1821. Greenwich Hospital. looking through a telescope at the vessels in the river: they are a silent, contemplative race, made so, it may be, by the eternal and higher noise of the sea, which has unfitted them for the lighter voices of their kind. But from this general character for reserve and retirement let me exempt honest Master Ball, as comely a man as ever wore checked shirt,-as conversational a man as ever piped all hands, as cheerful a man as ever brake biscuit, or damped a tobaccotinted tooth with a tumbler of cold grog. He is, if I mistake not, the boatswain of one of the long rooms, and sits there as jolly as though he should never be old; smiling on all comers, and looking over two shining bronzed cheeks with the most easy and winning assurance in the world. Mrs. Morton well remarked, that he looked as if he would give sickness no more quarter than the enemy. His forehead shone insufferably bright, and quite dazzled the eyes of the beholder; and his hands were crossed over the lower button of his waistcoat, which fastened as convex a little garment as ever bent round a comfortable body. Agnes thought the forehead was like that of Mr. Morton; but we all negatived her opinion, and left her to the solitary possession of it; which, however, woman-like, she tenaciously held. But I know not how it is, I am getting out of order, and am describing a character with which, at present, I have clearly no business. The terrace that runs along the whole range of the building, between it and the water, is pleasantly situated, but, as it does not much abound with pensioners, it is by no means a striking attraction in my eyes. But in the walk below it, at the edge of the water, narrow, inconvenient, and thronging with watermen, sailors, and other bronzed men,we all delighted to walk. There do the maimed and weather-tried tenants of the place saunter out their indolent and late holiday of existence. There do they sit for hours, like Crabbe's Peter Ghrimes, but without his crimes, There do looking upon the flood. they lean,-there stand,-there recline, there sidle about. The passing of a packet,-the slow drifting of a merchantman, the heavy slumber of a Dutch vessel,-the arrowy course of exactness than any other kind of idlers in the world. By the kindness of one of Mr. Morton's friends, who holds some place of trust in the Hospital, we were conducted to the chapel, one of the most beautiful places of worship I ever beheld, but possessing, perhaps, too much of architectural splendour for the sincerity and serenity of devotion. It had not the unobtrusive quiet of the little Oratory of Warwick Castle: but the gothic style is to my feelings always more associated with the sacred earnestness of prayer. A steady, sober pensioner, with a white willow wand in his hand, marshalled us up to the extreme end of the interior, and pointing to a huge painting by West, over the communion table, began his daily labour of description. The Preservation of St. Paul from Shipwreck must be a brave subject for an old sailor to enlarge upon; and accordingly, our guide lifted up his voice and spake. He pointed out the mariners, the sea, the vessel; and nothing that I can say will afford you an idea of the deep rugged vigour of his voice. When he came to a word with an R in it,-it rattled in his mouth like a loose sail in a stiff wind; and his laborious expulsion of sound resembled the exertions at tendant upon working a boat against a heavy sea. He resolutely adhered to his own mode of pronunciation, which made good havoc with many stout words, that had stood the storms of other tongues;-but so like the monotonous tones of the sea was this his delivery of sound, that I could have closed my eyes and fancied myself sitting near the mainmast, with all the world of ropes and booms creaking and rattling around me. The picture is a clever picture, but it has all the hardness and stiffness peculiar to West. The pulpit is not at all suited to the purity of the chapel. The ceiling is extremely rich. At the entrance there is an inner portico supported on beautiful columns of white marble, which caught the heart of Agnes, and was not displeasing to the severer eyes of her aunt and myself. The Painted Hall faces the chapel, and is, to be sure, sufficiently splendid:-the ceiling is, as a very clever little account of Greenwich Hospital remarks, well described by Sir Rich. Steele. And as his language cannot fail to be more satisfactory than "any thing that I can say upon it," I have borrowed an old copy of that dull essayist, and transcribe for you part of the passage, as follows: In the middle of the ceiling is a very large oval frame, painted and carved in imitation of gold, with a great thickness rising in the inside to throw up the figures to the greater height; the oval is fastened to a great soffite adorned with roses, in imitation of copper. The whole is supported by eight gigantic figures of slaves, four on each side, as though they were carved in stone. Each end of the ceiling is raised in perspective, with a balustrade and elliptic arches, supported by groups of stone figures, which form a gallery of the whole breadth of the hall; in the middle of which gallery (as though on the stocks,) going into the upper hall, is seen, in perspective, the tafferill of the Blenheim man-of-wa., with all her galleries, port-holes open, &c., to one side of which is a figure of Victory flying, with spoils taken from the enemy, and putting them on board the English man-of-war. Before the ships is a figure representing the city of London, with the arms, sword, and cap of maintenance, supported by Thame and Isis, with the other small rivers offering up their treasures to her; the river Tyne pouring forth sacks of coals. In the gallery, on each side of the ship, are the Arts and Sciences that relate to Navigation, with the great Archimedes, many old philosophers consulting the compass, &c. At the other end, as you return out of the Hall, is a gallery in the same manner, in the middle of which is a stern of a beautiful galley filled with Spanish trophies; under which is the Humber with his pigs into her, with other lesser rivers. In the of lead; the Severn with the Avon falling north end of the gallery is the famous Tycho Brahe, that noble Danish knight, and great ornament of his profession and human nature. Near him is Copernicus, with his Pythagorean system in his hand next to him is an old mathematician, holding a large table, and on it are described two principal figures of the incomparable Sir Isaac Newton, on which many extraordinary things in that art are built. On the other end of the gallery, to the south, is the learned Mr. Flamstead, Reg. Astron. Profess., with his Flamstead's hand is a large scroll of paper, ingenious disciple, Mr. T. Weston. In Mr. on which is drawn the great eclipse of the Sun that happened in April, 1715; near him is an old man with a pendulum, count ing the seconds of time, as Mr. Flamstead makes his observations, with his great mural arch and tube, on the descent of the Moon on the Severn; which at certain times forms such a roll of the tides, as the sailors corruptly call the Hygre, instead of the Eagre, and is very dangerous to all ships in its way. This is also expressed by rivers tumbling down, by the moon's influence, into the Severn. In this gallery are more arts and sciences relating to Naviga tion. Mr. Flamstead looks down, with his ingenious disciple, in a way to awe all sublunary objects. The mixture of gods, rivers, virtues, fame, king, queen, and Tycho Brahe, is sufficient ly various to hit the taste of the most dainty admirer of variety. I do not, however, see in this description any account of the portrait of the first pensioner, the original man of blue, the Adam of Greenwich Hospital, whom death turned out of his waterside Paradise-I see no mention of him, although the little stunted boatswain pointed him out in the ceiling, and dared us to get to any part of the hall without encountering the eyes of this seaman in the shrouds. I think, however, in spite of this, that he was blind. At the end of the hall are the portraits of George I. and his family, all little well-wigged princes, and formidable princesses, doubtless very staring likenesses. Sir James Thornhill figures away also himself, in a splendid suit, and enclouded in a wig of inestimable curl. "The whole of this celebrated work was not completed till 1727; and cost 6,6351. being after the rate of 8l. per yard for the ceiling, and 17. per yard for the sides." This appears to me, Russell, to be very cheap workmanship, and might well be adopted by private families. The sides of the hall have representations of fluted columns, which, as the boatswain says, "you would believe were carved ;--they are all as smooth as this wall." Mrs. Morton engraved a smile upon his copper visage, by examining closely, and very generously still professing a disbelief; he drew his willow wand across it, winked at me, and re-assured her that it was nothing but painted." Lord Nelson's car stands in one corner, and when it is remembered how great were the remains which it bore, through a grateful weeping people, to its last and eternal cabin, and how glorious was the wood of which it was constructed, it is affecting little to say that it inspires gentle, and proud, and melancholy thoughts. The kitchen, and the dinner room, with their homely furniture and peasesoup atmosphere, are refreshing to behold, provided you have not allayed the cravings of your appetite; and the cleanliness observable around is the pleasantest provocative of hunger in the world. When we passed through these rooms, the scouring was going on, and there was a thorough sloppiness apparent over everything. The bread-room had a delightful wheaten odour, which took my senses mightily. Agnes, as she peeped with her pretty face through the grating at the imprisoned loaves, heaved a sigh as though she pitied the confinement of even a half-quartern!—so much like a prison did this huge pantry look, and so ready was her pity for any thing that reminded her of a prison. We took a survey of the rooms, in which were the little cabins of this happy crew, all as smart and neat as the peaceful hearts and golden leisure of their tenants could make them. Each pensioner appeared to have brought with him the hammock from his favourite vessel; and the clean silence of the long apartments seemed one perpetual sabbath. On entering, -there sat our good friend Ball, reading near the window, with his comely blue legs crossed placidly over each other, and his bright old eyes twinkling with a roguish joy peculiar to himself. He did not rise up,-neither did he lay aside his volume-Robinson Crusoe, or Philip Quarll it might be,-but he looked archly upon us, and answered our queries with an honest merriment that made me wish myself an old baldheaded sailor of some sixty years of age, sitting in a long room at Greenwich Hospital, and answering three inquisitive visitors without a care as to what queries were put to me. The little cabins, or bed-rooms, are small, and decked after the taste of the proprietors :-here you shall see a flaming ship,-there a picture of Nelson, done on glass, with desperate blue coats, and alarming yellow breeches, and sold by those foreign pedlars at a price which almost persuades one that they must have stolen the colours, or pilfered the pictures ready framed and glazed. We were shown into some of the rooms of state, and were hurried from portrait to portrait in cruel haste. In one room we beheld Captain Spearing, the marvellous gentleman that lived seven days in a coalpit without food, and afterwards married and had nine children, as he by his own ingenious and entertaining narrative avoucheth. The belief among the sailors, however, is, that a Robin Redbreast brought him food, but I do not altogether side with the pensioners in this creed. He looked so well and neat in his light flaxen wig, though upwards of ninety, as I was told, that I had serious thoughts of trying a coal-pit myself, and could well endure the Robin Redbreast's victuals to survive so well and flourish so merrily. Age, indeed, in this matchless building, is as verdant and pleasant as youth elsewhere. You see white hairs in every direction-but no white faces. The venerable chaplain, whom I saw, had a cheerful vivacity, and a sprightly vein of conversation, quite captivating and instructive; and I am very sincere in wishing, Russell, that you and I could have a cozey dish of tea with him, and a long chat over the early governors and the golden days of Greenwich Hospital. I have given you, my good friend, a very imperfect and hasty sketch of this great charity; but I would not tire you with the minute details, which you will read in the agreeable and intelligent little pamphlet, sold at the hospital (a copy of which I now send you). We sauntered into the park, and buried ourselves for some hours in the green solitude of that solemn and peaceful retreat. The rich trees, spreading and mingling their ample foliage the soft verdure of the grass-the deep and silent dells-the lofty and green eminences (commanding a view of the mighty city, and its spacious living river), all well and wondrously contrasted with the scene we had been witnessing, and disposed our hearts to feel brimmed with peace and grateful joy, and gently to marvel " why there was misery in a world so fair!" I shall never forget Mrs. Morton's voice, musical and eloquent in that blessed place, and Agnes letting her sweet nature breathe itself in unrestrained freedom. We returned to town, and recounted to Mr. Morton, late into the night, the wonders we had seen! Forgive this letter of fearful length; not often will I so err; but the Mortons are described, and you will not have that description to undergo again. Miss Prudence had seen Mr. the tragedian, and was profoundly pensive :-Tom was tired to death, and slept in his chair a sort of dog-sleep, learned, I believe, at the strife he had been witnessing.— Farewell.-Love to all the Powells -not forgetting yourself, my dear Russell. Your's faithfully, Albany. EDWARD HERBERT, LETTER TO CORNELIUS VAN VINKBOOMS, ESQ. ON THE EXETER EXHIBITION OF PAINTINGS. Dear Mr. Van Vinkbooms, I am an old man and a lover of old pictures, and I take the privilege of age to address you with that marked affection which you will not dislike, when you know that I read your dogmas the first among the articles in the LONDON MAGAZINE, and that I learn enough from them to set me up as a connossieur in this western Exeter, 16 Oct. 1821. city. As you are a sort of fosterfather to the fine arts, and look after the sister Muses with a careful and parental eye, I am quite sure that you will regard any advancement of their influence and welfare as so much achieved by your constant labours in their behalf; and I therefore venture, for nearly the first time in my life (having only written papers on political economy in a country newspaper, which, however, were readily inserted on my merely paying the common price of an advertisement), to address these few lines to inform you that Painting hath set her blessed foot in the west-that she is rising like a sun in this quarter (which, let alone its not being the east, is the truest and most apposite figure that I can adopt). The mists of ignorance are rolling away towards the distant villages, and we are beginning to break forth with a splendour which will rival the proud lustre of Plymouth (the birth-place of Sir Joshua Reynolds and Eastlake) and the enlightened glories of Birmingham (the birth-place of no one). It has long been considered, dear Mr. Cornelius, a desideratum, or, anglicè, a thing to be desired, that Exeter should add to its agreeable theatre (that theatre from which the great Mr. Kean was selected), to its public assemblies, and its architectural riches,-an institution for the encouragement of the fine arts; and at length, partly by the exertions of a respectable tradesman of the name of Cole (a dealer in drawings and looking-glasses), and chiefly by the instantaneous exertions of the nobility and gentry of Devon-such an institution has been formed. Application having been made to the principal persons of wealth and taste in the county for the loan of their pictures, to form an exhibition, for the delight, glory, and instruction of the inhabitants of Exeter, the Earl of Morley, Sir Thomas Ackland, Lord Clifford, Mr. Bielfield, and others, with a most praiseworthy alacrity, supplied a few of their paintings towards forwarding the plan; and with many disappointments, and under considerable disadvantages, a small and interesting exhibition has been opened. I myself furnished my solitary little landscape, leaving a great yellow stain on the white pannel of my best drawing-room, to bear testimony of my zeal in the cause. Certain it is, Mr. Cornelius, that more might have been done; for it is not to be supposed, that Sir Thomas Ackland's best picture is the faded portrait of one of his ancestors by Sir Joshua Reynolds; or that his collection is so limited, as to afford no more than four trifling 4 works; but let me not undervalue the sanction of his name to an undertaking in the bud, as I may poetically call it. Sir Stafford Northcote (a relation of the great Northcote the painter, I presume,) indeed, discouraged the attempt at first, as I am informed, but on seeing that others thought it practicable, he begged that one of his pictures might be inserted in the room, and his name in the catalogue. There appears to be a cowardly feeling of the way, and not a march at once to success! The best works-indeed I may say almost the only works worth seeing, are from the collection of a Mr. W. Kendall,-a worthy and intelligent gentleman of these parts, who has contributed with a liberal hand. There are a few, a very few, fine portraits, by Opie, Northcote, and Owen;-particularly one of Northcote's own fine sensible head!—And a very rich, ripe, old landscape, A Flemish Revel, by Ostade and Teniers (worth the price of admission and catalogue in itself), which I look at again and again without tiring, and which I point out to my children as a warm, glowing, fruitful specimen of the old masters. You will be glad to hear that the fine arts (to take up my first figure) are dawning in the west-and I rejoice, that I am one of the first to announce to you such gratifying intelligence. Pray encourage us, Mr. Van Vinkbooms!-Pray tell Mr. Cole that he is a laudable person-pray impress upon the nobility and gentry of Devon, that by taking a lukewarm interest in this important work they are letting slip an opportunity of doing a great service to their county. Up with your voice, Mr. Van Vinkbooms, up with it, and awaken this slumbering enthusiasm of Devonshire men! Halloo! to the heart of Sir Thomas Ackland! Speak aloud into the ears of the Earl of Egremont, and spare not! Thunder into the mind of Mr. Dickenson! Call out, and waken to the watch, Mr. W. A. Harris! The sister Muses are now likely to obtain a seat here; and I trust, I do trust, Mr. Cornelius will give them his vote, which, in the election for fame, is a plumper! I am, dear Mr. Van Vinkbooms, |