Pew and pulpit have fallen over each other for the privilege of hitting Darwin; a Bishop warns his congregation that Emerson is “dangerous”; Spurgeon calls Shelley a sensualist; Doctor Buckley speaks of Susan B. Anthony as the leader of “the short-haired”; Talmage cracks jokes about evolution, referring feelingly to “monkey ancestry”; and a prominent divine of England writes the World’s Congress of Religions down as “pious waxworks.”  These things being true, and all the sentiments quoted coming from “good” but blindly zealous men, is it a wonder that the Artist is not understood?

A brilliant picture, called “Cologne—­Evening,” attracted much attention at the Academy Exhibition of Eighteen Hundred Twenty-six.  One day the people who so often collected around Turner’s work were shocked to see that the beautiful canvas had lost its brilliancy, and evidently had been tampered with by some miscreant.  A friend ran to inform Turner of the bad news.  “Don’t say anything.  I only smirched it with lampblack.  It was spoiling the effect of Laurence’s picture that hung next to it.  The black will all wash off after the Exhibition.”

And his tender treatment of his aged father shows the gentle side of his nature.  The old barber, whose trembling hand could no longer hold a razor, wished to remain under his son’s roof in guise of a servant; but the son said, “No; we fought the world together, and now that it seeks to do me honor, you shall share all the benefits.”  And Turner never smiled when the little, wizened, old man would whisper to some visitor, “Yes, yes; Joseph is the greatest artist in England, and I am his father.”

Turner had a way of sending ten-pound notes in blank envelopes to artists in distress, and he did this so frequently that the news got out finally, but never through Turner’s telling, and then he had to adopt other methods of doing good by stealth.

I do not contend that Turner’s character was immaculate, but still it is very probable that worldlings do not appreciate what a small part of this great genius touched the mire.

To prove the sordidness of the man, one critic tells, with visage awfully solemn, how Turner once gave an engraving to a friend and then, after a year, sent demanding it back.  But to a person with a groat’s worth of wit the matter is plain:  the dreamy, abstracted artist, who bumped into his next-door neighbors on the street and never knew them, forgot he had given the picture and believed he had only loaned it.  This is made still more apparent by the fact that, when he sent for the engraving in question, he administered a rebuke to the man for keeping it so long.  The poor dullard who received the note flew into a rage—­returned the picture—­sent his compliments and begged the great artist to “take your picture and go to the devil.”

Then certain scribblers, who through mental disease had lost the capacity for mirth, dipped their pen in aqua fortis and wrote of the “innate meanness,” the “malice prepense” and the “Old Adam” which dwelt in the heart of Turner.  No one laughed except a few Irishmen, and an American or two, who chanced to hear of the story.