— order, said I, this business more cheaply in France—and therewith I pressed a coin of the value of two shillings—à peu près—into the hand of the Negro Porter.
—Ay, you may well say so, Sir, cried the Gentleman by my side—'twas an evil day for me that I left Barbizon!
—Indeed, said I, for the matter of that, I know not Barbizon, but I can well conceive that if a gentleman be not content in France, he is ill to please—or perhaps I might better say ill at pleasing—and I'm sure you are in no such case. Nay, I am in no doubt that you have souvenirs of Barbizon—wherever it may be—of the most agreeable sort.
—I have, indeed, he responded, with a sigh—'tis the true home of Art.
—You are then, said I, an amateur of art?—At this, I thought, he was some what chill'd.
—I am a painter, he responded, with some dignity—with as much dignity, in fact, as he might have shown had he been an amateur and I had called him a Painter!—You are a painter of landscapes? said I.
—But no, he told me, he was a painter of figures.
—I would you had stopped awhile in England, then, said I, on your way from Barbizon—you might have seen some truant works of art that had escaped from Barbizon—without knowing it.
—'Twould have pleased you, said I, to see the forty-two portraits of the once famous Kit-Kat Club, that were last at Water Oakley. They were painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller, who was accounted no mean proficient in his art—entendu qu'il n'avoit jamais vu Barbizon.
—Ah, cried he, contemptuously—Kneller—and Sir Joshua Reynolds, perhaps?—Perhaps, said I—Ah, mon cher, he continued, nous avons changé tout cela.—'Twas cruel, said I.—All true art is cruel, he answer'd.
—I will not say, however, he went on, that Sir Joshua was wholly off the right track—he had moments—a certain feeling sometimes—or perhaps I should not say a feeling precisely—but the feeling of a feeling—and modelling, of course—and here he stuck out his thumb, as if he would have press'd it in a pat of butter, and made a movement that I took to indicate, or in some way hint, the convexity of an imaginary body.—He modell'd well, went on the Painter, but he had no jump— —he lacked that!—and here he delivered himself of a gesture so strange that it quite passes my poor power of description—but 'twould have served to beckon a chambermaid—to tell a man to go to the d—l—or 'twould have suited as well had he said, "Off with his head! So much for Buckingham!"
—I perceive, said I, when he had made an end of this remarkable discourse, that I have much to learn about art—for I should shock you should I confide to you the simplicity of my thoughts about Sir Joshua. I wish, indeed, that we might continue this conversation where we might be more at our ease—for I vow this is no less than the third time that I have been interrupted in my listening by the necessity of feeing this Porter.
—With all my heart! rejoined the Painter—come to my studio whenever it shall be convenient for you—and so saying he gave me his card.
—And here the Conductor shouted "New York!" and La Fleur seized my gripsack, exclaiming:
—"Forty minutes late!"
—Upon my word, said I to myself, if I am but forty minutes late, and not thrice forty years, I am much mistaken!
—I am in the mood, said I to the Clerk at my hotel, to see a play.—Kajoola, said he, is your affair.—'Tis an opéra comique, with the best of music, and you shall see the prettiest women in New York.
—Tant mieux! said I—I would not paint the lily—yet I vow there is a sweet concomitancy between a pretty face and a pretty tune, and no song was ever the less sweet for coming from rosy lips.—I bet you, he said.—'Tis not a matter for a wager, quoth I.
—Following the Clerk's directions, I found myself seated in a vast theatre—which for its marble stairs and its gilt walls—might, I thought, have called itself a palace.—The musicians were playing the ouverture as I came in.
— —Presently the curtain rose—and O Pudour! O Native modesty! O ye gentle Nymphs of Diana, ye who once cast the shield of your own loveliness between Actæon and your Mistress!—I dare say Actæon scarce noted the difference—shall I tell you what I saw?
—Just heavens!—I blush while I write it—some thirty hussies marched on the Stage—clad—shall I thus abuse thee, thou good old English participle?—clad, then, in silks and velvets—but as tight and close to their forms as if each were a harlequin or an acrobat!