"Gentlemen," said Triplet, "does it never occur to you that the fine arts are tender violets, and cannot blow when the north winds--"
"Blow!" inserted Quin.
"Are so cursed cutting?" continued Triplet.
"My good sir, I am never cutting!" smirked Soaper. "My dear Snarl," whined he, "give us the benefit of your practiced judgment. Do justice to this ad-mirable work of art," drawled the traitor.
"I will!" said Mr. Snarl; and placed himself before the picture.
"What on earth will he say?" thought Triplet. "I can see by his face he has found us out."
Mr. Snarl delivered a short critique. Mr. Snarl's intelligence was not confined to his phrases; all critics use intelligent phrases and philosophical truths. But this gentleman's manner was very intelligent; it was pleasant, quiet, assured, and very convincing. Had the reader or I been there, he would have carried us with him, as he did his hearers; and as his successors carry the public with them now.
"Your brush is by no means destitute of talent, Mr. Triplet," said Mr. Snarl. "But you are somewhat deficient, at present, in the great principles of your art; the first of which is a loyal adherence to truth.
Beauty itself is but one of the forms of truth, and nature is our finite exponent of infinite truth."
His auditors gave him a marked attention. They could not but acknowledge that men who go to the bottom of things like this should be the best instructors.
"Now, in nature, a woman's face at this distance--ay, even at this short distance-- melts into the air. There is none of that sharpness; but, on the contrary, a softness of outline." He made a lorgnette of his two hands; the others did so too, and found they saw much better--oh, ever so much better! "Whereas yours," resumed Snarl, "is hard; and, forgive me, rather tea-board like. Then your _chiaro scuro,_ my good sir, is very defective; for instance, in nature, the nose, intercepting the light on one side the face, throws, of necessity, a shadow under the eye.
Caravaggio, Venetians generally, and the Bolognese masters, do particular justice to this. No such shade appears in this portrait."
"'Tis so, stop my vitals!" observed Colley Cibber. And they all looked, and, having looked, wagged their heads in assent--as the fat, white lords at Christie's waggle fifty pounds more out for a copy of Rembrandt, a brown levitical Dutchman, visible in the pitch-dark by some sleight of sun Newton had not wit to discover.
Soaper dissented from the mass.
"But, my dear Snarl, if there are no shades, there are lights, loads of lights."
"There are," replied Snarl; "only they are impossible, that is all. You have, however," concluded he, with a manner slightly supercilious, "succeeded in the mechanical parts; the hair and the dress are well, Mr. Triplet; but your Woffington is not a woman, not nature."
They all nodded and waggled assent; but this sagacious motion was arrested as by an earthquake.
The picture rang out, in the voice of a clarion, an answer that outlived the speaker: "She's a woman! for she has taken four men in! She's nature! for a fluent dunce doesn't know her when he sees her!"
Imagine the tableau! It was charming! Such opening of eyes and mouths!
Cibber fell by second nature into an attitude of the old comedy. And all were rooted where they stood, with surprise and incipient mortification, except Quin, who slapped his knee, and took the trick at its value.
Peg Woffington slipped out of the green baize, and, coming round from the back of the late picture, stood in person before them; while they looked alternately at her and at the hole in the canvas. She then came at each of them in turn, _more dramatico._
"A pretty face, and not like Woffington. I owe you two, Kate Clive."
"Who ever saw Peggy's real face? Look at it now if you can without blushing, Mr. Quin."
Quin, a good-humored fellow, took the wisest view of his predicament, and burst into a hearty laugh.
"For all this," said Mr. Snarl, peevishly, "I maintain, upon the unalterable principles of art--" At this they all burst into a roar, not sorry to shift the ridicule. "Goths!" cried Snarl, fiercely.
"Good-morning, ladies and gentlemen," cried Mr. Snarl, _avec intention,_
"I have a criticism to write of last night's performance." The laugh died away to a quaver. "I shall sit on your pictures one day, Mr. Brush."
"Don't sit on them with your head downward, or you'll addle them," said Mr. Brush, fiercely. This was the first time Triplet had ever answered a foe. Mrs. Woffington gave him an eloquent glance of encouragement. He nodded his head in infantine exultation at what he had done.
"Come, Soaper," said Mr. Snarl.
Mr. Soaper lingered one moment to say: "You shall always have my good word, Mr. Triplet."
"I will try -- and not deserve it, Mr. Soaper," was the prompt reply.
"Serve 'em right," said Mr. Cibber, as soon as the door had closed upon them; "for a couple of serpents, or rather one boa-constrictor. Soaper slavers, for Snarl to crush. But we were all a little too hard on Triplet here; and, if he will accept my apology--"
"Why, sir," said Triplet, half trembling, but driven on by looks from Mrs. Woffington, "'Cibber's Apology' is found to be a trifle wearisome."
"Confound his impertinence!" cried the astounded laureate. "Come along, Jemmy."
"Oh, sir," said Quin, good-humoredly, "we must give a joke and take a joke. And when he paints my portrait--which he shall do--"
"The bear from Hockley Hole shall sit for the head!"
"Curse his impudence!" roared Quin. "I'm at your service, Mr. Cibber," added he, in huge dudgeon.
Away went the two old boys.
"Mighty well!" said waspish Mrs. Clive. "I did intend you should have painted Mrs. Clive. But after this impertinence--"
"You will continue to do it yourself, ma'am!"
This was Triplet's hour of triumph. His exultation was undignified, and such as is said to precede a fall. He inquired gravely of Mrs.
