though we wish to know him more familiarly, we are not insensible to the delicacy of the task which she undertook. What other colours, save those that are rich and bright, could a wife use in drawing her husband's character? She expected, indeed, that an ampler memoir would be written by a bolder, and perhaps colder, hand; and might desire to leave to this biographer the ungentle task of adding the ruder touches and the darker shades. This has not been done; from the garland which she hung over his hearse, I must take a few more flowers. I shall endeavour to do this with a respectful hand.

Opie was no impatient labourer for wealth, who desired to snatch his gains before his colours were dry on the canvass: he studied much, wrought incessantly, and was ill to please. "During the nine years that I was his wife, (says Mrs. Opie,) I never saw him satisfied with any one of his productions; and often, very often, have I seen him enter my sitting-room, and, throwing himself in an agony of despondence on the sofa, exclaim, 'I am the most stupid of created beings, and I never, never shall be a painter as long as I live.' He used to study at Somerset House, when the pictures were hung up, with more persevering attention and thirst for improvement than was ever exhibited perhaps by the lowest student in the schools, and on his return I never heard him expatiate on his own excellencies, but sorrowfully dwell on his own defects; while he often expressed to me his envy of certain powers in art which other painters were masters of, and which he feared he should never be able to obtain."

Thus quick to censure his own works, our painter was slow to commend those of his brethren. There is indeed a singular tardiness amongst artists in either praising or blaming one another: they seem to think that the whole world is waiting for their opinion, and that commendation will raise a brother above his level, and censure sink him below it. They deal out dark and diplomatic responses respecting each other's merits, and leave you to interpret their meaning. Opie," says his wife, was free from vanity-more particularly from that vanity which induces a man to believe that his wisdom is great. He was so slow to commend, and panegyric on the works of contemporary artists was so sparingly given by him, that it was natural for some persons to suppose him actuated by the feelings of professional jealousy; but it was more generous, and I am fully convinced more just, to think this sluggishness to praise was merely the result of such a high idea of excellence in his art as made him not easily satisfied with efforts to obtain it; and surely he who was never led by vanity or conceit to be contented with his own works, could not be expected to show great indulgence to the works of others." I know not what standard of excellence was present to the fancy of Opie; but if a man is to withhold his approbation from all works which fail to equal the best of the golden days of art, he may shut his mouth for ever.

He was exposed, as all men of eminence are, to the attacks of the envious and the malevolent. A speculator in biography having handled one man of genius with sharp and vulgar severity, singled

out Opie for his second victim, and so little did he keep his infamous purpose a secret, that it reached the ear of the artist. Opie, having perused some of his adversary's compositions, saw that the man mistook the venom of the arrow for the vigour of the bow: he only smiled, and said, "If this is all he can do, he is welcome to say any thing of me he likes. I shall neither menace him nor bribe him into silence." "For his fame, latterly at least," says Mrs. Opie," he was indebted to himself alone: by no puffs, no paragraphs, did he endeavour to obtain public notice: and I have heard him, with virtuous pride, declare that whether his reputation were great or small, it was selfderived, and he was indebted for it to no exertions save those of his own industry and talents. He might, like others, mistake sometimes weeds for flowers, and bring them home, and carefully preserve them as such; but the weeds were gathered by his own hands, and he had, at least, by his labour deserved that they should be valuable acquisitions.

His heart was with his art-other artists, as Northcote said, painted to live, but Opie lived to paint; and though he was dilatory about praising the works which his brethren produced with the brush, he was forward enough in admiring their attempts with the pen. "Whatever," said Mrs. Opie," had a tendency to exalt painting and its professors in the eyes of the world, was a source of gratification to him. He used often to expatiate on the great classical attainments of Mr. Fuseli, whose wit he admired, and whose conversation he delighted in: but I have often thought that one

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cause of the pleasure which he derived from mentioning that gentleman's attainments, was his conviction, that the learning of Mr. Fuseli was an honour to his profession, and tended to exalt it in the opinion of society." Nor was his pleasure less in reading the Poem on Art, by Mr. Shee-a work which will be valued while knowledge, feeling and elegance are in estimation.

An imaginary sum was floating incessantly before Opie's eyes, which his pencil was to accumulate. That golden speculation at length achieved, he intended to retire from art-establish a gallery of good paintings, and a well-stocked library; and with his wife by his side, and all cares for a wellfilled easel given to the winds, enjoy life like one who knew it was short. As he was frugal and temperate, his expenses were small; and as he was a quick worknian, his gains were large. He was too proud to incur debts, and not so vain as to give expensive entertainments to those who would probably have paid them with sarcasms. He was one likely, therefore, to achieve his wishes in gaining that desired sum, which was to come with healing on its wings to the spirit of the painter. But he did not, perhaps, reflect, that in retiring from his profession an artist retires also from his station in society. An artist is like an instrument of music, which gives joy and gladness when skilfully touched, but is only looked upon as an idle encumbrance and a piece of wood when silent and out of tune.

Opie having written a Memoir of Reynolds for Wolcot's edition of Pilkington's Dictionary of Painters, and delivered lectures on art at the

British Institution, aspired to the Professorship of Painting in the Royal Academy, when Barry was ejected. In the Memoir of Sir Joshua, he had exhibited knowledge of his subject, a just perception of character, and no small infirmity of taste; in his lectures at the Institution he had been considered confused, abrupt, and unmethodical; but now, with confirmed taste and an increase of knowledge, he offered himself a candidate for the professorship. He was unexpectedly opposed by Fuseli. When that eminent scholar was named, he relinquished his pretensions-but it is no small proof of the vanity of Opie, that he declared as he withdrew from the contest, he would have yielded to no one save Henry Fuseli. When the Professor was made Keeper he renewed his claim, and was instantly elected.

Of his Four Lectures, on Design, Invention, Chiaro-Scuro, and Colouring, some account must be given, and a short one will suffice. Few who read them will concur in the praise bestowed on his discourses, at the Institution, by the late excellent Bishop of Durham, you were known before as a great painter, Mr. Opie, you will now be known as a great writer also." They are clear and sensible enough, but deficient in original grasp of mindthere are few vigorous sallies, or poetical flights, or passages of deep discernment and delicate discrimination. He wants imagination to raise him to the height of his "great argument," and his powers of illustration are neither vivid nor various. Yet it cannot be denied that many valuable reflections are scattered over these four lectures. Let all those youths who desire to become artists

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