The Fenland capital--Mother and daughter towns--“Boston stump”--One
church built over another--The company at our inn--A desultory
ramble--An ancient prison--The Pilgrim Fathers--The banks of the
Witham--Hussey Tower--An English Arcadia--Kyme Castle--Benington--A
country of many churches--Wrangle--In search of a ghost--A remote
village--Gargoyles--The grotesque in art.
Boston, that proudly calls itself “the capital of Fenland,” struck us as
a quaint old town, prosperous and busy, but not restless, with somewhat
of a Dutch look about it, yet, notwithstanding, intensely English. A
dreamy place in spite of its prosperity, dreamy but not dull; quaint
perhaps rather than picturesque--a delightful, unspoilt old-world town,
with an indescribable flavour of the long-ago about it, a spot where the
poetry of a past civilisation lingers yet; a commercial town that is not
ugly!
St. Botolph’s town, as our American cousins love to call it, is one of
the shrines of the “Old Country,” competing for first place with
Stratford-on-Avon in the heart of the New England pilgrim, for is not
storied Boston the mother of its modern namesake across the wide
Atlantic? However, we know that “a prophet hath no honour in his own
country,” so whilst numberless American travellers have expressed their
delight at this old Lincolnshire town, and Longfellow and other American
poets have sung its praises in verse, the average Englishman appears to
regard it hardly at all, and scarcely ever to visit it except under
compulsion, and has even sung its dispraises in doggerel thus:--
Boston! Boston!
Thou hast naught to boast on
But a grand sluice and a high steeple,
A proud, conceited, ignorant people,
And a coast where souls are lost on.
[Sidenote: _FROM TWO POINTS OF VIEW_]
But the charm of Boston, as indeed that of most places, depends upon
sentiment and seeing, whether you look upon it with poetic or prosaic
eyes. A famous English engineer once told me that he considered a modern
express locomotive a most beautiful thing, and it was so in his eyes!
“Unless a thing be strong it cannot be beautiful,” was his axiom.
Weakness, or even the idea of weakness, was an abomination to him, so
that the tumble-down cottage, with its uneven roof bent into graceful
curves that an artist so delights in, was simple ugliness to him.
It was meet that here we should “take our ease” in an ancient hostelry,
and that we should have our breakfast served in a pleasant low-ceilinged
parlour, whose panelled walls had an aroma of other days and other ways
about them, and suggested to our imaginative minds many a bit of
unrecorded romance. With a romancer’s license we pictured that
old-fashioned chamber peopled by past-time travellers who had come by
coach or had posted by private chaise, and mingled with these was a
bluff ship captain of the wild North Sea, all making merry over their
glasses and jokes. The modern traveller in the modern hotel is alas!
less sociable, and takes himself over seriously, and seldom even smiles.
But happily there seems to be something about the old English inn that
thaws the formality and taciturnity out of strangers. I think this must
be due to the sense of homeliness and comfort that pervades it, with the
delightful absence of all pretence and show.
From our inn we looked across the wide market square right on to the
splendid and spacious church with its tall and graceful tower, a
veritable triumph of the builder’s craft. It chanced to be market-day,
and so the large square was filled with stalls, and was chiefly in the
possession of picturesquely-clad country folk displaying their
goods,--fruits, flowers, vegetables, eggs, poultry, and the like, whilst
the townsfolk gathered round to make their purchases, the transactions
being carried on with much mutual bargaining and leisurely chattering;
and the hum of many blended voices came upwafted to us, not as a
disturbing noise, but with a slumberous sound as restful as the summer
droning of innumerable bees. The ear may be trained to listen with
pleasure, as well as the eye to discern with delight, and it is the
peace-suggesting country sounds, the clean, fresh air laden with sweet
odours from flower, field, and tree, as well as the vision, that cause a
rural ramble to be so rewarding and so enjoyable. There must surely be
something in the moist air of the Fenland that makes musical melody of
noises; for we noticed that even the clanging of bells, the shrill
whistling of locomotives, and the metallic rush of trains seemed
strangely and pleasantly mellowed there; moreover, the traffic on the
stony streets of Boston appeared subdued, and had none of that
nerve-irritating din that rises so often from the London thoroughfares.
[Sidenote: _FROM AN INN WINDOW_]
It was a morning of sunshine and shower, an April day that had lost
itself in September, and not readily shall I forget the shifting scene
below with its moving mosaic of colour, nor the effect of the constantly
changing light and shade on the stately church tower. Now it would be a
deep purple-gray, dark almost to blackness as seen against a mass of
white vapour, then suddenly it would be all lightened up to a pale
orange tint against a sombre rain-cloud, its tracery and sculpturings
outlined by the delicate shadows they cast, giving them a soft effect as
of stone embroidery. A wonderfully effective and beautiful structure is
this tower, and, in my opinion, after Salisbury’s soaring spire, the
most beautiful and graceful in England, which is saying much in a land
where so many fine examples of ecclesiastical architecture abound. This
splendid church of St. Botolph arose out of the piety and prosperity of
a past generation. History has it that it was built over a small Norman
church that formerly stood on the site, and that worship went on in the
earlier structure during the time of building, and not until the new
edifice was completed was the ancient one removed--a curious, and I
should imagine a unique fact, that may account for the great height and
size of the nave.
It being market-day, we sought the bar of our hotel for a while, in
order to study any odd characters we might perchance find gathered
there, and we discovered a curious mixture of agricultural and town
folk, with a sprinkling of seafaring men. The talk was as varied as the
company. During the general hum of conversation we could not help
noticing how many expressions were used manifestly of nautical origin,
though they were employed apparently wholly by landsmen in concerns
having no connection with the sea or shipping. We jotted down some of
these as follows, just as they came to us:--“He’s been on the rocks so
lately”; “he’s in smooth water now”; “it’s all plain sailing”; “it’s not
all above board”; “he had to take in sail”; “now stow that away”; “it
took the wind out of his sails”; “any port in a storm, you know”--and
others of a like nature. A civil engineer with whom we got into
conversation here, and who we gleaned was employed on the Fen drainage,
expressed his unstinted admiration for the old Roman embankment that
still follows the contour of a goodly portion of the Lincolnshire coast,
and was designed and constructed as a bulwark against the encroachments
of the sea, a purpose it has admirably served. This embankment, he told
us, was in the main as strong and serviceable, in spite of ages of
neglect, as when first raised all those long and eventful centuries ago;
and furthermore, he stated as his honest opinion that, in spite of all
our boasted advantages and progress, we could not to-day construct such
enduring work.
Wandering in a desultory fashion about the
[Sidenote: _THE MAKING OF HISTORY_]
rambling old town, we came across a quaint old half-timber building
known as Shodfriars Hall, that, with its gable-ends facing the street
and projecting upper stories, showed how picturesquely our ancestors
built. How pleasantly such an arrangement of gables breaks the skyline
and gives it an interest that is so sadly wanting in our modern towns!
Then we chanced upon the old town hall with its ancient and historic
prisons; these consist of iron cages ranged along one side of the gloomy
interior, cages somewhat resembling those that the lions and tigers are
accommodated with at the zoological gardens, but minus the light,
sunshine, and fresh air that the latter possess. Here in these small
cages, within the dark and dreary hall, some of the Pilgrim Fathers were
confined, and most uncomfortable they must have been; but they were men
with stout hearts and dauntless spirits--men who made history in spite
of circumstance! The sailing of the little ship _Mayflower_ from Boston,
in 1620, with the Pilgrim Fathers on board was at the time a seemingly
trivial event, yet it has left its mark in the annals of the world; and
in new America of to-day to trace your descent to one of that little and
humble band is to be more than lord, or duke, or king! Some there are
who have made light of the episode of the sailing of those few brave men
for an unknown world across the wide and stormy ocean solely because
they would be free:--
Thou who makest the tale thy mirth,
Consider that strip of Christian earth
On the desolate shore of a sailless sea
Full of terror and mystery,
Half-redeemed from the evil hold
Of the wood so dreary, and dark, and old,
Which drank with its lips of leaves the dew
When Time was young and the world was new,
And wove its shadows with sun and moon,
Ere the stones of Cheops were square and hewn--
Think of the sea’s dread monotone,
Of the mournful wail from the pinewood blown,
Of the strange, vast splendours that lit the North,
Of the troubled throes of the quaking earth,
And the dismal tales the Indians told.
Seated safely and comfortably in a cosy arm-chair, how easy it is to
sneer!
Then wandering on we espied a charming specimen of old-world building in
the shape of an ancient grammar school, beautified with the bloom of
centuries, which was, we learnt by a Latin inscription thereon, built in
the year 1567. This interesting and picturesque structure is approached
from the road by a courtyard, the entrance to which is through a fine
old wrought-iron gateway. Verily Boston is a town of memories; its
buildings are histories, and oftentimes pictures!
Not far away, on the opposite side of the road, stands a
comfortable-looking red-brick building of two stories in the so-called
Queen Anne style. It is an unpretentious but home-like structure,
noteworthy as being the birthplace of Jean Ingelow, the popular
Lincolnshire poetess and novelist. Then to our right the houses ceased,
and the slow-gliding and, let it be honestly confessed, muddy river
Witham took their place. Here and there the stream was crossed by
ferry-boats, to which you descend by
[Illustration: A BIT OF BOSTON.]
[Sidenote: _RIVERSIDE BOSTON_]
wooden steps, and in which you are paddled over in that primitive but
picturesque old-fashioned manner at the cost of a penny. Here also, by
some timber landing-stages, were anchored sundry sea-beaten fishing
smacks that, with their red-tanned sails and sun-browned sailors on
board mending their nets, made a very effective picture, so effective
that we needs must spend a good hour sketching and photographing them
(an engraving of one of our sketches will be found herewith). Along the
banks of this river the artist may find ample material--“good stuff,” in
painter’s slang--for brush or pencil, and the amateur photographer a
most profitable hunting-ground. Even the old warehouses on the opposite
side of the river are paintable, being pleasing in outline and good in
colour--a fact proving that commercial structures need not of necessity
be ugly, though alas! they mostly are. Then rambling on in a
delightfully aimless fashion, at the same time keeping our eyes well
open for the picturesque, we chanced, in a field a little beyond the
outskirts of the town, upon an old ruined red-brick tower, standing
there alone in crumbling and pathetic solitude. We learnt that this was
called Hussey Tower, and that it was erected by Lord Hussey about 1500,
who was beheaded in the reign of Henry VIII. for being concerned in the
Lincolnshire rebellion. So one drives about country and learns or
re-learns history as the case may be.
We bade a reluctant good-bye to old-world and storied Boston one bright,
breezy morning, and soon found ourselves once again in the open country,
with all Nature around us sunny and smiling. Boston was interesting,
but the country was beautiful. The landscape had a delightfully fresh
look after the frequent showers of the previous day; the moisture had
brought out the colour and scent of everything. The air, wind-swept and
rain-washed, was clear, and cool, and sweet, and simply to breathe it
was a pleasure. As we journeyed on we rejoiced in the genial sunshine
and the balmy breezes that tempered its warmth and gently rustled the
leaves of the trees by the way, making a soft, subdued musical melody
for us, not unlike the sound of a lazy summer sea toying with some sandy
shore--breezes that, as they passed by, caused rhythmic waves to follow
one another over the long grasses in the fields, and set the sails of
the windmills near at hand and far away a-whirling round and round at a
merry pace.
Everywhere we glanced was movement, in things inanimate as well as
living; the birds, too, were in a lively mood, and much in welcome
evidence (what would the country be without birds? those cheery
companions of the lonely wanderer!). Even the fat rooks gave vent to
their feelings of satisfaction by contented if clamorous cawing as they
sailed by us in merry company overhead, for, be it noted, rooks can caw
contentedly and discontentedly, and the two caws are very different.
Rooks are knowing birds too, and they appear to possess a considerable
amount of what we term instinct. We all know the old saying that rats
desert an unseaworthy ship. Whether this be true or not I cannot tell,
but I believe that rooks desert an unsafe tree. I lived
[Sidenote: _THE WAYS OF ROOKS_]
near a rookery once, and studied their ways and character. There were
several nests in one big elm tree, a sturdy-looking tree, and apparently
a favourite with the rooks. One year, for a purpose I could not divine,
all the nests in this tree were deserted, and fresh ones built in
another elm near by. Within a few months after its desertion by the
rooks the former tree was blown down in an exceptionally heavy gale,
though, till the gale came, it had shown no signs of weakness. Other big
trees in the same wood were laid low at the same time, but not one of
those that the rooks inhabited was damaged even in branch.
The weather was simply perfect, the sky overhead was as blue as a June
sea; it was a joy to be in the country on such a day, when earth seemed
a veritable Paradise, and pain and death a bad dream. There is a virtue
at times in the art of forgetting! for, when the world looks so fair,
one desires to be immortal! “Around God’s throne,” writes Olive
Schreiner, “there may be choirs and companies of angels, cherubim and
seraphim rising tier above tier, but not for one of them all does the
soul cry aloud. Only, perhaps, for a little human woman full of sin that
it once loved.” So there may be golden cities in Paradise paved with
priceless gems, yet not for these does my soul hunger, but for the
restful green fields and the pastoral peacefulness of our English
Arcadia, with its musical melody of wandering streams and sense of
untold repose. Did not Mr. Andrew Carnegie, the American millionaire,
who once drove through the heart of England from Brighton to Inverness,
on arriving at the latter town, send a telegram to a friend, saying, “We
arrived at the end of _Paradise_ this evening”? There is something very
lovable about the English landscape; where grander scenes excite your
admiration, it wins your affections, and will not let them go again, it
nestles so near your heart. I have beheld the finest scenery the earth
has to show, oftentimes with almost awe-struck admiration, but only the
peace-bestowing English scenery have I ever felt to love!
About two miles on our way, and a little to the right of our road, we
observed Kyme’s ancient tower uprising amidst surrounding foliage; this
picturesque relic of past days gave a special interest and character to
the prospect with its flavour of old-world romance. The solitary tower
is all that remains of the once stately abode of the Kymes; it is now
incorporated with a homely farmstead, and tells its own story of fallen
fortunes.
Driving on we soon reached a wide dyke, which we crossed on an ancient
bridge; here a lonely wayside inn proclaimed itself on its sign with the
comprehensive title of “The Angler’s, Cyclist’s, and Traveller’s Rest.”
The dyke struck us, even on that bright sunshiny day, as being a dark
and dreary stretch of water of a cheerless leaden hue, embanked and
treeless. But the sullen waters of the dyke only acted as a foil to
enhance the bright beauty of the sun-suffused landscape all around, as
the shadow gives value to the light, and too much beauty is apt to cloy.
A picture may be too pretty. Said an art
[Sidenote: _THE USE OF UGLINESS!_]
critic once to Turner, “That’s a fine painting of yours, but why have
you got that ugly bit of building in the corner?” “Oh!” replied Turner,
“that’s to give value to the rest of the composition by way of contrast;
I made it ugly on purpose!” and Turner was right. Who enjoys the country
so much as the dweller in the unbeautiful smoke-stained streets of our
huge modern towns?
Shortly after this we reached the little village of Benington, which
boasted a large church having a fine old tower, a tower, however, that
ended abruptly without any architectural finish; presumably the ambition
of the early builders was greater than their means. Nowadays we have
improved upon the old ways--we build and complete without the means,
then we set to work to beg for the money, though the begging is not
always successful, as the following characteristic letter of Mr. Ruskin
shows, which he wrote in reply to a circular asking him to subscribe to
help to pay off some of the debt on a certain iron church:--
BRANTWOOD, CONISTON, LANCASHIRE,
_19th May 1886_.
SIR--I am scornfully amused at your appeal to me, of all people in
the world the precisely least likely to give you a farthing! My
first word to all men and boys who care to hear me is--Don’t get
into debt. Starve and go to heaven, but don’t borrow.... Don’t buy
things you can’t pay for! And of all manner of debtors, pious
people building churches they can’t pay for are the most detestable
nonsense to me. Can’t you preach and pray behind the hedges, or in
a sandpit, or in a coalhole first? And of all manner of churches
thus idiotically built, iron churches are the damnablest to me....
Ever, nevertheless, and in all this saying, your faithful servant,
JOHN RUSKIN.
Dear me, and when I think of it, how often am I not asked to subscribe
to help to pay off debts on churches, mostly, if not all, built by
contract, and adorned with bright brass fittings from Birmingham!
The ancient church at Benington, time-worn and gray, looked interesting,
and the interior would probably have repaid inspection, but the day was
so gloriously fine that our love of the open air and cheerful sunshine
quite overpowered our antiquarian tastes that sunny morning. Moreover,
we did not set out to see everything on our way unless inclined so to
do; ours was purely a pleasure tour, the mood of the moment was alone
our guide. By the side of the churchyard we noticed a square space
enclosed by a wall; we imagined that this must have been an old
cattle-pound, but when we passed by it was full of all kinds of rubbish,
as though it were the village dustbin.
Our road now wound through a very pleasant country, past busy windmills,
sleepy farmsteads, and pretty cottages, till we came to the hamlet of
Leake, where we observed another very fine church, of a size apparently
out of all proportion to the needs of the parish. It may often be noted
in Lincolnshire and the eastern counties generally how fine many of the
remote country churches are, and how often, alas! such fine
architectural monuments are in bad repair for want of sufficient funds
to properly maintain them, the surrounding population being purely
agricultural and poor; it is difficult to imagine that the population
could ever have been much greater, though it may have been wealthier.
The question arises, How came these grand and large churches to be
built, without any probability of their having a congregation at all
commensurate with their size?
[Sidenote: _A MATTER OF SENTIMENT_]
The country became now more open, and our road wound in and out of the
level meadows like the letter S, or rather like a succession of such
letters, thereby almost doubling the distance from point to point taken
in a straight line. We could only presume that the modern road followed
the uncertain route of the original bridle-path, which doubtless wound
in and out in this provokingly tortuous manner to avoid bad ground and
marshy spots. Were Lincolnshire a county in one of the United States, I
“guess” that this road would long ago have been made unpicturesquely
straight and convenient,--the practical American considers it a wicked
waste of energy to go two miles in place of one. His idea of road-making
resembles that of the ancient Romans in so far as the idea of both is to
take the nearest line between two places. “That’s the best road,”
exclaimed a prominent Yankee engineer, “that goes the most direct
between two places; beauty is a matter of seeing and sentiment, and to
me a straight line is a beautiful thing, because it best fulfils its
purpose.” So speaks the engineer. Both Nature and the artist, as a rule,
abhor straight lines.
The next village on our road was Wrangle; since we had left Boston we
had hardly been out of sight of a village or a church, but though the
villages were numerous they were small. Here at Wrangle again we found a
tiny collection of houses, out of which rose another fine and beautiful
church, the stones of which had taken upon themselves a lovely soft gray
with age. I think there is no country in the world where Time tones and
tints the stones of buildings so pleasantly as it does in England. The
people in this part of Lincolnshire should be good, if an ample supply
of fine churches makes for goodness. Still one can never be certain of
anything in this uncertain world, for does not the poet declare that--
Wherever God erects a house of prayer,
The Devil always builds a chapel there:
And ’twill be found upon examination,
The latter has the largest congregation.
We had been informed by a Lincolnshire antiquary, whom by chance we had
become acquainted with during the journey, that the rectory at Wrangle
was haunted by a ghost in the shape of a green lady, and that this ghost
had upon one occasion left behind her a memento of one of her nocturnal
visitations, in the shape of a peculiar ring--surely a singular, if not
a very irregular thing, for a spirit to do. Moreover, the enthusiastic
and good-natured antiquary most kindly gave us his card to be used as an
introduction to the rector, who he said would gladly give us all
particulars. The story interested us, and the opportunity that fortune
had placed in our way of paying a visit to a haunted house was too
attractive to be missed. So, bearing this story in mind, and finding
ourselves in Wrangle, we forthwith drove straight up to the rectory, an
old-fashioned
[Sidenote: _A DISAPPOINTMENT_]
building that had an ancient look, though perhaps not exactly one’s
ideal of a haunted house--still it would do. Having introduced ourselves
to the rector, and having explained the purport of our visit, just when
our expectations were raised to the utmost pitch, we received a dire
disappointment, for the rector, with a smile, informed us that he had
only recently come there and, so far, he had never seen the ghost, or
been troubled by it in any way. He had a dim sort of a recollection that
he had heard something about it from some one, and he would be glad to
learn further particulars. He did not even know which the haunted room
was, or whether it was the whole house that was supposed to be haunted
and not a particular chamber. “I am afraid,” he said, “your introduction
must have been intended for my predecessor, who possibly was well posted
up in the matter.” Certainly our introduction was of a very informal
nature, our antiquarian friend had simply written on the back of his
card, “Call on the rector of Wrangle, make use of my card, and he will
tell you all about the ghost.” Truly we felt just a trifle disappointed.
We had been on the trail of a ghost so often, yet had never been able to
run one to earth, and again it had eluded us! Possibly the rector
divined our feelings, for he cheerily exclaimed, “Well, I am sorry I
cannot show you what you want, but I can show you a very interesting
church.” Now we had not come to Wrangle to see a church, but a haunted
house, and a material ring left by an immaterial spirit, and we felt
somehow, if unreasonably, aggrieved at not finding these.
The church was truly interesting, though I fear we were hardly in the
mood to properly appreciate it. The rector pointed out to us in the east
window some old stained glass that had been reset in fragments there,
which he declared to be the finest old stained glass in Lincolnshire;
then he led us to the south porch, where he pointed out to us the quaint
and beautiful external carvings round the Early English south doorway,
which we observed was curiously trefoiled and decorated with dog-tooth
mouldings. It is a specimen of carving that any church might be proud to
possess; here, little seen and possibly never admired except by chance
comers like ourselves, it is wasting its beauty in the wilderness, for
the doorway is simply the entrance to the graveyard and appears not to
be much, if at all used, the congregation entering the church by the
north porch. On the north wall we observed a fine, not to say
ostentatious, altar-tomb to Sir John Read and his lady dated 1626. This
takes up, profitably or unprofitably, a good deal of room. Below on a
verse we read the following tribute to the underlying dead:--
Whom love did linke and nought but death did dessever,
Well may they be conioind and ly together,
Like turtle doves they livd Chaste pure in mind,
Fewe, O, too few such couples we shall find.
You have to get used to the archaic spelling of some of these old
tombstone inscriptions, but this one is comparatively clear. Our
ancestors evidently did not set much score on spelling, for on a
stately seventeenth-century monument I have actually noticed the same
word spelt in three different ways. Above Sir John Read’s fine
altar-tomb is suspended a helmet with a crest coloured proper, only the
helmet is not a genuine one, being of plaster! and the plaster has got
cracked, and therefore the sham is revealed to the least observant; so
the whole thing looks ridiculous! Possibly, however, this was merely
intended for a temporary funeral helmet, and would have been removed in
due course but had been forgotten.
[Sidenote: _CURIOUS GARGOYLES_]
In the pavement we noticed a slab containing an interesting brass dated
1503, to “Iohn Reed marchant of ye stapell of Calys, and Margaret his
wyfe.” Their eight sons and five daughters are also shown upon it. Round
this slab run portions of an inscription in old English. It is
unfortunate that this is incomplete, for it appears to be quaint.
On leaving the church we observed with pleasure that the ancient and
curious gargoyles that project from its roof still serve the purpose for
which they were originally constructed, and have not been improved away,
or suffered the common indignity of being converted into rain-water
heads. Who invented the gargoyle, I wonder? A monk, I’ll wager, if I
have read past ecclesiastical architecture aright. And all lovers of the
quaintly decorative are under great obligations to the unknown monk, for
gargoyles offered an irresistible opportunity for the medieval craftsman
to outwardly express his inmost fancies and the artistic spirit that
consumed his soul, and must somehow be visibly revealed. He was jocular
at times, even to the verge of profanity. Possibly because gargoyles
were outside the sacred edifice, he felt more at liberty to do as he
would, so he created wonderful monsters, grinning good-natured-looking
demons in place of saints; demons that seemed verily to exist and
breathe and struggle in stone; his subtle art contrived to make even the
hideous delightful and to be desired. So great was his genius, so
cunning his chisel that when I look upon his handiwork, oftentimes I
gaze with astonished admiration at his rare skill and inventive
faculties, and I sadly wonder whether we shall ever look upon his like
again. His art was the outcome of love. Our modern art seems of unhappy
necessity imbued with the commercial spirit of the age. Men now paint
and sculpture to live, the medieval art craftsman lived to work; the one
labours to live, the other loved to labour. The highest art, the
worthiest work, cannot be produced for gold, it comes alone from love,
love that is unembarrassed with the thought of having to provide the
necessaries of life. Where anxiety steps in, art suffers, then
withers--and dies! Some years ago I was showing a now popular artist an
old picture by Francesco Francia on panel that I possess, and asked him
how it was, apart from the almost painful truthfulness of the drawing,
that the colours had remained so fresh and pure in tint, after all the
years it had existed, whilst so many modern pictures lose so much of
their first brilliancy in comparatively so short a time. He replied,
after examining the picture, that it had been painted, then smoothed
down, and re-painted many times, each after an interval to allow the
pigments to dry hard, and that it had taken years in place of months to
complete. “Now were I to paint like that I should simply starve, and
possibly be called a fool for my pains--and man must live, you know, to
say nothing of rent, rates, and taxes. When I began life I was young and
enthusiastic, and, as you know, painted in a garret for love and
possible fame which came too tardily” (I have a painting the artist did
in those happy early days, pronounced by competent critics to be worthy
of a great master); “but love did not butter my bread nor provide me
with a decent home, so at last I was compelled to paint for popularity
and profit. Now I possess a fine studio and fashionable patrons, whose
portraits I paint without pleasure but I live at ease--yet sometimes I
sigh for those old times when things were otherwise.”
[Sidenote: _AN ARTIST’S TALE_]