is little pleasure in looking at pictures in such a
state. Altogether, then, to leave pictures “black, dirty, and in a filthy
state,” a condition which Mr Stansfield[6] properly abominates, is to
mislead the public, whom to instruct is one great object of a National
Gallery. But who is to restore the gem-like lustre when once
removed? There should be a cleaning, or rather a preservation
committee. Philosophers say, that diamonds are but charcoal; none
have, however, succeeded in converting the carbon into diamonds;
but it may be possible to convert the diamonds of art into charcoal,
or into something worse, “black, dingy, and filthy.”
We scarcely know where to stop with so large a volume as this
Report, with its evidence before us. The questions, with their
answers, amount to the astonishing number of 10,410! We
necessarily leave much matter untouched, very much interesting
matter—We would gladly enlarge upon some of the suggestions
thrown out in our article on this subject of December, but adequate
space in this Magazine may not be allowed. Yet we will refer to one
suggestion, because it is now the very time that public attention
should be directed to it; we mean the appointment of Professorships
of the Fine Arts at our Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Lord
Palmerston’s letter to the Chancellor of Cambridge shows that great
changes are in contemplation. Such professorships would be a
graceful offering to the universities, who may have been a little
suspicious of the movement of a commission; and we feel sure, that
nothing could be more promotive of the fine arts, the real taste of the
country, or more beneficial, as leading the educated to pursuits of a
high and noble nature. We will not attempt to discuss the “Removal
of the Gallery.” The Blue Book affords details, and plans of site. The
appendix is full of valuable information; but it contains matter upon
which we feel some alarm. We know there is a scheme, under
peculiar favour, to make our National Gallery a Chronological
Almanac of Art, than which nothing can be more worthless or more
beyond the objects for which we should have a National Gallery at
all. What we should collect is a large subject, which we may feel
disposed to consider more at large in a future article.
The public will now inquire, what is to be the result of this pains-
taking Commission? We are aware that the Chairman repudiates the
Report. It is one to which he does not give his assent. We know not
the particulars in which he differs from the Report as agreed upon.
We could have wished, for the sake of the arts, that there had been
no difference.
Of this there can be no doubt, that the system, if such it may be
called, is most unsatisfactory. If we would have a National Gallery at
all, the public have a right to demand that it shall be one befitting the
dignity of the country and the objects proposed by such an
establishment, none of which, it is manifest from the entire evidence,
can be realised unless the trust be thoroughly revised. Evils to be
avoided are now laid bare to sight. If it be true,
“They say best men are moulded out of faults,”
there are faults enough to mould them out of. May we not, then,
entertain a hope that we shall have a National Gallery?
A GLANCE AT TURKISH HISTORY.