Wheeling Times And Advertiser

"Translated" for the Boston Atlas.

The last year, which had already deprived us of so many illustrious men, whose loss we universally regretted, seemed unwilling to take its leave of us without carrying with it at least one of the most remarkable artists of the present age. Charlet is dead. The most expressive and the most faithful painter of scenes of popular life, as well as of the military exploits in the days of the empire, had been taken from us. Charlet lived in the midst of his models, in the midst of that people and of those old soldiers whom his pencil sketched with sure nerve and fidelity. Many a time, like Latilla, has made use of the table of a public house in the outskirts of a city for his easel. He was indeed an excellent man, possessing a warm heart and a soul that was open to every noble sentiment and full of great thoughts. The history of his private life is all of original, striking and amusing traits of character. One of the distinguishing traits of the character of Charlet was his passion for the service of the national guard. Enrolled as a common soldier in the ranks of the city militia, he very soon rose through his merits, to the rank of the chief of a battalion. The military costume was admirably adapted to the painter of the soldier of the empire; the manners of the old trooper were to be seen under the uniform of the national guard, and produced a complete illusion. He relinquished his epaulettes and resigned his sword from a feeling of discontent it is said, at having been refused the appointment of director of the museum of Versailles. Yet who could have been more worthy than he to have had under his care that gallery consecrated to the representation of our warlike exploits?

Charlet had always an insurmountable aversion to the persons who made great pretensions or who were much decked out with ornaments. He could not endure those pretended amateurs and protectors of the fine arts who profess a great esteem for fine painting in the same way they would for handsome furniture, well made clothes, or well polished boots. When one of these patrons, inflated with vanity, expressed a desire for one of his master-pieces, Charlet would say to him: "Come and select one." And he would conduct the elegant amateur to the outskirts of the city.

This was his favorite amusement. He delighted to contemplate the disdainful embarrassment of the gentlemen who felt bewildered and lost by his situation, he would make him enter an inn, compel him to seat himself before an ordinary table, he would pour him out a glass of the most ordinary wine, he would call about him two or three workmen, whom he would invite to share it with them, and this refined exquisite would be compelled to drink their health. Charlet often amused himself with this recreation, and each time with new enjoyment.

The witty artist found an ingenious means of escaping the annoyance of those importunate visitors who are the scourge of the rooms of artists.

One day one of these disagreeable visitors, whom he hardly knew, but who presumed to be very familiar with him, said to him with an overstrained compliment:

"My dear Charlet, the friendship of a great man is a gift of the gods! at least so says a poet whose name I do not know, but whose sentiments I appreciate. I therefore propose to cultivate your acquaintance."

"I feel very much flattered," replied Charlet, "by what you say; I cannot but feel honored by your visits; but then I live at such a distance."

"No matter. I am very fond of exercise."

"And then I am not always at home."

"Oh! I shall easily find some time in which you will be in."

"My dear sir," replied the artist, "your urgency moves me, but I do not wish to be behind-hand with you, and you will permit me to return your visits. Be so good as to give me your address?"

"What! will you so far incommode yourself, you whose moments are so precious, to come and see me?"

"Oh, not at all, I assure you, where do you live?"

Charlet opened his memorandum book took out his pencil, and closely eyed his obtrusive acquaintance. He needed but a look; while he who was so anxious to be his friend was describing to him his abode, the artist, instead of writing his address, was sketching the face of the intruder. This required but a few strokes of the pencil, but the resemblance was perfect. Then on his return to his house, he tore out the leaf of his memorandum book, handed it to his porter, and said to him:

"You see this drawing? Keep it carefully, and whenever the original presents himself, tell him I am not at home."

The porter faithfully observed these directions, and whenever the disagreeable visitor presented himself, which he did very often, he was always sure to be repulsed.

The idea was so good that Charlet soon turned it to good account. Whenever he was threatened by a disagreeable visit he would hastily sketch the face of the bore, which the intelligent porter would put in an album which he kept for the purpose. He soon had a very large collection.

Whenever a stranger presented himself and inquired if Monsieur Charlet was at home, the porter would eye him attentively, and then would carefully examine the book of proscribed faces.

"Well!" the visitor would add, "did you not hear me?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Why do you not answer me, then?"

"Excuse me one moment; did you say you wished to see Monsieur Charlet?" continued the imperturbable porter, still continuing his researches.

"Certainly I did."

"Ah, now I see what I was looking for; there can be no mistake in it!

"Will you tell me, sir, if Monsieur Charlet is at home?"

"No sir, he has gone out."

"Are you very sure of it?"

"What! am I sure? the resemblance is perfectly striking!"

The disappointed visitor withdrew, muttering to himself, "was there ever such an odd porter!"