continue to operate, this, by being the most lucrative branch of the art, will also become that most generally practised. For interesting beggars, a complete representation of age and misery coupled together in old men and old women; for ruthian robbers and midnight assassins, perhaps Opie had no equal among h's contemporaries. He also was one of those artists, who were employed to embody the thoughts of our great dramatic bard, and be accordingly painted several pictures for the Shakespeare Gallery.* We shall not pretend to determine, who was in the fault: perhaps the one might demand too much attention on the score of obligation, and the other be unwilling to concede sufficiently to the claims of gratitude: but even this is but a mere guess! It cannot be denied indeed, that both in the capital and in the country, Wolcott befriended the painter whom he had first extricated from the bottom of a saw-pit. It was he also, who made him known to Mrs. Boscawen, by whom he was introduced to the late Mrs. Delaney; and the latter lady, having afforded an opportunity to the royal family, to see his "Old Beggar Man," the painter of that picture was soon afterwards honoured with an order to repair to the Queen'shouse. On this occasion, His Majesty purchased some pictures of him, not in-ed for that purpose. It must be fairly deed at a royal, but at a “gentleman's price:" a circumstance which assuredly proved serviceable to the reputation. The talents of the artist himself and the newspapers aid the rest; as public curiosity was not a little excited by the accounts respecting a self-taught boy," drawn out from a tin-mine in the county of Cornwall." Success now smiled on the labours of Mr. Opie, and, as is usual in such cases, he changed his place of residence with his change of fortune. Having originally resided in a little court in the neighbour hood of Leicester-square, he removed first to a house in Great-Queen-strect, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, and then to Berner's-street, Oxford Road. In 1786, he was known as an exhibitor at Somerset-House, soon after which he aspired to academical honours. He accordingly became, first an Academician Elect, and then a Royal Acadomician. For some little time he enjoyed the profit and reputation of a fashionable portrait-painter; and where ftrength, breadth, and character were demanded, his pencil was deservedly celebrated, in respect to the male figure. He is thought however to have been less fortunate in the personification of females, being either unwilling or unable to create those elegant flecting, gauscous sprite-like moderu ephemeral forms, partly encased in transparent drapery, and partly unveil ing all their charms in the broad glare of day. Our national vanity and national riches, however, induce us to render portrait-painting by far the most valuable in point of emolument in this country; and while personal and interested motives When the Royal Institution was formed, it became necessary that an artist should be found out, who could deliver lectures on the subject of painting, and Mr. Opie was accordingly select owned however, that nature had not rendered him eloquent; that he was destitute of those graces which are calculated to please a polite auditory, and that as a public orator he possessed no other qualification except the power of instructing those to whom he addressed himself. No sooner did the professorship of painting in the Royal Academy become vacant, than Opie started as a candidate for the prize; he however resigned his claims in favour of Mr. Fuseli: but on the appointment of the latter to the office of keeper of the academy, he renewed his pretensions, and was elected without any difficulty. The lectures delivered by him at Somerset House, rather added to, than detracted from, his reputation; and he is allowed to have been far more successful there, than in Albemarlestreet. In respect to the fleeting politics of the day, Mr. Opie took no part; but he was warmly attached to the popular principles of our constitution. Indeed, he was always known to be, and was always considered by * We wish we could here present our readers with a catalogue of Mr Opie's paintings, but we can only enumerate those that follow : 1. The death of David Rizzio, this ap peared at the exhibition some years since, and excited considerable sensation; 2 The Murder of James 1 king of Scotland; 3. Vow; 5. Arthur; 6 Juliet in the Gardeni The Presentation in the Temple; 4. Jephtha's admirable beggar, now in possession of Dr. 7. Escape of Gil Blas; 8. Musidora; 9. An Wolcott. In the exhibition of 1806, he bad eight portraits; in that of 1807, six; in neither of these, appeared any other subject whatsoever. his intimate friends, as a stickler for liberty. In respect to mental qualifications, he had improved himself greatly; and at his leisure hours, according to respectable authority, acquired a knowledge of French, and also some notion of Latin and music. "The Life of Reynolds, published in Dr. Wolcott's edition of Pilkington's Dictionary," it is 'ded, "was the first specimen of his literary abilities. In this he displayed a profound knowledge of the subject, a quick and powerful perception of distinctive character, and a mastery of language little to be expected from a youth who was supposed to have been destitute of learning. He next published a Letter in the Morning Chronicle, (since republished in An Inquiry into the requisite Cultivation of the Art of Design in England)," in which he proposed a distinct plan for the formation of a National Gallery, tending at once to exalt the arts of this country, and immortalize its glories: to this he annexed his name, in consistence with the openness of character which at all times distinguished his actions." No sooner did Mr. Opie perceive himself advancing in the road to fame and fortune, than he determined on marriage, as the means of adding to, and securing his felicity; but on this occasion he was iniserably disappointed, for the feinale in question had not been many years a wife, when she encouraged a paramour, which led to its natural consequences-a separation, a law-suit, &c. &c. His second match was formed under more propitious circumstances: he saw, he admired, and became united to Miss Alderson of Norwich, a lady possessed of a fine taste for poetry, who survives him; but by neither of his wives has he left any children. While enjoying great domestic happiness, and high reputation in his art, he was suddenly seized with a mortal discase which baffled all the skill of his physicians.t He expired on Thursday, April 9, 1807, in the forty-sixth year of his age; and as the symptoms of his disorder were of no ordinary kind, dissection ensued, when the lower portion of the spinal marrow and its investing mem brane were found slightly inflamed, and the brain surcharged with blood. The following character is the production of a man well acquainted with his merits: John Opie, or rather Oppy, was The Artist, No. VII., p. 13. + Doctors Ash, Vaughan, and Mr. Carlisle, first; and then Doctors Pitcairn and Baillie, attended him in conjunction MONTHLY MAG. No. 157. born in a very humble sphere, which denies that education necessary to the exteusion of intellect, and for giving brilliancy to talents. When taken from his obscurity, he exhibited no powers of mind; he possessed no literary treasure, and knew nothing of the art in which he afterwards grew conspicuous. uncommon His forin was rather slender than athletic, and his visage cast in one of the coarse moulds of nature; at the saine time it must be allowed, that his eye partook of penetration. His manners, however, in general were destitute of that urbanity which recommends a man to the favour of society; while his address was aukward and uncouth, his conversation abrupt, and totally a stranger to fluency: there was yet good sense in it, and an acuteness of observation that displayed more than an ordinary intellect. He loved argument, and as though he had taken the late Dr. Johnson for his model, delighted in contradiction; but although he loved reputation, he seemed careless about it: nevertheless Fame cane forth to meet him. His funeral, of which the following short account may not prove wholly uninteresting, was conducted with a considerable degree of magnificence. On Monday, April 21, 1807, the remains of the late John Opie, R. A. were removed from his house in Berners-street, to St. Paul's Cathedral. The procession which commenced at one o'Clock was conducted in the following order: Six mutes with black staves and hatbands. Nine horsemen two and two. A funeral banner of ostrich feathers, borne by a Mute. The Hearse with the Body drawn by six horses, and crowned with ostrich feathers. Three mourning-coaches, drawn by six horses each, with the Mr. Earl of Carysfort, Whitbread, Mr. Hopper, Mr. Favel, and Mr. Shee. LITERARY CONFESSIONS OF [The Soirés de Ferney, printed at Paris in Friend. WHAT do you think of your Hiftory of Peter the Great? It proves, in my opinion, that you do not yet feel the effects of age. Volt. Many have thought that I flattered the Czar in it; and that is not to he wondered at, for my materials were furnished me from Ruffia. You take no notice of my tranflation of Ecclefiaftes. It is no capital performance, but it is equal to Corneille's imitation of it. By the bye, my friends, I am now making my confeffions, but do not enjoin me for penance to compofe works of piety. But come, let me fum up my confeffions, according to rule. As I told you before, my fit literary fquabble was with Rouffeau. I was much hurt by the contempt he thewed me; I made a furious attack, and I added to his mortifications. The Abbé Desfontaines was likewife one of my enemies. I was a great means of delivering him from his confinement in the Bicere, though he merited imprifonment for life. You remember my pleafantries upon Maupertuis. I loft my pention, my honours, and the gracious favour of Frederic the Great. I was obliged to quit Pruffia. Maupertuis flood near Jupiter, and he opened the phial of his wrath, and the implacable Beaumelle-ah! his name roufes all my refentment-with what rage, with what fury did he burft upon me! He fwore, in one of his letters, that he would follow me to the very jaws of hell; and that he would profecute his malice with his last breath. His libels caufed me to fhed tears of blood-For goodness fake, my friends, do not expect I fhould pardon him. All his Friends.--Oh! by all means. You must indeed pardon him. Voltaire (brifky).-Then I do pardon him; and may he enjoy a long and happy life, and continue railing without moleftation! Ah, gracious heaven! what a host of enemies have I had to encounter with! I do not hate men of real learning, it is that cloud of infignificants that I despite : men who, without refolution or abilities to follow the mechanical occupations of their fathers, have taken up the more infamous, becaufe more ealy, employ ment of decrying the pursuits of others; obfcure vermin, whofe exiftence is only noticed by the mifchief they are capable of doing; the Cerberi of literature, who fnap, fnarl, and yelp, to gain a liveli hood; manufacturers of lampoons, hire ling fcribblers, literary parafites, compilers, editors, a fwarm of infectious infects that Friend.-I must interrupt you in this violent declamation. Do you forget that thefe are fatirifts, and that all the fatirifts are your brethren? But do not rail at the journalists; there are many amongst them who are men of very refpeciable characters. If you are dif pofed to cenfure, rail at college pedants, who fet up for critics; and fay, if you pleafe, by way of drawing a comparison, that an afs might compile a Literary Journal, if he could be taught to read and write. Folt. I thank you, my friend, you have furnished me with an excellent farcafin, drawn from the converfation of the fervants-hall, and I thall be fure to remember and make ufe of it upon a fitting occafion. But it is in vain that you recommend moderation to me, wh lft I am furrounded by troops of envious poets, with budgets of lampoons; by coffee-houfe orators, perpetually declaining fcandal; by tale-bearers and retail ers of fcurrilous anecdotes and news, who go about fpreading their lies abroad; by the prefidents of fuburb-academies of wits, the gleaners from Mouthly Jour nals; by learned idiots, who call them felves theologifs, the spawn of convents, bloated with pride and meannefs; by melancholy devotees, who hate all mankind, and think they ferve God by it; by fupercilious Janfenits, frupid fanetics, fenfelefs vifionaries who fuppofe themselves Pafcals; deferters from monafteries, conventual fugitives, daring and deceitful, fawning and treacherous, polite and plaufible, who, difguiled in the cloak of religion, wriggle themfelves sinto families, become the confidants of the heads of thein, enrich themfelves with the fpoils of unfuspecting credulity, and in return fow the feeds of difcord, Latred, and confusion monfters engendered in hell, and vomited forth on earth to be minifiers of its vengeanceMad. Denys.-Mercy on us! my dea: uncle, you frighten me! What a picture you have drawn! Volt-Could I but ftop to finifh it-But I muit proceed with iny confellions, and will not digrets from them again. My enemies have declared that one half of my works are plagiarifius. My friends, I proteft here, in prefence of you all, that I am entirely clear from this charge. 1 have borrowed nothing from any known author; fuch, for example, as Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, and Quinault. Thofe whom I have imitated, may be confined to Lucan, Aretin, and Bayle. In my literary purfuits I have derived very little alliflance from friends. Friend. But the Encyclopædifts! Volt. They are worthy men; they have always spoken well of me; they write to me, and I write to them; they On my word, you have put me to a ftand. Friend. And that embarraffinent of yours requires a clear explanation. I fee well, that policy alone Toit. You have guefled it I have no reafons for loving them: I have, how ever, my obligations to them. I fear them, and Leticem them. Fricud.-Why do you not love them? Volt.-Becaule I am fure they do not love me. Friend-But what obligations have you to them? Volt-They have ftyled me, that great man; and they have chofen me prefident of their fociety. They have cried every where aloud, Papho is a God; they have allitted me in combatting prejudices, in modelling our country, and in polifhing the age, which we have nicknamed philofophicul. Friend. Why do you fear the Encyclopadifts? Volt-Because they rule the public mind defpotically; and if I were to of fend them, they would unfay all they had faid in my favour. They would raife.up prophets against me, and lower the pftimation my works are in. Friend. But why do you efteem them fo little? Volt. Because their philofophy is but quackery; becaufe, like Socrates, they pretend to have their demous; becaufe their works are mere trifles, and because they are exceedingly proud. Friend. Do you still hate M. Lefranc? Volt.-My friend, I forgive him. But his poetry is grating to the ear, and his Memorial to the King is an aukward picce of pleafantry. Friend-And what do you fay with refpect to M. Freron. Volt.-I forgive him too; but upon this condition, that he fhall not write my epitaph. Friend. And with regard to the Abbé Trublet. Volt.-I confefs that I was in the wrong to quarrel with him. He is a good fort of man; and I willingly retract what I have faid againft him in that bitter cauftic poem, which I have intitled The Poor Devil. Friend. And what have you to confefs with refpect to M. Greffet? Volt. I forgive him likewife: but I fhould with, in the new edition of his works which is in preparation, he would frike out from his Méchant a few lines, which my enemies have applied to me. Friend. And as to Chaumeix? Volt.-Oh fic! Friend.-Why do you fay fo! Surely, you do not know that he is writing a book in your praife. Volt. He write in my praife! I do not know how to credit that, The jame Friend.-But nothing is more true. Vol.-Then I forgive him, on condition he never finithes it. Friend. And Father Hayer, and Father Berthier: what fuy you of them? Volt. That I forgive both of them. Friend. But will they forgive you? Come, you must write to every one that has been mentioned. Your letters must be fubmiffive, and in the flyle of a chriftian; and you must beg pardon for any offence you have given. I fee nothing more proper to be done, nor any thing you can do fo diverting. Volt.-What do you mean, my friend, by diverting? Do you look upon my confeffions as a mere banter. Friend. But betwixt ourselves here, it is a laughable matter, and you do not declare every thing. Volt. 3 N 2 Vol.-That, my friend, is artifice. There is nothing more eaty than to declare every thing, but we ought not to do every thing that is eafy. But let us proceed with the letters, which it is recommended to me to write, for I am willing to write them. I will fend for my fecretary this inftant, and dictate each of them. Let us begin with M. Freron. Sir, I am in a dying ftate, and I have been ordered to write to you as I now do. They fay, you have caufe of complaint against me: I know of none. They fay again, I have reafon to complain of you: do not believe a word of it. Forget the injuries I have done you, and I will buy your Journal. Do not print this letter in it. Pardon the fhortness of this epistle, for I am firaitened for time; and you know what it is to write in a hurry. you. I cannot fay I have entirely got rid of it at this moment. The recollection of your former wicked devices male me-but I ought to look over it, and forgive you. You were very young at the time; Maupertuis was your advifer, and you willed to obtain a nape by a quarrel with a man of celebrity. We were of different religions, too; and you hated me, perhaps, because I was a papift. Let us from henceforth be reconciled: do you feek for falvation in your faith, as I will in mine; and let us meet good friends in the other world. I am tired of letter-writing, it fatigues me. Mad. Denys.-I am furprifed, uncle, that you have dictated no letter for the Fathers Hayer and Berthier. Volt.-Oh! I am fure they will forgive me, without my writing to them for the purpofe. You ought to be well fatisfied with me, my friends: In truth, I have found no great difficulty in what I have been doing: there is nothing fo eafy as doing a good action. A Friend. And you have done many in the courfe of your life. Volt. Indeed, I have; churches I have rebuilt, Janfenifts I have burlesqued, I have refined religion, wrote verfes to the Pope, and collected alms for many poor poets. I have given France an epic poem; I have remonftrated against abufes, and fome I have removed-as, for example, the stage-benches in our theatres. I educate, at my own expence, the grand-niece of the celebrated Corneille, and do not make a boast of this act of generofity. I have acquired wealth, I have enjoyed affluence, and led a life of pleafure. I have made myself glorious; and I fhall write to the laft moment of my exilience,But it is high time to clofe my confeffions, for to be tedious is to commit a fin. This converfation held fo long, that M. de Voltaire was exceedingly indif pofed after it; infomuch, that he ap peared to have loft his fpeech. His friends got round him, and thewed him every mark of refpect and attention; but they were not able to induce him to open his mouth. It was in vain that they reprefented the neceffity of his de livering fomething memorable in his laft moments, by way of dying words, after the example of other great philofophers; he still continued obftinately filent. At length one of the company he thought himself of the following expe |