The conceptions of female beauty which men form for themselves are
frequently, if not always, overturned by some plain face, in which
they find the mystic influence they had supposed to belong only to
features of a particular and more perfect mould. In like manner our
theories touching certain departments of literature are liable to be
damaged now and then by the appearance of a work which fulfils not
one of the conditions we had laid down as absolute necessities. Now
here, for instance, is a volume of fiction without even an attempt at
a plot, and yet with a perfect enchainment of interest--a hero without
adventures and without a heroine, yet whose fortunes we follow with a
true excitement! How does this come about? Why do we love plain women,
and admire ill-constructed books? Because there is an innate power
in the irregular features to excite our sympathies, and a quality in
authors, called Genius, to command them. No man, we will venture to
say, possessing common sensibility, can read 'Cola Monti,'[14] although
it is of the class of books for young people, without a thoughtful brow
and a glistening eye; and we have heard a family circle declare that
'they had found it impossible to lay down the volume till they had
finished it.'
Cola Monti is an Italian boy educated economically at a boarding-school
in England. His talent for drawing exhibited itself first in
caricatures of his companions, and he then ventured to try his hand
upon the master himself. 'This was irresistible; and when the Doctor
stood out in relief from the slate in all his peculiarities--his stiff
collar, his upright hair, and his spectacles--the likeness was such,
that the boys gave a general hurra. So much noise did they make, and so
intent were they, that no one heard the door open, until the original
of the portrait looked over Cola's shoulder and beheld--himself! It
was a terrible moment in schoolboy annals. The Doctor looked, frowned,
glanced round at the young rebels, then again at the slate. Whether it
was that natural vanity made him feel rather pleased to see the only
likeness of himself which had ever been taken, or whether Cola's sketch
had less of caricature than nature, it is impossible to say; but Doctor
Birch smiled--absolutely smiled! He was a good-tempered man, and the
boys knew it: they took advantage of it sometimes, the naughty fellows!
So the smile gradually went round, until it became a laugh, and the
schoolmaster could not help laughing too.' The boy-artist then, at the
instigation of his companions, resolved to try his chivalrous friend
and patron Archibald M'Kaye:--'Archibald looked surprised, and rather
vexed; for one of his weaknesses was, that he could not bear being
laughed at; however, he took his station. Cola finished the sketch,
but it was no caricature: it was a capital likeness of Archibald's
thoughtful head, with the soft curling hair, and the calm, serious
eyes. "Why, Cola, you ought to be an artist," cried the boys when they
saw it. Cola smiled, and his eyes kindled. "I will try!" he said in his
own heart, and from that day he drew no more caricatures.'
Cola Monti's national and personal sympathies were now strongly excited
in favour of a poor little Italian organ-boy, who was found dying
of starvation by the roadside. He had no other means of permanently
assisting him than by supplying him with drawings to sell, in the hope
of thus enabling him to collect a fund sufficient for the purchase
of a new organ, his own having been destroyed. This fund at length
amounted, by slow accumulations, to L.10 in silver; but the organ-boy,
who had become devotedly attached to his patron, could not consent to
be thus paid off. Poor Cola was now in destitution himself. His mother
had died; his stepfather refused to contribute longer to his support;
and in fact he was thrown adrift upon the world. The generous debate
between him and his protégé was terminated by both proceeding to London
upon the fortune of L.10--Cola to pursue his career of an artist, and
Seppi in the quality of his servant.
Arrived in London, 'Cola woke the next morning, dreaming that he was at
school again, and that, somehow or other, his class was all composed
of great stout farmers, who would persist in repeating their Italian
verbs with a strong Staffordshire accent. The dream vanished under the
influence of a bright sunbeam that crept through the small uncurtained
window, and just reached his nose. In London, the good-natured sun is
more partial to attic windows than to any other, and it made Cola's
tiny room quite cheerful. From thence he looked, not at the street,
which lay many feet below, but skywards, where, above the tops of the
houses, he could see the great dome of St Paul's lifting itself up,
grand and giant-like, with its ball and cross glistening in the clear
light of early morning. This was the first sight that struck Cola
in London. His artist-mind felt it to the uttermost. The numberless
streets below seemed so solemn and quiet, lying in the shadow of
the scarcely-risen sun; and though even now the sounds of life were
beginning to stir, they were but faint as yet, while over the dark and
half-awakened city watched its great temple, already illumined with
the sunbeams. It was a scene that Cola never forgot, and never will
while he lives.' He finds his way as soon as possible to the National
Gallery. 'I shall not enlarge upon the feelings of the boy-artist when
he beheld for the first time this grand collection of paintings. He
had seen many in his childhood; but the memory of them was grown dim.
He looked on these with the sensations of one blind, who re-enters a
long-forgotten world with his eyes opened. He began to understand and
to feel what Art really was. This new sense dazzled and overwhelmed
him; his heart beat wildly; he trembled; and fairly subdued with
emotion, he sat down in the darkest corner he could find, turned his
face away into the shadow, while the tears rose, large and silently, to
the long lashes, and dropped on the arm which he raised to hide them.'
Cola worked, played, and starved by turns, like other friendless
adventurers in London; and then came the grand event of his life--his
first Academy picture--which was very near being too late. 'Night and
day Cola worked, allowing himself only an hour or two for sleep, and
scarcely taking any food. His wild and desperate energy sustained him
to a degree almost miraculous. Under the influence of this terrible
excitement his powers seemed redoubled: he painted as he had never
painted before. Archibald, evening after evening, walked up from
Islington, not to talk or reason--he dared not do that in Cola's
present state--but to sit quietly in the painting-room, watching his
labours, and at times encouraging them with a few subdued words of
praise, which Cola sometimes scarcely heard. Even M'Kaye was astounded
by the almost miraculous way in which, day after day, the picture
advanced to completion beneath the young artist's hand; and as he
looked, he could not but acknowledge that there is nothing in this
world so strong, so daring, so all-powerful as genius.
'The first Monday in April came--there were but four-and-twenty hours
left; Tuesday--there were but twelve! Seppi stood by with the untasted
dinner, his bright black eyes continually filling with tears. He dared
not even speak to his young master, who, with wild and haggard looks,
was painting still.
'The clock struck six as Cola's now trembling hand put the last stroke
to his picture, and sank on a chair.
"It will do now, I think; it will not disgrace me at least."
"No, indeed it will not, dear Cola! It is a beautiful picture,"
whispered the gentle, encouraging voice of Archy, who had come direct
from Bread Street hither. "And now, do have some dinner, or, what will
be better for you, some tea."
"No, no; I can't eat: we shall lose the time: the Academy will be shut.
Seppi, I must have a cab, and go there at once."
'Archibald saw resistance would have been vain and cruel, so he quietly
suffered his friend to step into the cab, and followed him. All the
long ride to Trafalgar Square Cola did not utter a single word, but sat
motionless, with his picture in his arms. M'Kaye offered to hold it;
but the other rejected his aid with a slight motion of the head. At
last Cola relinquished this darling first-fruits of his genius with a
look something like that of a mother parting from a beloved child, and
then sank fainting into his friend's arms. That night Cola Monti was in
a brain fever.' The picture was successful, and the boy-caricaturist
grew at the same time to be an artist and a man.
Although Cola Monti, artistically speaking, is an imperfect story,
it possesses both power and promise of no ordinary kind. The power
is evident in the book itself: the promise rests upon the fact, that
the author is a young lady now struggling, by her own unaided genius,
through the stony and thorny paths of the literary profession. But we
would not have her rely upon genius alone, or consider 'Cola Monti'
as anything more than a promise or a pledge. It is like a gleam of
light disclosing partially, and for a moment, a scene which in some
measure owes its beauty and value to the mind of the beholder. It is
suggestive of high thoughts, fine aspirations, sad memories. It throws
the intellectual man back into his experiences, and impels the daring
and generous youth forward in the path of his hopes and resolves. But
in all this it relies upon those it addresses, pointing mysteriously
before and behind, and accomplishing nothing of itself. But this is
obviously owing to want of effort, not want of power. The author must
follow the example of her hero, and give her days and her nights to the
labour of her calling. She must look upon her heretofore attempts as so
many separate studies, and construct with toil and determination a work
of art not only harmonious in colouring, not only accurate in drawing,
but skilful in Design.