"Me!" cried Mrs. Gaunt, in amazement: then she ran to the picture, and
at sight of it every other sentiment gave way for a moment to gratified
vanity. "Nay," said she, beaming and blushing, "I was never half so
beautiful. What heavenly eyes!"
"The fellows to 'em be in your own head, dame, this moment."
"Seeing is believing," said Mrs. Gaunt, gayly, and in a moment she was
at the priest's mirror, and inspected her eyes minutely, cocking her
head this way and that. She ended by shaking it, and saying, "No. He has
flattered them prodigiously."
"Not a jot," said Betty. "If you could see yourself in chapel, you do
turn 'em up just so, and the white shows all round." Then she tapped the
picture with her finger: "O them eyes! they were never made for the good
of his soul,--poor simple man!"
Betty said this with sudden gravity: and now Mrs. Gaunt began to feel
very awkward. "Mr. Gaunt would give fifty pounds for this," said she, to
gain time: and, while she uttered that sentence, she whipped on her
armor.
"I'll tell you what I think," said she, calmly, "he wished to paint a
Madonna; and he must take some woman's face to aid his fancy. All the
painters are driven to that. So he just took the best that came to hand,
and that is not saying much, for this is a rare ill-favored parish: and
he has made an angel of her, a very angel. There, hide Me away again, or
I shall long for Me--to show to my husband. I must be going; I wouldn't
be caught here _now_ for a pension."
"Well, if ye must," said Betty; "but when will ye come again?" (She
hadn't got the petticoat yet.)
"Humph!" said Mrs. Gaunt, "I have done all I can for him; and perhaps
more than I ought. But there's nothing to hinder you from coming to me.
I'll be as good as my word; and I have an old Paduasoy, besides, you can
perhaps do something with it."
"You are very good, dame," said Betty, courtesying.
Mrs. Gaunt then hurried away, and Betty looked after her very
expressively, and shook her head. She had a female instinct that some
mischief or other was brewing.
Mrs. Gaunt went home in a revery.
At the gate she found her husband, and asked him to take a turn in the
garden with her.
He complied; and she intended to tell him a portion, at least, of what
had occurred. She began timidly, after this fashion: "My dear, Brother
Leonard is _so_ grateful for your flowers," and then hesitated.
"I'm sure he is very welcome," said Griffith. "Why doesn't he sup with
us, and be sociable, as Father Francis used? Invite him; let him know he
will be welcome."
Mrs. Gaunt blushed; and objected. "He never calls on us."
"Well, well, every man to his taste," said Griffith, indifferently, and
proceeded to talk to her about his farm, and a sorrel mare with a white
mane and tail that he had seen, and thought it would suit her.
She humored him, and affected a great interest in all this, and had not
the courage to force the other topic on.
Next Sunday morning, after a very silent breakfast, she burst out,
almost violently, "Griffith, I shall go to the parish church with you,
and then we will dine together afterwards."
"You don't mean it, Kate," said he, delighted.
"Ay, but I do. Although you refused to go to chapel with me."
They went to church together, and Mrs. Gaunt's appearance there created
no small sensation. She was conscious of that, but hid it, and conducted
herself admirably. Her mind seemed entirely given to the service, and to
a dull sermon that followed.
But at dinner she broke out, "Well, give me your church for a sleeping
draught. You all slumbered, more or less: those that survived the
drowsy, droning prayers sank under the dry, dull, dreary discourse. You
snored, for one."
"Nay, I hope not, my dear."
"You did then, as loud as your bass fiddle."
"And you sat there and let me!" said Griffith, reproachfully.
"To be sure I did. I was too good a wife, and too good a Christian, to
wake you. Sleep is good for the body, and twaddle is not good for the
soul. I'd have slept too, if I could; but with me going to chapel, I'm
not used to sleep at that time o' day. You can't sleep, and Brother
Leonard speaking."
In the afternoon came Mrs. Gough, all in her best. Mrs. Gaunt had her
into her bedroom, and gave her the promised petticoat, and the old
Paduasoy gown; and then, as ladies will, when their hand is once in,
added first one thing, then another, till there was quite a large
bundle.
"But how is it you are here so soon?" asked Mrs. Gaunt.
"O, we had next to no sermon to-day. He couldn't make no hand of it:
dawdled on a bit; then gave us his blessing, and bundled us out."
"Then I've lost nothing," said Mrs. Gaunt.
"Not you. Well, I don't know. Mayhap if you had been there he'd have
preached his best. But la! we warn't worth it."
At this conjecture Mrs. Gaunt's face burned, but she said nothing: only
she cut the interview short, and dismissed Betty with her bundle.
As Betty crossed the landing, Mrs. Gaunt's new lady's-maid, Caroline
Ryder, stepped accidentally, on purpose, out of an adjoining room, in
which she had been lurking, and lifted her black brows in affected
surprise. "What, are you going to strip the house, my woman?" said she,
quietly.
Betty put down the bundle, and set her arms akimbo. "There is none on 't
stolen, any way," said she.
Caroline's black eyes flashed fire at this, and her cheek lost color;
but she parried the innuendo skilfully. "Taking my perquisites on the
sly,--that is not so very far from stealing."
"O, there's plenty left for you, my fine lady. Besides, you don't want
_her_; you can set your cap at the master, they say. I'm too old for
that, and too honest into the bargain."
"Too ill-favored, you mean, ye old harridan," said Ryder,
contemptuously.
But, for reasons hereafter to be dealt with, Betty's thrust went home:
and the pair were mortal enemies from that hour.
* * * * *
Mrs. Gaunt came down from her room discomposed: from that she became
restless and irritable; so much so, indeed, that at last Mr. Gaunt told
her, good-humoredly enough, if going to church made her ill (meaning
peevish), she had better go to chapel. "You are right," said she, "and
so I will."
The next Sunday she was at her post in good time.
The preacher cast an anxious glance around to see if she was there. Her
quick eye saw that glance, and it gave her a demure pleasure.
This day he was more eloquent than ever: and he delivered a beautiful
passage concerning those who do good in secret. In uttering these
eloquent sentences his cheek glowed, and he could not deny himself the
pleasure of looking down at the lovely face that was turned up to him.
Probably his look was more expressive than he intended: the celestial
eyes sank under it, and were abashed, and the fair cheek burned: and
then so did Leonard's at that.
Thus, subtly yet effectually, did these two minds communicate in a crowd
that never noticed nor suspected the delicate interchange of sentiment
that was going on under their very eyes.
In a general way compliments did not seduce Mrs. Gaunt: she was well
used to them, for one thing. But to be praised in that sacred edifice,
and from the pulpit, and by such an orator as Leonard, and to be praised
in words so sacred and beautiful that the ears around her drank them
with delight,--all this made her heart beat, and filled her with soft
and sweet complacency.
And then to be thanked in public, yet, as it were, clandestinely, this
gratified the furtive tendency of woman.
There was no irritability this afternoon; but a gentle radiance that
diffused itself on all around, and made the whole household
happy,--especially Griffith, whose pipe she filled, for once, with her
own white hand, and talked dogs, horses, calves, hinds, cows, politics,
markets, hay, to please him: and seemed interested in them all.
But the next day she changed: ill at ease, and out of spirits, and could
settle to nothing.
It was very hot for one thing: and, altogether, a sort of lassitude and
distaste for everything overpowered her, and she retired into the grove,
and sat languidly on a seat with half-closed eyes.
But her meditations were no longer so calm and speculative as
heretofore. She found her mind constantly recurring to one person, and,
above all, to the discovery she had made of her portrait in his
possession. She had turned it off to Betty Gough; but here, in her calm
solitude and umbrageous twilight, her mind crept out of its cave, like
wild and timid things at dusk, and whispered to her heart that Leonard
perhaps admired her more than was safe or prudent.
Then this alarmed her, yet caused her a secret complacency: and that,
her furtive satisfaction, alarmed her still more.
Now, while she sat thus absorbed, she heard a gentle footstep coming
near. She looked up, and there was Leonard close to her; standing
meekly, with his arms crossed upon his bosom.
His being there so pat upon her thoughts scared her out of her habitual
self-command. She started up, with a faint cry, and stood panting, as if
about to fly, with her beautiful eyes turned large upon him.
He put forth a deprecating hand, and soothed her. "Forgive me, madam,"
said he; "I have unawares intruded on your privacy; I will retire."
"Nay," said she, falteringly, "you are welcome. But no one comes here;
so I was startled." Then, recovering herself, "Excuse my ill-manners. 'T
is so strange that you should come to me here, of all places."
"Nay, my daughter," said the priest, "not so very strange: contemplative
minds love such places. Calling one day to see you, I found this sweet
and solemn grove; the like I never saw in England: and to-day I returned
in hopes to profit by it. Do but look around at these tall columns; how
calm, how reverend! 'T is God's own temple, not built with hands."
"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Gaunt, earnestly. Then, like a woman as she
was, "So you came to see my trees, not me."
Leonard blushed. "I did not design to return without paying my respects
to her who owns this temple, and is worthy of it; nay, I beg you not to
think me ungrateful."
His humility and gentle but earnest voice made Mrs. Gaunt ashamed of her
petulance. She smiled sweetly, and looked pleased. However, erelong, she
attacked him again. "Father Francis used to visit us often," said she.
"He made friends with my husband, too. And I never lacked an adviser
while he was here."
Leonard looked so confused at this second reproach that Mrs. Gaunt's
heart began to yearn. However, he said humbly that Francis was a secular
priest, whereas he was convent-bred. He added, that by his years and
experience Francis was better fitted to advise persons of her age and
sex, in matters secular, than he was. He concluded timidly that he was
ready, nevertheless, to try and advise her; but could not, in such
matters, assume the authority that belongs to age and knowledge of the
world.
"Nay, nay," said she, earnestly, "guide and direct my soul, and I am
content."
He said, yes! that was his duty and his right.
Then, after a certain hesitation, which at once let her know what was
coming, he began to thank her, with infinite grace and sweetness, for
her kindness to him.
She looked him full in the face, and said she was not aware of any
kindness she had shown him worth speaking of.
"That but shows," said he, "how natural it is to you to do acts of
goodness. My poor room is a very bower now, and I am happy in it. I used
to feel very sad there at times; but your hand has cured me."
Mrs. Gaunt colored beautifully. "You make me ashamed," said she. "Things
are come to a pass indeed, if a lady may not send a few flowers and
things to her spiritual father without being thanked for it. And, O,
sir, what are earthly flowers compared with those blossoms of the soul
you have shed so liberally over us? Our immortal parts were all asleep
when you came here and wakened them by the fire of your words.
Eloquence! 't was a thing I had read of, but never heard, nor thought to
hear. Methought the orators and poets of the Church were all in their
graves this thousand years, and she must go all the way to heaven that
would hear the soul's true music. But I know better now."
Leonard colored high with pleasure, "Such praise from you is too sweet,"
he muttered. "I must not court it. The heart is full of vanity." And he
deprecated further eulogy, by a movement of the hand extremely refined,
and, in fact, rather feminine.
Deferring to his wish Mrs. Gaunt glided to other matters, and was
naturally led to speak of the prospects of their Church, and the
possibility of reconverting these islands. This had been the dream of
her young heart; but marriage and maternity, and the universal coldness
with which the subject had been received, had chilled her so, that of
late years she had almost ceased to speak of it. Even Leonard, on a
former occasion, had listened coldly to her; but now his heart was open
to her. He was, in fact, quite as enthusiastic on this point as ever she
had been; and then he had digested his aspirations into clearer forms.
Not only had he resolved that Great Britain must be reconverted, but had
planned the way to do it. His cheek glowed, his eyes gleamed, and he
poured out his hopes and his plans before her with an eloquence that few
mortals could have resisted.
As for this, his hearer, she was quite carried away by it. She joined
herself to his plans on the spot; she begged, with tears in her eyes, to
be permitted to support him in this great cause. She devoted to it her
substance, her influence, and every gift that God had given her: the
hours passed like minutes in this high converse; and when the tinkling
of the little bell at a distance summoned him to vespers, he left her
with a gentle regret he scarcely tried to conceal, and she went slowly
in like one in a dream, and the world seemed dead to her forever.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, when Mrs. Ryder, combing out her long hair, gave one
inadvertent tug, the fair enthusiast came back to earth, and asked her,
rather sharply, who her head was running on.
Ryder, a very handsome young woman, with fine black eyes, made no reply,
but only drew her breath audibly hard.
I do not very much wonder at that, nor at my having to answer that
question for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was at that moment running, like
any other woman's, on the man she was in love with.
And the man she was in love with was the husband of the lady whose hair
she was combing, and who put her that curious question--plump.
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
_The Resources of California, comprising Agriculture, Mining, Geography,
Climate, Commerce, &c., and the Past and Future Development of the
State._ By JOHN S. HITTELL. Second Edition, with an Appendix on Oregon
and Washington Territory. San Francisco: A. Roman & Co. New York: W. J.
Widdleton.
This is a book almost as encyclopedic as its title would indicate; and
is evidently written with a desire to say everything which the theme
permits, and to say it truly. It answers almost every question that an
intelligent person can ask, in respect to California, besides a good
many which few intelligent persons know enough to propound. And it is a
proof of its honesty that it does not, after all, make California
overpoweringly attractive, whether in respect of climate, society, or
business. This is saying a good deal, when we consider that the Preface
sums up the allurements of the Pacific coast in a single sentence
covering two and a half pages.
The philosophy of the author is sometimes rather bewildering, as where
he defines "universal suffrage" to mean that "every sane adult white
male citizen, not a felon, may vote at every election." (p. 349.) His
general statements, too, are apt to be rather sweeping. For instance, he
says, in two different passages, that, "so far as we know, the climate
of San Francisco is the most equable and the mildest in the world." (pp.
29, 431.) Yet he puts the extremes of temperature in this favored
climate at +25° and +97° Fahrenheit; while at Fayal, in the Azores, the
recorded extremes are, if we mistake not, +40° and +85°; and no doubt
there are other temperate climates as uniform.
One might object, too, from the side of severe science, to his devoting
the "Reptile" department of his zoölogical section chiefly to spiders,
with incidental remarks on fleas and mosquitos. Perhaps it is to balance
Captain Stedman in Surinam, who under the head of "Insects" discourses
chiefly of vampyre-bats.
The wonders of the Yo-semite valley he describes as well as most people;
and faithfully contends for their superiority to those of Niagara,
where, as he plaintively observes, "a day or two is enough," while one
could contentedly remain for months among the California wonders. He
shows, however, that his memories of Atlantic civilization are still
painfully vivid, when he counsels the beholder of the Mariposa grove to
lie on his back, and think of Trinity Church steeple. Might not one also
beguile a third day at Niagara by reflections on the Croton Aqueduct?
But these little glimpses of the author's personality make the book only
the more entertaining, and give spice to the really vast mass of
accurate information which it conveys. There are few passages which one
can call actually imaginative, unless one includes under that head the
description (page 40) of that experiment "common in the Eastern cities,"
where a man dressed in woollen, by sliding on a carpet a few steps,
accumulates enough personal electricity to light gas with his fingers.
This familiar process, it appears, is impossible in California, and so
far his descriptions of that climate convey a sense of safety. Yet even
one seasoned to such wonders as these might be startled, for a moment,
before his account of the mountain sheep (_Ovis montana_). This
ponderous animal, weighing three hundred and fifty pounds, has a
sportive habit of leaping headlong from precipices one hundred feet
high, and alighting on its horns, which, being strong and elastic, throw
him ten or fifteen feet into the air, "and the next time he alights on
his feet all right." (p. 124.) "Mountaineers assert" this; and after
this it can be hardly doubted that the products of the human
imagination, in California, are on a scale of Yo-semite magnificence.
_The American Republic: its Constitution, Tendencies, and Destiny._ By
O. A. BROWNSON, LL. D. New York: P. O'Shea.
Mr. Brownson's influence over the American people, which had dwindled
pretty nearly to zero at the beginning of the war, revived with that
revival of the old Adam which made him a patriot, and thus showed him
rather in the light of a heretic. This book sets him right (or wrong)
again, and his temporary partnership with "humanitarians" may be
regarded as closed by official notification. In a volume which might
well be compressed into one fourth its present size, he covers a great
deal of ground, and has pungent suggestions on both sides of a great
many questions. Even in the Preface he announces his abandonment of the
doctrine of State sovereignty, after holding it for thirty-three years,
and at once proceeds to explain how, in a profounder sense, he holds it
more thoroughly than ever. In the chapter on "Secession," which is the
best in the book, he indorses Charles Sumner's theory of State suicide;
holds that the Southern States are now "under the Union, not of it," and
seems quite inclined to pardon Mr. Lincoln for abolishing slavery by
proclamation. On the other hand, he scouts the theory that the Rebels
committed treason, in any moral sense, and proclaims that we are all
"willing and proud to be their countrymen, fellow-citizens, and
friends." "There need be no fear to trust them now." To hang or exile
them would be worse than "deporting four millions of negroes and colored
men." (pp. 335-338.)
It must, indeed, be owned that our author has apparently reverted to an
amount of colorphobia which must cheer the hearts of the Hibernian
portion of his co-religionists. Ignoring the past in a way which seems
almost wilful, he declares that the freedman has no capacity of
patriotism, no sort of appreciation of the question at stake; and that
he would, if enfranchised, invariably vote with his former master. "In
any contest between North and South, they would take, to a man, the
Southern side." (pp. 346, 376.) Nevertheless, he thinks that the negro
will be ultimately enfranchised, "and the danger is, that it will be
attempted too soon." If, indeed, it be postponed, he seems to think the
negro may, by the blessing of Providence, "melt away." (p. 437.) What a
pity that the obstinate fellow, with all the aid now being contributed
in the way of assassination, so steadfastly refuses to melt!
Against the Abolitionists, also, Mr. Brownson is still ready to break a
lance, with the hearty unreasoning hostility of the good old times.
"Wendell Phillips is as far removed from true Christian civilization as
was John C. Calhoun, and William Lloyd Garrison is as much of a
barbarian and despot in principle and tendency as Jefferson Davis." (p.
355.) This touch of righteous indignation is less crushing, however,
than his covert attacks upon our two great generals. For in one place he
enumerates as typical warriors "McClellan, Grant, and Sherman," and in
another place, "Halleck, Grant, and Sherman." This is indeed the very
refinement of unkindness.
Of a standing army Mr. Brownson thinks well, and wishes it to number a
hundred thousand; but his reason for the faith that is in him is a
little unexpected. He thinks it useful because "it creates honorable
places for gentlemen or the sons of gentlemen without wealth." (p. 386.)
Touching our naturalized foreigners, he admits that they have been
rather a source of embarrassment in recruiting for our armies (p. 381);
but consoles himself by hinting, with his accustomed modesty, that "the
best things written on the controversy have been by Catholics." (p.
378.)
He sees danger in the horizon, and frankly avows it. It is none of the
commonplace perils, however,--national bankruptcy, revival of the slave
power, oppression of Southern loyalists. A wholly new and profounder
terror is that which his penetrating eye evokes from the future. It is,
that, if matters go on as now, foreign observers will never clearly
understand whether it was the "territorial democracy" or the
"humanitarian democracy" which really triumphed in the late contest!
"The danger now is, that the Union victory will, at home and abroad, be
interpreted as a victory won in the interest of social or humanitarian
democracy. It was because they regarded the war waged on the side of the
Union as waged in the interest of this terrible democracy, that our
bishops and clergy sympathized so little with the government in
prosecuting it; not, as some imagined, because they were disloyal.... If
the victory of the Union should turn out to be a victory for the
humanitarian democracy, the civilized world will have no reason to
applaud it." (pp. 365, 366.)
After this passage, it is needless to say that its author is the same
Mr. Brownson whom the American people long since tried and found wanting
as a safe or wise counsellor; the same of whom the Roman Catholic Church
one day assumed the responsibility, and found the task more onerous than
had been expected. He retains his arrogance, his gladiatorial skill, his
habit of sweeping assertion; but perhaps his virulence is softened, save
where some unhappy "humanitarian" is under dissection. Enough remains of
the habit, however, to make his worst pages the raciest, and to render
it a sharp self-satire when he proclaims, at the very outset, that a
constitutional treatise should be written "with temper."
_Across the Continent: a Summer's Journey to the Rocky Mountains, the
Mormons, and the Pacific States, with Speaker Colfax._ By SAMUEL BOWLES,
Editor of the Springfield (Mass.) Republican. Springfield, Mass.: Samuel
Bowles & Co.
Since Mr. Greeley set the example, it has been the manifest destiny of
every enterprising journalist to take an occasional trip across the
continent, and personally inspect his subscribers. The latest overland
Odyssey of this kind--transacted by three silent editors and one very
public Speaker--is recorded in Mr. Bowles's new book; which proceeds, as
one may observe, from his own publishing office and bindery, and may
therefore almost claim, like the quaint little books presented by the
eccentric Quincy Tufts to Harvard College Library, to have been
"written, printed, and bound by the same hand."
Journalism is a good training, in some ways, for a trip like this. It
implies a quick eye for facts, a good memory for figures, a hearty faith
in the national bird, and a boundless appetite for new acquaintances.
Every Eastern editor, moreover, is sure to find old neighbors throughout
the West; and he who escorts a rising politician has all the world for a
friend.
The result is, in this case, a thoroughly American book,--American in
the sense of to-day, if not according to the point of view of the
millennium. It is American in its vast applications of arithmetic; in
the facility with which it brings the breadth of a continent within the
limits of a summer's ride; in the eloquence which rises to sublimity
over mining stock, and dwindles to the verge of commonplace before
unmarketable natural beauties. Of course, it is the best book on the
theme it handles, for it is the latest; it is lively, readable,
instructive; but no descriptions of those changing regions can last
much longer than an almanac, and this will retain its place only until
the coming of the next editorial pilgrim.
_Esperance._ By META LANDER, author of "Light on the Dark River,"
"Marion Graham," &c. New York: Sheldon & Co.
Can it be possible that any literature of the world now yields
sentimental novels so vague and immature as those which America brings
forth? Or is it that their Transatlantic compeers float away and
dissolve by their own feebleness before they reach our shores?
"Cry, Esperance! Percy! and set on." This Shakespearian motto might have
appeared upon the title-page of this volume; but there is nothing so
vivacious upon that page, nor indeed on any other. The name of the book
comes from that of the heroine, who was baptized Hope. But the friend of
her soul was wont to call her Esperance, "in her wooing moods," and from
this simple application of the French dictionary results the title of
the romance. Even this does not close the catalogue of the heroine's pet
names however, for in moments of yet higher ecstasy, when she rides
sublime upon the storm of passion, she is styled, not without scientific
appropriateness, "Espy."
Esperance is a young girl who seeks her destiny. She also has her
"wooing moods," during which, on small provocation, she "hastily pens a
few lines"--of verse such as no young lady's diary should be without.
She has, moreover, her intervals of sternness, when she boxes ears; now
in case of her father, unfilially, and anon in more righteous conflict
with her step-mother's wicked lover. But her demonstrations do not
usually take the brief form of blows, but the more formidable shape of
words. Indeed, it takes a good many words to meet the innumerable crises
of her daily life; and, to do her justice, the more desperate the
emergencies, the better she likes them. Anguish is heaped upon her,
father and mother desert her, several eligible lovers jilt her,--she
would be much obliged to you to point out any specific sorrow of which
at least one good specimen has not occurred within her experience. There
is a distressing casualty to every chapter, and then come in the
poisoned arrows! "Once in the room, I bolted the door and threw
myself--not on the bed--the floor better suited my mood. And there I
lay, with reeling senses, and a brain on fire, while in my trampled and
bruised heart were wildly struggling tenderness and scorn, love and
hate, life and death.... The slow-moving hours tolled a mournful
requiem, as the long procession of stricken hopes and joys were borne
onward to their death and burial. And I, the victim, turned
executioner."
The French dictionary extends onward from the title-page, and haunts
these impassioned pages. Phrases of a recondite and elaborate
description, such as "_Oui, monsieur_," "_Très-bien_," and "_Entrez_,"
adorn the sportive conversation of this cultivated circle. Sometimes,
with higher flight, some one essays to gambol in the Latin tongue: "It
seemed to me that old Tempus must have taken to himself a new pair of
wings to have _fugited_ so rapidly as he did." Yet the French and the
Latin are better than the English; for the main body of the book, while
breaking no important law of morals or of grammar, is scarcely adapted
for any phase of human existence beyond the boarding-school. It seems
rather hard, perhaps, to devote serious censure to a thing so frail; but
without a little homely truth, how are we ever to get beyond this
bread-and-butter epoch of American fiction?
_Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds: with Notices of Some of his
Contemporaries._ Commenced by CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE, R. A. Continued and
concluded by TOM TAYLOR, M. A. London: John Murray. 2 vols. 8vo.
"When, in 1832," writes C. R. Leslie, "Constable exhibited his 'Opening
of Waterloo Bridge,' it was placed in the school of painting,--one of
the small rooms in Somerset House. A sea-piece, by Turner, was next to
it,--a gray picture, beautiful and true, but with no positive color in
any part of it. Constable's 'Waterloo' seemed as if painted with liquid
gold and silver, and Turner came several times into the room while he
was heightening with vermilion and lake the decorations and flags of the
city barges. Turner stood behind him, looking from the 'Waterloo' to his
own picture, and at last brought his palette from the great room where
he was touching another picture, and, putting a round daub of red lead,
somewhat bigger than a shilling, on his gray sea, went away without
saying a word. The intensity of the red lead, made more vivid by the
coolness of his picture, caused even the vermilion and lake of Constable
to look weak. I came into the room just as Turner left it. 'He has been
here,' said Constable, 'and fired a gun.'"
Twenty years ago the erratic life of Haydon the artist was dashed
suddenly and violently out by his own hand. Men brought the cold light
of their judgment then, and overspread his character, forgetful of the
fires of his genius; but Mr. Tom Taylor remembered the burning spirit,
memorable to the soul of art, and he published two volumes containing
Haydon's autobiography and journals, which have set a seal upon his
memory, and lead us to thank the man who has done for Haydon what Turner
did for his own picture,--fired a gun.
Since Haydon's Autobiography was published, Mr. Taylor has not been
idle. Some of the purest and most popular plays now upon the stage we
owe to his hand. The face of the _blasé_ theatre-goer shines when his
play is announced for the evening; and even the long-visaged critic,
fond of talking of the _décadence_ of the modern stage, has been known
to appear punctually in his seat when Tom Taylor's play was to lead off
the performance.
The days of Burton have passed, and the echoes of roof-splitting
laughter he excited have died away; but while the remembrance of "lovely
things" remains with us, those who were fortunate enough to have seen
Mr. Taylor's play of "Helping Hands," as performed at Burton's Theatre
in New York, will be sure never to forget it.
We should be glad, if space permitted, to speak of Mr. Taylor in the
several branches of literature wherein he has become distinguished; but
it is chiefly with him as a biographer, and principally with one
biography, we are concerned here.
Six years ago, Leslie's "Biographical Recollections" were given to the
world by the hand of the same editor. There are few books more
delightful of this kind in our language; and no small share of the
interest results from the conscientious work Mr. Taylor has put into the
study of Mr. Leslie's pictures, and his recognition of him as
distinctively a literary painter, possessing a kindly brotherhood to
Washington Irving in the subtile humor he loved to depict.
We remember having the good fortune once to meet Mr. Taylor, while he
was preparing this book, and being impressed with the idea that he had
committed Mr. Leslie's paintings to memory, as one of the necessary
preliminaries in order to do justice to his subject. He had that day
returned from a pilgrimage to one of the pictures, and was able to
inform the artists who were present with regard to the smallest
accessory. We fancied, had painting, and not penning, been his forte, he
could have reproduced the picture for us on the spot, could we, at the
same time, have transformed the table-cloth into a canvas.
In the Preface to the Recollections of Leslie, we are told that the
reason his autobiography ends abruptly was not because of Mr. Leslie's
failing health, "but because all the time he could spare from painting
was, during the last year of his life, occupied by him in writing the
Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds, at which he worked hard even a month before
his death." When the Leslie papers were put into Mr. Taylor's hands,
this Life, then in a fragmentary condition, being hardly more than
memoranda, for the most part, also came into his possession. And it
having been his "lot," as he has elsewhere said, to have the materials
for two artistic biographies already intrusted to his care, he must have
accepted the third, thus silently bestowed, as the especial legacy of
his friend.
Therefore, by education and by accident, (if we may choose to consider
it such,) setting aside Mr. Taylor's natural ability for the labor, he
found himself pre-eminently elected to complete and issue the "Life and
Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds." The request of Mr. Murray, the publisher,
appears, however, to have spurred him to the actual acceptance of the
work. Some idea of these volumes, with their varied interest of life and
art, may be briefly conveyed by quoting from the Preface, where Mr.
Taylor writes:--
"The life of a painter, more than most men, as a rule, derives its
interest from his work and from the people he paints. When his sitters
are the chief men and women of his time, for beauty, genius, rank,
power, wit, goodness, or even fashion and folly, this interest is
heightened. It culminates when the painter is the equal and honored
associate of his sitters. All these conditions concur in the case of
Reynolds. It is impossible to write a Life and Times of the painter
without passing in review--hasty and brief as it must be--the great
facts of politics, literature, and manners during his busy life, which
touched, often very closely, the chief actors in a drama taking in the
most stirring events of the last century, and containing the germs of
many things that have materially operated to shape our arts, manners,
and institutions.
"By the use of these materials, I have attempted to carry out Mr.
Leslie's intention of presenting Sir Joshua in his true character, as
the genial centre of a most various and brilliant society, as well as
the transmitter of its chief figures to our time by his potent art."
It is only by turning over the pages of each chapter, and observing
closely the brackets wherein Mr. Taylor's portion of the work is
enclosed, that we discover how great his labor has been, and how well
fulfilled. His interpolations are flung, like the Fribourg Bridge, fine
and strong, welding together opposing points, and never inserted like a
wedge. A happy instance of this appears in the first volume, where Mr.
Taylor says, speaking of Johnson, after the death of his mother, "The
regard of such men as Reynolds was henceforth the best comfort of that
great, solitary heart; and the painter's purse and house and pen were
alike at his friend's service." "For example," Leslie continues, "in
this year Reynolds wrote three papers for the 'Idler.' 'I have heard Sir
Joshua say,' observes Northcote, 'that Johnson required them from him on
a sudden emergency, and on that account he sat up the whole night to
complete them in time; and by it he was so much disordered, that it
produced a vertigo in his head.'"
The story of Reynolds's youth is a happier one than is often recorded of
young artists. His father was too wise and too kind to cross the natural
proclivities of the boy, although he does appear to have wavered for a
moment when Joshua declared he "had rather be an apothecary than an
_ordinary_ painter." He was, however, early apprenticed to Hudson, the
first portrait-painter of his time in England. But hardly two years had
elapsed before the master saw himself eclipsed, and the two separated
without great waste of love on the part of Hudson. From that moment,
Reynolds's career was decided. He put the mannerism of his former master
away from his pictures when he distanced himself from his studio, and,
going soon after to the Continent, devoted himself to the study of great
works of art. With what vigor and faithfulness this labor was pursued,
the Roman and Venetian note-books testify. "For the studies he made from
Raphael," writes Leslie, "he paid dearly; for he caught so severe a cold
in the chambers of the Vatican as to occasion a deafness which obliged
him to use an ear-trumpet for the remainder of his life."
The fertility and inexhaustibility of power shown by Sir Joshua Reynolds
have seldom, if ever, been surpassed in the history of Art. In the
"Catalogue Raisonnée" of his paintings, soon to be given to the public,
nearly three thousand pictures will be enumerated. Many of these were,
of course, finished by his assistants, according to the fashion of the
time, but the expression of the face remains to attest the master's
hand. (Unless, perchance, the head may have dropped off the canvas
entirely, as happened once, when an unfortunate youth, who had borrowed
one of his fine pictures to copy, was carrying it home under his arm.)
In the record for the year 1758, we are startled by the number of one
hundred and fifty sitters. And although this was probably the busiest
year of his life, our astonishment never wanes while observing the
ceaseless industry of every moment of his career, during the seventh day
as well as the other six; and this, too, in spite of a promise won from
him by Dr. Johnson, when on his death-bed, that he would never use his
pencil on a Sunday. But the habit of a long working life was too strong
upon him, and he soon persuaded himself that it was better to have made
the promise than distress a dying friend, although he did not intend to
observe it strictly.
Sir Joshua possessed the high art of inciting himself to work by
repeatedly soliciting the most beautiful and most interesting persons of
the time to sit to him. The lovely face of Kitty Fisher was painted by
him five times, and no less frequently that of the charming actress,
Mrs. Abington, who was also noted for her _bel esprit_, and was
evidently a favorite with the great painter. There are two or three
pictures of Mrs. Siddons by his hand, and many of the beautiful Maria
Countess Waldegrave, afterwards Duchess of Gloucester, a lock of whose
"delicate golden-brown" hair was found by Mr. Taylor in a side-pocket of
one of Sir Joshua's note-books,--"loveliest of all, whom Reynolds seems
never to have been tired of painting, nor she of sitting to him."
Of his numerous and invaluable pictures of Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith and
Admiral Keppel, it is hardly necessary to speak. Many of them are well
known to us from engravings.
To a painter, this Life is of incalculable interest and value. The
account of his manner of handling "the vehicles" is minute and faithful;
and if, as Northcote complained, who was a pupil of Reynolds, Sir Joshua
could not teach, he could only show you how he worked,--many an artist
can gather from these pages what Northcote gathered by looking from
palette to canvas. The descriptions of some of the paintings are rich in
color, and are worthy of the highest praise.
Sir Joshua Reynolds is one of the few men of genius who have been also
men of society. In his note-books for the year, sometimes the number of
engagements for dinners and visits would preponderate over the number of
his sitters, and sometimes the scale would be about equal. Yet the
amount of the latter was always astonishingly large. Perhaps no man,
through a long series of years, was more esteemed and sought by the most
honorable in society than he; while his diary, with its meagre jottings,
brings before us a motley and phantasmagorical procession of the wisest
and wittiest, the most beautiful and most notorious men and women of
that period, who thronged his studio. We can see the bitterest political
opponents passing each other upon the threshold of his painting-room,
and, what was far more agreeable to Sir Joshua than having to do with
these stormy petrels, we can see the worshipping knight and his lovely
mistress, or the fair-cheeked children of many a lady whom he had
painted, years before, in the first blossoming of her own youth.
The gentleness and natural amiability of his disposition eminently
fitted him for the high social position he attained; but the fervor he
felt for his work made him forget everything foreign to it until the
hour arrived when he must leave his painting-room. He was fond of
receiving company, especially at dinner, and his dinners were always
most agreeable. He often annoyed his sister, Miss Reynolds, who presided
over his household for a time, by inviting any friends who might happen
into his studio in the morning to come to dine with him at night, quite
forgetting that the number of seats he had provided was already filled
by guests previously asked. The result was what might be expected, and
it was often simply bare good fortune if everybody had enough to eat.
But, "though the dinner might be careless and inelegant, and the
servants awkward and too few," the talk was always pleasant, and no
invitations to dine were more eagerly accepted than his.
It was on the principle, perhaps, that "to the feasts of the good the
good come uninvited," that Dr. Johnson made it a point to be present on
these occasions, and was seldom welcomed otherwise than most cordially
by Sir Joshua. On one occasion, however, when another guest was expected
to converse, Sir Joshua was really vexed to find Dr. Johnson in the
drawing-room, and would hardly speak to him. Miss Reynolds, who appears
to have been one of the "unappreciated and misunderstood" women who
thought she was a painter when she was not, and of whose copies Sir
Joshua said, "They make other people laugh, and me cry," became a great
favorite with Dr. Johnson, who probably knew how to sympathize with the
morbid sensitiveness of the poor lady. She seems never to have tired of
pouring tea for him! He, in return, wrote doggerel verses to her over
the tea-tray in this fashion:--
"I therefore pray thee, Renny dear,
That thou wilt give to me,
With cream and sugar softened well,
Another dish of tea.
"Nor fear that I, my gentle maid,
Shall long detain the cup,
When once unto the bottom I
Have drunk the liquor up.
"Yet hear, alas! this mournful truth,
Nor hear it with a frown:
Thou canst not make the tea so fast
As I can gulp it down."