m w^^W*3$> ' V Jr-^*Cl ^PJMT-!^ ^M^;^^ms T^^^^^m^&'^M^M ii^jy^f%iife ^*C VK ^'v f f*. */> j V'v*F v ># 'r-T' \Mi^ T tt *' "w^Xwx^flc ^%^4c vM^%^ ^ \/f Vh^-v '^^ ^.<>^ ^^<^T' * PJL& ) :-^OLfc ^tf ^C 1.., THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. torg of f obe anb ^rt in % Actual. BY J. B. WIGGIK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY J. B. WIGGIK 17 BROMFIELD STREET. 1888. COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY J. B. WIGGIN. BOSTON S. J. PARKHILL & Co. PRINTERS CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT 5 II. ROY GOES TO BOSTON 14 III. ROT GOES ON A FOOL'S EBB AND 24 IY. ROT WALKS OUT 31 V. ROT PROVES HIMSELF A HERO 37 VI. THE CHURCH WITH THE GOLDEN ROOSTER . . 42 VII. DULL WEATHER IN HAT TIME 49 VIII. HUCKLEBERRIES 56 IX. THE HUNT FOB BEAUTT 62 X. A LAWSUIT PBE VENTED AND A FARMER'S VISIT 68 XL THE ADVENTURES OF JIM CAMEL 77 XII. SORROW TURNED TO JOT 89 XIII. ROT AT THE QUINCT HOUSE 97 XIV. LIFE WITH SOME FLAVOR IN IT 104 XV. IT is GOOD TO HAVE A MAN IN THE HOUSE . Ill XVI. ROT GOES HOME TO THANKSGIVING .... 117 XVII. ROT AGAIN OCCUPIES BOSTON 124 XVIII. WILL GLANCE HAS A DRUNK ....... 132 XIX. ROT TAKES A STUDIO 137 XX. THE ART COTERIE is LAUNCHED 144 XXI. A DISTURBING ELEMENT 157 XXII. SAM ELLET IN LOVE 163 XXIII. SAM AND MART 170 XXIV. DR. A. C. SMITH AT THE ART COTERIE ... 174 XXV. ROT COMES TO GRIEF 188 3 2047015 4 CONTENTS. XXVI. GLORIOUS BOSTON 206 XXVII. A FRIEND IN NEED 223 XXVIII. IN THE STUDIO 235 XXIX. HAIL TO THE CHIEF 247 XXX. HOY DINES OUT ....'. 268 XXXI. A CASE AT LAW 282 XXXII. A RAINY DAY 303 XXXIII. THE GREAT ENGLISHMAN 314 XXXIV. THE ARTISTS OF BOSTON 331 XXXV. A WHITE MAN 359 XXXVI. SOLOMON IN ALL His GLORY 365 XXXVII. A CONSUMMATION 376 XXXVIII. UP IN A BALLOON 386 XXXIX. AOAMENTICUS, A PILGRIMAGE 395 XL. GRAND TABLEAU .... . 404 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. CHAPTER I. THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. IT was the last week in June, and New Hampshire never looked handsomer. In old Straff ord County, not far from the river and the head of tide water, among all the alternations of hill and valley, field and orchard, meadow and woodland, are scattered many farms, which prove the truth of the old Saxon definition, that a farm is a place for provision. And few among them all, that day, for beauty and productiveness, for all sweet home qualities, were more worthy of the name than the Bart- lett homestead. The house stood a little in from the road. It had a well-to-do, opulent look. It was ample in size ; white, with green blinds ; with piazza in front, and each column hidden with a trellis bearing queen-of- the-prairie roses, sweet honeysuckle, Virginia trumpet flower, and woodbine, the latter going beyond all bounds, away on the roof of the ell, at its own sweet will. A few steps from the front door began the flower gar- den, and slightly sloping away from the house, it in- sensibly resolved itself into herbs, vegetables, summer squash, sweet corn, and early potatoes, in the most pro- fuse manner, until the house and its grounds stood re- vealed to you as a perfect realization of the wedding of Use and Beauty. 5 6 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. The ample barn, farther back, on the right of the pic- ture, was plainly seen against the dark green of the large orchard beyond ; and afar off, over field, pasture, and woodland, might be seen many miles away the great blue hill in Stratford, and Blue Job in Farmington. In the distance on the left, was a pretty, rolling country, scattered apple-trees, and a few airy and graceful elms. Nearer still, a broad field of grass, which the breeze was moving in waves, which promised well for haying ; and in the foreground, on the left, about five acres of corn, in long rows, well set, hoed clean, and lastly, on the last two rows, the side nearest the house, two men Mr. Guy Bartlett, forty-five years of age, healthy and hearty, the owner of the hundred and fifty acres ; and by his side, hoeing the advance row, his son and only child, Royal Bartlett, in his twenty -first year. Mr. Bartlett was an honest, Christian man. It is the highest praise I can give a human being. Some novels are only a receptacle for the memoirs of villains. This is not that kind of a book. I have known, and do now know some splendid people ; I seek such, and cultivate them ; and without undue publicity, I will, with their knowledge and consent, put them in this book. "Whether the young man, Roy Bartlett, was worthy of as high praise as his father, you can find out by reading this book ; for I am going to tell you more about him ; and he had some queer experiences. Certain it is that they both believed in the good things of this world, and they both believed in each other. Roy Bartlett was healthy, hearty, good sized, and I hesitate to say good looking. Handsome blue eyes, brown hair, a light golden-brown mustache, red lips, pleasant, winning THE TKIBE OF BARTLETT. 7 ways made him a fine ideal of the Bartlett tribe, as I have known them. " Well, father ; this finishes the second hoeing of our corn, and it looks well. Not a hill is missing. Of course the crows got a few hills, but I transplanted enough to fill their places, and I think you will be satis- fied with the harvest." " It looks like it now," said Mr. Bartlett. " Now, father, I have something to say to you. Our farm work is well up to the season. Nothing is suffering. A little more work in the garden, and we are all ready for haying. You know I am nearly twenty-one years old. And you know that I have always liked drawing and pictures of all kinds. From the time that I have ex- pended, and the interest that I have taken in art, perhaps you have thought that I might make some use of it, at some time." " Yes, Roy, I have," said Mr. Bartlett. " Now here is my proposition. I never shall go far away from you and mother." " I hope not," said his father. "But I wish to go to Boston to-morrow, perhaps back at night, or may be the next day, to ask advice and get evidence as to whether it is safe and wise for me to try to get a living out of art, especially oil painting. Per- haps I cannot decide it at once, and perhaps I shall try for a while and relinquish it ; but at all events I can re- turn to the farm and make a good living from that. If New Hampshire habits and gumption won't win, then I shall consider the fault in me. Are you willing I should try, father?" " Yes, Roy, I am. Of course I had rather have you 8 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. with me every day ; but that is not quite reasonable. So do what you think is best." "Thank you, father. But do not think for a moment that I can consult my own interest, to the neglect of my father and mother. We have improved the farm every way. It is in good order and producing finely. You own it free and clear, and have a good amount at interest. And you have given me a good chance too. I have made some money on the patches of ground I have culti- vated for myself, on apples, and on the colts I have raised and sold. So my experiment will be no expense to you." Oh, well," said Mr. Bartlett. "You can have help if you need it. Whom have we but you, Roy ? " " I know that, father. But I do not believe, with my health and strength, in wasting nuch time or money that brings no return. I will go to-morrow and look over the chances. Next week I will tune up the mowing ma- chine, to mow around the buildings, nnd after the Fourth of July we will cut the grass as fast as it gets ripe and ready." "We finish our work just in season for dinner," said Mr. Bartlett. "The sun just begins to light the west side of the house, so it is about a quarter to twelve. There ! didn't I guess right ! There is your mother on the front steps. And she is blowing the horn." Roy swung his hat in answer, and, following the path that wound through the thick clover, they went to the welcome dinner. Royal Bartlett inherited his first name as well as his last. His mother's maiden name was Marian Royal. Of good size, cheerful, healthy, and efficient, she was all the THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. 9 wife, mother, and queen needful for one family, and the sufficient ruler of heart and home. The table was spread for four persons. " Come, folks," said Mrs. Bartlett, " the dinner is all ready." " But where is Sam ?" asked Mr. Bartlett. " He ought to be here. He must have heard the horn, and he's not the boy to neglect his dinner." " Xo," said the housekeeper. " Sam Ellet is doing what he thinks ought to be done ; but here he comes now." And, after an interview with the purnp, and pol- ishing his red cheeks on a crash roller towel, he ap- peared smiling at the table. Sam Ellet was an orphan, now eighteen years old. He had been fed, clothed, sent to school in winter, and made happy as a member of the family for several years, for what he could do. Lately he had received large pieces of silver, and good-sized bank notes, new and crisp, of the Strafford Bank, which he had judiciously deposited in the Dover Savings Bank. He had proved that he could keep money, and was to be trusted. Fur- thermore, he had learned to despise a man that could not keep a cent, and he had made up his mind that he could not "stomach" anything that was not "bone honest" and truthful. So Sam was trusted and loved. He was one of the family, and he made friends. He was proud to be in the Bartlett family. The Bartletts were good livers. The name is old, and I doubt if her majesty's is older. At the Norman conquest a Bartlett settled on the Arun River, near the Earl of Arundel's castle. The present M. P., who represents the name, can I'ide fourteen miles on his own land, and the name now, and for a thou- 10 THE WILD ARTIST IN BOSTON. sand years, is a part of England's history, coming down to us through soldiers and statesmen, scholars and gentle- men, through Josiah Bartlett, the first signer of our Magna Charta, the great declaration, and later he was chosen the first governor of New Hampshire, for this, and all family and personal reasons, these Bartletts rejoiced in the bluest blood, and a healthy family pride, that, because they came of good stock, therefore it was their duty and their pleasure to transmit it quite as good or a little better than they received it.* So Guy Bartlett and his family felt that if they behaved as well, they were as good as anybody. And they lived wisely and well. So Sam Ellet called them " Uncle Bartlett " and " Aunt Bartlett," and felt himself bound to uphold the honor of the family. " Did you hear the horn, Sammy ? " asked Mr. Bart- lett. "Yes, sir; I did. But I was almost done with the last pile of rocks, and I thought I had better finish the job. So it is all done, and I think you will like it." " I am glad of it, Sammy. We will look it over care- fully once more, and now, or when the grass is grown, we can use a mowing machine over the whole back field. It will make easy work of haying." * Those who are interested in the Bartlett name can see " Genea- logical and Biographical sketches of the Bartlett family in England and America," by Levi Bartlett of Warner, N. H., 1875. Since this was written, and before printing, an event has happened that I gladly record here. On July 4, 1888, a magnificent bronze statue of Hon. Josiah Bartlett was inaugurated in Amesbury, Mass., where he was born. It cost many thousand dollars, and was the generous gift of Mr. Jacob R. Huntington. a wealthy citizen of Ainesbury. It was a splendid deed to do, and it was splendidly done that day. And no man stands higher or purer as patriot, statesman, or beloved physi- cian than my ancestor, Doctor Josiah Bartlett. THE TKIBE OF BARTLETT. 11 " Now, mother," said Mr. Bartlett, " where do you suppose Roy is going to-morrow?" " I don't know," she answered. " Perhaps up to see Aunt Sarah." No. Farther than that." "Where?" she -asked, anxiously. " He is going to Boston to see about learning to paint pictures." "Is he going to leave us to be a wild artist?" she asked, in dismay. " Oh, that is too bad ! " said Sam Ellet. " Not as bad as you think, mother," said Roy. " I shall never leave you and father for long at a time. I shall go to the city in the morning, and perhaps return at night, or next day at farthest ; and as for being wild, I do not think I shall go to the bad at all." " Well, I hope not," she added ; " but from some speci- mens that I have seen, it seems as if art was inseparably wedded to poverty, beer, and tobacco. I do not think it need to be so, but perhaps I may find it better." " You surely will," said Roy, " for there are as pure and noble men and women in art as in anything. In- deed, it is said Saint Luke was an artist. And some of the old masters painted, as Michael Angelo builded on Saint Peters, for their soul's salvation. See Fra An- gelico's pictures, painted on gold leaf. He prayed as he painted. No, mother. Art is not degrading. And it ought to be ennobling. But it is all in the man. He it is that ennobles the work. Now, mother, don't worry. I shall be none the worse for art, and I hope art will be all the better for me." There was a pause. 12 THE WILD AKTIST IN BOSTON. " Yes," said Sam. " But what will the farm be without you, Roy ? " " Thank you, Sammy. But the farm will not lose me at all for the present, and not for long at a time in the future. Wouldn't it be nice to visit me for a few days in Boston ? " "Oh, it would be splendid," said Sam. "I had not thought of that. But it would be lonesome here." "Now," said Mr. Bartlett, "we will stop borrowing trouble, and not try to cross a bridge until we get to it. And, to make it all the prettier, we w r ill put the garden in order this afternoon, for I think there are some green squirrels in it." "Green squirrels?" said Sam, in wonder. " What are they?" " Weeds," said the farmer. " Daniel Webster wrote home to his man John, at Marshfield, ' Take good care of my mother's garden.' It is good advice." Right well the Bartlett family followed it that after- noon. Later, when the weeding was finished, the supper put where it would do the most good, the stock cared for, and the chores all done, the lord of that home walked in that garden in the cool of the day with his helpers, and he saw as much beauty and found as much peace and com- fort as is ever found in this bunchy and peculiar planet that is all the world to us, at least, for the present. Disdaining horse and carriage, Roy, after a very early breakfast, and, as much as anything to put an end to too much vigorous thinking, he waved his hand in farewell to the family, who came to the piazza to see him off, and he took "shank's mare" for a walk to the station. It is a New Hampshire superstition not to watch a THE TRIBE OF BARTLETT. 13 friend out of sight else they may never return. Of course, no one believes it, but they observe it all the same, and when, a quarter of a mile away, Roy looked back, he saw no one looking, but gazing earnestly for a moment at the landscape, which was so much to him, he exclaimed, "It is a beauty, indeed it is a beauty. I hope I shall one day do it justice in a picture." Then he turned and continued his journey in a run. Mrs. Bartlett wore a sober face that day. " Sammy," said Mr. Bartlett, " our work is well up to the season. Have you anything you wish to do to-day ? You can have a part or all of to-day, if you wish, only be back at milking time." " Yes, sir," said Sam, " I should like to hoe my water- melons, and that patch of land you gave me, and, as it is just cloudy enough, I will go up to the brook this after- noon and see if I can get a string of trout, so if Roy comes home to-night, and I think he will, we can have something he likes for supper." " Good," said Mr. Bartlett, " and mother will like it too." So Sam had his day to himself. With lines enough and to spare, with hooks enough to lose a few, and a tin mustard-box, that used to be, but now containing a good supply of angle- worms, Sam came home with a string of trout that \\ould have delighted a city chap. I know what I am talking about, for many a good fry I have taken out of the same brook, and this novel is a good deal more of a history than you think it is. Heretofore it had been considered that Roy could take the finest string of fish, but Sam had got his thinking cap on, and had fished, like Simon Peter, to some purpose. And Roy went to Boston to seek his fortune. CHAPTER II. EOT GOES TO BOSTON. WHEN a young man leaves the old home, whether it be high or low, and drops into a city where he is nearly or quite a stranger, there is a feeling of all-over-ishness, that comes over him which almost amounts to desolation. But the poet says, " This world's mine oyster, that I with sword will open," and that was Mr. Royal Bartlett's feel- ing as he stepped into Haymarket Square and walked up town. "J. Sardou, Artist, Room 39," he saw, a modest sign, on the upper end of a line beside a door. He went up four flights and knocked. " Come in," said a man's voice. " Can I look at your pictures, sir ? " " Yes, sir. But I have not many in." Roy did look. There were not many finished, and he could hardly tell what was finished and what was not. Landscapes, cattle and figure pieces, and the usual variety points of merit in all, some quite good. But nearly all had the feeling that a little more was needed to make it good and complete the art of the picture. Roy praised the noble quality of this group of oaks, the form of this waterfall, the sky effects, and what he could without vio- lence to truth ; said he was much obliged for the kindness, and was about to go. " Do you paint, sir ? " asked the artist. "No, sir; I have drawn some, I love art and am always 14 KOY GOES TO BOSTON. 15 interested in pictures. Perhaps I may paint some a little later." " Don't do it, sir ; however much you may like art or get the itch of paint, don't do it. You'll be sorry if you do." "Why, sir?" " Poverty, self-denial, hope deferred, and perhaps star- vation. I do not mean that I am starving now," added the artist, " but I have been very hungry. Oh no ! art is not in much demand. You had better let it alone." " Well, sir," said Roy, " I am obliged for your kind word, and will consider it. It is a great pleasure to see your pictures. What price should you get for that bright moonlight, sir ? " Fifty dollars." "And that cluster of oaks?" "One hundred." "Does not that pay?" " Oh, but they don't sell." " Would they not at a less price ? " " No they wouldn't (fiercely). If a man wants a pic- ture he will have it. But the minute you put your price down you are gone. You can never get it up again. And pupils are no better. At the first of the season I put out ten dollars in advertising for pupils. And they came, sometimes a dozen in a day, looked in, looked over the pictures, praised some of them, said they would see, and that is the last of it. No, sir, take a friend's advice and let art alone." Roy thanked him and passed out, but as he did so he heard the artist remark in a stage whisper, " I'll bet the fool won't let it alone." 16 THE WILD ARTIST IX BOSTON. And the young man laughed for the first time to-day. He had seen enough in this one interview, to prove that a different course would bring a different result, and he approved of the* judgment of the average art pupil, that sought an atmosphere not quite so heavy with grumbling and tobacco. He next called at a picture store. There were many attractive pictures in the window, and among others, two New England home scenes, one summer, the other winter. They were much like his own home, with cattle and all the evidences of life around the house and barn. Over the door the name, long and well known in Boston, " C. Drew, Pictures and Frames." He went in. Several people were looking at the pictures around the store. "Are you Mr. Drew?" asked Roy. " Yes, sir." " Will you please tell me who painted those landscapes in the window?" "Certainly; Mr. Titcombe painted them, and see the crowd around them. Why ! a little while ago a man said he saw one of those cows go down to the Avater and drink." " They do look almost natural enough to. What is the price of them ? " "Twenty-five dollars each. They are eighteen by twenty-six inches." "Does Mr. Titcombe have pupils?" "Yes, indeed. He paints all sorts of pictures, colors photographs, and I don't know what he don't do in art." " Does he make money ? " asked Roy. "Of course he does. I sell a great many of his pic- iires, and I send him pupils and custom. Oh -yes, Mr. ROY GOES TO BOSTON. 17 Titcombe can get rich if he will take care of his money. He gets enough. Here is his card. Look in and he will o o show you around." "I thank you for your kindness, Mr. Drew, I have often heard of you, and I am glad to meet you. Now let me ask you a question. I have studied drawing as an amateur for years. Sometimes artists have seen my work and praised it. Now I wish to try my luck in color. I can take a poor, worn-out farm and make it shine. This is what I wish to know : Can I, with not much genius and only a fair amount of ability, but a strong love for art, can I, with faithful industry, strict temperance, good management, and hard study, become a fair artist and get an honorable living?"