Miscellaneous.

Colonist, Issue 9, 20 November 1857, Page 4

Miscellaneous.

The Turner Gallery at MarlboroughHouse. —In that region of dull and decorous streets which radiates to the north and west from Cavendish Square, Queen Anne-street is one of the dullest and dingiest; and of that dreary Queen Anne-street the dreariest house, any of the 30 years before 1851, was No. 48. Judging from its weatherstained and soot-grimed walls, its patched windows, dark with dust and foul with cobwebs, its woodwork unfreshened by paint, its chimneys from which curled no smoke, its unscoured threshold, it might have been in Chancery, it might have been haunted, it might have been the scene of a murder. Yet it was not uninhabited. Not unfrequently a visitor might be seen to knock, and, after long waiting, the door would be half opened by a withered and sluttish old woman, or, before 1830, by a little shabby, lean old man. Nay,.repulsive as the house might be, and grim as might be its guardians, carriages would sometimes be seen drawn up before the door for hours, while their gay and elegant freight found occupation inside. In that desolate house—-48 Queen Anne-street west—from 1812 to 1851, lived Joseph Mallard William Turner, the great landscape painter of the English school. Hanging along a bare and chilly gallery on the first-floor of that gloomy house, stacked against the walls, rolled up in dark closets, flung aside into damp cellars, the rain streaming down the canvasses from the warped sashes and paper-patched panes of the ill-fitting skylights, were collected some hundred of his landscapes, while piles of drawings and reams of sketches, the rudiments and first thoughts of finished works, were piled away in portfolios, and presses and boxes, in every nook and corner of the dark and dusty dwelling. Notes for hundreds, cheques for thousands, had been offered again and again in that, gallery to the painter of these pictures. He was said to adore money, and yet he refused both notes and cheques—scornfully often, sometimes regretfully, and as if by an effort, but always persistingly. Dealers wondered; patrons were in despair; artists scoffed, or sneered, or doubted—" Turner was mad." Turner was not mad, and intended his pictures for a nobler destiny than to rot in the mould beside his own old bones. When unheard of prices were offered him and refused for his " Carthage " and " Crossing the Brook," and when the purchaser, as a bait, threw out a hint of his intention to bequeath the latter pictures to the National Gallery, "I can present it myself, can I not?" was the reply, grunted out in the painter's ungracious way, perhaps not without a sardonic grin. The purpose and ambition of Turner's miserly life were explained at his death. By his will he bequeathed his pictures to the nation, and his funded fortune of £60,000 to build at Twickenham an asylum for decayed artists. The riddle of the man should be read by the key of this munificent testament. He

had no relations to provide for. One condition was attached to the bequest, that within ten years the country should provide a fitting gallery for the reception of his works. Turner has done his part; that of the country yet remains to be fulfilled. After five years of delay and litigation, Turner's pictures, drawings, and sketches have come into the hands of the national conservators of art, and twenty of the hundred works in oil comprised'in Turner's bequest have been hung in Marlborough house for the inspection of the public. Therest are still stowed away in the cellars of the National Gallery. The 20 pictures at present exhibited, have been selected to give those who see them an opportunity of tracing the development of the painter's genius from its earliest essays in 1797 to the last decenniad of his long and laborious career. Turner used to say that he was born in 1769 —the great year which gave to the world Napoleon, Wellington, Soult, and Sir Thomas Lawrence. Probably this confluence of genius made Turner fix on this birth year, as he had selected for his coming into the world the 23rd of April— the birthday of Shakspeare, and the feast of England's patron, St. George. The parochial register of St. Paul's, Co ventgarden, fixes the 14th May, 1775, as the date of his baptism. His father was a barber and hairdresser, of 6, Maiden-lane, Covent-garden. From his earliest years Turner showed his bent, and when quite a boy worked as a print colorer and architect's sky-washer till in 1789 he was admitted a student of the Royal Academy, and contributed his first work, a drawing of Lambeth Palace, to the exhibition of 1790. From 1790 to 1799 when he was chosen an associate, he exhibited every year, making bread and cheese during that interval by working for the publishers at topographical drawings of subjects in all parts of England. At this time he must have perambulated the island in his cheap and searching fashion, from the Isle of Wight to Edinburgh, and from Lincoln to the Great Ormeshead. Till 1800 his contributions to the exhibition were principally in water colors. In 1802 he was elected an academician, and in the same year crossed the Channel for the first time, and visited France, Savoy and Piedmont. In 1808 he published his Liber Studiorum, in express rivalry of Claude's Liber Veritatis. In 1819 he again visited the continent, and was at Rome, urged thither by Lawrence, in October of that year. He visited Italy twice at least after this, and about 1828-29, and again after 1840, but so shy and unsocial were his habits, and so erratic his movements, that we have not been able to verify the exact dates of these continental excursions. He died in 1851 at an obscure Chelsea lodging, into which he had slunk under an assumed name, leaving scarcely one friend informed of the place he had chosen to close his eyes in. His art, broadly estimated, as shown in his oil pictures, divides itself into three great zones, the first bounded between the cbse of the last century and 1815, the second, between 1815 and 1840, ■the third between 1840 and 1851—the year of his death. During the first of these periods Turner imitated all Italian, Dutch, and English styles—Potter and Cayp, Wilson and Titian, Gainsborough and Moreland. During the second he was Turner pur et simple —in manner, aim and achievement unlike all other masters. The twenty pictures at Marlborough House contain well-chosen examples of all three manners. The Imperial Baby and the Norfolk Nurse.—The erection of a splendid palace for the Prince Imperial, upon the same site as that chosen for the King of Rome, is much talked of; and the plans and sections are already exhibited, for the competition of builders, at the Hotel de Ville. We are all surprised at seeing so little of the Prince imperial, of whom the rarest glimpses, few and far between, have been caught by the people during the whole season. Report tells of the utter privacy in which the child is kept; in corroboration, I can tell you a nursery tale which may prove interesting to the juvenile portion of your readers. Amongst the army of nurses and suivantes and bercenses who surround the infant is an English nurse, from Norfolk. Miss S. is so much the emperor's chief favorite, that, by degrees, although not holding the first place, she has grown to be looked upon as the responsible person in the imperial nursery. The other day, an Englishwoman being entrusted with a parcel for Miss S., from some member of that lady's own family, thinking the opportun^ an admirable one for seeing the ' imperial babe quite close,' resolved to deliver the parcel in person, and so, set out, drest in all her best, to pay a visit to the Tuileries. ■On inquiring for Miss S. she was gazed at with great suspicion, and told to wait. After remaining for a full half hour alone, the door of the hall was opened, and in walked one of the officers in full uniform, who, being able to speak English, had been deputed to inquire the business of the bold individual who had dared to inquire for Miss S. The business wa3 soon disclosed —the delivery of the parcel, and a verbal message from the mother in her cottage in Norfolk to her daughter at the Imperial Palace of the Tuileries. ' Bien; could she tell the contents of the parcel ?' The Norfolk woman blushed, and stammered, and hemmed, and had, and at last whispered, 'Flannel petticoats, if you please, sir.' Any objection to open the parcel? None whatever; —it had alread}^ undergone that process at the Custom-house. So the parcel was opened, and the flannel petticoats shaken out by the officer in full uniform, who presently disappeared, and after a few moments, a lacquey presented himself before the bewildered stranger, and proceeded to conduct her to Miss S. This ceremony was not effected without a wondrous journey up and down stairs, through halls and galleries, through throne-rooms and small boudoirs, through state saloons and conversation closets, until at last, weary and perplexed, the stranger was left by the lacquey to her own meditations in a room on the

fourth story, over-looking the garden. After another long pause, Miss S. appeared at length, just as the Norfolk woman was beginning to cry with fright. ' Oh, I'm so glad you've come; I'm sadly afeared I hae angered your people by comin' here, but I won't keep you long. I only want to see the babby, the pretty dear, and then I'll go.' But Miss S. told her, in a whisper, that such a request must not even be mentioned; that it was more than her very life, as one may say, was worth to. show the babe to anybody; that she was already the object of so much suspicion and jealousy with the other nurses, and even with the ladies in office about the child, in consequence of the Emperor's preference, that every proceeding, every word, every look of hers was watched, anc)_-that although very glad to see any one wno had just seen her mother, she must not stay a minute, but hurry back to the nursery, under the guidance of another lacquey, and that by another way than that by which she came. She had time, however, to add, that she made it a rule, with English stolidity, never to speak—to do her duty in all things— firmly resolved as soon as ever the time was out for which she had engaged to serve to hurry back to Norfolk, and to her mother's cottage, for which she had never yearned so much as since she had been imprisoned in the Tuileries. I can answer for the truth of this tale for I have it from the best of sources.— Journal. A New Sort of Muffin.—There are some notions which must be unlearned in Canada, or temporarily laid aside. At the beginning of winter, which is the gay season in this Paris of the new world, every unmarried gentleman who chooses to do so, selects a young lady to be his companion in the numerous amusements of the time. It does not seem that anything more is needed than the consent of the maiden, who, when she acquiesces in the arrangement, is called a 'muffin'—for the mammas were • muffins' themselves in their day, and cannot1 refuse their daughters the same privilege. The gentleman is privileged to take , the young lady about in his sleigh, to ride with her, to walk with her, to dance with her a whole evening without any remark, to escort her to parties, and to be her attendant on all occasions. When the spring arrives the arrangement is at an end, and I do not hear that an engagement is frequently the result, or that the same couple enter into this agreement for two successive winters. Probably the reason may be that they see too much of each other. A gentleman who had just arrived from England declared that 'Quebec was a horrid place, not fit to live in.' A few days after he met the same individual to whom he had made this uncomplimentary observation, and confided to him that he thought Quebec ' the most delightful place in the whole world; for do you know,' he said, ' I have got a muffin.'— The Englishwoman in America. 'I Love to Steal.' — The following amusing incident occurred in a ' down east' church some years since. The clergyman gave out the hymn—I love to steal awhile away From every cumbering care, And spend the hour of setting day In humble, graceful prayer. The regular chorister being absent, the duty devolved upon good old Deacon B k, who commenced, 'I love to steal!' and then broke down. Raising his voice a still higher pitch, he sung, ' I love to steal,' —but, as before, he discovered he had got the wrong pitch, and deplored that he had not his ' pitch tuner.' However, he determined to succeed if he died in the attempt. By this time all the old ladies were tittering behind their fans, while the faces of the young ones were all in a broad grin. At length, after a desperate,cough, he made a final demonstration, and roared out 'I love to steal.' This effort was too much. Every one but the goodly and eccentric parson was laughing. He arose, and with the utmost coolness said, ' seeing our brother's propensities, let us pray.' It is needless to say but few of the congregation heard the prayer. — Neiv York Observer. Railway Wit.—Among the jokes which have been got off during the detentions occasioned by the deep snow is the following, clipped from a Vermont paper :—•• Madam,' said a conductor, «your boy can't pass at half-fare—he's too large.' 'He may be too large noiu,' replied the woman, who had paid for a half-ticket, ' but he was small enough when we started.' The above dialogue was overheard on one of the trains of the Rutland and Burlington Railroad. The joke may be appreciated when it is known that the train had been delayed all night at a by-station. - Con.—-Why is a sword that is too brittle like an ill-natured and passionate man? —Because it is snappish and ill-tempered. Arrest of Father Time.—One of the policemen on Sunday arrested a clock for striking the hour—the hour lived only sixty minutes after the blow! If you wish to hear all the evil in people's character, wait till they get married. If you are desirous to learn all their good qualities, wait till they be dead. ♦ You carry your head rather high,' as the owl said to the giraffe, when he poked his nose into the belfry. Why should the male sex avoid the letter A ?—Because it makes men mean. ♦ Nat, what are you leaning over that empty cask for ?'—' I'm mourning over departed spirits,' was the answer. Moderation, in all Things.—A tre-_ mendous talker is like a greedy eater at an ordinary, keeping to himself an entire dish of which every one present would like to have eaten. — Punch. Pun for Pun.—On a physician admonishing a patient upon one occasion against his supposed habit of eating too fast, and telling him that bolting the food was a bar to digestion, he said, ♦ you speak tron-ically, doctor.' Ladies' Fashions in North America. —The following is the style of travelling dress worn ia winter by the ladies in Minnesota and Lake Superior country: —A pair of buffalo boots, a buffalo overcoat, a large otter cat, and a pair of fur pantaloons.

ValuableJ^cipes.—The following are said to be inf&rilble recipes:—For preserving the complexion, temperance; for whitening the hands, honesty; to remove stains, repentance; for improving the sight, observation ; a beautiful ring, the home circle ; for improving the voice, civility; the best companion to the toilet, a wife; to keep away moths, good society. Making up for Lost Time.—A wealthy but miserly old man, dining down town one day with his soiirat a restaurant, whispered in his ear—'Tom, you must eat for day and to-morrow.' ' Oh, yes,' retorted the half-starved lad, • but I ant eaten for yesterday and the day before yet, father.' A Fair Exchange.—A western farmer, being obliged to sell a yoke of oxen to pay, his hired man, told him he could not keep him any longer. 'Why,' said the man, 'I'lstay and take some of your cows in place of money.' * But what shall I do,' said the farmer, 'when my cows and oxen are all gone?' *Why,' replied he, 'you can work for me and get them back.'