_The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Th’ assay so hard, so sharpe the conquering._
CHAUCER.
“Whether you like it or not, depends on what you require in a
picture.” Robert Mayne was speaking to a circle of friends. “If you
like narrative in a picture, then you will like the pictures by David
Wilkie, which tell a story, or rehearse a scene. They have life-like
imagery, and humour, and a master’s knowledge of composition, in the
sense of grouping effects. But poetry? None. I ask for poetry in a
picture, just as I require painting in a poem. But of narrative I
desire none. Let narrative be for prose.”
At this there was an outcry, for Wilkie was a great favourite with
his contemporaries. And Robert Mayne was called on to cite instances
that illustrated his contention, that poetry should be in picture,
and painting be found in verse.
“I do not say there should be; this is what I ask.”
“But you must define poetry, Sir,” said Miss Ridge, “or, at least,
what it means to you.”
“Poetry, Madam, is the perception of what is beautiful, not the
perception of what is humorous or sad. And I find this poetry in
the pictures by Cotman, because he shows the wide sky, and the warm
red earth, and poplars topping the horizon. The limbs of trees, and
the flight of clouds, and quiet field labour. Such pictures give a
‘temperate show of objects that endure.’ And this must please those
who seek the perception of the beautiful. Can you compare such a
picture to one that shows a village tavern, a debtor’s prison,
or an errand-boy? Equally true, you may reason. It may be. But
beautiful--no.
“Look at the pictures by Bonington; cannot you see the sands glisten,
and hear the waves? And the fishwife who is walking there, do we not
know that as she steps the sands press white beneath her, to darken
as the moisture re-asserts itself beneath her footfall, by the margin
of the sea? And the sea-piece by Turner. There is the sting of the
brine in it, the very sound of the wind in the rigging. And the
picture by Constable. Isn’t Fuseli right when he exclaims, ‘Come, let
me fetch my umbrella; I’m off to see the Constables,’ for isn’t
the rain just about to be freed from that sagging cloud, that has
those planes of blue behind it?
[Illustration: _Turner._ APPROACH TO VENICE.]
“And then the pictures by De Wint and Turner. So huge in design, so
simple in mass, yet if one looks into them, one finds sheep, and
cows, and tiny horses in the distance, towing barges along canals.
And in some corner of foreground, deep woods, and white doves, simply
swinging through the air. Or, perhaps, a man on a horse riding up
a lawn, with greyhounds at his heels, or tall foxgloves in deep
shadow. Then in Turner’s pictures, his Venice scenes; small figures
getting into barges--just a dab of the brush, and a dot of pink for
the head--and all the vast canal with the sun dipping into it. And
towering ships, away in the haze.
“Or, again, early morning, and a fisherman putting out on a lake
to fish. The sun is just getting up over the hills, where you know
the deer are feeding, and everything is grey, and drowsy with dew.
The men are so quiet, you can hear the dip of an oar, a murmur of
voices, perhaps the clank of a can at the bottom of the boat, or a
chain running out. Only these men are about, and a coot or two. The
cottages on the hill are still asleep; they have all the quietness
of early morning. And these men, they are two dots of black paint!
These are the pictures with poetry in them. Yes, these--and one
other.”
“Which is that?” asked Miss Ridge, listening prettily, but with her
charming eyes roving the room.
“It is a picture by a man named Watts, after our time, doubtless,”
said Robert Mayne; “it has its place here on these walls. It shows
the descent of Diana to the sleeping Endymion. The lovely form
conveys the arch of the crescent, the silver moon, and the brown
earth.”
It is true Miss Ridge was interested; she was a woman who might coo
soft, understanding little noises about a picture, but all the time
be arranging her hair by the reflection in its glass. So Robert
Mayne’s conversation was not altogether understood by her. Yet in
herself, she was so entirely satisfactory, there was no immediate
need for her to be anything else.
“It is for homely features to keep home;
They have their name thence, coarse complexions
And cheeks of sorry grain have leave to ply
The sampler, and to tease the housewife’s wool.
What need a vermeil-tinctured lip for that,
Love-darting eyes, and tresses like the morn?”
[Illustration: _Reynolds._ MISS RIDGE.]
But now there was a stir and a re-grouping at the far end of the
room, and Clare saw a remarkable figure enter. It was that of an
elderly man of great bulk, but the character of whose head and
countenance was such, as to make you oblivious of his corpulence. He
wore a brown suit of clothes and black worsted stockings, ill drawn
up, and an unpowdered wig, slightly too small for him. You must ask
your Mother to take you to see his picture in the National Portrait
Gallery; it gives the forceful expression so well. This person was
none other than Doctor Johnson, who made the Dictionary, wrote the
“Lives of the Poets,” and “Rasselas,” famous in his own day, and
ours, for the extraordinary power and precision of his speech.
He was followed by a gentleman to whom we owe a great debt of
gratitude, for he kept a faithful, and painstaking diary, in which
he recorded the sayings of Doctor Johnson. And this is one of the
books you will learn to treasure when you are older, nor find its
six volumes a word too long. This man’s name was James Boswell, of
Auchinlech.
The entry of the distinguished guest caused a general rearrangement;
the company fell into new groups and knots of talkers, just as the
kaleidoscope will scatter its fragments, to re-form into some fresh
design. Mr. Mayne walked forward to receive him, for the Doctor was
here at his invitation, and then Clare saw Sir Joshua Reynolds in his
wake. The actors and actresses closed round Doctor Johnson, for he
was a great favourite with them, often frequenting the Green Room,
being very easy and facetious, in their company. So for a time the
ungainly figure, moving with a constant roll of the head, was hid
from Clare’s view; but she heard his voice uttering characteristic
phrases of astonishing finality. When he spoke, you wondered if there
could be anything more to be said on that subject, ever again, by
anybody. There dwelt the apotheosis of the _pûnkt finale_ in his
speech. Oliver Goldsmith said of him, “It is ill arguing with Doctor
Johnson; though you may be in the right, he worsts you. If his pistol
misses fire, he clubs his opponent over the head with the butt-end of
it.”
Here are only some of his many utterances recorded for us by Boswell.
I will tell you a few.
His profound reverence for the hierarchy made him expect from Bishops
the highest degree of decorum. He was offended even at their going to
restaurants, or taverns, as they were then called.
[Illustration: _Reynolds._ SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.]
“A Bishop, Sir, has nothing to do at a tippling-house. It is not,
indeed, immoral in him to go to a tavern, neither would it be
immoral in him to whip a top in Grosvenor Square.”
Mrs. Thrale, a friend of his, once gave high praise to an
acquaintance.
“Nay, my dear lady, don’t talk so. Mr. Long’s character is very
short. He is a man of genteel appearance. He fills a chair. That is
all.”
He was chilled by wordy enthusiasm. He knew it to be possible to
blast by praise.
“Where there is exaggerated praise every one is set against the
character.”
This, I think, would fit some of the exponents of the gushing speech
of our modern social day.
“Sir, these are enthusiasts, by rule.”
Yet, very near the time of his decease, how humbly did this great man
receive the diffident expression of regard from some person unknown
to him, in which he found the sincerity he prized. “Sir, the applause
of a single human being is of great consequence.”
“Depend upon it,” said he on one occasion, “if a man talks of his
misfortunes, there is something in them that is not disagreeable to
him. Where there is pure misery, there is no recourse to the mention
of it.”
He must have loved folk of simple bearing: “Sir, he has no grimace,
no gesticulation, no burst of admiration on trivial occasions. He
never embraces you with an over-acted cordiality.”
Once, on hearing it observed of one of their friends that he was
awkward at counting money, “Why, Sir,” he said, “I am likewise
awkward at counting money; but then, Sir, the reason is plain: I have
had very little money to count.”
Though he used to censure carelessness very strongly, he once owned
to Boswell that, just to avoid the trouble of locking up five
guineas, he had hid them so well that he had never found them since.
Talking of Gray’s Odes, which he did not care for, he said, “They are
forced plants, raised in a hot-bed; they are but cucumbers, after
all.” A gentleman present, unluckily for himself said, “Had they been
literally cucumbers, they had been better things than odes.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Johnson, “for a hog.”
Once Johnson was in company with several clergymen, who, starting a
war of wits, carried the conversation to an excess of conviviality.
Johnson, whom they thought to entertain, sat moodily silent. Then
bending to a friend, he said, by no means in a whisper: “This
merriment of parsons is mighty offensive.”
Talking of a point of delicate scrupulosity of moral conduct, he
said: “Men of harder minds than ours will do many things from which
you and I would shrink. Yet, Sir, they will perhaps do more good in
life than we. But let us help one another.”
Clare’s eyes were now attracted to the animated group of players, at
the far end of the room. Barry, the actor, was standing in a fine
attitude, dressed in his brown velvet suit. The calves of his legs
were resplendent in silk stockings, and he was repeating lines from
the part of Romeo to his listening friends. Now and again a little
ripple of applause rose and spread among the group, but the gentlemen
did not seem so enthusiastic as the ladies. Old Quin was distinctly
adverse, and sat, with quite three dissenting chins, rolling his
eyes in a ferocious manner. There sat Fielding, the writer. Clare
had often heard her Mother read his name aloud from the frame, and
say how much she liked the shape of his nose. So she looked at
this feature particularly. It was certainly a very long nose, and
aquiline; what physiognomy books speak of as the “cogitative nose.”
“Some day I shall read ‘Tom Jones,’” said Clare to herself, “and I
expect I shall like it as much as Mother does. But I shall read it in
comfortable print, not in the edition that makes one say fowls for
souls all through. O, there’s Miss Ridge. _I_ see her.” She threaded
her way in and out of the company till she came to that bird-like
person, Miss Ridge. She had the pale ribbon in her fawn-coloured
hair, and the little shadows round her nose and the corners of her
mouth, were just as exquisite in real life, as in the picture.
“Ring-a-ring a-roses
A pocket full of posies,”
she was saying, holding Christopher and Bim by the hands. But Bim
thought this childish, and asked her if she couldn’t sing “Bonnie
Dundee.” “Sing ‘Bonnie Dundee’? I should think so; I can sing twenty
‘Bonnie Dundees.’ But what’s this caravan expedition on which you say
you are going with your Mother? I’ll tell you! we’ll go for a walk
one morning. I’ll take you to the Lock on the Stour, and we’ll have a
pocket-lunch on the bit of green field where the big burdock-leaves
grow. We’ll watch the boy opening the lock, and we’ll go and see
Dedham Church, and pay a visit at the cottage, for I know the people,
and you’ll be able to climb into the large pollards.”
[Illustration: _Hogarth._
MISS PRITCHARD. MRS. PRITCHARD. BARRY. FIELDING. QUIN. LAVINIA FENTON.
THE GREEN ROOM AT DRURY LANE.]
“O, that would be lovely,” cried the children. They are not the sort
of children who look you up and down, when you suggest a plan, but
they are down your throat in a minute, so to say, and you are lucky
if you can finish your sentence.
“Oh, yes.” “When?” “Let’s do it to-morrow!” “Can I take Pont?” “We’ll
bathe, won’t we?” “Oh come and sit down.” “What are the people called
who live in the cottage?” and so on, and so on--you can imagine it.
But Miss Ridge reverted to the caravan.
“Well, we’re going to start about the 15th of April,” said Bim in
reply, “and Mummie and Clare are going to cook, and Christopher and I
shall be armed, of course--two petronels, a pocket-knife, a musket,
and bows and arrows.”
“I’ll come too,” said Miss Ridge. “I could sweep the van out. I shall
be in nobody’s way, and whenever your Mother comes round the corner,
I’ll jump into the nosebag.”
But now there was a general movement towards the door, and from
among many people across the room, Mrs. Inchbald beckoned.
“You must go across to the schoolroom,” she said, “the others have
been in bed sometime now.”
Just at that moment a vision of Lady Crosbie flitted across the open
doorway, the very incarnation of flying movement, and grace.
But Mrs. Inchbald looked only one word, and that was “bed.” It was
written all over her face, and up and down it, and Clare knew quite
well there was to be no story that night, and certainly no reprieve.
“You shall hear it to-morrow evening when we have a quiet time to
ourselves,” said Mrs. Inchbald. And she bundled them all three,
through the swing-doors, and up the stairs, and into their rooms, in
a moment.
Clare crept into her bed; she felt tired all over. Passing before
her eyes in charm and beauty, she saw again in recollection, Miss
Hippesley, Mrs. Billington, Lady Crosbie, and Miss Ridge. Barry
strutted before her, chatting in brisk self-satisfaction, and once
more Miss Lavinia Fenton raised her hands and eyes.
“I wonder why Peg Woffington said Doctor Johnson had snuff on his
shirt-front,” she said to herself, sleepily, “and that his linen
wasn’t----” But she didn’t finish the sentence even to herself. She
knew it was but a poor mind that dwells upon the weaknesses of great
men.