only every other night; and for six months his finances were so low, it
is stated, that he existed on ten cents a week! No wonder that the
sorrows of those days are never mentioned.
His earliest work was painting the tops of bon-bon boxes, and fans. Once
he grew brave enough to take four little sepia drawings to an editor to
illustrate a fairy tale in a magazine for children. The editor said the
drawings were charming, but he could not afford to have them engraved,
and so "returned them with thanks."
His first illustrations in some unknown journal were scenes from the
life of "The Old Bachelor." In the first picture he is represented
making his toilet before the mirror, his wig spread out on the table; in
the second, dining with two friends; in the third, being abused by his
housekeeper; in the fourth, on his death-bed, surrounded by greedy
relations; and in the fifth, the servants ransacking the death-chamber
for the property.
For a universal history he drew figures of Isaiah, St. Paul, and
Charlemagne, besides almost numberless ornamental letters and headings
of chapters. Of course he longed for more remunerative work, for fame;
but he must plod on for months yet. He worked conscientiously, taking
the greatest pains with every detail.
His first picture, exhibited in 1833, when he was twenty-two, called
"The Visitors," an interior view of a house, with an old gentleman
receiving two visitors, all dressed in the costume of James I.,
admirable for its light and shade, was bought by the Society of the
Friends of Art, for twenty dollars. Two years later he made
illustrations for the Bible of the Sieur Raymond, of Holofernes invading
Judea, and Judith appearing before Holofernes. For "Paul and Virginia"
he made forty-three beautiful landscapes. "They contain evidence of long
and careful work in the hot-houses of the 'Jardin des Plantes,' and in
front of the old bric-a-brac dealer's stalls, which used to stand about
the entrance to the Louvre. And how admirably, with the help of these
slowly and scrupulously finished studies, he could reproduce, in an
ornamental letter or floral ornament, a lily broken by the storm, or a
sheaf of Indian arms and musical instruments."
In 1836, his "Chess Players," two men watching intently the moves of
chess, and "The Little Messenger," attracted a crowd of admirers. Each
sold for twenty dollars. He had now struggled for six years in Paris. It
was high time that his unremitting and patient work should find
approval. The people were amazed at so vast an amount of labor in so
small a space. They looked with their magnifying glasses, and found the
work exquisite in detail. They had been accustomed to great canvases,
glowing colors, and heroic or romantic sentiments; but here there was
wonderful workmanship.
When the people began to admire, critics began to criticize. They said
"Meissonier can depict homelike or ordinary scenes, but not historic."
He said nothing, but soon brought out "Diderot" among the philosophers,
Grimm, D'Alembert, Baron Holbach, and others in the seventeenth century.
Then they said he can draw interiors only, and "on a canvas not much
larger than his thumb-nail." He soon produced the "Portrait of the
Sergeant," "one of the most daring experiments in the painting of light,
in modern art. The man stands out there in the open by himself,
literally bathed in light, and he makes a perfect picture." Then they
were sure that he could not paint movement. He replied by painting
"Rixe," two ruffians who are striving to fight, but are withheld by
friends. This was given by Louis Napoleon to the Prince Consort.
Meissonier also showed that he could depict grand scenes, by "Moreau and
Dessoles on the eve of the battle of Hohenlinden," the "Retreat from
Russia," and the "Emperor at Solferino." Into these he put his
admiration for Napoleon the Great, and his adoration for his defeated
country. In the former picture, the two generals are standing on a
precipice, surveying the snow-covered battle-field with a glass; the
trees are bending under a strong wind, and the cloaks of the generals
are fluttering behind them. One feels the power of this picture.
In painting the "Retreat from Russia," the artist borrowed the identical
coat worn by Napoleon, and had it copied, crease for crease, and button
for button. "When I painted that picture," he said, "I executed a great
portion of it out of doors. It was midwinter, and the ground was covered
with snow. Sometimes I sat at my easel for five or six hours together,
endeavoring to seize the exact aspect of the winter atmosphere. My
servant placed a hot foot-stove under my feet, which he renewed from
time to time, but I used to get half-frozen and terribly tired."
He had a wooden horse made in imitation of the white charger of the
Emperor; and seating himself on this, he studied his own figure in a
mirror. His studies for this picture were almost numberless,--a horse's
head, an uplifted leg, cuirasses, helmets, models of horses in red wax,
etc. He also prepared a miniature landscape, strewn with white powder
resembling snow, with models of heavy wheels running through it, that he
might study the furrow made in that terrible march home from burning
Moscow. All this was work,--hard, patient, exacting work.
It had now become evident to the world, and to the critics as well, that
Meissonier was a master; that he was not confined to small canvases nor
home scenes.
In 1855 he received the grand medal; in 1856 he was made an officer of
the Legion of Honor; in 1861, a member of the Institute; and in 1867,
at the International Exhibition, he received the grand medal again. When
the prizes were given by the Emperor, the "Battle of Solferino" was
placed in the centre of the space cleared for the ceremony, with the
works of Reimers, the Russian painter, Knaus of Prussia, Rousseau, the
French landscape-painter, and others. This painting represents Napoleon
III. in front of his staff, looking upon the battle "as a cool player
studies a chess-board. On the right, in the foreground, some
artillery-men are manoeuvring their guns. The corpses of a French
soldier and two white Austrians, torn to rags by some explosion, show
where the battle had passed by."
Meissonier's paintings now brought enormous prices. His "Marshal Saxe
and his Staff" brought eight thousand six hundred dollars in New York;
the "Soldiers at Cards," in 1876, in the same city, eleven thousand five
hundred dollars; in 1867, his "Cavalry Charge" was sold to Mr. Probasco
of Cincinnati, for thirty thousand dollars; and the "Battle of
Friedland," upon which he is said to have worked fifteen years, to A. T.
Stewart, of New York, for sixty thousand dollars. Every figure in this
was drawn from life, and the horses moulded in wax. It represents
Napoleon on horseback, on a slight elevation, his marshals grouped
around him, holding aloft his cocked hat in salutation, as the soldiers
pass hurriedly before him.
Edmund About once wrote, "To cover M. Meissonier's pictures with gold
pieces simply would be to buy them for nothing; and the practice has now
been established of covering them with bank notes."
"The Blacksmith," shoeing a patient old cart-horse, perfect in anatomy;
"La Halte," some soldiers at an inn, now in Hertford House gallery; and
"La Barricade," a souvenir of the civil war, are among the favorite
pictures of this famous man. And yet as one looks at some of the
exquisite work about a convivial scene, the words of the great Boston
painter, William Hunt, come to mind. Being shown a picture, very fine in
technique, by a Munich artist, of a drunken man, holding a half-filled
glass of wine, he said, "It's skilfully done, but _what is_ the _use_ of
_doing_ it! The subject isn't worthy of the painter."
Rarely does a woman appear in Meissonier's pictures. He has done nothing
to deprave morals, which is more than can be said of some French art.
His portrait of Madame Henri Thenard was greatly admired, while that of
Mrs. Mackay was not satisfactory, and was said to have been destroyed by
her. Few persons, however, can afford to destroy a Meissonier. When told
once that "he was a fortunate man, as he could possess as many
Meissoniers as he pleased," he replied, "No, no, I cannot; that would
ruin me. They are a great deal too dear."
He lives in the Boulevard Malesherbes, near the lovely Parc Monceau, in
the heart of the artists' quarter in Paris. His handsome home, designed
by himself in every detail, is in the Italian Renaissance style. He has
two studies,--one a quiet nook, where he can escape interruptions; and
one very large, where are gathered masterpieces from every part of the
world. Here is "a courtyard of the time of Louis XIII., brilliantly
crowded with figures in gala dress; a bride of the same period, stepping
into an elegant carriage of a crimson color, for which Meissonier had a
miniature model built by a coach-maker, to study from; a superb work of
Titian,--a figure of an Italian woman in a robe of green velvet, the
classic outline of her head shown against a crimson velvet curtain in
the background; a sketch of Bonaparte on horseback, at the head of his
picturesquely dressed staff, reviewing the young conscripts of the army
of Italy, who are cheering as he passes;" and many more valuable
pictures. Here, too, are bridles of black leather, with silver
ornaments, once the property of Murat.
One picture here, of especial interest, was painted at his summer home
at Poissy, when his house was crowded with German soldiers in the war of
1871. "To escape their company," says M. Claretie, "in the rage that he
experienced at the national defeat, he shut himself up in his studio,
and threw upon the canvas the most striking, the most vivid, the most
avenging of allegories: he painted Paris, enveloped in a veil of
mourning, defending herself against the enemy, with her soldiers and
her dying grouped round a tattered flag; sailors, officers, and
fusiliers, soldiers, national guards, suffering women, and dying
children; and, hovering in the air above them, with the Prussian eagle
by her side, was Famine, wan and haggard Famine, accomplishing the work
that the bombardment had failed to achieve."
His summer home, like the one in Paris, is fitted up luxuriously. He
designed most of the furniture and the silver service for his table.
Flowers, especially geraniums and tea roses, blossom in profusion about
the grounds, while great trees and fountains make it a restful and
inviting place. The walls of the dining-room are hung with crimson and
gold satin damask, against which are several of his own pictures. An
engraver at work, clad in a red dressing-gown, and seated in a room hung
with ancient tapestry, has the face of his son Charles, also an artist,
looking out from the frame. One of Madame Meissonier also adorns this
room.
Near by are his well-filled stables, his favorite horse, Rivoli, being
often used for his model. He is equally fond of dogs, and has several
expensive hounds. How strange all this, compared with those early days
of pinching poverty! He is rarely seen in public, because he has
learned--what, alas! some people learn too late in life--that there is
no success without one commands his or her time. It must be frittered
away neither by calls nor parties; neither by idle talk nor useless
visits. Painting or writing for an hour a day never made greatness. Art
and literature will give no masterships except to devotees. The young
lady, sauntering down town to look at ribbons, never makes a George
Eliot. The young man, sauntering down town to look at the buyers of
ribbons, never makes a Meissonier. Nature is rigid in her laws. Her
gifts only grow to fruitage in the hands of workers.
Meissonier is now seventy-four, with long gray beard and hair, round,
full face, and bright hazel eyes. His friend, Claretie, says of him,
"This man, who lives in a palace, is as moderate as a soldier on the
march. This artist, whose canvases are valued by the half-million, is as
generous as a nabob. He will give to a charity sale a picture worth the
price of a house. Praised as he is by all, he has less conceit in his
nature than a wholesale painter."
* * * * *
January 31, 1891, at his home in Paris, the great artist passed away.
His illness was very brief. The funeral services took place at the
Church of the Madeleine, which was thronged with the leaders of art and
letters. An imposing military cortege accompanied the body to its last
resting-place at Poissy, the summer home of the artist, on the Seine,
ten miles from Versailles.
[Illustration: GEORGE WILLIAM CHILDS.]
GEORGE W. CHILDS.
The "Public Ledger" of Philadelphia, and its owner, are known the world
over. Would we see the large-hearted, hospitable millionaire, who has
come to honor through his own industry, let us enter the elegant
building occupied by his newspaper.
Every portion is interesting. The rooms where editors and assistants
work are large, light, and airy, and as tasteful as parlors. Alas! how
unhomelike and barren are some of the newspaper offices, where gifted
men toil from morning till night, with little time for sleep, and still
less for recreation. Mr. Childs has thought of the comfort and health of
his workmen, for he, too, was a poor boy, and knows what it is to labor.
He has also been generous with his men in the matter of wages. "He
refused to reduce the rate of payment of his compositors,
notwithstanding that the Typographical Union had formerly sanctioned a
reduction, and notwithstanding that the reduced scale was operative in
every printing-office in Philadelphia except his own. He said, 'My
business is prosperous; why should not my men share in my prosperity?'
This act of graciousness, while it endeared him to the hearts of his
beneficiaries, was commented on most favorably at home and abroad. That
his employes, in a formal interview with him, expressed their
willingness to accept the reduced rates, simply augments the generosity
of his act." Strikes among laborers would be few and far between if
employers were like George W. Childs.
Each person in his employ has a summer vacation of two or more weeks,
his wages being continued meantime, and paid in advance, with a liberal
sum besides. On Christmas every man, woman, and boy receives a present,
amounting, of course, to many thousands of dollars annually. Mr. Childs
has taken care of many who have become old or disabled in his service.
The foreman of his composing-room had worked for him less than twelve
months before he failed in health. For years this man has drawn his
weekly pay, though never going to the establishment. This is indeed
practical Christianity.
Besides caring for the living, in 1868 this wise employer of labor
purchased two thousand feet in Woodlands for a printers' cemetery, and
gave it to the Philadelphia Typographical Society, with a sum of money
to keep the grounds in good order yearly. The first person buried beyond
the handsome marble gothic gateway was a destitute and aged printer who
had died at the almshouse and whose dying message to Mr. Childs was that
he could not bear to fill a pauper's grave. His wish was cordially
granted.
But after seeing the admirable provision made for his workmen, we must
enter the private office of Mr. Childs. He is most accessible to all,
with no airs of superior position, welcoming persons from every clime
daily, between the hours of eleven and one. He listens courteously to
any requests, and then bids you make yourself at home in this elegant
office, that certainly has no superior in the world, perhaps no rival.
The room itself in the Queen Anne style, with exquisite wood-carving,
marble tiles, brass ornaments, and painted glass, is a gem. Here is his
motto, a noble one, and thoroughly American, "Nihil sine labore," and
well his life has illustrated it. All honor to every man or woman who
helps to make labor honored in this country. The design of the ceiling
was suggested by a room in Coombe Abbey, Warwickshire, the seat of the
Earls Craven, fitted up by one of its lords for the reception of Queen
Elizabeth. Over a dozen valuable clocks are seen, one made in Amsterdam
over two hundred years ago, which, besides the time of day, gives the
phases of the moon, the days of the week, and the month; another, a
clock constructed by David Rittenhouse, the astronomer of the
Revolution, in the old colonial days, which plays a great variety of
music, has a little planetarium attached, and nearly six thousand teeth
in wheels. It was made for Joseph Potts, who paid six hundred and forty
dollars for it. The Spanish Minister in 1778 offered eight hundred for
it, that he might present it to his sovereign. Mr. Childs has about
fifty rare clocks in his various homes, one of these costing six
thousand dollars.
Here is a marble statuette of Savonarola, the Florentine preacher of the
fifteenth century; the little green harp which belonged to Tom Moore,
and on which he used to play in the homes of the great; a colossal suit
of antique French armor, one hundred and fifty years old; a miniature
likeness of George Washington, handsomely encased in gold, bequeathed by
him to a relative, a lock of his hair in the back of the picture; a
miniature ship, made from the wood of the _Alliance Frigate_, the only
one of our first navy, of the class of frigates, which escaped capture
or destruction during the Revolutionary war. This boat, and a silver
waiter, presented after the famous battle of New Orleans, were both the
property of President Jackson, and were taken by him to the Hermitage.
Here, also, is a photograph of "Old Ironsides" Stewart, in a frame made
from the frigate _Constitution_, in which great victories were achieved,
besides many portraits given by famous people, with their autographs.
After a delightful hour spent in looking at these choice things, Mr.
Childs bids us take our choice of some rare china cups and saucers. We
choose one dainty with red birds, and carry it away as a pleasant
remembrance of a princely giver, in a princely apartment.
Mr. Childs has had a most interesting history. Born in Baltimore, he
entered the United States navy at thirteen, where he remained for
fifteen months. At fourteen he came to Philadelphia, poor, but with
courage and a quick mind, and found a place to work in a bookstore. Here
he remained for four years, doing his work faithfully, and to the best
of his ability. At the end of these years he had saved a few hundred
dollars, and opened a little store for himself in the Ledger Building,
where the well-known newspaper, the "Public Ledger," was published.
He was ambitious, as who is not, that comes to prominence; and one day
he made the resolution that he would sometime be the owner of this great
paper and its building! Probably had this resolution been known, his
acquaintances would have regarded the youth as little less than crazy.
But the boy who willed this had a definite aim. Besides, he was never
idle, he was economical, his habits were the best, and why should not
such a boy succeed?
In three years, when he was twenty-one, he had become the head of a
publishing house,--Childs & Peterson. He had a keen sense of what the
public needed. He brought out Kane's "Arctic Expedition," from which the
author, Dr. Kane, realized seventy thousand dollars. Two hundred
thousand copies of Peterson's "Familiar Science" were sold. Allibone
dedicated his great work, "Dictionary of English and American Authors,"
to the energetic and appreciative young publisher.
He had now acquired wealth, sooner almost than he could have hoped.
Before him were bright prospects as a publisher; but the prize that he
had set out to win was to own the "Public Ledger."
The opportunity came in December, 1864. But his paper was losing money.
His friends advised against taking such a burden; he would surely fail.
But Mr. Childs had faith in himself. He expected to win where others
lost. He bought the property, doubled the subscription rates, lowered
the advertising, excluded everything questionable from the columns of
his paper, made his editorials brief, yet comprehensive, until under his
judicious management the journal reached the large circulation of ninety
thousand daily. For ten years he has given the "Ledger Almanac" to every
subscriber, costing five thousand dollars annually. The yearly profits,
it is stated, have been four hundred thousand dollars. All this has not
been accomplished without thought and labor.
Fortune, of course, had come, and fame. He built homes, elegant ones, in
Philadelphia and at Newport, but these are not simply places in which to
spend money, but centres of hospitality and culture.
His library is one of the most charming places in this country. The
wood-work is carved ebony with gold, the bookshelves six feet high on
every side, and the ceiling built in sunken panels, blue and gold. In
the centre is a table made from ebony, brought from Africa by Paul du
Chaillu. One looks with interest upon the handsome volumes of the
standard authors, but other things are of deeper interest.
Here is an original sermon of Rev. Cotton Mather; the poems of Leigh
Hunt, which he presented to Charles Dickens; the original manuscript of
Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Consular Experiences"; the first edition of the
"Scarlet Letter," with a note to Mr. Childs from the great novelist;
Bryant's manuscript of the "First Book of the Iliad"; James Russell
Lowell's "June Idyl," begun in 1850 and finished eighteen years
afterward; the manuscript of James Fenimore Cooper's "Life of Captain
Richard Somers"; and Edgar Allan Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue,"
seventeen pages of large paper written small and close.
Here is an autograph letter from Poe, in which he offers to his
publishers thirty-three short stories, enough to fill two large volumes,
"On the terms which you allowed me before; that is, you receive all
profits and allow me twenty copies for distribution to friends." From
this it seems that Poe had the _usual_ struggles of literary people.
One of the most unique things of the library is the manuscript of "Our
Mutual Friend," bound in fine brown morocco. The skeleton of the novel
is written through several pages, showing how carefully Dickens thought
out his plan and his characters; the paper is light blue, written over
with dark blue ink, with many erasures and changes. Here are also
fifty-six volumes of Dickens' works, with an autograph letter in each,
from the author to Mr. Childs. Here is Lord Byron's desk on which he
wrote "Don Juan." Now we look upon the smallest book ever printed,
Dante's "Divina Commedia," bound in Turkey gilt, less than two and
one-fourth inches long by one and one-half inches wide.
The collection of Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, now the property of Mr.
Childs, letters and manuscripts from Lamb, Hawthorne, Mary Somerville,
Harriet Martineau, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Browning, and hundreds of
others, is of almost priceless value. In 1879 Mrs. Hall gave the Bible
of Tom Moore to Mr. Childs, "an honored and much loved citizen of the
United States, as the best and most valuable offering she could make to
him, as a grateful tribute of respect, regard, and esteem."
Another valuable book is made up of the portraits of the presidents,
with an autograph letter from each. Dom Pedro of Brazil sent, in 1876, a
work on his empire, with his picture and his autograph. George Peabody
sat for a full-length portrait for Mr. Childs. The album of Mrs. Childs
contains the autographs of a great number of the leading men and women
of the world.
One could linger here for days, but we must see the lovely country-seat
called "Wootton," some distance out from the city. The house is in Queen
Anne style, surrounded by velvety lawns, a wealth of evergreen and
exquisite plants, brought over from South America and Africa. The farm
adjoining is a delight to see. Here is the dairy built of white
flintstone, while the milkroom has stained glass windows, as though it
were a chapel. The beautiful grounds are open every Thursday to
visitors.