"Very well," said Mrs. Atmore. "And now, Mr. Gummage, let me look at
some of your models."
"Figures, flowers, or landscapes?" asked the artist.
"Oh! some of each," replied the lady.
Mr. Gummage had so many pupils--both boys and girls--and so many
classes, and gave lessons besides, at so many boarding-schools, that he
had no leisure time for receiving applications, and as he kept his
domicile incog. he saw all his visitors at his school-room. Foreseeing a
long examination of the prints, he took from a hanging shelf several of
his numerous portfolios, and having placed them on a table before Mrs.
Atmore and her daughter, he proceeded to go round and direct his present
class of young ladies, who were all sitting at the drawing-desks in
their bonnets and shawls, because the apartment afforded no
accommodation for these habiliments if laid aside. Each young lady was
leaning over a straining-frame, on which was pasted a sheet of
drawing-paper, and each seemed engaged in attempting to copy one of the
coloured engravings that were fastened by a slip of cleft cane to the
cord of twine that ran along the wall. The benches were dusty, the floor
dirty and slopped with spilt water; and the windows, for want of
washing, looked more like horn than glass. The school-room and teacher
were all in keeping. Yet for many years Mr. Gummage was so much in
fashion that no other drawing-masters had the least chance of success.
Those who recollect the original, will not think his portrait
overcharged.
We left Mr. Gummage going round his class for the purpose of giving a
glance, and saying a few words to each.
"Miss Jones, lay down the lid of your paint-box. No rulers shall be used
in my school, as I have often told you."
"But, Mr. Gummage, only look at the walls of my castle; they are all
leaning to one side; both the turrets stand crooked, and the doors and
windows slant every way."
"No matter, it's my rule that nobody shall use a rule. Miss Miller, have
you rubbed the blue and bistre I told you?"
"Yes, sir; I've been at it all the afternoon; here it is."
"Why, that's not half enough."
"Mr. Gummage, I've rubbed, and rubbed, till my arm aches to the
shoulder, and my face is all in a glow."
"Then take off your bonnet, and cool yourself. I tell you there's not
half enough. Why, my boys rub blue and bistre till their faces run of a
stream. I make them take off their coats to it."
"Mr. Gummage," said one young lady, "you promised to put in my sky
to-day."
"Mr. Gummage," said another, "I've been waiting for my distances these
two weeks. How can I go any farther till you have done them for me?"
"Finish the fore-ground to-day. It is time enough for the distances:
I'll put them in on Friday."
"Mr. Gummage," said another, "my river has been expecting you since last
Wednesday."
"Why, you have not put in the boat yet. Do the boat to-day, and the
fisherman on the shore. But look at your bridge! Every arch is of a
different size--some big, and some little."
"Well, Mr. Gummage, it is your own fault--you should let me use
compasses. I have a pair in my box--do, pray, let me use them."
"No, I won't. My plan is that you shall all draw entirely by the eye."
"That is the reason we make everything so crooked."
"I see nothing more crooked than yourselves," replied the polite
drawing-master.
"Mr. Gummage," said another young lady, raising her eyes from a novel
that she had brought with her, "I have done nothing at my piece for at
least a fortnight. I have been all the time waiting for you to put in my
large tree."
"Hush this moment with your babbling, every soul of you," said the
teacher, in an under tone: "don't you see there are strangers here? What
an unreasonable pack of fools you are! Can I do everybody's piece at
once? Learn to have patience, one and all of you, and wait till your
turn comes."
Some of the girls tossed their heads and pouted, and some laughed, and
some quitted their desks and amused themselves by looking out at the
windows. But the instructor turned his back on them, and walked off
towards the table at which Mrs. Atmore and her daughter were seated with
the portfolios, both making incessant exclamations of "How
beautiful!--how elegant!--how sweet!"
"Oh! here are Romeo and Juliet in the tomb scene!" cried Marianne.
"Look, mamma, is it not lovely?--the very play in which we saw Cooper
and Mrs. Merry. Oh! do let me paint Romeo and Juliet for the dinner set!
But stop--here's the Shepherdess of the Alps! how magnificent! I think I
would rather do that for the china. And here's Mary Queen of Scots; I
remember her ever since I read history. And here are Telemachus and
Minerva, just as I translated about them in my Telemaque exercises. Oh!
let me do them for the dinner set--sha'n't I. Mr. Gummage?"
"I don't see any figure-pieces in which the colours are bright enough,"
remarked Mrs. Atmore.
"As to that," observed Gummage--who knew that the burthen of the drawing
would eventually fall on him, and who never liked to do figures--"I
don't believe that any of these figure pieces would look well if reduced
so small as to go on china plates."
"Well,--here are some very fine landscapes," pursued Mrs. Atmore;
"Here's the Cascade of Tivoli--and here's a view in Jamaica--and here's
Glastonbury Abbey."
"Oh! I dote on abbeys," cried Marianne, "for the sake of Amanda
Fitzalan."
"Your papa will not approve of your doing this," observed Mrs. Atmore:
"you know, he says that abbeys are nothing but old tumble-down
churches."
"If I may not do an abbey, let me do a castle," said Marianne; "there's
Conway Castle by moonlight--how natural the moon looks!"
"As to castles," replied Mrs. Atmore, "you know your papa says they are
no better than old jails. He hates both abbeys and castles."
"Well, here is a noble country seat," said Marianne--"'Chiswick House.'"
"Your papa has no patience with country seats," rejoined Mrs. Atmore.
"He says that when people have made their money, they had better stay in
town to enjoy it; where they can be convenient to the market, and the
stores, and the post-office, and the coffee-house. He likes a good
comfortable three story brick mansion, in a central part of the city,
with marble steps, iron railings, and green venetian shutters."
"To cut the matter short," said Mr. Gummage, "the best thing for the
china is a flower piece--a basket, or a wreath--or something of that
sort. You can have a good cipher in the centre, and the colours may be
as bright as you please. India ware is generally painted with one colour
only; but the Chinese are submissive animals, and will do just as they
are bid. It may cost something more to have a variety of colours; but I
suppose you will not mind that."
"Oh! no--no," exclaimed Mrs. Atmore, "I shall not care for the price; I
have set my mind on having this china the wonder of all Philadelphia."
Our readers will understand, that at this period nearly all the
porcelain used in America was of Chinese manufacture; very little of
that elegant article having been, as yet, imported from France.
A wreath was selected from the portfolio that contained the engravings
and drawings of flowers. It was decided that Marianne should first
execute it the full size of the model (which was as large as nature),
that she might immediately have a piece to frame; and that she was
afterwards to make a smaller copy of it, as a border for all the
articles of the china set; the middle to be ornamented with the letter
A, in gold, surrounded by the rays of a golden star. Sprigs and tendrils
of the flowers were to branch down from the border, so as nearly to
reach the gilding in the middle. The large wreath that was intended to
frame, was to bear in its centre the initials of Marianne Atmore, being
the letters M. A., painted in shell gold.
"And so," said Mr. Gummage, "having a piece to frame, and a pattern for
your china, you'll kill two birds with one stone."
On the following Monday, the young lady came to take her first lesson,
followed by a mulatto boy, carrying a little black morocco trunk, that
contained a four row box of Reeves' colours, with an assortment of
camel's hair pencils, half a dozen white saucers, a water cup, a lead
pencil, and a piece of India rubber. Mr. Gummage immediately supplied
her with two bristle brushes, and sundry little shallow earthern cups,
each containing a modicum of some sort of body colour, masticot, flake
white, &c., prepared by himself, and charged at a quarter-dollar apiece,
and which he told her she would want when she came to do landscapes and
figures.
Mr. Gummage's style was, to put in the sky, water, and distances with
opaque paints, and the most prominent objects with transparent colours.
This was probably the reason that his foregrounds seemed always to be
sunk in his backgrounds. The model was scarcely considered as a guide,
for he continually told his pupils that they must try to excel it; and
he helped them to do so by making all his skies deep red fire at the
bottom, and dark blue smoke at the top; and exactly reversing the
colours on the water, by putting red at the top, and blue at the bottom.
The distant mountains were lilac and white, and the near rocks buff
colour shaded with purple. The castles and abbeys were usually gamboge.
The trees were dabbed and dotted in with a large bristle brush, so that
the foliage looked like a green fog. The foam of the cascades resembled
a concourse of wigs, scuffling together and knocking the powder out of
each other, the spray being always fizzed on with one of the aforesaid
bristle brushes. All the dark shadows in every part of the picture were
done with a mixture of Prussian blue and bistre, and of these two
colours there was consequently a vast consumption in Mr. Gummage's
school. At the period of our story, many of the best houses in
Philadelphia were decorated with these landscapes. But for the honour of
my townspeople, I must say that the taste for such productions is now
entirely obsolete. We may look forward to the time, which we trust is
not far distant, when the elements of drawing will be taught in every
school, and considered as indispensable to education as a knowledge of
writing. It has long been our belief that _any_ child may, with proper
instruction, be made to draw, as easily as any child may be made to
write. We are rejoiced to find that so distinguished an artist as
Rembrandt Peale has avowed the same opinion, in giving to the world his
invaluable little work on Graphics: in which he has clearly demonstrated
the affinity between drawing and writing, and admirably exemplified the
leading principles of both.
Marianne's first attempt at the great wreath was awkward enough. After
she had spent five or six afternoons at the outline, and made it
triangular rather than circular, and found it impossible to get in the
sweet pea, and the convolvulus, and lost and bewildered herself among
the multitude of leaves that formed the cup of the rose, Mr. Gummage
snatched the pencil from her hand, rubbed out the whole, and then drew
it himself. It must be confessed that his forte lay in flowers, and he
was extremely clever at them; "but," as he expressed it, "his scholars
chiefly ran upon landscapes."
After he had sketched the wreath, he directed Marianne to rub the
colours for her flowers, while he put in Miss Smithson's rocks.
When Marianne had covered all her saucers with colours, and wasted ten
times as much as was necessary, she was eager to commence painting, as
she called it; and in trying to wash the rose with lake, she daubed it
on of crimson thickness. When Mr. Gummage saw it, he gave her a severe
reprimand for meddling with her own piece. It was with great difficulty
that the superabundant colour was removed; and he charged her to let the
flowers alone till he was ready to wash them for her. He worked a little
at the piece every day, forbidding Marianne to touch it: and she
remained idle while he was putting in skies, mountains, &c., for the
other young ladies.
At length the wreath was finished--Mr. Gummage having only sketched it,
and washed it, and given it the last touches. It was put into a splendid
frame, and shown as Miss Marianne Atmore's first attempt at painting;
and everybody exclaimed, "What an excellent teacher Mr. Gummage must be!
How fast he brings on his pupils!"
In the mean time, she undertook at home to make the small copy that was
to go to China. But she was now "at a dead lock," and found it utterly
impossible to advance a step without Mr. Gummage. It was then thought
best that she should do it at school--meaning that Mr. Gummage should do
it for her, while she looked out of the window.
The whole was at last satisfactorily accomplished, even to the gilt star
with the A in the centre. It was taken home and compared with the larger
wreath, and found still prettier, and shown as Marianne's, to the envy
of all mothers whose daughters could not furnish models for china. It
was finally given in charge to the captain of the Voltaire, with
injunctions to order a dinner-set exactly according to the pattern--and
to prevent the possibility of a mistake, a written direction accompanied
it.
The ship sailed--and Marianne continued three quarters at Mr. Gummage's
school, where she nominally effected another flower piece, and also
perpetrated Kemble in Rolla, Edwin and Angelina, the Falls of the Rhine,
and the Falls of Niagara; all of which were duly framed, and hung in
their appointed places.
During the year that followed the departure of the ship Voltaire, great
impatience for her return was manifested by the ladies of the Atmore
family--anxious to see how the china would look, and frequently hoping
that the colours would be bright enough, and none of the flowers
omitted--that the gilding would be rich, and everything inserted in its
proper place, exactly according to the pattern. Mrs. Atmore's only
regret was, that she had not sent for a tea-set also; not that she was
in want of one, but then it would be so much better to have a dinner-set
and a tea-set precisely alike, and Marianne's beautiful wreath on all.
"Why, my dear," said Mr. Atmore, "how often have I heard you say that
you would never have another _tea_-set from Canton, because the Chinese
persist in making the principal articles of such old-fashioned, awkward
shapes. For my part, I always disliked the tall coffee pots, with their
straight spouts, looking like light-houses with bowsprits to them; and
the short, clumsy tea-pots, with their twisted handles, and lids that
always fall off."
"To be sure," said Mrs. Atmore, "I have been looking forward to the
time, when we can get a French tea-set upon tolerable terms. But in the
mean while, I should be very glad to have cups and saucers with
Marianne's beautiful wreath, and of course, when we use this china on
the table we shall always bring forward our silver pots."
Spring returned, and there was much watching of the vanes, and great joy
when they pointed easterly, and the ship-news now became the most
interesting column of the papers. A vessel that had sailed from New York
for Canton, on the same day the Voltaire departed for Philadelphia, had
already got in; therefore the Voltaire might be hourly expected. At
length she was reported below; and at this period the river Delaware
suffered much, in comparison with the river Hudson, owing to the
tediousness of its navigation from the capes to the city.
At last the Voltaire cast anchor at the foot of Market street, and our
ladies could scarcely refrain from walking down to the wharf to see the
ship that held the box, that held the china. But invitations were
immediately sent out for a long projected dinner-party, which Mrs.
Atmore had persuaded her husband to defer till they could exhibit the
beautiful new porcelain.
The box was landed, and conveyed to the house. The whole family were
present at the opening, which was performed in the dining-room by Mr.
Atmore himself,--all the servants peeping in at the door. As soon as a
part of the lid was split off, and a handful of straw removed, a pile of
plates appeared, all separately wrapped in India paper. Each of the
family snatched up a plate and hastily tore off the covering. There were
the flowers glowing in beautiful colours, and the gold star and the gold
A, admirably executed. But under the gold star, on every plate, dish,
and tureen, were the words, "THIS IN THE MIDDLE!"--being the direction
which the literal and exact Chinese had minutely copied from a crooked
line that Mr. Atmore had hastily scrawled on the pattern with a very bad
pen, and of course without the slightest thought of its being inserted
_verbatim_ beneath the central ornament.
Mr. Atmore laughed--Mrs. Atmore cried--the servants giggled aloud--and
Marianne cried first, and laughed afterwards.
The only good that resulted was, that it gave occasion to Mr. Atmore to
relate the story to his guests whenever he had a dinner-party.
LAURA LOVEL.
"The world is still deceived with ornament."--SHAKSPEARE.
Laura Lovel was the eldest surviving daughter of a clergyman settled in
a retired and beautiful village at the western extremity of the state of
Massachusetts. Between Laura and her two youngest sisters, three other
children had died. Being so much their senior, it was in her power to
assist her father materially in the instruction of Ella and Rosa; as
after his family had become small, Mr. Lovel thought it best that the
two little girls should receive all their education at home, and never
were children that conferred more credit on their teachers. Mrs. Lovel
was a plain, good woman, of excellent practical sense, a notable
seamstress, and a first-rate housewife. Few families were more perfectly
happy, notwithstanding that the limited income of Mr. Lovel (though
sufficient for comfort) left them little or nothing for superfluities.
They had a very neat house standing in the centre of a flourishing
garden, in which utility had been the first consideration, though
blended as far as possible with beauty. The stone fence looked like a
hedge of nasturtians. The pillars supporting the rustic piazza that
surrounded the house, were the rough trunks of small trees, with a
sufficient portion of the chief branches remaining, to afford
resting-places for the luxuriant masses of scarlet beans that ran over
them; furnishing, when the blossoms were off, and the green pods full
grown, an excellent vegetable-dish for the table. The house was shaded
with fruit-trees exclusively; and the garden shrubs were all raspberry,
currant, and gooseberry, and the flowers were chiefly those that had
medicinal properties, or could be turned to culinary purposes--with the
exception of some that were cultivated purposely for the bees. A meadow
which pastured two cows and a horse, completed the little domain.
About the time that Laura Lovel had finished her seventeenth year, there
came to the village of Rosebrook an old friend of her father's, whom he
had long since lost sight of. They had received their early education at
the same school, they had met again at college, and had some years after
performed together a voyage to India; Mr. Brantley as supercargo, Mr.
Lovel as a missionary. Mr. Brantley had been very successful in
business, and was now a merchant of wealth and respectability, with a
handsome establishment in Boston. Mr. Lovel had settled down as pastor
of the principal church in his native village.
The object of Mr. Brantley's present visit to Rosebrook, was to inquire
personally into the state of some property he still retained there. Mr.
Lovel would not allow his old friend to remain at the tavern, but
insisted that _his_ house should be his abiding place; and they had much
pleasure in comparing their reminiscences of former times. As their
chief conversation was on topics common to both, Mr. Lovel did not
perceive that, except upon mercantile subjects, Mr. Brantley had
acquired few new ideas since they had last met, and that his reading was
confined exclusively to the newspapers. But he saw that in quiet
good-nature, and easiness of disposition, his old friend was still the
same as in early life.
Mr. Brantley was so pleased with every member of the Lovel family, and
liked his visit so much, that he was induced to prolong it two days
beyond his first intention; and he expressed an earnest desire to take
Laura home with him, to pass a few weeks with his wife and daughter.
This proposal, however, was declined, with sincere acknowledgments for
its kindness; Mr. Lovel's delicacy making him unwilling to send his
daughter, as a guest, to a lady who as yet was ignorant of her
existence, and Laura sharing in her father's scruples.
Mr. Brantley took his leave: and three months afterwards he paid a
second visit to Rosebrook, for the purpose of selling his property in
that neighbourhood. He brought with him a short but very polite letter
from his wife to Mr. and Mrs. Lovel, renewing the invitation for Laura,
and pressing it in a manner that could scarcely be withstood. Mr. Lovel
began to waver; Mrs. Lovel thought it was time that Laura should see a
little of the world, and Laura's speaking looks told how much pleasure
she anticipated from the excursion. The two little girls, though their
eyes filled at the idea of being separated from their beloved sister,
most magnanimously joined in entreating permission for her to go, as
they saw that she wished it. Finally, Mr. Lovel consented; and Laura
seemed to tread on air while making her preparations for the journey.
That evening, at the hour of family worship, her father laid his hand on
Laura's head, and uttered a fervent prayer for the preservation of her
health and happiness during her absence from the paternal roof. Mrs.
Lovel and all her daughters were deeply affected, and Mr. Brantley
looked very much inclined to participate in their emotion.
Early next morning Mr. Brantley's chaise was at the door, and Laura took
leave of the family with almost as many tears and kisses as if she had
been going to cross the Atlantic. Little Ella, who was about eight years
old, presented her, at parting, with a very ingenious needle-book of her
own making, and Rosa, who was just seven, gave her as a keepsake an
equally clever pincushion. She promised to bring them new books, and
other little presents from Boston, a place in which they supposed
everything that the world produced, could be obtained without
difficulty.
Finally, the last farewell was uttered, the last kiss was given, and
Laura Lovel took her seat in the chaise beside Mr. Brantley, who drove
off at a rapid pace; and in a few moments a turn in the road hid from
her view the house of her father, and the affectionate group that still
lingered at its gate, to catch the latest glimpse of the vehicle that
was bearing away from them the daughter and the sister.
As they proceeded on their journey, Laura's spirits gradually revived,
and she soon became interested or delighted with everything she beheld;
for she had a quick perception, with a mind of much intelligence and
depth of observation.
The second day of their journey had nearly closed, before the spires of
the Boston churches, and the majestic dome of the State House, met the
intense gaze of our heroine. Thousands of lights soon twinkled over the
city of the three hills, and the long vistas of lamps that illuminated
the bridges, seemed to the unpractised eyes of Laura Lovel to realize
the glories of the Arabian Nights. "Oh!" she involuntarily exclaimed,
"if my dear little sisters could only be with me now!"
As they entered by the western avenue, and as Mr. Brantley's residence
was situated in the eastern part of the city, Laura had an opportunity
of seeing as she passed a vast number of lofty, spacious, and
noble-looking dwelling-houses, in the erection of which the patrician
families of Boston have perhaps surpassed all the other aristocracies of
the Union; for, sternly republican as are our laws and institutions, it
cannot be denied that in private life every section of our commonwealth
has its aristocracy.