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Updated: June 2, 2025
He possesses great originality and the passionate spirit of a 'paysagiste': pictures of provincial life and family-interiors seem to appeal to his most pronounced sympathies. His taste is delicate, his style healthy and frank, and at the same time limpid and animated. After receiving, in 1890, the Prix Vitet for the ensemble of his literary productions, he was elected to the Academy in 1896.
Sir David was born in 1838, consequently he is now eighty-two years old. One of my brothers has still in his keeping a very large gold medal. One side of it bears the effigy of "Napoleon III., Empereur des Francais." The other side testifies that it is the "Premier Prix d'Avirons de la Mediterrannee, 1866."
"Be kind enough never to mention the Grand Prix in my hearing," said Treddleford desperately; "it awakens acutely distressing memories. I can't explain why without going into a long and complicated story." "Oh, certainly, certainly," said Amblecope hastily; long and complicated stories that were not told by himself were abominable in his eyes.
The omission of Munch from the honor list is really a tribute to his eminence. An artist who has won the Grand Prix at Rome and awards in every other European capital was deemed outside of competition here. Axel Gallen-Kallela, the celebrated Finnish painter, winner of the Exposition's medal of honor, fills another room in the Annex.
And observe that I curse what they agree to call realism, although they make me one of its high priests; reconcile all that. As for the public, its taste disgusts me more and more. Yesterday, for instance, I was present at the first night of the Prix Martin, a piece of buffoonery that, for my part, I think full of wit.
Simphorien de Marmagne, in the department of La Cote d'Or. Acicular arsenical lead ore, at St. Prix, in the department of Saone and Loire. This substance was found among some piles of rubbish, near old works made for exploring a vein of lead ore, which lies at the foot of a mountain to the north-east, and at three quarters of a league from the commune of St. Prix.
It was at this moment, as she sat, an idle, desultory, neither happy nor unhappy woman, rapidly growing old, watching the century draw to a close amid chaos and misery, it was at this moment that an eccentric English prelate, Lord Bristol, Bishop of Derry, introduced at the house on the Lung Arno a friend of his, a French painter, a former pupil of David, and who had won the Prix de Rome, by name François Xavier Fabre.
All the rest is Latin; and all the Latin words were abridged, according to the custom and genius of the nations of the north; thus from palatium, palais; from lupus, loup; from Auguste, août; from Junius, juin; from unctus, oint; from purpura, pourpre; from pretium, prix, etc. Hardly were there left any vestiges of the Greek tongue, which had been so long spoken at Marseilles.
Do you remember, my dear Madame de Camps, that in 1831 you and I went together to the Beaux-Arts to see the exhibition of works which were competing for the Grand Prix in sculpture? The subject given out for competition was Niobe weeping for her children. Do you also remember my indignation at one of the competing works around which the crowd was so compact that we could scarcely approach it?
The last first recognised him, though he never finished the projected study of him as man and artist. It was the author of Les Fleurs du Mal who made the clever little verse about "Ce tant bizarre Monsieur Rops... Qui n'est pas un grand prix de Rome, mais dont le talent est haut, comme la pyramide de Chéops."
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