[Illustration: THE QUEEN'S FIRST BABY.
_Drawn and Etched by Her Majesty the Queen._]
_Pictures with Histories._
A PICTURE within a picture--there is a romance surrounding every canvas,
a story hidden away with every product of the pencil or brush. Our
frontispiece, "The Queen's First Baby," provides an excellent example.
During the first few years of Her Majesty's married life a room in
Buckingham Palace was fitted up with all necessities for printing
etchings, and here the Queen and Prince Consort would come and take
impressions of their own work from the printing press. It is such a one
that we are enabled to reproduce--a _fac-simile_ of an etching, sketched
in the first place, prepared and put on the press, and finally printed
by the Royal mother of the little one it represents. The original
etching is now in the possession of the writer. It is probably the
earliest picture known of the Empress Frederick of Germany, Princess
Royal at the time--for the etching bears date February 22, 1841, when
the Princess was but three months old. Every line, every item betokens
how anxious the Royal artist was to obtain a faithful drawing of her
first child, whose name, "Victoria," is written under it. The little
Princess is so held that the nurse's face is quite concealed, and in no
way divides the attention the mother was desirous of winning for her
little one. When the Queen was making the sketch, a cage with a parrot
had been placed on a table near at hand, in order to rivet the child's
attention. The whole thing is suggestive of the simplicity and
homeliness which characterised the dispositions of the Royal workers at
the press; and we think the picture tells its own history of life in the
Palace fifty years ago.
[Illustration: HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA.
_The first portrait painted after her Coronation._]
The history as to how the first portrait of Her Majesty after her
coronation was obtained is also full of interest. The Queen is
represented in all her youthful beauty in the Royal box at Drury Lane
Theatre, and it is the work of E. T. Parris, a fashionable portrait
painter of those days. Parris was totally ignorant of the fact that when
he agreed with Mr. Henry Graves, the well-known publisher, to paint "the
portrait of a lady for fifty guineas," he would have to localise himself
amongst the musical instruments of the orchestra of the National
Theatre, and handle his pencil in the immediate neighbourhood of the big
drum. Neither was he made aware as to the identity of his subject until
the eventful night arrived. Bunn was the manager of Drury Lane at the
time, and he flatly refused to accommodate Mr. Graves with two seats in
the orchestra. But the solution of the difficulty was easy. Bunn was
indebted to Grieve, the scenic artist, for a thousand pounds. Grieve was
persuaded to threaten to issue a writ for the money unless the "order
for two" was forthcoming. Bunn succumbed, and the publisher triumphed;
and whilst the young Queen watched the performance, she was innocently
sitting for her picture to Parris and Mr. Graves, who were cornered in
the orchestra. Parris afterwards shut himself up in his studio, and
never left it until he had finished his work. The price agreed upon was
doubled, and the Queen signified her approval of the tact employed by
purchasing a considerable number of the engravings. The reproduction of
the picture in these pages becomes the more interesting from the fact
that it is done by permission of the still living occupant of one of the
two orchestra seats--Mr. Henry Graves.
[Illustration: IN THE ORCHESTRA: SKETCHING THE QUEEN.]
Much might be said regarding missing and mutilated pictures. The story
as to how Gainsborough's "Duchess of Devonshire" was cut from the frame
a few days after 10,100 guineas had been paid for it is well known, but
we may add a scrap of information hitherto unpublished, which will, we
think, add somewhat to the value of the work as a picture with a
history. The ingenious thief knew very well that in order to get his
prize in safety through the streets it would be necessary to roll it up.
This, of course, could not be done without cracking the paint.
Accordingly, he had provided himself with paste and paper to lay over
the picture. But when he came to lay the paper on the canvas, he found
that he had forgotten--a brush! The people who flocked to see the
beautiful "Duchess" were kept at a respectful distance by the customary
barrier of silken rope. The clever purloiner cut off a few inches of the
thick cord, and, fraying out one of the ends, improvised a really
excellent substitute wherewith to lay on the paste. The brush of rope
was found next morning on the floor, where he had left it, and told a
story of such ingenuity as certainly demands a word of recognition.
It is probable that were a novelist to concoct a plot out of the story
surrounding a certain Sir Joshua Reynolds in the possession of Lord
Crewe, the public would snap their fingers at it and dub the whole thing
ridiculous and impossible.
A former Lord Crewe had a picture painted of his son and daughter.
Though the faces were faithful, the attitudes of the figures were
somewhat fanciful; the daughter is holding a vase, and the boy is posing
as a cupid. When the son had grown to manhood he quarrelled with his
father, and he, to mark his extreme anger, caused the cupid to be cut
out of the canvas, giving instructions for it to be destroyed, and a
tripod painted in its place. Thus it remained for over a hundred years.
But the little cupid was not lost. It had, by some mysterious means,
after this lapse of time, found its way into the hands of a dealer, who
recognised it, having seen an engraving of the original before it was
cut. He immediately communicated with the present Lord Crewe, who still
had the picture. It was found that the cupid fitted exactly into the
space where the tripod stood. Lord Crewe not only caused the cupid to be
restored to its proper place, but, in order to commemorate this
remarkable incident, took out the now historical tripod, had a piece of
canvas with appropriate scenery painted, and caused the tripod to be
inserted therein. The cupid now hangs in his house as a memento of a
strange act on the part of one of his ancestors.
[Illustration: SON AND DAUGHTER OF LORD CREWE. _By Sir Joshua
Reynolds._]
Lord Cheylesmore, well known as having one of the finest collections of
Landseers in the world, has a dog painted by this great artist, with a
curious story attached to it. After Charles Landseer had all but
completed the painting of his celebrated picture of "Charles I. at Edge
Hill," he persuaded his brother Edwin to paint in a dog. This Sir Edwin
consented to do; and, after the work was engraved, the original got into
the hands of a dealer, who cleverly cut out the dog, and had another put
in place of it. He secured the services of an able artist to paint a
background for the animal which had been so ignominiously deprived of
the honour of reclining in the presence of Charles I. This he sold as a
Landseer--as, indeed, it was; and this highly interesting little
creature is the one now owned by Lord Cheylesmore. As regards that of
"Charles I. at Edge Hill," we believe we are correct in saying that it
was recently purchased by the Walker Art Gallery at Liverpool.
A somewhat similar circumstance befell Holbein's famous picture of "The
Field of the Cloth of Gold," which hangs at Hampton Court Palace. After
the execution of Charles I., Cromwell proposed to sell many of the late
monarch's pictures to dealers and others who approached him on the
subject, and amongst others that painted by Holbein. Negotiations for
the purchase concluded, the time came round for its delivery. On
examining "The Field of the Cloth of Gold" it was discovered that one of
the principal faces--that of Henry VIII.--had been cut out in a complete
circle. Naturally, the dealer--a foreigner--declined to conclude the
bargain, and the mutilated Holbein was stowed away. After the
Restoration, a nobleman appeared at court and begged Charles II. to
graciously accept an article which the king might possibly be glad to
know was still preserved to the English nation. It proved to be a
circular piece of canvas, representing the robust countenance of Henry
VIII., which the nobleman had himself cut from the picture in Cromwell's
time. This great work was seen at the Tudor Exhibition last year, the
mark of the circle being plainly visible.
[Illustration: "THE CHILDREN THREW THEIR MARBLES AT THE BEAUTY."]
The fact of a picture worth £10,000 being converted into a sort of
bullseye mark for schoolboys' marbles is a little history in itself. The
work, by Gainsborough, is that of the Honourable Miss Duncombe--a
renowned beauty of her day, who lived at Dalby Hall, near Melton
Mowbray. She married General Bowater. For over fifty years this
magnificent work of art had hung in the hall of this old house in
Leicestershire, and the children, as they played and romped about the
ancient oaken staircases, delighted to make a target of the
Gainsborough, and to throw their marbles at the beauty. It hung there
year after year, full of holes, only to be sold under the hammer one day
for the sum of £6, a big price for the torn and tattered canvas. The
owner of the bargain let it go for £183 15s., the lucky purchaser this
time being Mr. Henry Graves. The day it came into the famous
printseller's shop in Pall Mall, Lord Chesterfield offered 1,000 guineas
for it, at which price it was sold. But romances run freely amongst all
things pertaining to pictures, for before the work was delivered a fever
seized Lord Chesterfield and he died. Lady Chesterfield was informed
that, if she wished, the agreement might be cancelled. Her ladyship
replied that she was glad of this, as she did not require the picture,
which accordingly remained in Mr. Graves' shop waiting for another
purchaser. It had not long to wait. One of the wealthiest and most
discriminating judges of pictures in England, Baron Lionel Rothschild,
came in search of it, and the following conversation between him and the
owner, Mr. Graves, ensued:
[Illustration: THE HONOURABLE MISS DUNCOMBE. _By Gainsborough._]
"You ask me fifteen hundred guineas for it?" exclaimed the great
financier, when he was told the price; "why, you sold it the other day
for a thousand!"
"Yes, I know I did," replied the dealer, "but that was done in a hurry,
before it had been restored."
"Well, now I'll give you twelve hundred for it--twelve hundred," said
the Baron, looking longingly at the work.
"Now, Baron," said Mr. Graves, good-humouredly, though firmly, "if you
beat me down another shilling, you shan't have the picture at all."
"Very good--then send it home at fifteen hundred guineas." It is now
amongst the most valued artistic treasures of the Rothschilds, and
£10,000 would not buy it to-day.
The two illustrations we now give of pictures--one of which is still
missing and the other recovered after a long lapse of time--are both
after Sir Joshua Reynolds. It is certain that the missing one will never
be seen again. Reward after reward has been offered, but all to no
avail--"The Countess of Derby," by Sir Joshua, so far as the original
goes, is a thing of the past. The mystery as to its sudden disappearance
has never been fully cleared up, but it is indisputable that the Earl of
Derby of the period had this picture painted of his wife, that he
quarrelled with her, and that just at this time the picture vanished.
Little room is left for doubt that the Earl himself destroyed the work.
[Illustration: THE COUNTESS OF DERBY. _By Sir Joshua Reynolds._]
The other is that of Miss Gale, painted when she was fifteen, a canvas
worth at least £5,000 (page 232). She married Admiral Gardner, who was
so much attached to his wife, that whenever he went to sea he always
took the picture with him, and had it conspicuously hung up in his
cabin. His vessel was wrecked off the West Indies, and though the
Admiral was saved, the ship, with "Miss Gale" in the cabin, went down.
There it lay at the bottom of the ocean for a considerable period, until
at last attempts were made to recover it. This was successfully
accomplished, though the canvas was much damaged, and was afterwards
reduced in length and breadth. The picture seems to have been peculiarly
unfortunate, both on land and sea, for in 1864 it was damaged again by
the Midland Railway. Until recently it was in the possession of the Rev.
Allen Gardner Cornwall.
[Illustration: MISS GALE. _By Sir Joshua Reynolds._]
The fact of a picture of fabulous value being picked up in a
pawnbroker's shop, or veritable gems being discovered fastened with
tin-tacks to the wall of a servant's bedroom, is alone sufficient cause
to rank them among pictures with a history. But surely no such
remarkable instance of innocence regarding the real value of a work has
been known for a long time as that which came to light in a West End
picture dealer's shop a few weeks ago. The story is a simple one. A
painter--presumably an amateur--ran short of canvas, and, living in the
country, some days must needs elapse before he could get a fresh supply.
Hanging up in his house was an old work, representing an ancient-looking
gentleman. He had hung there a long time, practically unnoticed. To meet
the emergency, the painter conceived a happy thought, and one which he
immediately proceeded to carry into effect. Why not paint on the back of
the ancient-looking gentleman who had hung uncared-for for so long? The
canvas was taken off the stretcher, turned round, and re-stretched, the
back of the picture being used on which to paint a copy of Sir Joshua
Reynolds' "Age of Innocence." Innocence there truly was--for the
painting which the amateur had screened from view turned out to be a
Gainsborough. The original Gainsborough is at the present moment at the
back of the newly-painted picture, and is partly hidden by the
stretcher, as shown in the sketch (page 233), made as it lay by the
counter in the dealer's shop.
[Illustration: THE HIDDEN "GAINSBOROUGH."]
One artist might be singled out of whom it may safely be said that he
never painted a picture without a history attached to it. Landseer's
works abound in suggestive incident and delightful romance. He would
paint out of sheer gratitude a picture worth £10,000 simply because an
admirer, for whom he had executed a commission, had expressed his
approval of the artist's genius, by paying him more money than that
originally agreed upon. Such an incident as this was the means of
bringing Landseer's brush to work on "The Maid and the Magpie," now in
the National Gallery.
There are two or three anecdotes--hitherto unpublished, we
believe--relating to pictures with histories, and associated with
Landseer's name.
It is said--and results have proved how justly--that Landseer never
forgot a dog after once seeing it. "The Shepherd's Bible" is a rare
instance of this. Mr. Jacob Bell referred to this work as "the property
of a gentleman who was for many years a candidate for a picture by Sir
E. Landseer, and kept a collie dog in the hope that he might some day be
so fortunate as to obtain his portrait." The collie, however, died. Some
two years afterwards, its owner received a note from Sir Edwin
appointing a day for a sitting. Fortunately, he had provided himself
with another dog, hoping yet to secure the services of the greatest of
all animal painters, and taking the creature with him, kept the
appointment on the day named. He told Landseer that the old favourite
was dead, and gave a description of his colour and general appearance.
"Oh! yes," the painter replied, "I know the dog exactly," and he made a
sketch which proved the truth of his words. The picture was painted in
less than two days, and the portrait of the dead animal was exact, even
to the very expression of the dog's eye.
Landseer, too, was often very happy in his choice of a subject. "Dignity
and Impudence" is one of the treasures of the National Gallery, and
though the one is a fine bloodhound named "Grafton," and the other a
little terrier called "Scratch," it is likely that two gentlemen
innocently suggested the whole thing to him. It seems that one day
Landseer entered a picture shop, and was annoyed at the way in which he
was treated by one of the assistants, who mistook him for a customer,
and who addressed him in a style a trifle too pushing and businesslike
to suit his taste.
Just then the proprietor entered, a fine, handsome, dignified man.
"Well, have you got anything new in the way of a picture?" he asked.
"No," replied Landseer, "but I've just got a subject. I'll let you know
when it is finished." The result was the picture referred to, and it is
said that the grand bloodhound bore a striking resemblance to the
picture dealer, whilst the little terrier, presumably, was suggested by
the assistant; whose manner, after all, was simply that of a sharp man
of business.
"There's Life in the Old Dog Yet," another fine work, was, in 1857, the
property of Mr. Henry McConnell, for whom it was painted in 1838. Mr.
McConnell was asked if he would lend it to the Art Treasures Exhibition
at Manchester. He had a very great horror of railway travelling, but
agreed to grant the request on one condition, that the picture, with the
others asked for, should be sent down by road. Everything was packed up,
and the precious load started on its journey. The van had got about
half-way to Manchester, when, in passing over a level crossing--common
enough in those days--the horses were startled by an approaching train.
It was impossible to get across the lines in time, and the engine dashed
into the van, shattering many of the pictures, including "There's Life
in the Old Dog Yet." So great was the destruction that when the driver
went to the front wheel of the engine, he found entwined round it a
piece of the canvas of this famous picture.
An anecdote might be told regarding "The Cavalier's Pets," further
illustrating the rapid rate at which Landseer worked, and the fate which
seemed to hang over his canine subjects. The dogs were pets of Mr.
Vernon's, and a sketch was made in his house as a commission to Sir
Edwin. It seems, however, that Landseer forgot all about it, until some
time afterwards he was met by the owner of the pets in the street, who
gently reminded him of his little commission. In two days the work as it
is now seen was completed and delivered, though not a line had been put
on the canvas previous to the meeting. Both the beautiful creatures came
to an untimely end. The white Blenheim spaniel was killed by a fall from
a table, whilst the King Charles fell through the railings of a
staircase at his master's house, and was picked up dead at the bottom of
the steps.
We cannot do better than conclude with an anecdote which connects this
great painter with the early life of Her Majesty.
That the Queen has always displayed a marked interest in works of art is
indisputable. Her collection of pictures, many of them of the Flemish
and Dutch schools, her Vandykes and Rubens, are almost priceless. But
Her Majesty's favours bestowed on matters artistic have also drifted
into home channels, as witness her generous spirit shown at all times
towards Sir Edwin Landseer.
Amongst all the priceless works to be found in the Royal galleries, one
picture may here be singled out with a pleasing story attached to it.
"Loch Laggan" shows the Queen in a quiet and unassuming gown, beside her
camp-stool, at which she has a few moments before been sketching. The
Princess Royal and the Prince of Wales are there as children. In the
centre stands a pony with a burden of deer on its back, its owner, a
stalwart Highlander, at its head, with an expression of countenance
half-amused, half-surprised.
Sir Edwin Landseer--who painted the picture--was at the time in Scotland
giving lessons to the Queen. Whilst on his way to Balmoral he wandered
in the direction of Loch Laggan, and became perplexed as to which path
to take. Espying the Highlander, he bade him hasten to find the Queen,
and say that Sir Edwin would reach her ere long. The man needed no
second bidding, and jumped on the pony's back. He had not proceeded far
round the lake before he drew up his pony in front of a lady, who was
sketching, whilst her two children were busying themselves by handing
her the various drawing implements as required.
Respectfully removing his cap, he asked if she could tell him where he
might possibly find the Queen.
"Oh, yes," replied the lady, turning from her drawing, "I am the Queen."
This was too much for the worthy Scot. He could not associate the great
stone on which Her Majesty had been sitting with all the splendour of a
throne. All he could do was to put his hands upon his knees and
suggestively utter the single word--"_Gammon!_"
By this time Sir Edwin had arrived. He drew the picture with the
Highlander in the very act of relieving himself of an expression not
often heard in the presence of Royalty. Our drawing is a sketch of the
figures in the painting of this highly interesting scene.
[Illustration: "GAMMON!"]
_Making an Angel._
BY J. HARWOOD PANTING.
GROTESQUE--yes, that is the word for the gathering.
An ogre cannot always enjoy the regal society of a king; nor can it be
said that the features of Hodge are usually to be seen glancing, with
grinning condescension, upon a grave Prime Minister. There were other
anomalies, too numerous to mention, in the room; for this was one of the
workshops of the curious Kingdom of Make-Believe, of which, at the
present time, if we may except the aforesaid company, John Farley was
the solitary occupant.
[Illustration: "DAUBS."]
John Farley, nicknamed "Daubs," was scene-painter of the Comedy Theatre,
Porchester, and this was the room whence proceeded those marvellous
designs that stirred the gallery to enthusiastic applause, the boxes to
derisive laughter.
It was the season of pantomime. The curtain had been rung down upon the
"grand phantasmagorical, allegorical, and whimsicorical" legend of "King
Pippin," and the denizens of that monarch's court--or, rather, their
faces--were resting peacefully from their labours on the wall. John
Farley, too, was presumably resting from _his_ labours, for he was
sitting upon a wooden stool, smoking vigorously, and gazing, with a
far-away glance, into the region of Nowhere. It was not a satisfied
expression, this of John Farley's--no, decidedly not. It appeared to
have a quarrel with the world, but did not seem to know precisely at
which quarter of it to commence hostilities. Truth to tell, he was a
disappointed man. He had started life, as many another, with high aims
and ambitions, and they had brought him no better fruit than
scene-painter to the Porchester Theatre, with, instead of academic
diplomas and honours, the unflattering title of "Daubs!" Do you wonder,
then, that sitting there, a man verging upon the "thirties," he looked
upon life with little love, and upon the constituents of its big
constituency with little admiration?
John had a private grievance as well as a public. He lived in a flat of
a block of houses situate in Seymour-street, about a quarter of an
hour's walk from the theatre. For some days past he had determined on
making another bid for fame and fortune by painting a grand picture. He
had commenced various designs for this "masterpiece," but none of them
had proved entirely satisfactory. And now, as though to frustrate all
his hopes, a new source of disturbance had arisen. John possessed one of
those mercurial, nervous temperaments, born principally of a morbid,
solitary life, which demanded absolute quiet for any profitable
employment of the intellect. For this reason he detested the atmosphere
of a theatre, and for this reason he yet more detested the fate that had
cast his fortunes in its midst. In the apartments where he lived, mean
as they were, he usually found tranquillity. He could at least think,
smoke, sketch, or write, as the fit took him, without disturbance. But
now, just at the time when he most desired and needed quiet, the bugbear
he fled had attacked him in his very stronghold.
In the rooms beneath those he occupied lived a poor widow with her two
children, a boy and girl. John knew this much from the landlady. He
knew, too, that the boy was employed at the Comedy Theatre. Further than
this he had not cared to inquire. Usually they were as quiet as the
proverbial mouse, but latterly John's ears had been afflicted with
groans and cries of pain, proceeding from the widow's apartments, and
kept up with aggravating regularity throughout the night. They were the
cries of a child--no doubt about that--and a child in great suffering. A
person less centred in his own projects than John might have at least
felt some sympathy with the sufferer, but John had evidently lost
kinship with the deeper emotions, and instead of sympathy he experienced
only a feeling of annoyance and keen resentment against the widow and
"her brats," as he styled them. Thus it was that, think as he would, the
subject of this grand picture which was to take the world by storm and
out-Raphael Raphael, persisted in evading him; and thus it is we find
him, in a more cynical mood than usual, at the Comedy Theatre, in no
haste to return to the scene of his failures.
"What is the use of striving?" mused John, as he slowly puffed his pipe.
"One might as well throw up the sponge. Fate is too much for me. He
follows at my elbow everywhere. His usual running-ground is not enough
for him. Now he follows me home, and gives me a solo of his own peculiar
music through one of his imps."
A timid knock sounded upon the door. John was busy with his thoughts,
and did not hear it.
"That theory of Longfellow's is correct--art _is_ long. In what sphere
could you find a longer? Supportable might this be, but cold
indifference to a poor devil aching for a gleam of sympathy is
insupportable."
The knock at the door was repeated, but with the same effect as before.
"The grinning public--just tickle its side: that is all it needs. He who
caters most to its stupidity in life is he who gains the proud
distinction of a public mausoleum at his death. I have not got quite
into the way, but still I see in perspective a monument dedicated
to--'Daubs.'"
A sound, light as gossamer wing, was heard in the room. John Farley
turned his head. Then he stared; then he rubbed his eyes; then he stared
again. Well he might. Was this an offspring of the immortal whom he had
just been apostrophising?
It was decidedly an imp--at least it had the apparel of one. It was
clothed in scarlet; dependent from its haunches was a tail; on its head
a Satanic cowl. But there was melancholy rather than mischief in its
eye, and it was of a restful, confiding brown rather than an unrestful,
flashing black.
[Illustration: "IT WAS AN IMP."]
John again inserted his knuckles in his eyes, and waved off the smoke
from his pipe. And then he recognised his uncanny visitor. It was the
little son of the widow who lived under his flat. He was one of the imps
of King Pippin's kingdom in the pantomime, and doomed for a small
pittance to indulge his apish tricks nightly with the gnomes and fairies
of that fanciful realm.
"Daubs!" said the imp.
Yes, only that was necessary to incite John's wrath. A nickname that was
supportable from the actors and scene-shifters was insupportable from a
child.
"Daubs" therefore turned sharply upon the boy:--
"Are you referring to me?"
"Yes, sir."
John was on the point of brusquely informing the lad that he was not
acquainted with a gentleman of the name of Daubs, and peremptorily
showing him the door. A glance from the honest brown eyes, however,
restrained him. It told him that what he had at first assumed to be
impudence was really the result of ignorance--that, and only that.
"I would like to know you, Mr. Daubs. You don't mind knowing a little
boy--do you?"
John opened his eyes in astonishment. What a curious imp! John was not
aware that anybody had any particular desire for his society; in fact,
the reverse had hitherto seemed the case. He was usually regarded as an
unsociable being.
"I have not the least objection to making your acquaintance," said he,
_un_reluctantly, it must be confessed.
"Oh, thank you," said the little fellow, drawing nearer, and putting his
hand confidingly in John's, and looking up at him with bright, happy
eyes. "Then perhaps I may--may I?"
What "may I" meant was a gentle pressure of the lips upon the smoky
cheek of John. If John had been astonished before he was still more
astonished now--so much so that the pipe he was smoking fell from his
fingers, and was broken into fragments on the floor. What had he, a
grumpy bachelor, to do with kissing? Twenty years had passed since his
cheek had felt the pressure of lips, and then they were the death-cold
lips of a younger brother--surely about the size of this strange
imp--who had left him with that dumb farewell for ever.
"What is your name, my lad?" said he, softly.
"Willie Maxwell. Mother calls me 'her Willie.' Dodo--that is my sister,
you know--when she is well" (here the little fellow sighed) "says that
I'm her pet. But at the theatre I'm only known as 'Fourth Imp.' Mr.
Billings"--Mr. Billings was the stage-manager of the Comedy--"has
promised that, if I'm a good boy, I shall some day be First Imp!"
"That will be a rise in the world, and no mistake," remarked John.
"Well, Mr. Daubs, it will be a little more money for mother--threepence
extra a night--but I shouldn't like to push out Teddy Morris. You know
Teddy?"
John was obliged to confess that he had not the honour of that young
gentleman's acquaintance. He never troubled himself with anything or
anybody outside his own department.
"Teddy Morris is First Imp. He doesn't like me, you know, because he
thinks I'm--what do you call it, Mr. Daubs?"
"Ambitious?"
"Yes, 'bitious, that's the word."
John's crusty humour was gradually melting, and he smiled--first, at
anyone disliking this frank, affectionate boy; next, at the rivalry of
the imps. "All the world," thought he, "is indeed a stage, and the
struggle for a position on it extends to strange quarters."
"But I'm not 'bitious, Mr. Daubs"--here Willie paused, and deliberately
climbed on John's knee--"no, I really ain't, 'cept of you!"
John started at this bold confession. He was on the point of exploding
into loud laughter, but the brown eyes were looking earnestly into his,
and with these searching witnesses before him John thought that such an
ebullition of mirth would be little short of profanation.
"Oh, you're ambitious of me, are you? Well, my little man, if it's your
intention to supplant me as scene-painter to the Comedy Theatre, I'm
exceedingly grateful to you for giving me due notice of the fact. Only
let me know when you think I ought to resign my position, won't you?"
"Yes," assented Willie, with childish _naïveté_; and then, putting his
head nearer to John's, as though to take him into still closer
confidence--"Do you know, I've often seen you, and wanted to speak to
you, but somehow I've not liked to. I've watched you when you weren't
looking, and you've always seemed to look like--you don't mind a little
boy saying it, Mr. Daubs--like that." Willie pointed to a mask of one of
the ogres. John did not think the comparison very flattering, and felt
very uncomfortable. The next instant the child was nestling closer to
him; a pair of thin arms were clasped tightly round John's neck; and the
lips which again pressed his whispered softly: "But you're not a bit
like that now, Mr. Daubs."
Then the comparison was forgiven, but not forgotten.
"Tell me, Willie, why you are ambitious of me? Ambitious of me," John
mentally added, "who thought myself the least envied mortal in the
world!"
Willie's only answer was to take John's big hand into his small one;
then he instituted a minute comparison between the two; then he patted
it fondly; then he dropped it suddenly, and remained buried in deep
thought. John gave himself up to the child's whim. It was a delicious
experience--the more delicious because unexpected. This was an infantile
world, made up of quaint ideas and actions, of which even the memory had
been almost obliterated from his mind. Thought took him back to its last
link--that which had been rudely snapped by the death of his brother. He
sighed, and the sigh was echoed.
"It will be a long while--many years, I suppose, Mr. Daubs--before my
hand gets like yours?"
Mr. Daubs thought it would be. Willie sighed again. "Painting's very
hard, sir--ain't it?"
[Illustration: "PAINTING'S VERY HARD, SIR--AIN'T IT?"]
"Oh, no, my boy; it's the easiest thing in the world," said the artist
bitterly; "and the world accepts it at its right value, for it is never
inclined to pay very dearly for it. Just a few paints, a brush, and
there you are."
"Well, Mr. Daubs, I hardly think that's quite right--you don't mind my
saying so, do you?--'cause I saved up a shilling and bought a paintbrush
and some paints, and tried ever so hard to make a picture, but it was no
use. No, it was nothing like a picture--all smudge, you know--so I
thought that p'raps God never meant little boys should make pictures,
and that I would have to wait till I grew up like you, Mr. Daubs."
"It's as well somebody should think I can paint pictures; but do you
know, my young art critic, that many persons have no higher estimate of
my efforts than you have of yours--that is to say," seeing the eyes
widening in astonishment, "their term for them is 'smudge!'"
"No, do they say that? No, Mr. Daubs, they wouldn't dare," said Willie,
indignantly. "Why, you paint lovely horses and flowers, and trees, and
mountains, and your birds, if they could only sing, like the little bird
Dodo once had, they would seem quite alive."
John had never had so flattering, nor so unique a criticism of his art.
"Molière," thought he, "used to read his plays to the children, and
gather something from their prattle. Why should I disdain opinion from a
like source, especially as it chimes in so beautifully with what my
vanity would have had me acknowledge long since?"
"Well, youngster, admitting that I am the fine artist you would make of
me, what then? In what way do you expect to convert a world which
prefers real horses, real trees, and real birds? See, now, even here--at
the Comedy Theatre--we have only to announce on the playbills that a
_real_ horse, a _real_ steam-engine, or a _real_ goose or donkey, for
that matter, will be exhibited, and the best efforts of my artistic
genius are thrown into the shade. You are a case in point. Could I draw
an imp that would meet with half the success that you do? But what
nonsense I am talking--you don't understand a word of it."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Daubs, I do--something. Do you know what I think?"
"Say on, youngster."
"I think we don't often know or think what _is_ best for us. Mother says
little boys don't always know what is best for them. 'Real' is a live
thing--ain't it? I used to _think_, Mr. Daubs, you were a real live ogre
once. But now I know you ain't--are you?" This with a pressure of the
arms again round John's neck. What could the "real live ogre" say to
such an appeal? After a pause: "Mr. Daubs, can I tell you something--may
I?"
John assented, wondering what was the next strange thing this curious
sprite would ask.
"And will you say 'yes' to what I ask?"
John again assented, though he thought that possibly his assent might
necessitate a journey to Timbuctoo.
"Well, I want you to make me--an angel!" And then he quickly added,
seeing the startled expression on John's face, "You are so clever!"
"An angel!"
"Yes, an angel. You won't say no?" There was a quiver of anxiety in the
boy's tones. "It's for Dodo."
"For Dodo! But, child, I'm not a manufacturer of angels!"
"But you can draw birds. Birds have wings, and so have angels, and it's
for Dodo," he again repeated.
The logic of Willie's reasoning was irrefutable. Where was John
standing? He scarcely knew. He had caught the boy's conception. This,
then, was the reason of his anxiety to become an artist. Never imp was
surely such a seraph! The angel was for his sister. They were her moans
and cries John had heard in his lonely chamber these three nights past,
and it was with an angel her brother hoped, in his childish imagination,
to bring relief from pain and suffering. With one quick flash of
inspiration John saw it all--the intense longing, the all-embracing
love, the unselfishness, the exquisite sense of bringing to suffering
its one great alleviation. And as he thought, John's head dropped, and a
tear fell on the eager, youthful face upturned to his.
"Mother says that all angels are in heaven, and Dodo's always talking
about angels. She says she wants to see one, and would like one to come
to her. But they can't, Mr. Daubs, unless we first go to them. And I
don't want--no, no, I don't want"--with a big sob--"Dodo--to--go--away.
If _I_ could take it to her she would stay here."
John's heart was full--full to overflowing. He could scarcely speak.
"Go--go, and change your clothes, youngster, and we will try to make you
an angel."
"Oh, thank you so much."
In a flash Willie was gone, and John was left alone. "Heaven help me!"
he said, with a tender, pathetic glance in the direction whence the
little figure had vanished; "Heaven help me!" and John did what he had
not done since his own brother died. He fell upon his knees, and sent a
hasty prayer heavenward for inspiration. Then he took a large piece of
cardboard, and some crayons, and commenced--making an angel! He worked
as one inspired. With nervous, skilful fingers he worked. All was silent
in the great city below; the stillness lent inspiration to the artist's
imagination. Never had he seemed in closer touch with Heaven. To give
John his due, the petty contentions of men had always been beneath him,
but the "peace which passeth understanding" had never been his, because
of the selfishness by which his better nature had been warped. Now,
through this child's _un_selfishness, he almost heard the flapping of
angelic wings, and he depicted them, in all their softened beauty, upon
his cardboard, with a face between that seemed to look out in ineffable
love upon a guilt-laden world. This was what the artist wrought.
"Oh, Mr. Daubs!"
The exclamation was pregnant with meaning. Willie had returned, and was
devouring with open mouth and eyes the sketch of the angel.
"Well, youngster, do you think that will do for Dodo?"
"And that's for Dodo?" was the only answer, for the boy was still
absorbed in the artist's creation.
"Have you ever seen an angel, Mr. Daubs? Ah, you must have. I knew you
were clever at horses, and trees, and birds, and skies, but I didn't
guess you were so good at angels. It's just what mother said they were!"
"There, don't make me vain, but take it; and"--added John partly to
himself, "may the King of Cherubim hold in reserve _his_ messenger, not
for a death-warrant, but a blessing!"
"Thank you, so much. But I'm going to pay you, you know." And Willie
drew out proudly an old pocket-handkerchief, and, applying his teeth
vigorously to a special corner of it, took therefrom a sixpence.
John smiled, but took the coin without a word. Then he lifted the boy
up, and kissed him tenderly. The next moment he was alone; Willie had
departed with his angel. The artist listened to the pattering footsteps
as they descended the stairs, then bowed his head upon his arms, and
what with his three nights of unrest, and thinking over what he had been
and might have been, fell into a profound sleep.
* * * * *
Not long had he been in the land of counterpane, when of a sudden there
was a stir from without.
The night air was quick with cries, and a childish treble seemed to echo
and re-echo above them all. There was something familiar in this latter
sound. It was as a harsh note on a diapason that had but recently
brought him sweetest music.
In a moment John had gained the street. He had connected the cry with
one object--Willie. That object had for him a value infinite, so quick
in its power of attraction is the spark of sympathy when once kindled.
John's view of life had seemed, in this last half-hour, to have greatly
widened. It took account of things previously unnoticed; it opened up
feelings long dormant. His ear was strangely sensitive to the beat of
this new pulse--so much so that a vague terror shaped itself out of that
night-cry. It seemed to him to portend disaster.
But surely his worst fears are realised! What is that moving mass away
in the distance? Soon John has reached the spot. He hears a hum of
sympathy, and then there is a reverential silence: John's ears have
caught the pitying accents of a bystander, "Poor lad! Heaven help him!"
[Illustration: "WHAT IS THAT?"]
"Help him! Help whom?"
John's mind is quick at inference. He parts the crowd, and with certain
glance looks upon its point of observation. He knew it: no need of words
to tell him. A little form is there, mangled with the hoofs of a horse.
Its life-blood is slowly oozing out on the pavement. The face has the
hue of death--no mistaking that--and yet it has around it something of
the halo of saintship. John gazes as one distraught. The face he sees,
now pinched with the agonies of death, is that of Willie Maxwell!
"Good God, is it possible?"
But a brief moment or two since, it seemed to John, this poor boy was in
the bloom of health, full of the radiant sunshine of life. Now the
finger of death had touched him, and he stood on the threshold of the
Kingdom of Shadows.
For an instant John was ready to launch again his maledictions against
Fate. The presence of this child had cast a ray of sunshine on a sunless
existence--had given to it a brief gleam of happiness, which was
flickering out in this tragic way on the roadside. John had so
frequently taken a selfish estimate of life, that even in this supreme
crisis that feeling was momentarily uppermost, but only momentarily. The
child was resting in the arms of a rough carman, and as John looked a
spasm of returning consciousness passed over the little sufferer's
frame. Then there was a faint moan. Was there a chance of saving the
boy's life? John came closer, and as he did so a light seemed to radiate
from the child's face on to his.
Now the eyes are looking at him in a pained, dazed way. There is a gleam
of recognition, and about the mouth flickers a smile of content.
"Mr. Da--Da--Daubs,--I'm--so--glad-you've--come."
John kneels on the ground, and kisses the pale, cold lips of the
sufferer. The little arms are nervously at work; then with an effort
they are extended towards him: "Will you please take this, Mr. Daubs?"
John looked. It was the sketch of the angel! "I'm so glad I didn't drop
it. I held it tight, you see, Mr. Daubs--oh, so tight! I was afraid Dodo
wouldn't get it. No one knows Dodo, you see. I can't--take--it--to
her--to-night; so--will you--please?"
John's tears are falling fast upon the pavement. He seems to hear the
stifled sobs of the bystanders as he takes in his hand the sketch of the
angel. "I shall--see her--again--when the--light comes. Now--it is--so
dark--and cold--so cold!" John mechanically takes off his coat, and
wraps it around the little form.
"Thank you--Mr. Daubs--you're--a--kind--gentleman. May I--may
I?"----John had heard a similar request before that evening, and thanked
God that he knew what it meant. He bent his face forward. "That for
dear--_dear_ mother, and that for--darling--sister--sister Dodo."
As John's lips received the death-cold kisses, a strange thing happened.
The picture of the angel was suddenly wrested from his grasp, and flew
upward and upward, in shape like a bat. There was a moment of
mystery--of intense darkness and solemn silence. Then the heavens were
agleam with sunshine, and John seemed to see radiant forms winging their
way earthward. One of these outsped the rest. Nearer and nearer it came,
and John in wonderment fixed his gaze intently thereon. He had never
seen a real angel before, but he recognised this one. It was the angel
he had sketched, transfigured into celestial life. It came to where the
child rested, and John fell backward, dazzled with its light. When he
looked up again the child and the angel had both vanished, and all was
again dark.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WAKE UP, WAKE UP!"]
"Daubs, Daubs! Wake up, wake up!"
John looked up with sleepy eyes. Where the deuce was he? Not in any
angelic presence, that was certain. The voice was not pitched in a very
heavenly key, and wafted odours of tobacco and beer rather than
frankincense and myrrh. John pinched himself to make sure he was awake.
This was assuredly no celestial visitor, but Verges--that was his
theatrical nickname--the Comedy Theatre watchman.
"Is it you, Verges? Will you have the kindness to tell me where I am?"
John looked around him in bewilderment. The masks seemed grinning at him
in an aggravating way.
"Well, you are at present, Mister, in the Comedy Theatre; but you was
just now very soundly in the land of Nod, I guess. You'd make a splendid
watchman, you would!"
Verges' denunciation came with beautiful appropriateness, as he had just
come from the public-house opposite, where he had been indulging in
sundry libations for this hour past at the expense of some of its
customers.
"It _is_ a dream, then--not a hideous reality? Thank God, thank God!"
"What's a dream?" said Verges, looking with some apprehension at John.
When he saw that gentleman begin to caper round the room his fears were
not lessened, for he thought that John had taken leave of some of his
senses.
"Am I awake now, Verges?"
"Well, you look like it."
"You are certain?" and he put a shilling into Verges' hand.
"I never knew you to be more waker. You can keep on being as wide-awake
as you please at the same price, Mister!"
"Give me my hat and coat, Verges. Thank you," and John passed rapidly
out at the door with a hasty "Good night!" Verges looked after him with
wide-mouthed astonishment; then he looked at the piece of money in his
hand; then he tapped his forehead, and shook his head ominously,
muttering, "Daubs is daft--clean daft!"
John would not trust his waking senses till he reached the corner of the
street at which he had seen so vividly in his dream the incidents just
recorded. A solitary policeman was walking up and down, and not so much
as a vehicle was to be seen. And then another fear took possession of
John. Was his dream a presentiment of danger, and had an accident
befallen Willie in some other form?
He soon reached his lodgings, hurried up the staircase, and listened
fearfully outside the widow's door. Nobody seemed astir, but he could
see that a light was burning within. Should he knock? What right had he,
a perfect stranger, to intrude at this unreasonable hour? He remembered,
too, his bitter thoughts and words about the widow and her children--her
"brats!" So he mounted reluctantly to his apartments. How the
silence--previously so much desired--oppressed him! He would eagerly
have welcomed at that moment a cry, a sob, or any sound of life from the
room below. But the sufferer gave no token, and John, in turn, became
the sufferer in the worst form of suffering--that of mental anguish.
He could stand it no longer. John determined, at any cost, to see
whether or not Willie had returned in safety. So he descended, and
knocked at Mrs. Maxwell's door.
"Come in," said a quiet voice, and John opened the door. The first thing
that met his gaze was his picture of the angel hanging at the head of a
child's cot. Beneath it, calmly asleep, was Dodo--Willie's sister. A
frail morsel of humanity she seemed, with pale, almost transparent,
complexion--the paler by its contrasting framework of golden hair. Mrs.
Maxwell was busily engaged at needlework. She hastily rose when she saw
her visitor. "I thought it was Mrs. Baker" (Mrs. Baker was the
landlady), she said. "She usually looks in the last thing."
"Pardon me for intruding, but I was anxious to know whether your son had
arrived here in safety?"
"Yes, oh yes; some time since. Are you the gentleman who gave him the
angel?"
"Yes," said John, simply.
"Thank you so much; you have made my little girl so happy. Children have
strange fancies in sickness, and she has been talking about nothing but
angels for days past. See," pointing to the sleeping child, "it is the
first night she has slept soundly for a whole week."
The holiest feeling John had ever experienced since he knelt as a child
at his mother's knee passed over him. He had never before felt so
thoroughly that a good action was its own reward.
"May I crave one great favour as a return for so trivial a service? Will
you let me see your son?"
The widow immediately arose, took a lamp, and beckoned John to follow
her into the next room. There was little Willie fast asleep in his cot.
His lips, even in his sleep, were wreathed in a happy smile, and as John
bent and reverently kissed them, they murmured softly: "Mr. Daubs!"
When John again mounted to his chamber it was with a light heart. His
evil angel--dissatisfaction--had gone out of him, and his good
angel--contentment--reigned in its stead.
From that time forth he shared the widow's vigils; he was to her an
elder son--to the children, a loving brother. His heart, too, expanded
in sympathy for his fellows, and under this genial influence his
energies, previously cramped, expanded also. The best proof I can give
of this, if proof be necessary, is that the picture which he shortly
afterwards exhibited, entitled "The Two Angels," was the picture of the
year, and brought to him the fame which had previously so persistently
evaded him. One of the happiest moments in his life was when he took
Dodo--now quite recovered--and Willie to view his "masterpiece."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BIRTHDAY CARDS]
THE birthday card, as we know it now, can scarcely have been with us
more than fifty or fifty-five years, and there is very little doubt that
the more ancient reminder of St. Valentine's Day suggested the idea of
putting a verse, appropriate to a birthday, in the place of the often
far-fetched sentiments of February the fourteenth. Nearly all our later
poets have contributed to birthday literature, and we may presume that
the delightful _morceaux_ which came from their pens were written on a
card or sheet of paper, and quietly dispatched to the recipient. Eliza
Cook, Tom Moore, Burns, Cowper, Johnson, Tom Hood, Charles Lamb, and
Mrs. Hemans have given to the world the most beautiful of thoughts
within the limits of a four-line verse. Where is a more suggestive
sentiment--considered by many the finest of all such verse--than that
which Pope addressed to Martha Blount?--
Is that a birthday? 'Tis, alas! too clear
'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Thackeray, too, could write delightful lines. His daughter--Mrs.
Thackeray-Ritchie--sent the following to the writer, written by her
father to Miss Lucy Batler in America:--