BOOKS.

MR. FRITH'S REMINISCENCES.*

AMONG other genial qualities, Mr. Frith deserves the especial thanks of the reviewer for his frankness. In the amusing volumes of the Autobiography with which our readers are already familiar, he was honest enough to confess that his genius as an artist was not equal to his success. Mr. Frith has not much respect for the judgment of critics ; but when he makes a statement of that kind, it would be unpolite of them to contradict him, for he ought to know. In the present volume, he states that never in a long life has he been so astonished as at the success of his Autobiography. But the book, being wholly without pretension, full of kindly feeling, and abounding in good stories, deserved the success it achieved. Mr. Frith has some suspicion that the present volume may not sustain the reputation he has won, and in expressing a fear not altogether unreasonable, he relates a story of Sam Slick. On his voyage across the Atlantic, the Clockmaker was asked to try his skill in shooting at a bottle which some men had tried to hit in vain :— "Now, Sam Slick had never fired a gun in his life, and his request to have it properly prepared, and even cocked for him, was looked upon as a piece of Yankee impertinence. That bottle is farther off than it was,' said the Clockmaker. As he spoke, he raised his piece, looked at his mark, shut his eyes, and fired. When he opened them the bottle had disappeared, knocked into fragments by the hero of the hour. With a smile of conscious superiority, Sam resigned the weapon into the hands of a passenger, who immediately offered to back the Yankee against the field for any amount agreeable to the rest. His offer was accepted, other bets were freely made; a rifle was prepared and offered to the Clockmaker. Well, no,' said Sam ; gambling is against my prin- ciples. I have just made a hit; I might make a miss next try, I calculate, so I intend to repose upon my laurels.' " Mr. Frith observes that, like Sam Slick, he may probably "miss next try," and so by the present venture lose some of the reputation he has gained. We do not think this is likely, but the author is no doubt right in saying that his book is desultory, and, indeed, the heading, "Scraps," affixed to two chapters might not inaccurately be applied to a large portion of the volume. It is none the less acceptable on that account, and the reader who loves anecdotes will find enough to satisfy his hunger in this olla podrida of good things.

As the writer wanders from subject to subject without attempting to form a connected narrative, we must neces- sarily follow the same course, for the Reminiscences are better fitted for quotation than for comment. In that amusing novel, The Golden Butterfly, there are two brothers, one of whom is a poet who never writes verse, and the other an artist who has never painted a picture. They are satisfied with praising each other for what they are going to do. Here is an anecdote which reminds us, with a wide difference, indeed, of these humorous characters :—

" My old master Sass was fond of speaking of a fellow-student of his own who, after passing with more or less éclat through the Royal Academy schools, announced his intention of painting a large historical picture that should astonish the world.'—' You have talked a long time about this intended work of yours,' said Sass ; why don't you paint it ; you haven't began it yet, have you ?'—' I can't find a room anywhere suited to my purpose, and for the last year or two I have been seeking in vain. I declare there is scarcely a street in London that I have not searched for a studio, and until I find a place to work in, of course I can't work.'—' That same gentleman,' I fancy I can hear my old master say, was cursed with an independence, three or four hundred a year, or something, and he didn't want to find a place to work in ;' and though he lived to middle age, his great historical work was never executed."

George III.'s son, the Duke of Gloucester, was a kind, charitable man, but is said to have been so deficient in intellect as to earn for himself the sobriquet of "Silly Billy." Mr. Frith has a capital story about him, new to us, but probably familiar to many readers. However, as the writer observes, it will bear telling again:—

• Mg Autobiography and Reminiscences. By W. P. Frith, R.A. VOL London: Bentley and Bon. " On an occasion of a visit to a well-known establishment for the treatment and safe custody of the insane, the Duke impressed upon the physician who conducted him his great desire that he might be allowed to see every patient, and be told every particular concerning him. This was done, and the Prince prepared to depart. Now, you have kept nothing back from me, eh ? I have seen every one of them, have I, eh ?'—' All, sir, except one—a painful case, which, I think, is not fit for your Royal Highness to Why not—why not? What's the matter?'—' Sir, the patient is so violent that it would not be safe for your Royal Highness to enter his cell : he has attacked almost every warder in the asylum, and nearly killed one of them. He will not wear any clothes, and if the walls of his cell had not been padded, he would have killed himself long ago ; his is one of the most hope- less cases I ever knew.'—' Well, but,' said the Duke, can't I get just a peep at him somehow, eh ! without his getting at me ?'- 'Sir, Sir, there's a small square opening in the door of the cell, through which he receives his food ; it is barred. If your Royal Highness is so very desirous you might—'—' All right. Come along. Where is he ?' The royal visitor was led towards the bottom of a long passage. Good gracious ! what a fearful howling ! Is that the man Yes, sir, and this is the cell— through that grating you can see the man!—The Duke peered through the bars ; the howling ceased, and the madman exclaimed : 'Hello why, that's Silly Billy !'—' Good gracious,' said the Duke,.

he knots me ! Oh yes,' said the Governor, he has his lucid intervals.'-"

There is a tale current of a sporting man passionately fond of dogs, who was accustomed, on the death of his favourites, to have them stuffed. He married, and had a baby that died while still an infant. When a friend called to condole with him, the dog-fancier gasped out, with an emotion that showed the strength of his affection,—" Can't I have it stuffed ?" A propos of stuffed dogs, Mr. Frith has an anecdote to relate of a Mr. Birt, who, in the course of their acquaintance, had loved and lost a number of valuable little dogs. On the death of one favourite, the artist e'xpressed his surprise that "darling Rose " was not sent to the taxidermist. "Well, no," said Birt ; "the true way to assuage one's grief for such a loss is to replace the lost one as soon as possible. I have been greatly tried by the death of my favourites, as you know ; but I have got to love another very soon. No, I can't think I should like a stuffed dog ; I should miss all its pretty tricks and ways. I am not sure I shouldn't get to hate it, for I could not love two dogs at the same time." "Do you think think the affections of all dog-fanciers are so transitory ? " "Yes," was the reply, "I do ;" and Bird added that this was also the opinion of a. taxidermist, who told him he always asked for payment in advance, as people soon cease to care for their pets, and are apt to repudiate their engagements, on the plea that the wrong dog has been sent home. Mr. Frith, by-the-way, prefaces a rather incredible dog-story with a story of the Duke of Wellington, who is reported to have said to a person who told him an anecdote of that kind,—" Well, if you say you saw that, of course I must believe in it ; but if I were to see it myself, I certainly shouldn't." If the Duke said this, he probably had in his mind the lines of Cowper :— "Can this be true ? ' an arch observer cries.

'Yes' (rather moved) ; I saw it with these eyes.' Sir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; I could not had I seen it with my own.' "

Perhaps the best of Mr. Frith's stories about his own pictures,. unless it be that of the woman who asked if "The Derby Day" was hand-painted, is the following :— "The last picture in the series of the Road to Ruin,' painted by me some years ago, represents my hero preparing for suicide in a squalid garret. I sought high and low for the miserable fur- niture common to such places. For some time—though I risked robbery and infectious disorders in going into likely places—I could not find the kind of table thnt 1 wanted ; they were all too new or too good, or they were not of the shape that I desired. At last in a small public-house, where I drank some beer that I did not want, I found a man who, on my explaining my difficulty, said : I live within two doors of this, and I think I've got the very thing you want, upstairs. Come on, and I'll show it to you.'—My friend was the owner of a very small and dirty print-shop hard by the public. In the window was an engraving after a picture of my own, out of which I proceeded to make capital.—' That is an engraving from a picture of mine,' said I.= Nonsense,' said the man.—' You don't mean to say you are Frith ?'—' No other,' said I.= Well, that is a good 'ma. Come along upstairs. If the table suits, we'll soon make a bargain over it!—The table did suit ; it was the very thing I had so long been in search of—very worn, very rickety ; money value nil for any purpose but my own.—' Now,' said I, what shall I give you for it ?'—' Wait a bit,' said my friend. The man went to the top of the stairs and shouted, Harriet r— What's to do ? ' said a voice from below.—' Is Polly downstairs ?' = No, she ain't; she's gone to Mrs. Grime's for my stays, and she has somewhere else to go after.'—' Ah, that's a pity !' re- marked the man, turning to me. I wish you could ha' seen her ; she is a downright pretty girl, though I say it as ought not. You

could do Polly justice, you could. Bless you, I know all your pictures—the "Derby Day" and that—and if you will do me a likeness of my daughter, I will give you that table for it with pleasure.'—The price demanded seemed to me extravagant; and, after a little explanation, I acquired the table for half-a-crown."

Two or three good anecdotes are told of J. P. Knight, R.A., the former Secretary of the Royal Academy. He was in the habit of saying what he thought, and on one occasion was knocked down for doing so by an angry Welshman. At another time, it seemed probable that the offence would be repeated by "one of the most eminent members of the Royal Academy: "—

" Knight,' said Mr. X—, 'you were senior member of the Hanging Committee this year were you not ?'—' I was,' said Knight.—' Well, then, what the devil do you mean by hanging my picture next to that blazing thing of Turner's that takes all the colour out of it ? You have taken good care to keep your own portraits surrounded by innocent things. Let me tell you, Knight, that I am not to be treated in this way, for I consider myself the " figure-head " of this Academy.'—' So you are,' said Knight, the most useless part of the ship."

Some interesting particulars are given about pictures and artists. David Cox, like many a famous landscape-painter, received but small sums for his finest work, and pictures which now sell for thousands were sold by the artist for £40 or E50. Indeed, the highest sum he ever obtained for a picture was £100. It was much the same with Constable, and" pictures for which he received a hundred pounds with difficulty now sell for thousands." For many years, it is said, Etty was unable to sell his pictures, "until a fashion for his works arose a year or two before the painter's death, when all his unsold pictures sold for high prices ; and a man who had been very poor all his happy life, retired to York, his native place, with a fortune of twenty thousand pounds." Mr. Frith, by-the-way, has a significant chapter upon "Fashion in Art." This leads him to descant upon dress, and to denounce the most hideous fashion —and, remembering crinolines, that is saying a great deal— ever followed by women within living memory. The artist justly describes this enormity as "a hideous hump which, in a profile view, succeeds in deforming every woman to whom it is attached." Mr. Frith is always generous in his praise of other artists. When M.aclise had finished his "Wellington and Blucher" for the Houses of Parliament, he invited his artist- friends to see the work :— " I well remember the day when, in reply to Maclise's invita- tion, John Phillip, Egg—I, and some others whose names I forget —went to Westminster to see the 'Wellington' in its completed state. I was painting Claude Duval' at the time, and how trifling and trumpery it seemed to me in a mental comparison with the Maclise ! We overwhelmed the painter with genuine praise, and as we walked home Phillip said,—' I shall go and put the dashed thing I am doing on the fire ;' and I don't think there was one of the party who did not find himself in a similar state of mind."

Another short story about Maclise, related by an officer, is worth quoting :—" He had an eccentric brother, an officer in the Army, not above the ordinary run of us. One day, on being asked by an officer of an infantry regiment if he was any relation to the Maclise, he replied,—' I am The Maclise, and Dan is me brother.' The MAclises were Irishmen."

Of all the stories of artists in this volume, the most amazing is the account of Solomon Hart, the first Jew ever made an R.A. Not only was he reviled for his faith by a brother- Academician, but the latter actually called up his little boy to look at a man belonging to a people who had rejected the Saviour. The mention of Jews reminds Mr. Frith of the following anecdote that he heard from a Carmelite monk. The moral which the preacher wished to draw from it is very obvious :—

"lathe course of his sermon he told us of a certain French Jew who was anxious to fill some position under Government, for which he was well qualified, but debarred in consequence of his creed. On bemoaning his fate to a friend who was a Catholic, the friend said,—' My dear fellow, why do you allow your religion to stand in the way of your advancement ? Change it, change it at once.'—' Ah !' said the Jew ; I never thought of that. I cer- tainly will.' He did so, and the valuable post became his. Shortly after his promotion he was met by his Catholic friend, who had heard of his advancement; and after congratulating him upon it, said,—' When I advised you to change your religion, I meant that you should change it for the only true religion, the Catholic. Now I hear that you have turned Protestant.'—' To be sure,' said the Jew; I wanted to be as little of a Christian as possible."

Mr. Frith may be congratulated upon having written a third volume of Reminiscences that is eminently readable, and leaves a pleasant impression of the writer. There is gossip here in abundance, but it is wholly free from scandal.