Storey A. R. A. THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE Ex Libris ISAAC FOOT -^ - -^ -^ -^ -^ ^- SKETCHES FROM MEMORY MEMORV KETCHES ^ROM MEMORY BY G. A. STOREY, A.R.A. WITH 93 ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR LONDON CHATTO Gf WINDUS 1899 S76A3 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson 6* Co. At the Ballantyne Press TO EMILY y GLADYS PREFACE CUCH excuses as I have for writing this volume are explained in the first chapter thereof. Although to a certain extent it is biographical, it is not an autobiography in the full meaning of the word, but, as its title proclaims, a series of Sketches from Memory — records of scenes I have passed through and of individuals I have known. And if there is any w^it in it, it is chiefiy that of others, and not my own ; I having only the wit to remember, and to present it to the reader with as much brevity as I am master of I was once asked how long it took me to paint a picture ; to which I answered, "All my life." Perhaps if I were asked how long it has taken me to write this book, I might give a similar reply, for I have had to live it, as it were, before setting it down. Indeed, is not every man's life a book ? Now, since this one has been so long in coming into existence, I sincerely hope that it may be found to contain something solid, or at all events something entertaining, although there is a good deal in it about the everyday concerns of life which may not be of a very thrilling character. If I may interpret Horace's famous line — " Difficile est proprie communia dicere," to my own purpose, T would say it is difficult to treat such ordinary themes with sufficient art to X PREFACE make them of interest and of value. The great Dutch painters have done this to perfection ; the trite subject is forgiven for the beauty of the work- manship, and — now, where am I ? — I am in an awkward position — so we will not go into the ques- tion — "qui s'excuse s'accuse:" so, whether the thing is done well or not, there is always some interest in the domestic life of different dates and different countries. It may be amusing to read how we passed our time at the breakfast-table in Paris in 1848; how I spent pleasant evenings with C. R. Leslie about forty years ago ; how I made friends and acquaintances in Spain, with an insight into the life there ; or even a peep into the studio, while the model is sitting, may have some recommenda- tion for a reader who does not wish to be involved in abstruse and difficult though clever arguments. But there is no need for me to describe the work that follows. In the Table of Contents can be seen at a glance all the subjects, persons, and things that it treats of, and also where to find them. As to the illustrations, they are for the most part also sketches, shorthand notes from nature, or care- ful studies for backgrounds of pictures, portraits, landscapes, figures, &c., which illustrate my story, and give relief, I hope, to the printed pages. And now, dear reader, I must leave my Sketches in your hands, and as they are written without malice, and, indeed, with the kindest motives, I trust you also will treat them with kindness. G. A. STOREY. December 1898. CONTENTS CHAPTER I Mnemosyne PAGE I CHAPTER II The Sculptor's Studio . . 3 Charles Dickens .... 3 Mr. Stultz 4 Behn^s the Sculptor ... 5 Little Adolphus is patted on the Head 5 The Bust 7 Thomas Fowke .... 7 CHAPTER HI Morden Hall 9 School Days 9 The Boots 10 T. N. White 1 1 H. P. Ashby 11 The Silver Palette .... 11 CHAPTER IV Paris 12 M. Morand 12, 14 " Monsieur le Frotteur" . • 13 Occasional Visitors . . i; L'Abbe de Lamennais . 15 Dr. Bonnet . 16 M. Guyard the I'oet . . • 15 M. Barratier and the Cats •7 M. Cabet 17 CHAPTER V PAGE 1848 19 Talking Politics .... 20 The Revolution 20 The Diary of little Adolphus 2 1 " Mourir pour la Patrie" . 23 Troops Unarmed .... 24 Barracks in Flames ... 25 Men in Blouses armed to the teeth and very drunk 25 The Garde Municipale , . 25 The Tuileries invaded by the Mob 26 The Mob revels in De- struction 27 "A bas les Anglais" . . . 27 Mad Pranks 27 "Mort aux Voleurs" . . . 28 The General Du Bourg . . 29 Paris Fifty Years Ago . . 31 CHAPTER VI Civil War Ateliers Nationaux . . Louis Napoleon . . . Place de la Concorde Troops Charge the Mob Our Escape The Diary again . . . Beginning of the Fight . " Sentinelle prenez garde vous " Fighting all Night . . Heavy Casualties — 16,000 have Fallen 34 34 35 36 36 37 37 37 38 38 39 Xll CONTENTS The Archbishop of Paris Shot The Plight Ended .... After the Battle .... The Grand Funeral . . . CHAPTER VII The Arts of Peace .... M. Jean Louis Dulong . . What He Taught Me . . 40 40 40 41 43 43 43 CHAPTER VIII The Artist at the Breakfast- Table 47 Chelsea College .... 48 Mr. Wood 48 " Le Capitaine de Joseph" . 51 English Cooking versus French 51 La Sauce A nglaise a Failure 5 2 Sketches on the Black Board 53 CHAPTER IX Home Again 54 The Cosmopolitan .... 54 CHAPTER X Leslie As a Teacher .... As an Artist My Introduction to him His " Handbook for Youn Painters" . . . George Leslie . . Mrs. Leslie's Advice Miss Harriet Leslie Her Witty Remarks Her Advice to a Young Poet An Evening with Leslie 56 56 57 59 61 62 62 63 64 64 65 65 66 67 His Remarks on Art . . . Stories of Scott and Edwin Landseer Our Games at Chess . . . Mary Leslie's Beautiful Drawings 67 Taste with Faithfulness . . 68 CHAPTER XI Sir Edwin Landseer ... 69 His Stories 70 "Is thy Servant a Dog ?" . 70 "A Fine Landseer on View Within" 70 His Washerwoman's Re- mark on two of his Masterpieces . . . Marked with "hell" . He Impersonates a Pig Miss Jessie Landseer Pygmalion .... 72 72 72 73 1^ CHAPTER XII Charles Landseer .... 74 His Serious Fun .... 74 Keeper of the Royal Aca- demy 75 Mr. Boom 75 The Menagerie 75 The Blushing Student . . 76 CHAPTER XIII Tom Landseer ']^ His Deafness 77 He Enacts the Shy Pupil . "]"] His Manner of Speech . . 79 An Adventure with a Police- man 80 His Good Nature .... 80 His Pupil, J. C. Webb . . 81 CONTENTS Xlll CHAPTER XIV PAGE People of Note 82 Mrs. Jameson 83 George Cruikshank ... 84 The Doyles 85 Millais and Hunt, Sec. . . 86 Albert Smith 87 CHAPTER XV Leigh in Newman Street . 88 The Anatomical Room . . 89 The Life School .... 89 " I hope I don't interrupt you " 90 His Pictures 91 Metaphysics and the Organ- grinder 92 Last Evening with his Boys — Affecting Scene ... 94 His Death 95 Some of the Students . . 95 H. S. Marks 95 Walter Thornbury — his " Life of Turner" 96 Brereton 97 Wycherley 97 The Eccentric Student . . 98 Caledonian Brown ... 98 Spiritualism 99 Strange Gratitude .... 99 CHAPTER XVI The Royal Academy in 1852 loi My First Picture . . . . loi Exhibitors and their Works of that date . . 102, 103, 104 The Younger Men . . . 105 Millais 106 Holman Hunt 106 H. P. Ashby 107 F. Smallfield 107 W. W. Fenn, the Blind Painter loS CHAPTER XVII PAGE Early Works 1 1 1 The Polite Picture Dealer . 112 Youthful Hope 112 The Guidance of Leslie . . 112 Raphael 112 A Madonna and Child . . 112 From Lofty Themes to Pet Dogs 113 Divided Affections . . . 113 Lessons of Love . . . . 115 A Madrigal by Michel Angelo 115 The Remarks of Diotima . 115 Humiliation 118 The Bride's Burial ... 118 Kindly Critics 119 My Young Companions . . 119 Edward Cressy 120 CHAPTER XVIII Spain First Impressions . . . Sehor Don Adolfo The North of Spain . . The Basque Girls . . . The Diligence — my Fellow Passengers .... I Meet a Robinson . . The Plateau of Castile . 121 122 122 124 124 125 126 127 CHAPTER XIX Madrid 129 " The only Court on Earth " 1 29 The Museo on the Prado . 130 Titian, Paul Veronese, Ru- bens, and Tintoret . . . 130 Velasquez . . . 130, 131, 132 The Meninas 131 John Philip i32 Long and Burgess . . . 132 Colonel Fitch . . • . . 132 The Cafe Europa .... 134 XIV CONTENTS General Don Josd de J. Don Jose's little boy's Portrait Spanish Poverty Disguised Paying for the Picture . . Spanish Gamblers .... The Play Interrupted . . In the Name of Charity . . CHAPTER XX Spanish Interiors . . . My Apartments . . . My Reception . . . Senora Maria and Daughters . . . Many Questions . . Gregoria the Maid How I was Taught Spanish I Begin to Understand The Story of Liseta . 134 135 136 138 139 139 140 her 141 141 142 142 142 143 144 145 146 CHAPTER XXI El Casino del Principe . . 150 A Procession of Human Life 151 Dr. Checa 151 Sefior Moreno Benitez . . 152 The British Legation . . 152 Higgins and Higginson . . 152 The Old Bachelor and Dona Susana 153 Golfo 155 The Curse of Play . . . 155 Our Little Demons . . . Ii6 The Theatres in Madrid . 158 Spanish Acting 160 The College Hornpipe at the Zarzuela 161 Back to the Tables ; I Play for Checa and Win . . 162 Moreno Benitez Visits Eng- land 163 The Sereno 163, 164 CHAPTER XXII PAGE Doiia Emilia 166 Spanish Peculiarity . . . 166 The Duke of Alva . . . 166 The Doctor's Losses ; he is Appointed Consul out in China 168 His Advice to me about Play 168 Romano 168 Don Federigo 169 The Finest Eyes in Madrid 169 Dona Leonor 169 Dona Emilia 170 Murillo 170 Spanish Interiors .... 171 Poverty 171 Painting the Picture . . . 172 " Woman, Begone " . . . 173 What Establishment is this? 174,175 CHAPTER XXIII The Portrait .... 176 The Gold Key ... . 176 Time for Sending in Pic tures to the Exhibition 177 Interruptions .... 177 How the Picture Looked 178 "This Must Not Be" . 178 A Place of Honour . . 179 CHAPTER XXIV The Novillos, or Comic Bull- Fights ....... 180 Stuffy Madrid 181 Plaza de Toros 182 Men in Basket Armour . . 182 El Tato 183 Amateur Bull-fighters . . 183 The Espada 184 The Chapel 185 CONTENTS XV CHAPTER XXV PAGE Toledo i86 Fonda del Lino .... 187 The Letter of Introduction 187 Seiior Oje'da 188 La Casa de Huespedes . . 188 Senora Ojeda 190 Myso-called Dutch Pictures 191 The Padre 192 CHAPTER XXVI La Casa Abad 193 The Patio 193 Don Manuel the Boots . . 195 Nicolassa, Cook and House- maid 195 Their Duet 196 The Almuerzo 196 The Kitchen 197 Spanish Cooking . . . . 199 The Art of Eating and Drinking 199 A Polite Custom .... 200 Don Ramon Tenes . . . 2Ci CHAPTER XXVII Don Ramon el Canonigo . 202 The Breviary 202 The Guitar out of Tune . . 203 The Forbidden Instrument 203 Sacred and Profane Music 204 The Padre sinj^s a Love Song 205 The Links of Friendship . 205 The Padre's Stockings want Mending 206 Christmas was Coming . . 207 Christmas Eve 208 The Dance 208 The Padre Plays a Polka . 209 I Dance the Double Shuffle 209 CHAPTER XXVIII The Cathedral 210 PAGE The Labour of Centuries . 211 God's House 211 Beautiful and Mysterious Art 212 The Sombre Cathedral . . 213 Holy Innocents' Day . . 213 The Midnight Mass . . . 2I3 CHAPTER XXIX Don Manuel 215 He Studies Greekand Latin 215 The Wide Boots .... 216 My Wonderful Adventures 217 Manuel and Sancho Panza 218 I Propose we should Imitate the famous Knight and his Squire 218 Manuel Consents to Follow me Round the World . . 219 CHAPTER XXX The Sketch from the Rock 220 The Castillo de San Ser- vando 221 The Alcazar 221 I Feel Giddy 221 The French Delight in De- struction 222 We Mustn't Talk .... 222 The Depredations of Crom- well 223 Recollections of a Scotch Sermon 223 The Water- Wheel on the Tagus 224 Water-Carriers 224 Donkeys 224 The Puente de Alcantara . 225 The Sketch and the Sen- tinel 226 The Governor's Card. . . 227 The Wide Road— The Con- vents 227 Bell-hnmnicring .... 228 XVI CONTENTS CHAPTER XXXI PAGE Social Evenings .... 229 Dona Concilia Carmen . . 229 The Old Mansion .... 230 The Vizconde de Sedilla . 230 England, a Province of Spain ! 231 All Members of Parliament Drunk after five o'clock . 231 The Three Great Sights in England 232 The Tribuna 233 The Toledo Derby ... 234 Ancient History .... 234 Don Alvaro, the King's Fav- ourite 234 Religious Questions . . . 235 The Beautiful Florinda and King Roderic .... 237 The Battle of Guadalete . . 237 My Last Day in Toledo . . 238 The Dining Table bids me Adieu 239 The whole Establishment sees me off 240 CHAPTER XXXII Madrid again 241 The Museo and the Old Masters 242 The Carnival 242 The Bal Masque .... 243 The Lady in the Mask . . 244 CHAPTER XXXIII Farewell, Checa I . . . . 246 The Doctor Fights a Duel . 246 His Return to Spain — and Death 248 CHAPTER XXXIV Historic Genre 249 Return to England . . . 249 My Young Companions . . 249 Historical Painting . . • 250 Guinette and the Lay-figure 251 The Audience 251 Studies for Henry VIII. . 252 CHAPTER XXXV Gig 255 As Good as Gold .... 255 No Personal Vanity . . . 255 Taste 256 Dr. E. and his two Sons, Henry and William . . 256 Prosperity 257 A Cloud Comes over the Scene 257 At the Theatre 258 "Can it be?" 258 I am Introduced to Gig . . 260 The Little Dinner .... 261 Gig's " Masterpieces" . . 262 He Becomes a Patron . . 263 " Have you Thought of a Subject?" 264 " Blow Euripides : " . . . 264 Gig's Reading 265 "The Bridge of Sighs" . . 265 " Don't say Toosday " . . 268 Gig and the Franco-Prus- sian War 269 He Goes out as a Member of the Ambulance Corps . 270 Is Arrested in Paris as a Prussian Spy 270 He Faces Death, but Sends his Card to Lord Lyons . 271 Farewell, Gig 271 CHAPTER XXXVI Behind the Screen .... Pictures on View — Henry VIII. and Lady Godiva . "A Real Girl?" . . . . 273 274 275 CONTENTS XVll Mistress Dorothy .... 277 Baron Rothschild .... 281 Miss S. married .... 284 Mrs. Charretie 284 A Happy Marriage through Dorothy 285 Nora 286 An Irish Girl 286 Models 289 CHAPTER XXXVII My Italian Model's Story . 290 Signor Fuoco 290 The Guardia Campestre . 293 The Escape 294 The Sindaco 298 The Grand Entertainment . 298 The Merchant and his Son 299 They are taken Prisoners . 300 The Supper in the Cave . 302 The Brigands Slain by the Prisoners 304 CHAPTER XXXVIII Mr. Gailey 309 " The Artist's Model" . . 311 CHAPTER XLI CHAPTER XXXIX A Country Walk .... Leslie, Marks, Calderon, and Hodgson .... The "Old Spotted Dog" . 314 315 315 CHAPTER XL Our River 318 George Leslie 3'^ His Book 319 M. Gambart Gambart Pays us a Visit His House Blown Up The Dinner Party . Punch and Judy . Restorations . . . The Fancy Ball . The Missing Supper J. R. Herbert . . 324 325 327 j> CHAPTER XLII Hever 332 Frank Burnand 333 The Children at Breakfast . 333 "After You" 334 Story Told by the Ghost of a Gudgeon 335 CHAPTER XLIII Success at Last .... Dion Boucicaults Advice Rev. J. M. Bellew Bedford Chapel The Altar-Piece Bellew as St. John "The Crucifixion" The Picture given to the Carmelites. . Death of Bellew "The Shy Pupil" J. P. Knight . . Sir John Pender Sir William Agnew Boys Going to School CHAPTER XLIV --■8 339 341 341 341 342 343 344 345 346 346 346 346 347 Portraits and Patrons Visit from Lady \'. Daughter . . . . and 349 349 XVIU CONTENTS PAGE A Disquisition on Noses . 350 As Regards Age .... 351 Pretty Mrs. Porter — "Then and Now" 351 Lady and Captain G. . 354 General Hastings and Lord S 355 Lord S. and the Young Mid- shipman 355 Lord S. and the Hall Porter 357 Portraits, Half- a - Crown Each 359 Generosity of the Manches- ter Men 361 The Pleasures of Portrait Painting 363 CHAPTER XLV Debden 364 The Old Trap 365 Mr. and Mrs. Trevilian . . 366 The Hall 366 The Stables 367 " The Grey Lady "... 367 Mr. Chiswell 367 Bad News 368 The Messenger .... 368 The White Handkerchief . s6g Death 369 The Runaway Marriage . 371 The Money Lenders . . . 371 The House Refurnished . 371 A Lively Party 371 PAGE The Gipsy 372 Mrs. Houstoun 373 CHAPTER XLVI My Mother 374 At Ramsgate 374 Miss Emily Fitch .... 376 Anxious for News .... 377 Frith, Matthew Arnold, and Mr. Farrer of Harrow . 377 The Pipe 378 "The Old Soldier" ... 378 Robert Browning .... 378 Frith's Advice 380 To Meet John Parry . . . 382 Du Maurier 383 Picture of " Scandal " . . 384 Tom Agnew 384 The Picture half rubbed out 385 Calderon to the Rescue . . 385 " Scandal " a Success . . 386 A Year of Sunshine . , . 387 Grand " Do " at Manchester 387 The Blue Girls of Canter- bury 388 Nearly Elected an A.R.A. . 392 A Visit to Coleorton . . . 393 My Mother's Death . . . 398 Elected an A.R.A. ... 398 CHAPTER XLVI I Many Years After .... 400 Grandmamma's Grave . . 401 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Memory' .... Frontispiece Initial Letter i Tailpiece 2 A Study from the Elgin Marbles 3 Old Weller the Coachman . 4 Pen Sketch 7 Morden Hall 9 The Schoolroom, Paris . . 12 M. Morand 14 Dr. Bonnet 16 Sentinels 19 Sketch taken of Paris by Moonlight during the Civil War of June 1848 . 34 The Widow 42 Mirth 43 M.J. L. Dulong .... 45 Bubbles 47 A Study 54 A Sketch 56 Sketch by C. R. Leslie . . 58 Kilbum Fields 61 A Portrait 69 Game 74 Tom Landseer, the Engraver 78 The Shy Pupil 79 CAGE Initial Letter 82 A Study 86 Cassandra 88 Tailpiece 100 Initial Letter loi G. A. Storey, aged 19 . . 109 The Widowed Bride {-painted in 1858) Ill Love's Folly 113 Lessons of Love . . . . 114 The Brides Burial {painted in 1859) 117 Edward Cressy 119 Sketch from the Picture by Velasquez in Madrid . . 121 Bridge at Toledo .... 127 Philip IV 129 Initial Letter 141 Liseta 148 Sketched from the Picture by Velasquez 1 50 A Portrait 159 A Study 164 Dona Emilia 167 Lavinia 176 Mandoline Player . . . . 180 The Ferry — Toledo . . . 186 XX ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE Street in Toledo .... 189 Kitchen at Seiior Ojdda's . 191 Patio of the Casa Abad . . 194 Kitchen at the Casa Abad . 197 A Fair Musician .... 201 Listening 204 One of the Innocents . . 210 Idleness 215 Toledo 220 Street in Toledo .... 229 The Tribuna . . . . . 233 Door of My Room — Toledo 239 Bowed Down 247 Clarissa 249 A Gossip 253 Gladys ....... 255 Curiosity . 273 The Model behind the Screen ....... 276 At the Studio Door . . . 278 Nora 287 The Brigand 290 The Apennine 295 Madalina 307 Mr. Gailey 309 Old Inn at Kilburn . . . 314 Near Hurley 318 PAGE Near Hampton Court . . 320 Near Maidenhead . . . . 321 At the Fancy Ball .... 328 Hever Castle 332 "After You" {paititcd in 1867) 338 Pen Sketch for the Shy Pupil . 340 The Crucifixion 343 Friends . 348 Mrs. Porter — Then . . . 353 Pamela 360 Mrs. Potter 362 The Park Gate 364 Ninety Years Ago .... 370 Miss Emily Fitch {Portrait of my Mother before she was married) .... 376 The Old Soldier {painted in 1869) 379 Mrs. Allen and my Mother 381 Charlotte Bishop and Fanny Tomalin 389 Mrs. Sandys 390 Amy White, Mary Goodhew, and Matilda Harman . . 391 The Spirit 400 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY MNEMOSYNE T T is not to write about ^ myself that I take up the pen, but I have met with many people on my life jour- ney who are worth writing about, and I have seen and heard many things that are worth rememberinor. And it is because of those I have known and cared for, and because they remain in my memory, that I am prompted to write about them, just as I have often talked about them while sitting round the fire with a cosy company smoking the friendly pipe, and looking into those bright embers, those burning cavities, which shape themselves into fairy palaces, and lead us through dreamland into the past — the past, which still exists in memory. And it may not be without interest to others, as well A 2 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY as myself, to recall some of those well-known characters who have passed away ; to renew acquaintance with them in their everyday guise, and to listen to their very words uttered long ago. i)}"jSlL''' I_ '>ilLL A STUDY FROM THE ELGIN MARBLES. II THE SCULPTOR'S STUDIO NOW, the first name that occurs to me in this recollective mood is one that is a household word, one that is dear to every right-minded reader of the English language — it is the name of Charles Dickens. Not only was his " Cricket on the Hearth " one of the first books that I became possessed of, but its author was the first great man whom I was introduced to, and this is how it happened. Some friend of the family had seen scribblings of mine on half-sheets of note-paper which were considered wonderful, both b\' him and the family. This friend, Mr. Stultz, a rich, prosperous man, who had made a fortune by tailoring, was building some alms-houses in Kentish Town for the shelter- 4 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY iriQf of a certain number of the less successful of his calling, and it was only right and proper that a bust of the kind founder should be put up as a memorial of his charity. To this end, he was sitting to Behnes, the sculptor, in Osnaburgh Street, and it struck him that an introduction to that o-entleman mic^ht be a means of bringino- out the latent talent of little Adolphus, who was then nine years old. I remember he took me with him in his carriage and intro- duced me into that strangest of strange places, as it seemed to me then, a sculp- tor's studio. There were strange men in blouses, with shades over their eyes, and rows of busts with no eyes at all ; gaunt fig- ures without clothes, and gaunt figures with cloaks and trousers and boots and whiskers and rolls of parchment, all in marble. And there were great blocks of marble about, with busts and figures just coming out of them ; the whole place being lighted in such a dim, mysterious way, that it was enough to frighten a nervous little boy who had already been startled by a monkey that ran up and down a pillar just outside and made faces at him. THE SCULPTOR'S STUDIO 5 Mr, Behnes, the presiding genius of the place, received me very kindly — said I could go there whenever I liked to draw from the casts or make models from them. He gave me buns to eat, and a great lump of clay, which I was to fashion into a horse's head, or, if I preferred, I could turn it into the enormous toes of the Farnese Hercules, One day, as I was engaged in the latter effort, a bright, lively young man, good-looking, and with dark flowing locks, entered the studio, accompanied by Behnes, and took his seat in a comfortable arm- chair on a revolving platform. He, too, seemed amused at the scene — and very much so when he caught sight of a small boy sitting in front of a foot almost as big as himself, with a bun on one side, and a large lump of clay on the other, which he was trying to thumb into shape, I was the little boy, and the lively young man with dark flowing locks was Charles Dickens. He came and looked over me, patted me on the head and said some kind things, but I did not know who he was till afterwards. The sitting over, he took his departure, accom- panied by Behnes ; but they were no sooner gone than the men in blouses, with shades over their eyes, came stealthily in to see the master's work and to criticise the clay features and the clay curls of the great novelist. And then they came up to me and asked me all about him and what he had talked about, and said, " Don't you know who he is?" And then they told me that he was the 6 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY author of " Pickwick," and " Nicholas Nickleby," and "Oliver Twist," and "Sketches by Boz," and " Master Humphrey's Clock," &c. ; and I was de- lighted, for I had copied- the portrait of Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Weller with his pipe, and Sam, and others, and it was through these very copies, which had been considered so wonderful, that I found myself in Behnes's studio, beginning almost in play an art career, which I had no idea then would have developed into a reality. Although I cannot remember what Charles Dickens said to me, I can remember that during the sitting he was very animated and talkative, and spoke of an accident he had been in, and that a wheel was within two inches of his head as he lay on the ground, but that he escaped uninjured. Here, then, was the bust in embryo of Charles Dickens, for it was all lumps and finger holes ; and just behind it was the bust of Mr. Stultz, the "Poole" of his day, with curls and whiskers and full cheeks and a Roman toga, if I remember rightly ; and the strange man, with a German name and of German descent, who put on the lumps, but whose features 1 cannot call to mind, was standing in front of his work. He was a clever man, and invented a means of drillincr the marble in order to make an exact copy of the cast from the clay, which, I believe, is now universally used. Of course, he must have worn a cap — perhaps a paper cap. Alas perhaps, a fool's cap, for he ended his days in poverty, and died in Middlesex Hospital. I heard THE SCULPTOR'S STUDIO 7 this and several other curious things about Behnes, from Thomas Fowke, who was with him for some time as assistant carver. Poor Fowke, who also PEN SKETCH. died in a hospital, made a bust of me in terra-cotta, which stands on our landing. And where are the other busts I have men- tioned ? Does any one know anything about the one of Dickens? As to that of Mr. Stultz, I had 8 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY the curiosity, a few months ago, to peep in at the Alms-houses in Kentish Town to inquire about it, but could get little information. The young woman at the lodge said she had never seen it, but she had heard there was one somewhere in a cellar. "Sic transit o-loria mundi." MORDEN HALL. Ill MORDEN HALL pX'ENTS link themselves together so strangely ^ in our memories that the least important seem to crop up unbidden and force themselves upon us. I was debating whether to say anything about my school-days, when the name of Sam W'eller called to mind a character who w\as some- what akin to him ; indeed, he might have been a distant relation, for he had something of the same kind of humour, and his occupation was a similar one, only on a larger scale, for the individual I am reminded of was the b(jots and oeneral serving- man of the establishment at Morden I I all, in lo SKETCHES FROM IMEMORY Surrey, where I received the first rudhnents of my education. He was always at work, for he had to clean the knives and forks used by seventy boys, wait at their meals, carry in pails of water to the washing- room, clean all the boots, and look after the horse and trap kept by the headmaster. Still, he was cheerful. I can just remember he had light curly hair, a round, reddish, good-tempered face, and invariably appeared to be in a hurry. When he handed round the bread-and-scrape, great thick hunks, which were piled in heaps on his wooden tray, he ran down the tables as fast as he could, telling the boys he had no time for them to pick and choose. They made darts and grabs at the hunks, and a sort of scramble for their daily bread was the result. At dinner the boys were allowed to choose their meat, either fat or lean, well-done or under-done, and our humorous waiter would constantly brinCT well-done fat to those who wanted under-done lean, and under-done lean to those who wanted well-done fat. He told me one day, with a very serious countenance, that he was going to leave. When I asked him the reason, he said it was because he had no more "spit" left to clean the boots with. Polly, as he called the housekeeper or mistress, was, he said, so economical that she wouldn't buy blacking, and the consequence was that he was dried up. If the bell rang, he would sing out to a kind of chant or hymn tune, " Coming, skip over the forms, and dance out of the room MORDEN HALL ii To think, that out of all the inmates of Morden Hall, my memory should only single out the boots, whose very name I forget ; especially as the head- master, Mr. T. N. White, was one of the kindest of men. And I ought, certainly, to pay a tribute to the memory of ?^Ir. H. P. Ashby, who was not only a clever artist, but my first instructor in paint- ing. It was he who, at the giving away of the prizes at the end of a term, made me supremely happy. After all had been distributed, and I was lamenting that there was not one for me, he stepped forward and asked to be allowed to say one or two words. He had what appeared to be a little jewel- case in his hand, and when he held it up I could see it contained a silver palette. After a short speech, which I forget, but which made my heart beat violently, he called me by name and presented the palette to me, amidst the deafening shouts and hoorays of my schoolfellows, which still ring in my ears. THE SCHOOLROOM, PARIS. IV PARIS T TAVING by no means completed my education ■'^ -'■ at my Surrey school, it was decided to send me to Paris for a couple of years, to a French professor, M. Morand, who kept a sort of mixed establishment, half boarding-house and half school. He prepared young gentlemen for the various exa- minations they had to pass to enter the Ecole Poly- technique, St. Cyr, &c., and took one or two English pupils, who were partly instructed by himself, and partly by Madame, who was an English lady; and as we all lived together like one big family, the pro- cess was described as " Education de famille." PARIS 13 I started for Paris at the beginning of the year 1848, in company with a very Hvely party of ladies, whose merriment prevented me from feeHng dull at leaving my native land. Although I had been taught at my Surrey school that everybody and everything in France was very wicked, I was much entertained with the novelty of the whole scene, for in those days there was a greater contrast between France and England than there is now. I shall not attempt an account of a journey which I only dimly remember. The greater part of it was by diligence, the old lumbering coach of the past. We arrived in Paris in the small hours of the morning, and drove to a fine house in the Place Vendome, where Miss Scott, the lady who stood god-mother at my baptism, had some splendid apartments. I slept on a sofa in one of the drawing-rooms, but was roused from my slumbers by a strange sound, and was rather alarmed to see a man, whom I took for a lunatic, apparently dancing about the room. He, however, set my mind at rest by informing me that he was " Monsieur le frotteur," the floor polisher; and, in fact, he made the floor so shining and slippery that the first thing I did when I attempted to walk across it was to tumble down. He ran to my assistance, and smiled as though he took my little mishap as a compliment to the perfect manner in which he had done his work. 1 have often thought of that frotleur, and have even buih uj) a sort of theory upon him, which is, that the French, as a rule, are so happy because they take a pride 14 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY in all they do — or, in other words, because they are artists. I soon made the acquaintance of my new pro- fessor and his wife, Monsieur and Madame Morand, for I left Miss Scott and all her lively young ladies soon after breakfast, and was driven to a house in the Ave- nue Marboeuf, in the Champs Elysees, a large square build- ing, with no architectural pre- tensions, standing in its own grounds, which were rather like a small wilderness. My new friends received me very kindly. Monsieur Morand, the professor, was a short, dark, handsome man, with whiskers and flowing curly locks. He wore a long brown frock-coat, with the cuffs turned back, and occasionally paused in his con- versation to take a pinch of snuff. I understood very little of what he said, but Madame Morand acted as interpreter ; and my eldest brother (William), who had been with them for some few months and had quite a Frenchified air, acted as cicerone, showed me over the place and introduced me to the other inmates of the schoolroom, two or three young Frenchmen (Alfred, Edmond, and Patrice), who M. MORAND. PARIS 15 were cramming for their examinations, and a little Spanish- American nanied Joseph Reynaud, who spoke English like an English boy. Later on, when all the household sat down to dinner, we formed a rather large and pretty lively party. Besides the pupils, there were some English ladies, and an old General du Bourg, father of Patrice. There were also occasional visitors, espe- cially on Sundays, when our party was increased and enlivened to a considerable extent : among them were politicians and philosophers, such as L'Abbe de Lamennais, author of Lcs Paroles dun Croyant, Le Livre du Peiiple, &c., who said that truth "was that which all men consented to " ; Dr. Bonnet, doctor of the Conciergerie, who told us many strange stories about the prison ; Dr. Ducro, a portly man with a deep voice, a sort of French Dr. Johnson ; M. Dubois, a young and lively barrister who wanted to marry twenty thou- sand a year; and a poet, M. Guyard, who after- wards visited England, and was surprised at two things about us — one, that we could on a fine nioht see the Milky Way, which he had understood was an impossibility in this land of fogs ; and the other, that we had such a fine cathedral as Westminster Abbey, which, he said, was a "poem in stone." There was also a Monsieur Barratier, who lived near, and amused us much by his droll speeches, and by his account of a plague of cats that threat- ened to turn him out of his house and home. Madame Barratier and her sister had a passion for i6 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY these domestic animals. They began with one, then added two more, all females. Their kittens soon increased in number, as the ladies would not suffer for a moment that even one should be destroyed. Their meals not only added greatly to the house- DR. BONNET. hold expenses, but poor Barratier himself often had to take his dinner on the staircase. Human nature, he said, could stand it no longer, and he revolted. He summoned up all his fortitude, and told his wife and her sister that they must get rid of their cats. " Impossible ! ! ! " they exclaimed. PARIS 17 " I am determined," said he. "No! no! no !!" said they. "Or Barratier or the cats," said he. "I give you half-an-hour to decide." They asked to be allowed to keep two ; this was denied them. One, then. " No, Madame, not even one." Finally, the ladies had to give in, the cats were sent away, and Barratier returned to his home and to the bosom of Madame Barratier. Later on, another visitor came to the house, and passed under the name of Martin. He was very mysterious, kept to his own room, and never went out. He proved to be the celebrated Mon- sieur Cabet who scandalised the well-to-do Parisians by declaring that " property is theft." He was con- sidered a dangerous character, a sort of cannibal, but was in reality one of the most amiable and gentle of men. It may be imagined that, with such a company of Frenchmen, the conversations at the dinner-table were always animated, intelligent, and amusing. Monsieur Morand was not only an excellent mathe- matician, having been professor at the Athenee, but was as full of fun as he was of learning ; indeed, so impressed was I with what seemed to me, as a boy, his wonderful talents, that I looked upon him as the greatest man of the universe, to use a French superlative ; nor did a kinder soul ever breathe, although he was a red Republican and a friend of M. Cabct. I lis conversation was always interest- ing, and his language well chosen, for he spoke the B 1 8 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY French of Voltaire. Pleasant, indeed, were our many talks as we paced the Bois de Boulogne, then quite a country wood. The works of the amiable Bernardin de St. Pierre were put into my hands, and formed a delicrhtful euide to the Iihide de la Nattire. My schooling was no longer a difficult task, a painful effort of memory, but an agreeable, even a captivating pursuit. But this is but a prefatory note which I make here, because it is, as it were, the i7tise en scene, the background of an event which was of enormous importance to France, and was the first great drama of real life that I had witnessed, namely, the Revolution of 1848. SENTINELS. V THE REVOLUTION, 1848 T HAD noticed that the conversation at the -*- dinner- table had become more and more animated, especially on Sundays, when our party was increased by some of the visitors mentioned in the last chapter. As I had not yet learnt enough French to understand the ins and outs of the con- versation, I could only catch a word here and there, and from the tone and gesture of several of the speakers I fancied they were quarrelling, and even swearing at each other ; for now and th(;n a fist would come down on the table to give emphasis to 19 20 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY the sentence. Among this babel of voices, such expressions as the following caught my ear : " Nom de Dieu!" "Que diable ! " " Saprlsti ! " " C'est la canaille!" " Des voleurs!" " Le grand imbecile!" " Le vieux poltron ! " " Ce Louis Philippe!" "Mouchards!" "Traitres!" "Revolution!" and so on. But in the midst of it there would be much laughter, and there was evidently a contest between the lively high-toned barrister, M. Dubois, and the grave, deep-voiced, but humorous Dr. Ducro, as to which should say the wittiest and most cutting things about the Government. The names of Guizot, Thiers, Lamartine, Cavaignac, Emile de Girardin, Odillon Barrot, Ledru Rollin, Garnier Pages, Louis Blanc, Barbez, and others, constantly recurred, and when afterwards I asked for an explanation of what it all meant, the answer was, " Oh, they were only talking politics." But the old General du Bourg, with his white hair and black moustache, evidently said some unpleasant things, and demanded an ex- ' planation of the observations that had been made in his presence. He particularly objected to the epithet "mouchard" (spy) being used so often. This led to an altercation between him and M. Morand, and we heard high words between them after they had gone from the table. The great event which our friends in the Avenue Marbceuf were discussing was the approaching Revolution of 1848, when Louis Philippe abdicated and made his escape from the Tuileries (as was said at the time), disguised as a footman ; and a THE REVOLUTION, 1848 21 Provisional Government was established, of which many of the intimate friends of my professor became members — notably Lamartine, the poet, who was President. In those days I looked upon politics as things that grown-up people talked about as a kind of amusement, but I had no idea what they were. I heard that there was going to be a Revolution, but so neglected had been my education that I did not even know what that was ; it seemed to be asso- ciated somehow with Catherine-wheels and squibs and General du Bourof. The followinof extracts from a diary I kept at the time will show how very fresh I was to the subject ; indeed, the fact that one of my brother William's pigeons had laid an egg seemed to me of quite as much importance as the abdication of Louis Philippe, the King of the French. Diaries are apt to include chronicles of the very smallest beer — even those of Pepys and Evelyn do not escape this failing, nor is the "diary of little Adolphus " any exception to the rule ; — and but for the fact that it gives a glimpse of the Revolution of February 1848, and the subsequent tragic events of June, I should not have intruded it upon the reader. But as it recalls to the writer very vividly the moving drama enacted in Paris soon after he set foot there, it may prove interesting. I will begin with a short specimen of the more domestic items included in its pages : — Fed. 5///, 1848. — A row between General du Bourg and M. Morand. 22 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY 'jtli. — The General very insolent. \2th. — M. Dulong gave me my first lesson in painting. 1 6///. — Heard there was going to be a Revolu- tion. William's pigeons had a young one. • • « • • • I////. — More high words between the General and M. Morand. Patrice had a fight with the cook ; he was walking off with something out of the kitchen. 22nd. — Revolution commenced. Patrice's fig:ht with the cook seems to have been the beginning of hostilities, a sort of farce or lever lie r ideate of the drama about to be enacted in Paris. On the 22nd the air seemed heavy with ominous sounds, and there was a great noise of drums beating to arms, the rappel was heard in all directions, which meant that the National Guards were called out, that all the butchers and bakers and candlestickmakers had to don their uniforms and to assist in keeping the peace. On the other hand, the working class, le peuple, otherwise the mob, were beginning to break it in good earnest, shouting vociferously, throwing stones, smashing windows and lamps, turning over omnibuses, car- riages, cabs, and carts, tearing up the pavements (or rather the roads, which then were paved with stones as big as quartern loaves) to make barricades with, firing off guns, burning houses, bursting in doors and roaring excitedly, "A bas Guizot ! " "A bas les Anglais!" "Vive la Republique ! " "Vive la THE REVOLUTION, 1848 23 reforme!" and I don't know what all. In fact, I began to think they meant to kill us all, and I was debating in my own mind where I could hide to be out of danger. Some of the older students went out to see the "noise," but I, with other juveniles, looked at it from an upstairs window, from whence we could see to the end of the Avenue and on to the Champs Elysees. We had plenty to look at, even in our out-of-the-way street, and as night drew on the plot seemed to thicken, the distant sound of drums and musketry was increasing, a babel of voices rose on the air, and we saw a cart pass at the end of the road, full of dead bodies, their white faces lighted by torches, followed by the crowd singing " Mourir pour la Patrie." Feb. 2^rd. — The troops had been passing up and down our Avenue all night, and some attempt had been made at a barricade, but it was thrown down. The morning was comparatively quiet, and M. Morand said it was all over, but still he would not let us ofo to the Place Vendome to take our dancing lesson. The fact was, the Revolution was not over, and on the 24th, Thursday, the diary states that the " Revolution was worse than ever." There was a great noise of drums and bugles and musketry, and even what sounded like the booming of cannon. Later on, the statement in the diary is brief but emphatic : — " Revolution finished. Louis Philippe has abdicated and made his escape ; the mob threaten to behead him if they catch him, and 24 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Guizot too. The Palais Royal has been sacked and burnt ; the National Guard have fraternised with the workmen." So far, my experience of the Revolution had been limited to what I could see of it from an upstairs window of our house, which was consider- ably removed from the scene of action ; but in the afternoon M. Morand seemed to think there was no more danger, and took me, with several others, for a walk down the Champs Elysees. The day was gloomy, even foggy, and the first thing that struck me was to see whole companies of the regulars marching in solemn sadness, with scarcely a musket or a side-arm between them, and just a solitary drummer beating a sort of doleful measure like the Dead March in Saul. They had given up their weapons to the insurgents, with whom they had fraternised, and were going home to their barracks, to find them in flames. We met several regiments, all equally chopfallen. They were even without their cross-belts, and looked like a sombre set of mourners going to a funeral. They had not been victorious ; they perhaps didn't want to be, and yet they might have been brooding over their voluntary defeat. As a contrast to them, we met hundreds of workmen and men in blouses, belted and shakoed and armed to the teeth, but so drunk and lively that one did not apprehend much danger from them. Whether they had been charging at stone walls, or in their rollings and fallings had stabbed THE REVOLUTION, 1848 25 their mother earth, I don't know, but many of their bayonets were bent back and hook-shaped, and there were scarcely any that had not some troph\' on them ; in most cases, it was the round loaf, or two or three or even four round loaves that are served out to the troops, which they had no doubt helped themselves to, when they bravely broke into the undefended barracks and set them on fire. The buildings that affected me most were those small stations for the " Corps de Garde," standing separately in the Champs Elysees and Tuileries Gardens, that had been occupied by the Garde Municipale, and had been surrounded by the mob and their inmates shot to a man. They were gutted and blackened, and still smouldering. The Municipal Guards were a fine set of fellows, half soldiers, half police, and for some reason were hated by the populace, and were cut down merci- lessly, their only chance of escape being to throw away their uniforms and, if possible, put on a blouse or some other disguise. We had now arrived within a few hundred yards of the Tuileries, and our professor, far from being alarmed for our safety, seemed him- self to partake of the excitement of the crowd. In a few minutes more we were in front of one of the large iron gates facing the Rue de Rivoli ; it was closed, but I\I. Morand seemed to be in- spired with command, and bade some of the men climb o\-(:r it and undo the bolts, which was much easier than bursting it in. Up went a couple of 26 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY young fellows like monkeys, and in a minute or two more the gates opened and in rushed the mob with a deafening shout, and our little party with them. The sight that presented itself was the strangest I have ever seen, and has remained in my memory almost as vividly as if it were yesterday — and yet it is now fifty years ago. The magnificent apart- ments of the Palace were soon filled with as strange a set of ruffians as you could meet anywhere ; it seemed as if they were all mad or drunk, and yet they were as jolly as sandboys. They seemed positively to revel in destruction, and to yell with delight as they smashed and tore everything to pieces that they came across. There was scarcely a picture that was not cut into ribbons, and ornaments, however costly, were thrown down and broken to atoms. While I was standing- in one of the grand apartments, looking on in wonder, a little man, with a sword almost as big as himself, stood in front of a magnificent mirror that reached from the floor to the ceiling ; he surveyed it for a moment, and then, as though he were about to storm a town singlehanded, went deliberately up to it, and with one blow of his great cavalry blade shivered it to pieces. As they fell at his feet, he put on a grand air and said " La ! " as if this was one of the greatest deeds he had ever accomplished, and the proudest moment of his life. This inherent love of destruction seems to be characteristic of the French ; wherever their armies THE REVOLUTION, 1848 27 have passed through conquered countries they have left this hateful mark behind them. I noticed it par- ticularly in Spain, and in nine cases out of ten, when I came upon the ruins of some fine old building, I was told that the French were the destroyers. But to return to our little lookinof-orjass breaker. Whether we applauded his achievement or smiled at him, I forget, but he approached us with a menacing air and said, "A bas les Anglais!" We received his threat good-temperedly, and sang out in return, " Vive la Republique ! " That softened his anger, especially as one of our party was quite strong enough to have knocked him down, big sword and all ; so he then bade us farewell, saying, "C'est bien. Vive les Anglais ! " We followed along from room to room, and still the same mad scene of destruction was ofoine on ; not a pane of glass in the windows was left whole, and the handsome furniture, with its rich embroidery and gilt framework, was thrown out into the courtyard to make a bonfire. When we came to the bedrooms we found grimy black-bearded fellows dressed up in lace caps and ladies' nightgowns. Some were in the beds, scream- ing and laughing, and no doubt making coarse jokes ; others, enveloped in counterpanes, paraded the rooms ; and others, who had broken into the chapel, had put on the richly embroidered priests' robes and were dancing the " can-can " in them. In fact, every outrage that could be thought of in their monkey madness was resorted to. Even the 2 8 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY ladies' desks as well as their wardrobes were ran- sacked, and their love-letters and other documents private and confidential were mockingly read aloud amid roars of laughter. Oh, the French are a lively people ! After we had had enough of this pandemonium, we made our way out of it without molestation, and were not sorry to get into the open air again. I heard, however, several shots fired in the courtyard at the back of the Tuileries ; my brother looked out of window and said he saw a man shot for thiev- ing, and several others had shared the same fate. " Mort aux Voleurs " was written up all over the place. People might smash as much as they liked — that was simply looked upon as evincing patriotic feeling, a hatred of kings and princes and a love for the Republic ; but to take anything away was quite another thing, and the penalty was instant death. While we were listeninof outside to a man who was haranguing the crowd from the great balcony in most heroic style, and requesting them to name him the President of the Republic, we saw an amusinof incident connected with this *' Mort aux Voleurs." A half-drunken fellow was carrying an enormous bundle of candles (I should say many pounds of them), when another fellow accosted him and asked him what business he had with them. "These are the bougies from the Chateau," said he. "Thou hast stolen them ! give them up at once or I will have thee shot as a thief. Mort aux Voleurs! n'est-ce-pas ? " and he pointed to the notice. The THE REVOLUTION, 1848 29 possessor of the candles gave them up like a lamb without saying a word, and the other quietly walked off with them. As we returned home, we saw more troops marching sullenly along, unarmed as the others were. All the guard-houses we passed were burnt out, and several of the large barracks along the quay on the other side of the river were on fire. • ••••• Early on the morning after these events we heard martial sounds in our Avenue, a clanking of arms and beating of drums, accompanied by loud shouts of " Vive la Republique ! " " Vive le General du Bourg ! " A small army of men in blouses stood without the gates of our courtyard demanding admission. Surely they have come to take us prisoners or to order us all out to immediate execution. The gates were flung open by the concierge, and in marched a strange regiment, that might have matched that of Sir John Falstaff. It drew up in tolerable order in front of our house, and consisted of some hundred or more men, variously accoutred but very un- washed, who looked determined and as if they meant business. The General went out and haranofued them from the front doorsteps, and his speech was re- ceived with deafening applause. I began to feel reassured, and looked on from an upstairs window. The General's disputes with M. Morand crossed my mind, but 1 must say I felt a 30 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY great sense of relief when I found that the motley crowd below was simply a guard of honour that had come to carry off our General in triumph to the Hotel de Ville, whether to proclaim him President of the Republic I did not know, but they soon took their departure, headed by the General and his son. 1 he destinies of France, however, were not en- trusted to these gendemen ; and there was an ill- natured rumour that the General du Bouro- was not a General at all, and that Patrice was the son of a cook — not the one, let us hope, that he had the fight with. Although we could still hear the report of fire- arms from time to time, we went out to see the ruins of the barracks and other buildings that had been burnt by the insurgents, expecting to come across some terrible evidences of the fieht. But. strange to say, Paris had resumed in a great mea- sure its ordinary appearance ; most of the shops were open, and the ladies were out walking as usual, as though nothing had happened. On the 26th M. Dulong came in the uniform of the National Guard to give me my painting lesson ; he had been in the thick of the battle and had seen strange sights, but like the others had fraternised with the people, although I don't think he had any brotherly love for them. Another sign of the times was the arrival of the flute-master, I forget whether in uniform or not ; but he brought the music of the "Marseillaise" and the "Girondins" for my brother William. Everybody was singing the " Marseil- THE REVOLUTION, 1848 31 laise," and we all sang or rather shouted it, from M. Morand to " le petit Joseph," Madame playing the accompaniment. I am indebted to the diary for the above details, and that they give touches of colour to my story must be my excuse for introducing them. Indeed, its brief notes bring vividly before me the scenes I then witnessed. I can see old Paris as it was half a century ago, with its narrow and picturesque streets, many of them without pavements for foot passengers, and lighted at night by the dim glimmer of oil lamps that swung on a rope suspended across the road ; although the principal thoroughfares, such as the Champs Elysees, the Rue de Rivoli, and the Boule- vards had grand rows of gas lamps. The gardens of the Tuileries, with their long avenues of horse-chestnuts and limes, their orange trees and beds of flowers, and their many statues, were full of life and gaiety, the sun shining, foun- tains playing, children romping, their nursemaids in their pretty caps and aprons sitting at work chatting and laughing, whilst the vendors of "pain d'epice," "orgeat," "la limonade " and " les plaisirs," plied their trades with all their characteristic liveliness. The Boulevards and the Palais Royal were full of "flaneurs," folk who sauntered along with a sort of lazy grace, smoking their cigarettes as though they had nothing else to do and had no cares or troubles ; for the well-to-do Frenchman generally gets his work over early and devotes the rest of his 32 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY time to the enjoyment of life, sitting outside the cafes sipping coffee and " le petit verre," chaffing his neighbour and the passers-by, /(^z^r/'^^^^r le te^nps. In fact, all the world seemed to live out of doors and to be as sociable as if they were one big family party. When your Frenchman is in a good humour he is one of the most civilised and deliorhtful crea- tures of the human race ; but when ground down by poverty, when oppressed by injustice and bad government, and when his angry passions rise, he is like a lunatic out of Bedlam, to his own sorrow. I could go on for many pages recalling the Paris of fifty years ago, but the pleasure would probably be more on my side than on that of the reader. Modern Paris is much more magnificent, and the French, if they are great destroyers, as I said just now, have the faculty of replacing with interest the buildings they destroy. Besides, my Paris of those days was very much limited to the four walls of the establishment of M. Morand, to the house in the Avenue Marbceuf, which house has shared the fate of the Tuileries, and disappeared from the scene ; the Avenue Marbceuf, then almost a lane or back street, is now quite Kensingtonian with its big mansions. In those days, too, narrow streets and tumble- down houses encumbered the space between the Tuileries and the Louvre, and there were print- shops and bookstalls almost up to the very entrance door of the Musee, or Picture Gallery. Many a time did I admire some picture by Prud'hon or THE REVOLUTION, 1848 33 Girodet, such as "La \^engeance Divine poursui- vant le Crime " by the former, and the " Chactas et Atala " by the latter, and looked with envious eyes on eno-ravines of them in those very print-shops ; and many a time have I gone both there and on the quais, where I could pick up old volumes with red edges and leather bindings at prices varying from two to twenty sous, and carried home a trea- sure for the aforesaid sum which was the nucleus of a future library. SKETCH TAKEN OF PARIS BY MOONLIGHT DURING THE CIVIL WAR OF JUNE 1848. VI CIVIL WAR SINCE the events narrated in the last chapter, there have been fetes, illuminations, rejoicings, and grand military displays ; there has been a pro- cession of troops many miles long, that took from eight in the morning till eleven at night to pass up the Champs Elysees to the Barriere de I'Etoile, where detachments from every regiment in France received new flags. But still Paris is unsettled, and the dogs of war are howling to be let loose. The cry for labour and for bread is growing louder and louder, the scheme of the "Ateliers Nationaux" (the National Workshops) has not succeeded, and a more terrible tragedy than the Revolution of February is about to be enacted. 34 CIVIL WAR 35 We had left the house in the Avenue Marboeuf, and had taken up our quarters in Beaujon, a quiet locality on the opposite side of the Champs Elysees, and not far from the old place. Its avenues were enclosed by gates and named after the poets — one was called Avenue Lord Byron. Here, besides our other studies, we were taught military exercises, were regularly drilled by a sergeant of the line, and had to handle muskets quite out of proportion to our small bodies, and very heavy to bring up to the shoulder. I speak of little Joseph and myself, as several of the older students had left. Later on these exercises formed a subject of inquiry by the authorities, who seemed to look upon us as worthy of being suspected. It is quite true that some of the gamins of Paris did a good deal of mischief from behind the barricades, and even in front of them, during the affair of June which was now on the eve of commencino-. Louis Napoleon had just come upon the scene ; he had been elected a " Representant du peuple," and claimed admission to the Chamber of Deputies. By some he was looked upon with suspicion, espe- cially by M. Morand and his friends ; for, during their conversations at the dinner-table, I often heard the terms adventurer and charlatan applied to him. I see by the diary, which I must again refer to, that on the loth of June 1848, " tlicre is a fuss about Napoleon;" and on the 13th, tliat we went to the Place de la Concorde .md saw the cavalry charL''e the mob, supported by the infantry, who charged 36 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY with fixed bayonets. " Heard that Louis Napoleon had been received into the Chamber of Deputies." This event is indelibly fixed on my memory, for I made a sketch of it in my lesson book. It was a hot sunny day in June. Monsieur and Madame Morand, Joseph, and I went for a walk as usual, little suspecting that anything out of the way was going to happen. When we arrived at the Place de la Concorde, rather inappropriately named, we saw troops stationed round the Chambre des Deputes and also on the Place ; but to look on the scene no one would have suspected that any mischief was brewing, one would rather have sup- posed that some fair was going on, or that it was a general holiday. There was a considerable crowd, and the usual gaiety prevailed. The vendors of cakes and lemonade, of orgeat and les plaisirs were doing good business, and many workmen were lying stretched their full length sleeping and bask- ing in the sun. Presently, as if by magic, all started to their feet and took to their heels, and I have never seen so many legs up in the air all at once either before or since. And then I noticed a 2'litterine of steel and helmets, and a shaking- of plumes. The dragoons were charging the mob, there was a rush, and a hue and cry, and a general scampering to the right. I saw the infantry lower their bayonets and clear all before them in another direction. Our little party took refuge under the colonnade in front of the hotel of the Minister of Marine, and CIVIL WAR 37 were almost the sole occupants of that long corri- dor, which is enclosed by iron railings. Seeing us there, a small body of lancers formed at the end of it, and seemed to threaten us with a charge ; but M. Morand stepped forward and appealed to the officer, saying — " Vous voyez bien que ce ne sont pas des combattants," pointing to little Joseph, and myself, and Madame. The gallant troopers eyed us for a moment, then turned their horses' heads and galloped off in another direction. We soon made our way home after this, though we were not allowed to pass through the line of troops that had formed up without a great deal of explanation on the part of our professor. About two days later, on June 22nd, was the beginning of the Civil War. "No fighting yet," says the diary; "but the workmen (le peuple) are insulting the National Guard (les bourgeois), and shouting ' A bas Lamar- tine ! ' ' Vive Barbez ! ' " June 23;'^, Thicrsday. — " Fighting began about ten o'clock this morninor between the National Guards and the workmen. Barricades have been thrown up in the night by the latter, one near the Porte St. Martin nearly as high as a house. The National Guard tried to storm it, and twenty-five of them were killed ; the rest made their escape, leaving their muskets behind them." In the evening the sound of cannon was heard in the distance, guns firing rapidly one after another, and a beating of drums in all directions. 38 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY June 2\tJi, Friday. — " Fighting has been going on without ceasing, cannon firing all night ; besides which there was a continuous sound of troops en- terinof Paris, and draesfinof their g^uns alon^ with them." The moon, I remember, was shining brightly, and as the weather was warm, I sat at the open window and made a sketch of the effect/ Sentinels were posted all along our avenue, and every now and then I heard the call, " Sentinelle, prenez-garde a vous." This call was taken up by the next, who was some little way off, then by a third, and so on till it died away in the distance ; but still it came round again, and I fell asleep notwithstanding the boom of cannon, and the faint call of " Sentinelle, prenez-garde a vous." Jtine 2^th, Saturday. — "Heard this morning that the workmen — that is to say, the Red Republi- cans—are in great force in the Quartier St. Jacques, and have built a fortress by the Pantheon. A great number have been killed on both sides, for there has been some hard fighting. The people have five or six cannon, but they lost St. Jacques in the evening, and the combat ceased for a short time. Paris is in a state of siege, and under military law. Fighting has just begun again in the Rue St. Antoine. . . . The fighting has been going on all night, cannon roaring without ceasing." June 26tk, Sunday. — " The National Guard have taken up their quarters in Beaujon, close to our ^ See illustration, p. 34. CIVIL WAR 39 house. They paid us a visit yesterday to see if we had any firearms in the place. Little Joseph and I beofin to feel we are dangerous characters. I am not sure whether I am a Red Republican or not. "We have heard terrible accounts of the fight. There has been great loss of life ; the 25th legion of the Garde-Mobile has been nearly annihilated. It consists chiefly of quite young men, ' les enfants du peuple,' and they have been remorselessly slaughtered by their own fathers, and their heads exhibited by women. It is said that a number were taken prisoners, and their captors cut their throats in cold blood and left them lying in the road. "Out of 800 Garde-National, Garde-Mobile, and Grenadiers, only 200 remained alive, and out of 700 others 550 were killed, and out of forty-six officers of the Garde-Mobile only fourteen survived. Three generals were killed. It is said that the troops have taken the Faubourg St. Antoine, but we cannot be sure, as no one is allowed to pass to bring news. Twelve journalists have been arrested." These notes were jotted down from time to time during the day, for we had little inclina- tion to set to work while such excitement was in the air and such terrible deeds were being enacted. June 27///, Monday. — " Fighting has ceased ; the battle is over ; the people are vanquished. 40 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY We have heard that the Archbishop of Paris was shot while ministering to the dying, and trying to make peace. Some thousands have fallen on both sides, including ten or twelve general officers." That there was such terrible carnage, and that the battle lasted so long, may perhaps be accounted for partly by the fact that in February, when the troops and the National Guards fraternised with the people, they gave up their arms to them, little thinking that they themselves would in a few short months become the victims of those very weapons. " It is said that about 16,000 have fallen and about 8000 insurgents have been made prisoners, many of whom were shot afterwards in cold blood." Some days after the fight I overheard two soldiers of the line talking together at a lemonade and ginger-beer stall, whither they and I had gone for refreshment. The one had just told the other how many he and his company had shot that morning, and that there were so many hundred more to be shot the next day. I must say that it gave me a shudder when 1 heard of this murdering in cold blood after the fiofht was over. One would have thought there had been quite enough blood spilt without this. It is fortunate that the troops kept possession of the Hotel de Ville, and so prevented the mob from getting the reins of government into their own hands, for they were driven to desperation ; about I 20,000 had been receiving state wages, but CIVIL WAR 41 the workshops were being closed, and the cry of the people was " Le travail ou la mort." It was the want of bread and the fear of starvation that wrought them up to frenzy and made them fight like demons. Had they got the upper hand a reign of terror would probably have set in, and there would have been no mercy shown to the hated bourgeois, the respectable shopkeeper. For some time after this the Champs Elysees presented a curious sight ; the whole place was one vast camp, covered with straw, where men and horses were lying down together. Cavaignac and Lamoriciere, determined not to be beaten, had brought so many troops into Paris — I believe over 60,000 — that there was no room for them in the barracks, and they had to bivouac in any of the open spaces that were available. Some of the men were cooking, some lolling about smoking, some brushing up their uniforms, cleaning their arms, and making themselves tidy. It was rather amusing to see the dragoons blacking and polishing the leathern part of each other's breeches, the one who was being polished standing bent down and leaning on a stool ; then when he was finished he performed the same office for his friend. On the 6th of July there was a grand funeral of those who had fallen in this Civil War. It was, of course, a grand show — quite a la fran^aise l Mass for the dead was solemnised in a chapel erected on the Place de la Concorde for that pur- pose, and almost on the very spot where the first 42 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY charge of cavalry took place, on the 1 3th of the previous month, the charge that inaugurated this terrible and miserable fi^ht between citizen and citizen, between father and son, a fight in which whoever conquered must regret even the victory. THE WIDOW. -^u. MIRTH VII THE ARTS OF PEACE TV yr Y painting master, Monsieur Jean Louis ^^ ^ Dulong, was a very modest man, for he only charged twenty-five francs a month for two lessons a week, or at the rate of half-a-crown a lesson, and came all the way from the Rue des Beaux Arts, or somewhere in that quarter, to give 43 44 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY them. He was an excellent painter, in the smooth French manner, and the chief thing he taught me was to take pains. When I showed him some specimens of the work I had done in England, among them a copy of a river piece by Richard Wilson, with the paint dabbed on pretty thick and the forms left almost entirely to the imagination, he said it was an dbauche (only a sketch), that it led to nothing, and that if I wanted to learn to paint I must carefully copy the work before me, touch for touch, line for line, and that in proceeding care- fully, though slowly, I should accomplish my task much more rapidly than by hurrying and making a dash, and he impressed upon me the advice of Boileau — " Hatez vous lentement et sans perdre courage, Vingt fois sur le metier remettez votre ouvrage." Later on he gave me a letter of introduction to the authorities at the Louvre, and in September 1848, to my great delight, I found myself perched on a high stool, with a big canvas in front of me, copying " La Vengeance Divine poursuivant le Crime," by Prud'hon, which at that time I admired much more than the masterpieces of Titian, Rubens, and Paul Veronese. I also copied the " Endymion " of Girodet, and his " Chactas and Atala " ; I took especial pleasure in the subject, as well as in the clean smooth workmanship of the picture. As at that time I had no idea of ever becoming an artist, I looked upon my task as a THE ARTS OF PEACE ' 45 pleasant pastime, and thought it a very fine thing to be painting in the Louvre. Perhaps, after all, this was the best way to M. J. L. DULONG. begin — to start from the bottom of the ladder and climb upwards, instead of starting at the top with Titian, and tumbling downwards. Nor did 1 have 46 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY to go through that painful drudgery with a fine- pointed piece of chalk, passing months and months copying in meaningless stipple a cylinder or a cone, or some other hideous art-school object, which, though it may pass you into an upper class, lulls and dulls the intellect, and wastes the most pre- cious davs of a student's life. As the tyro cannot appreciate the beauties of the great masters, he cannot copy them, so let him learn to take pains, and then he may dash away and be as masterly as he likes. Thank you, good Monsieur Dulong, for teach- ing me this lesson. On the previous page is your portrait, which I drew in my lesson-book while you were patiently showing me how to paint a shipwreck. VIII THE ARTIST AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE M V artistic talent, such as it was, not infre- quently helped to enliven the hour at the breakfast table. " Le dejeuner a la fourchette " I think an admirable institution. It is served at about eleven o'clock, when one has already done three good hours' work ; it is a cross between our nine o'clock English breakfast and our half-past one o'clock luncheon, or rather I should say it combines the two, and does not break up the day so inconveniently. At M. Morand's we used to take coffee (cafe au lait) and a roll and butter at about seven or half-past, and got well to work by eight o'clock, only leaving off when the welcome sound of the breakfast bell summoned us to my favourite meal. After it was over we had our time to ourselves to go out for a walk until one o'clock, when we went to work a";ain till five, and after that BUBBLES. 47 48 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY threw aside our algebra and our conic sections to enjoy our dinner and our ease. If it was summer time, we took long walks through the Bois or down into Paris, and on Sundays frequently went as far as St. Cloud, that delightful old palace (since de- stroyed), with its charming views, its fountains, its terraces, and all its other attractions. " Le dejeuner a la fourchette" consisted of several dishes, more or less light, but much to my taste, with "pain a discretion" and " vin " in "abondance," that is, with abundance of water. It was on these occasions that M. Morand would get a good deal of fun out of a simple observation. It would gradually get elaborated Into a story, which I was generally called upon to illustrate on the black- board with white chalk, for the board on which we worked out our problems stood over the stove in the dining-room, which was also our class-room. For instance : Mr. Wood, a closely-cropped, red- haired bachelor, had lately arrived from London, and M. Morand asked him, in the course of con- versation, at what part he resided. He lived at Barnes, he said, "a little above Chelsea." "Oh, then you probably know Chelsea Col- lege ? " "Chelsea College?" said Mr. Wood, as though he were thinking what place was meant. " Chelsea College.'*" he repeated. "No, Monsieur, I don't think I do." M. Morand, with mock gravity, turned to his wife and said, "How is this.'*" AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 49 Now, Madame Morand had for several years before her marriage Hved with the family of Sir John Wilson, who was formerly governor of Chelsea Hospital, but which Madame always called Chel- sea College, as though it were a seat of learning instead of the home of old soldiers ; and whenever her husband asked her where such and such a place was, she always replied that it was so far from Chelsea College. Thus, Westminster Abbey would be about two miles from Chelsea Collegre. " And where is Manchester ? " "Manchester is about 186 miles from Chelsea College," and so on. At last M. Morand exclaimed, " Alors, Chelsea College c'est le centre de I'univers, et le soleil doit etre a peu pres trente-deux millions de lieux de Chelsea College, n'est-ce-pas ? " "But," said Madame M. to Mr. W^ood, "you perhaps do not pass that way. Do you ever go to the city ? " "Oh yes, every day." " And how do you go ? " " By steamboat, and return by steamboat." " Why, then," said she, "you must pass Chelsea College twice every day." "Comment!" said M. Morand. "How is this? Is Chelsea College a myth ? Is it a creation of my wife's fancy, this centre of the universe of which I have heard so much ? since here is Monsieur Vood, who has passed by the place twice a day for the last twelve years, and has never yet seen it." D so SKETCHES FROM MEMORY And turning to me he would say, "Voyons, Adolphe, here is a problem ; how can you account for this strange phenomenon ? " We would then all of us set to work to discover some reason for it. Did Mr. Wood always have his back to the place when he passed it, or was he so busy reading the Times that he never remarked it ? No, he could not always take up the same position for twelve years. These and several other theories were started, but we reminded the Professor that Madame had frequently referred to the cabbages at Chelsea College. " True," said he, and a light seemed to dawn upon him. " I remember now that whenever we have cabbages for dinner Madame always says they are not so fine as those that grow at Chelsea College." At last we had solved the riddle ! Those cab- bages have no doubt been orrowing- and increasing^ to such an extent that at last they are no longer mere vegetables but have become shrubs, and from shrubs have grown into trees, and in fact are now so large that the pensioners can sit under them — and these cabbages quite conceal the College from view, especially from any one passing on the river. So Adolphe had to take the chalk and de- lineate the Chelsea cabbages with the pensioners sitting under them, and only the chimney-pots of the famous centre of the universe seen above them. This was the sort of playful nonsense we in- dulged in at the breakfast-table, sometimes at the AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 51 expense of one, sometimes of another. " Le petit Joseph," as he was called, used to brag a good deal about Spanish America, and an uncle of his who was the captain of a ship. Of course this captain became as great a hero as Chelsea College had become a mystery, and was represented as a giant with an enormous cocked hat and feathers, a big sword, and a circular telescope with which he could see all round the world. He was called " le capitaine de Joseph," and was of such wonderful proportions that he could carry any ordinary ship under his arm ; indeed, to relate half the exploits and extraordinary adventures of this great hero would take a volume. Among countless other subjects for the pencil, or rather for the white chalk, was a little incident a propos of mint sauce. A discussion had recently taken place as to the relative virtues of French and English cooking, in which M. Dubois, le Docteur Ducro, M. Barratier, and others, maintained the superiority of "la cuisine fran^aise," and Madame Morand, Mr. Wood, and the English boys stuck up for the roast beef of their native land. There- upon Madame said that she would treat them all next Sunday to a thoroughly British dish, and as lamb was in season, we were to have a leg of lamb with mint sauce, " une veritable sauce anglaise." This was to be a test experiment, and she felt confident that they would all acknowledge its excellence. Sunday arrived, and with it the several guests, 52 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY full of curiosity to try the English sauce. The lamb was put upon the table, accompanied by a tureen of vinegar sweetened with sugar and flavoured with mint. Each one helped himself to it very plenti- fully, especially M. Dubois, who soaked his meat in it so thoroughly that you would have thought he had a plate of soup in front of him instead of a cut off the joint. I shall never forget the various expressions of the guests after they had taken the first mouthful of "la sauce anglaise." M. Morand said nothing, but quietly tilted his plate and put a piece of bread under it to separate the sauce from the meat ; the Doctor sat back in his chair and looked round at the others, aghast ; another tried to empty the sauce into his neighbour's plate. But Dubois, the avocat, literally screamed, and said in a high voice, as though he were addressing the court, " Madame, votre sauce est execrable ! " Another called it " originale " ; another apologised for not beinpf able to aeree with Madame that it was excel- lent. Fortunately there were other dishes to follow, and the catastrophe of the "sauce anglaise" was soon followed by merriment. During dessert I was called upon to depict the scene on the blackboard, but I am afraid that only a Hogarth could have done it justice. However, the wry faces, the mouths drawn down and the eyebrows drawn up, the attitude of M. Dubois, and the English sauce bowl dancing a sort of Highland fling in the middle of the table, made a very amusing picture. I need hardly add that this was the first and last time that AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE 53 "la sauce anglaise " made its appearance at the table of Madame Morand. Now and then a political subject would be suggested, such as " Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite." This was represented, first by some poor devils who were at Liberty to go to prison ; second, Equality by a number of dead men lying on the ground ; and Fraternity by a figure of a war goddess and people engaged in a desperate fight, cannon firing, heads flying off, and so on. But I have said quite enough to explain the functions of the Artist at the Breakfast-table. A STUDY. IX HOME AGAIN A HOLIDAY at Fontainebleau in the autumn; strolls through the palace gardens, reminding me of Hampton Court ; and long and delightful walks through the forest accompanied by M. Morand and Mr. Wood, who, notwithstanding his maps and his guides, generally lost his way ; our return to Paris by the river, and the many pictur- esque places we passed, which made me long to be 54 HOME AGAIN SS an artist ; these bring back pleasant recollections, but in too dreamy and sketchy a shape for me to say more about them. I stayed for another year in Paris with my good friends the Morands, studying the various branches of polite learning considered necessary to the education of youth, and continued my paint- ing lessons and copying in the Louvre under the guidance of M. Dulong. I returned to England at the end of December 1849 in time to spend Christmas at home, but not without sincere regret at parting with my French friends. I had not only been happy with them, but I had added almost a new existence to my former one. ^ I had become a Frenchman as well as an Englishman. I could enjoy their thoughts, their tastes, their art, and their literature as well as our own ; and I had learned the great lesson, which I had not learned at my school in Surrey, that the cultivation of the reasoning faculty is the basis of education, and that a broad and unprejudiced view of all things is not only good for the'' heart, but the most certain guide for a citizen of the world ; in fact, I had learned to be a cosmopolitan. A SKETCH. X LESLIE ' I 'HE author of a " Handbook for Young ^ Painters," had he not been so modest, would perhaps have given a more suitable title to one of the soundest and most useful works on art that we possess. As the title of his book stands it is a little mis- leading, for any one advanced in years will, if he dips into its charming pages, find that, contrary to his expectation, they contain not food for mere babes and sucklings, but for the mature thinker and the true lover of art. But such was the grentle and retiring disposition of the man who wrote it, that he thought as much too little of himself as others greatly his inferiors think too much. In 56 LESLIE 57 studying that book side by side with the pictorial work of its author, one cannot resist the conviction that the artist's modesty was not a mere sentiment, but that he was more aware of his own deficiencies than he was of his ereat excellences. It is often painfully evident to a man who has all the acute perception of a connoisseur that how- ever much he may admire the work of others, he is not always capable of arriving at a like perfection, just as we may admire the strength of an athlete who can lift an enormous weight — and be fully con- scious that we could not lift it ourselves. But in the case of Leslie such defects as he had were made up for by a perfect knowledge of his craft, a broad expressive touch, an elegant refinement, and a keen sense of character and humour. Those for whom he painted were, as a rule, noblemen and gentlemen, who found in his pictures the same refinement that they lived amongst ; nor did they look for art for art's sake, but for some story that interested them told tastefully and plea- santly on canvas. In fact, Leslie was an illustrator - — a charming illustrator of the literature of the eighteenth century, of Addison, Pope, Swift, Field- ing, Sterne, Goldsmith, and Smollett, and also of Cervantes, Shakespeare, Moliere, Milton, and Scott. It was perhaps his destiny to be so. It was the fashion c)f his time, for he seldom invented a sub- ject ; yet when he did, he gave to the world such ex- quisite designs as "the Mother nursing her Infant." But it is not as a painter that I write of Leslie, but 58 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY as a sweet character ; and not with the pen of a critic, but of a sketcher from memory. Time approves or disapproves the work of an SKETCH BY C. R. LESLIE. artist. Its commercial value is often shifting, de- pending in a great measure on the current of feeling that characterises a generation ; and the present loud, bustling, bragging, advertising community looks LESLIE 59 coldly on the productions of the painters of the middle of the nineteenth century. But still, me- thinks that the name of the painter of " Sancho and the Duchess," of " Uncle Toby and Widow Wadman," and that perfect " Mother and Child," will live long and honourably in the history of British art. It was my good fortune to become acquainted with Charles Robert Leslie, R.A., soon after my return from France, and at the momentous period wheji I was entering on the career of an artist. I remember it was with a beating heart and a trem- blinof hand that I knocked at his door in Abercorn Place, one morning in the year 1851. I was shown into a drawing-room so tastefully arranged that it would have been difficult to match it even in Paris, and almost for the first time in my life I looked upon engravings after the great masters of the English school of painting, namely. Sir Joshua Reynolds, Constable, Gainsborough, and others ; for these, including prints from Watteau, were the chief ornaments on the walls. I was the more astonished at their beauty, because I had been told in Paris that we Eno-lish knew nothincj- about art, in fact, we did not even know how to draw, and the reason given was the dreadful climate of " I'lle Britannique " ; that the fogs not only prevented us from seeing the Milky Way, but concealed even the beauties of nature from our phlegmatic vision. While these things were passing in my mind the door opened, and a sort of electric shock passed 6o SKETCHES FROM MEMORY through me, a momentary dread of what I know not ; but it was at once dispelled when I saw the kind face of the gentleman who advanced to shake hands with me. After a few preliminary words I ventured to undo the parcel of "things" I had brought from Paris, which he looked at very quiedy, and without the least emotion, while I looked down at the carpet. It was now the turn of the Enorlish artist to have a shot at the French ; my copies of " The Burial of Atala," " La Vengeance Divine poursuivant le Crime," and " The Sleep of Endymion," after Prud'hon and Girodet, were, he said, very well painted for a lad of fifteen, but the style of these French painters was greatly inferior to that of the Italian and Dutch schools, and he recommended me, if I went to Paris again, to make studies from Titian and Veronese, who were fine colourists, and from Terburg and Metzu, who were perfect masters of their craft, although their subjects were not of a very elevated character, Mr. Leslie was then Professor of Painting- at the Royal Academy, and invited me to his lectures, which were certainly the most delightful I ever attended ; not only for their interest and the sound principles they enunciated, but from the manner in which they were illustrated by pictures and engrav- ings, borrowed for the occasion ; so that if he spoke of Reynolds, or Raphael, or other masters, he would be able to point to some painting by him or print from his work to corroborate his teaching. LESLIE 6i I need perhaps hardly remind the reader that his " Handbook for Youn^ Painters " is to a orreat extent the outcome of tliese lectures, and, as already KILBURN FIELDS— NOW liUILT OVER, Stated, it is one of the soundest guides the student can have, either as artist or critic. It only requires illustrating as the lectures were, to make it a still 62 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY more valuable companion, not only to students, but to all lovers of art. After this first interview I spent many pleasant days and evenings with Leslie and his family, and when I look back to them I seem to enjoy them all over again. There was something quite unique in this charming English home — full of sunshine and laughter, full of originality, refinement, humour, and kindliness. George Leslie, the present R.A., became my daily companion. We took long walks together in the fields, which in those days were not far off; we had long talks, full of enthusiasm, about art, and looked forward to doing great things. A world of beauty opened out before us, which we were to help to adorn, and we sallied forth with our sketch-books to cull from nature the materials for future pictures. We were full of youth, and mirth, and hope, with few misgivings as to our ultimate success. I remember, when I first knew the Leslies, coming in one day just as they were at lunch, and how quaint and pretty Mrs. Leslie looked as she sat at the head of the table with her snow-white napkin tucked under her chin ; and how she advised me to paint nothing but life-size portraits for the next four years: "for," said she, "it teaches you to paint with boldness and vigour ; nothing but life-size portraits for the next four years, Mr. Storey." " Very good advice," said Mr. Leslie ; and when I said something about the difficulty of getting people to sit to a beginner, she offered to LESLIE 63 lend me her three daughters. " Oh ! " said one ; "No!" said another; but Miss LesHe (Harriet) consented at once, provided I painted her at six o'clock in the morning. It was then suggested that Mrs. Leslie should sit first of all, where- upon the same witty young lady remarked, "If you can paint a portrait of her, Mr. Storey, it will be more than any one else can do ; for how can you draw her features when she hasn't any ? You look for her nose, for instance, and you say, ' Where is it ? ' " As I was then living at home in Marlborough Place, I often used to drop in at Abercorn Place, and remember many a cosy chat round the fire before the lamp was lighted. It was then that Leslie would tell many of those stories about Scott and Wilkie, Sydney Smith, Washington Irving, Charles Lamb, Turner, and other interesting characters, that make his " Autobiographical Re- collections " such delightful reading; and it was then, too, that Harriet Leslie would come out with those quaint sayings which were so humorously cruel. Among others, a certain military R.A. came in for some sharp taps. For instance, one evening she was asked what she was thinkino- about. "Well," she said, " I was thinking of going to the Lowther Arcade and buying little Jones a new box of soldiers. He has painted the old ones so often that I am quite tired of them. I think, now, some tin ones on horseback would be just the thing." At another time, referring to his supposed wonderful 64 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY likeness to the old Duke of Wellington, she said, "You know, he was afraid to go out on the day of the Duke's funeral for fear they should bury him." We were one night speaking of Lady E., and saying what a fine handsome woman she was — she was nearly a head taller than her husband. "Yes," said Miss Harriet, "but she is quite out of perspective ; don't you think," addressing her father, "that little Knight could do somethingr for her?" Little Knight, as he was called, was then Professor of Perspective at the Royal Academy. I remember that one evening a mild young man came in, who required drawing out, so Miss H. asked him what he had been doing ? " Well," he said, rather shyly, " I've been writing a poem." " Oh! have you indeed? I see you have been growing a moustache too." " Yes," he said, still more shyly, and putting his hand over it as if he were ashamed of it ; "but I'm thinking of cutting it off." " Oh, don't do that ! " said she ; " I think It is very becoming. If I were you, I should cut off my poem and leave my moustache." Speaking of another young man who has since become famous, who was then very pale, with hair almost white, eyebrows scarcely visible, and light grey eyes, she said, " What a pity they ever washed him ! you see, he wasn't fast colours." It must not be supposed that this witty young lady was as cruel as some of her remarks would make her appear ; indeed, she was kindness itself, LESLIE 6^ but with an irresistible flow of fun and an original way of looking at things and of expressing her thoughts. Indeed, she was not unlike the Duchess in " Don Quixote," and might perhaps almost have assisted at the adventure of the peerless knight and his squire on the wooden horse Clavileno. And she certainly might have sat for the Duchess in her father's beautiful picture in the National Gallery. The following notes from an old diary, written three years before Leslie's death — that is, in 1856 — recall a pleasant evening spent in his company. "When I arrived, Leslie and Watkiss Lloyd were sitting in the garden discussing art. "Mr. Leslie said, 'If you paint a fruit piece it must be beautifully coloured and quite perfect in the painting or it is worthless, because the subject itself is nothing.' " ' You speak, then, of the technicalities of art ? ' said Mr. Lloyd. " ' When I speak of art I only speak of the tech- nical part, of that part which is peculiar to itself, belonging to it alone ; I don't speak of the story or idea, for these may belong to other things, which colour and dexterous handling of the brush cannot ; and indeed a story may often be better conveyed by words than by painting.' "Speaking of Raphael, he said: 'His pictures are beautiful for their expression, their grace, their elegant composition, as well as for their subjects.' He then added, ' Finely drawn lines combining harmoniously are like fine music' E 66 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY " Speaking of a small picture by De Hooghe, he said : ' Now that picture is to me like a fine air in music, for it is full of harmony of colour, with a beautiful glow of sunshine in it, although the sub- ject is an ugly old woman, an ugly man smoking a pipe, and a still more ugly child looking on ; and yet the sunshine, the clear air, the composition, all are beautiful.' "He told us several amusing stories, one of when he was first introduced to Scott at Abbots- ford. They were sitting in the hall when a bell rang. ' What bell is that ? ' said Scott ; ' can it be a visitor ? I don't expect one.' Some one suggested that it might be the dinner-bell. "'Oh no,' said Sir Walter, 'for I've a very quick ear for the dinner-bell ; it strikes upon it ' Like the sweet South That breathes upon a bank of violets SteaHng and giving odour.' " He told us that he went to Scotland with Sir Edwin Landseer by sea. The latter, a very bad sailor, went at once to his berth and lay down. Terry the actor, who was also on board, took a plate of ham-sandwiches down to him, which he advised him to eat to keep off sea-sickness. Land- seer groaned and told him to leave them, so he placed them by his side. The next morning, when they went to see how he was, they saw he had passed a restless night, for he was covered all over with ham-sandwiches ; ham here, bread and LESLIE 67 mustard there ; in fact, he had been rolHng in them all the time, but had not eaten one. He was so ill that he could not continue the journey by sea, and went ashore at Scarborough." Leslie dearly loved a game of chess, and his fondness for it often made him call to ask me to go in and spend the evening with him, and, as if he thought it rather a tax on me, he would after tea bring down several portfolios of prints from Rembrandt, Stothard, Hogarth, and others, the beauties of which he took great pleasure in point- ing out, and I learnt many a valuable lesson from him in that way. I remember his merry daughters used to call this "pa's artfulness," for after we had looked through them, he would say in a half-hesitating voice, " Shall we have a game ? " to which, of course, I readily assented. Our games of chess, however, were rather singular, and often lasted a long time, because, what with talking and listening to the pleasant music played by Miss Leslie (she was a delightful pianist), I used quite to forget it was my move until my patient adversary reminded me. Then again, if I moved in a hurry and per- haps rashly, he would say, " You see your Queen's in danger," or " You will lose your Knight if you do that ; " so that it was a very friendly fight, and anything but scientific ; yet Leslie enjoyed it, for it occupied him and rested his eyes at the same time. On that particular evening mentioned in the 68 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY diary we had played several games, when Mrs. Leslie brought down a portfolio of drawings by her youngest daughter Mary, who was away ; and I think I never saw so sweet a collection, so refined, so elegant, so full of taste and delicacy. I felt that one of them was worth all that I had ever done. Mrs. Leslie described these sketches as "taste with faithfulness." Surely no Ruskin, no anybody, could put more art teaching into three words than that — "taste with faithfulness." Taste! that, Mr. Leslie used to say, " if not the greatest, is at all events the rarest quality in art." Under the heading" "Taste" miorht come all its distinc- tive and beautiful qualities ; taste, that selects and arranges, that rejects the bad, the vulgar. And yet taste, without faithfulness, without industry, without truth, becomes superficial ornament. Faithfulness without taste is like industry without thought, and often results in labour thrown away. Taste comes from the mind, and directs the industry of the faithful hand and eye. Yes, Mrs. Leslie, this is an excellent lesson. / *-'. A PORTRAIT. XI SIR EDWIN LANDSEER THAT quiet game of chess at Leslie's, of which I spoke in the last chapter, would sometimes be interrupted by visitors dropping in, and then it had to be considered a drawn battle, although, perhaps, my opponent was just upon the point of winning. 69 70 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Among those welcome guests who dropped in was Sir Edwin Landseer, then at the zenith of his career. His stories were almost as good as his pictures, and the witty young ladies who listened to them remarked that they were equally well composed. A tale, invented by some ingenious wag, had got about that Landseer had asked Sydney Smith to sit to him for his portrait, and the latter had replied, "Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing ? " A day or two afterwards Landseer was riding in Regent's Park, when he met Sydney Smith, who was taking the air in an open carriage, so they stopped to say "How d'ye do ? " " Have you heard our little joke?" said Smith. " I have," said Landseer. " I think it very good," said Smith. " Shall we acknowledge it ? " On another occasion Landseer was riding down Bond Street, and saw the following notice in a picture -dealer's shop window — ''A fine Landseer on view zvithiny He said to himself, " I should like to see a ' fine Landseer.' " So he got a boy to hold his horse, and went into the shop and asked to see the "fine Landseer." The dealer, who did not recognise him, but thought he was some rich customer, ushered him into a back room and proudly pointed out the work. It was rather an early one. The dealer was of course loud in its praise, which was very satisfactory to the artist. SIR EDWIN LANDSEER 71 " And how much do you want for it ? " said Landseer. "Two thousand guineas, sir," was the reply. " Two thousand guineas ? that seems a long price for an early work." "I could not take a shilling less," said the dealer. " He's gone, sir," touching his forehead significantly ; " he's out of his mind ; he'll never paint another." "Is he indeed.^" said Landseer. "I'm very sorry to hear that." And as he was coming away he noticed a large picture by Stanfield. " May I ask what you want for this Stanfield ? " "That, sir, is also two thousand guineas." " What ! " said Landseer, touching his forehead and imitating the dealer's gesture, "has Stanfield gone too ? " Once started, Sir Edwin would go on with story after story, making each one more laughable than the other. He told us that his laundress, whom he described as a sort of Mrs. Gamp, asked to see the pictures he had just finished for the Royal Academy, which, of course, she was allowed to do ; and after lookinof for some time at "Niorht" and "Morning" — "Night" showing two stags, their antlers locked together in deadly confiict, " Morn- ing " the battle over and both combatants lying dead — said, " I hope, sir, you ain't going to ask me to take anything; l)ut if you should, let it be the least drop of brandy and vvaKn", if you j)lcasC) 72 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY sir." That was her only remark on these two magnificent works. He had a man-servant who evidently looked upon his master as the greatest man in the world, and even when Prince Albert called, which he did occasionally when riding up to St. John's Wood, he would be told that " Sir Hedwin was hout," because the faithful "Cerberus," as he was called, thought his master did not want to be disturbed. There were other amusino^ stories about this same valet. On one occasion, when travelling to the North with Sir Edwin, he was very anxious about the luggage, and kept getting out whenever the train stopped to see if it was all right. " What do you want ? " said the guard. " How about them luggage ? " said Cerberus. "What luggage?" "Why, two trunks as black as hink and marked with hell." "Marked with what?" "Why, hell for Landseer, of course." As I heard these stories about forty years ago, they must have been told over and over again, and I only repeat them here because I heard Landseer himself tell them. But his fun was not only anecdotal. On one occasion, also at Leslie's, I saw him impersonate a pig. Some acting charades were got up for the amusement of a goodly company there assembled, in which I also took part. One of the words to be dramatised was "Pygmalion"; hence the/?^, which SIR EDWIN LANDSEER 73 came in on all fours, and was a very good repre- sentation of the animal, as the performer was en- cased in brown paper, with a fine head, and snout and curly tail. The grunt also was perfect, as it expressed satisfaction at the meal provided for him. Some one in the audience, who was in the secret, exclaimed, "Why, that's Sir Edwin !" and Charles Landseer, who came into the room just at that moment, replied in his usual grave way, " I thought I recognised one of the family." I remember that "May" was represented by a Jack in the Green, and I took the part of the dancing- maiden who hands round a lar^e ladle to collect coppers from the audience ; and I also re- member that Miss Jessy Landseer, who was quite as witty as her brothers, put a macaroon into it. As, just at that time, everybody was reading " Uncle Tom's Cabin," which had a sort of Trilbyan run. Uncle Tom was considered the lion of the day, and this character Leslie himself impersonated. The last scene, the whole word " Pygmalion," was enacted by George Leslie and one of his sisters, and was charmingly graceful, especially when the fair statue descended from her pedestal and em- braced the young sculptor. XII CHARLES LANDSEER C HARLES LAND- SEER'S fun was more serious, if I may- use the term, but none the less amusing, as shown by his well- known comment on a tough steak served him at his club — "They say there is nothing like leather — this steak is." When I was a stu- dent at the Academy in 1854 Charles Landseer was Keeper, and always preserved a very grave aspect. The students in those days were, per- haps, even more rollick- ing than they are now, and were wont to play tricks ; but their jokes were received with a bland expression, and allowed to pass unnoticed. 74 GAME. CHARLES LANDSEER 75 Among the students in the Antique School was one Boom, whose name, as well as his good- nature, made him popular. While all were quietly at work from an antique figure, some one would break silence by calling " Boom" in a low voice, another would repeat "Boom" in a higher tone, and with a different expression, until by degrees all the students took up the cry, and a general chorus en- sued of Boom, Boom, Boom, mingled with cat-calls, grunting, cock-crowing, bleating of sheep, lowing of cattle, dogs barking, and so forth. In the midst of it all the door would open slowly, and the grave face of Charles Landseer would appear. A dead silence immediately followed, and perhaps no re- mark would have been made but for Boom, who, owing to his position, did not see the Keeper enter, and wondering why such a sudden stop had come to their mirth, flapped his arms like wings, and at the very top of his voice sang out, " Cock-a-doodle- do ! " the Keeper being just at his elbow. Poor Boom, as soon as he saw his mistake, turned crim- son, and would no doubt have apologised, but was speechless. All Charles Landseer said was, " It seems I am the keeper of a menagerie," and then went quietly round and corrected the drawings. The amiable Boom was several times made the victim of mild practical jokes, which in some way were connected with the Keeper, who always took them good-naturedly, as in the following case. In my student days the Royal Academy occupied part of the building in Trafalgar Square, now entirely 76 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY devoted to the National Collection ; and in the " Antique " school, which was a sombre room, with a semicircular arrangement for the students' easels, &c., we had but one statue at a time to draw from, and the one then placed for our practice and study was the " Apollo Belvedere," which we began to get rather tired of; so one morning we dele- gated Mr, Boom to ask the Keeper if we might have Apollo changed for either the " Dancing Faun" or the "Dying Gladiator." We explained to Boom that, as he was the best dressed and most gentlemanly student among us, we thought him the most fitting person to carry our message. During this conversation another student, now a full R.A., pinned to his back a large label, with the word " Boom " written in big letters. Boom said he felt a little nervous, but braced himself up for the occasion, and went and tapped at the Keeper's private -room door. He explained the object of his visit, and Landseer, taking it seriously at first, said it was rather an unusual request for the students to make, but he would name it to the Council. Boom, retreating, bowed his thanks, and as he turned to open the door, displayed the placard pinned to his back. Charles Landseer, with a sort of cough, said — " Er — vour name's Boom, is it not? " "Yes, sir," said the blushing student. " Yes, I see it is," said the Keeper. XIII TOM LANDSEER TOM LANDSEER, the engraver, was the exact opposite of Charles ; instead of looking grave, his face was always beaming ; it was, if anything, wider than it was long, and the very picture of good-nature ; his figure, too, was almost as broad as he was tall. Being stone deaf, you had to write down what you wished to say to him, or make signs, and go through a sort of pantomime, or dumb show, which he, too, would sometimes resort to with the most amusing effect. I had painted a picture called " The Shy Pupil," in which a young girl was taking a dancing lesson, and en- deavouring, rather timidly, to do the step as shown her by her dancing-master. It had been seen at the Academy by Tom Landseer, whom I shortly afterwards met in Maida Vale. He no sooner caught sight of me than he took his coat-tails in his fingers, as though he were holding a skirt, turned his head skittishly on one side, pointed his toe, and, in fact, imitated the attitude of the girl in the picture ; then, looking up with his usual radiance, he exclaimed, in a stentorian \oice, " Veery preety ! " — took a slight turn, executed a 77 78 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY pas sail, and then stood still, smiling and nodding, TOM LANDSEER, THE ENGRAVER. in token of approbation, much to the astonishment and amusement of the passers-by. I must add TOM LANDSEER 79 that, although Tom Landseer was deaf, he was by no means dumb ; he talked so loud, in fact, that you could hear him all over a room or gallery, even when crowded with people. Sometimes he would think aloud, of course very loud. I remem- ber his standing in front of a pretty girl at an evening party, and exclaiming at the top of his voice, " Veery beeau- teeful indeed ! " The young lady blushed and smiled at her stout admirer, who kissed his hand to her in the most gallant fashion. It is almost impossible to give an idea of the manner of his speech except by imitating it. His words were so drawn out, that you would have to spell " very," for instance, with about five e's — thus, veeeree ! and they were always intoned in a kind of wave of sound, which at one moment was very high up, and at another very low down. Although those who did not know him would set him down for a sort of overgrown baby, a kind of comical lunatic ; those who did, were well aware that all this merri- ment came from the kindness of his heart, which seemed to spread to every one, so that he could not believe that any one could be offended or angry with Tom Landseer, not even a policeman. He came home late one night, and although THE SHY PUPIL. 8o SKETCHES FROM MEMORY he had the latch-key of the house, he had forgotten the key of the gate, which he found locked. He therefore, with some difficulty for so corpulent an in- dividual, tried to climb over it, and was just landed on the top when a constable passed that way. " Hallo!" said he, "what are you doing here?" to which Tom replied that it was a " veeree beautee- ful night." Bobby, naturally offended at such an answer, told him he was after no good, and he should arrest him as a burglar, and laid hold of his legs ; but Tom only thanked him for his assist- ance, and said he thought he could manage to get down by himself, and asked him to ring the bell. Bobby, not liking to be chaffed by a burglar, would perhaps have proceeded to stronger measures, had not the inmates of the house, aroused by the alter- cation, opened the door. The burglarious pro- ceeding was then explained, and likewise that — the gentleman being stone deaf, he had not heard a word of the constable's abuse — which the latter, probably, was not sorry for. I cannot conclude my brief allusion to this genial man without mentioning the kind thought he had for his young friend and pupil, J. C. Webb, now a well-known engraver. Mr. Webb had for some years been his constant companion, and indeed was almost like a son to him. It so happened, as it will happen to young men, that he met with a young lady whom he fain would make his wife, and Tom Landseer thought this a good opportunity to carry out a wish he had long enter- TOM LANDSEER 8i tained ; so he said to his young friend, " I have left you something- in my will " (mentioning a certain sum), " but I don't see any reason why you should wait for it till poor old Tom is dead." So he there and then gave it to him as a wedding-present. F XIV PEOPLE OF NOTE W ERE I to sketch all the interesting charac- ters I met at Leslie's, I should have to in- clude many of the most distinguished men in art and litera- ture who flourished some forty years ago, and should require a much larsfer canvas than I have at my disposal. I may, however, mention one or two others, who, besides the Landseers, used to "drop in." Among them was Mrs. Jameson, one of our best lady writers on art, who indeed is beaten by few men. She was very different from the stately lady I had imagined the authoress of "The Legends of the Madonna" and " Sacred and 82 PEOPLE OF NOTE 83 Legendary Art " would be. She was not very tall, rather stout, and with a face beaming with good- nature. I was much amused at the clever way in which she Qrot the better of an aro-ument with Mr. Leslie by simply asking questions or saying, "Why not?" They were talking of the advisability of admit- ting lady students to the Royal Academy schools. Leslie seemed to think there were certain objections to the proposal. " What objections, Mr. Leslie ? " " I don't think it advisable for young men and women to study together." "Why not.?" " I don't think it would be convenient; besides, the parents of the girls might object." " Why should they ? " " It is difficult to explain." "Where is the difficulty?" " The girls, for instance, could not draw from the life model." "Why not?" And so on ; Mrs. Jameson getting the better of the argument with her constantly-recurring " Why not ? " and with not a little merriment at Leslie's expense. I remember, when she prepared to go, that she carried one of those old-fashioned chessboard- pattern straw baskets on her arm which held her cap, and that George Leslie and I saw her into a bus as though she had been some dear old aunt from the country instead of the talented writer on Christian art. 84 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank were also occasional visitors, and were exceedingly quaint. The great Georee himself was rather like some of the eccen- trie individuals he drew in his pictures ; his " Fagin the Jew in Prison," for instance, is what might be called awfully like him. He was quick in his movements, with a sharp intelligent eye, a good- sized nose, but very little hair, which however was dark and long, and collected and tied in a sort of curl on his forehead, which otherwise would have been bald. I happened to be lunching one day at Leslie's when Cruikshank was of the party. Leslie, know- ing that his friend had become a staunch tee- totaller, said, with a sly look, " Mr. Cruikshank, may I have the pleasure of a glass of wine with you } " raising his own and passing the decanter. " No, my dear Leslie," said Cruikshank ; " I don't drink wine, you know, but I shall be very happy to take a potato with you." Whereupon he held one up on the end of his fork, nodded to Leslie, bit a piece off, and wished him a very good health, Leslie laughing and sipping his sherry at the same time. It was at Leslie's that I met the Doyles — the father, H.B., who, under that monogram, used to draw political cartoons for M'Lean of the Hay- market in the early part of the century, and his three sons, James, Henry, and Richard (or " Dicky" Doyle, as he was called) ; the latter was one of the most original, or, shall I say, individual of illustrators. PEOPLE OF NOTE 85 His sweet little refined drawings were full of ima- gination and playfulness, and I loved them because I suppose they were among the first artistic pro- ductions that gave me real pleasure ; and they are still on the outside cover of our old friend Punch, which I look upon as the Royal Academy of humorous art. At that time he was not only doing " Bird's- eye Views of Society" and "Brown, Jones, and Robinson," but was also illustrating some of Thackeray's novels, and I used to hear about them as they progressed, but I never became inti- mate with Dicky. I have always been very shy in the presence of the men I most admired, and yet I have played at Blind Man's Buff with Dicky Doyle, or rather Post Towns, a more amusing version of the old game. Henry and James Doyle I could get on better with — they were charming men and very sympathetic ; they also played at Post Towns and took part in charades at Leslie's. Besides these there were the Constables, sons and daughters of Leslie's old and admired friend, our great landscape painter; John Forster, author of " The Life and Times of Oliver Goldsmith," " The Life of Charles Dickens," &c. ; Sir Charles and Lady Eastlake, John Leech, Mr. and Mrs. E. M. Ward, the Tom Taylors, and R. W. Mackay, the learned author of "The Progress of the Intel- lect," " The Rise and Progress of Christianity," &c., and one of my most delightful friends. Millais, too, was there, then a handsome young fellow, in the first 86 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY tlush of his brilliant career ; and his friend Holman Hunt, the staunchest of the Pre-Raphaelites. Before closing this very imperfect list I will A STUDY. mention one other individual whom I met at Leslie's, and that was Albert Smith, the most amusing of entertainers, who in his "Mont Blanc" made me PEOPLE OF NOTE 87 laugh till I ached ; and although he and his fun are now things of the past and scarcely known to the present generation, he was nevertheless one of the drollest men of his time. I remember he came to a dance at the Leslies', and was looking so grave and serious, that one of the young ladies asked him what was the matter. He said he had heard, on very good authority, that he was too loud and vulgar in society, and was trying to turn over a new leaf; he was, in fact, trying to drop his familiar style and to become serious and dignified. " But I suppose you are not above dancing a quadrille ? " " I should be very pleased to do anything to please you. Miss Leslie." So there and then she introduced him to a very pretty girl. Now, whether it was the lively music, or the beauty of his partner, which caused him to relax for a moment his assumed dignity, I cannot say, but in a very few minutes you could hear his well-known laugh above everything, and Miss Harriet remarked with a twinkle, " He's off!" The young lady by his side had alluded to the beauty of the flower he wore in his button-hole. " Do you like it ? " said he. " I raised it myself in a blacking-bottle on the roof" CASSANDRA. XV LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET A MONG the familiar figures and faces that I see -^^^ in looking back some forty years is a strange, clever, witty, kind man in a black cap and long black velvet gown or cassock, who lived in dreary Newman Street and kept an Art School there. He was fond of his boys, as he used to call his pupils, and his boys were fond of him. He not only drew well, but talked well, and one man, long past the age of studentship, went to him under the pretence of studying art, but really, as he told me in con- fidence, for the sake of hearing his conversation. This strange man's name was James Mathews Leigh. He was related to Mathews the actor, and might himself have donned the buskin ; or he might have been a great anatomist, for the walls of the school were covered with his drawings of dissections, LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 89 of bones and muscles and skinned men writhing in agonies, and skulls with great sockets and grinning rows of teeth, and notably one that was twice the size of life, with a dreadful blue eye with red veins that seemed to follow you all round the place. Besides these were countless studies of men in all sorts of attitudes, showing their muscles and their sinews and their variously toned skins, all very cleverly painted by the master ; and to complete it, there was a larofe enoravingf of Michael An^elo's " Last Judgment," which, being situated amongst anatomical drawings, looked like the apotheosis of all the dissections and diagrams and arms and legs and heads and tails of humanity collected together into one tremendous composition — one of the con- spicuous figures being Saint Bartholomew — who was flayed alive — holding his own skin in one hand. On leaving this chamber of anatomy we went into a long gallery with rows of antique statues in plaster, and more arms and legs and headless trunks and hands and feet and faces and busts were hanging about ; and at the end, a still more mysterious-look- ing place, with dull red curtains and big screens, where the livin"" model was standino^ on a dull oreen platform, with a dull red cloth behind him, and in front of him rows of students, some with shades over their eyes, occupied in drawing more muscles and trunks and legs and arms and hands and heads, and this same strange man in the black velvet cap and cassock was walking about among them and 90 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY talking to them, sometimes earnestly, sometimes kindly, and sometimes sarcastically. I had been one of those students, and was one of the boys who liked the strange man, but I had finished my studentship and was beginning to paint pictures, yet every now and then I went to see my old master, who always gave me a pleasant welcome, except perhaps on one evening when I called upon him and found him reading, and with that shyness which sometimes makes me use the wrong words, I said — " I hope I don't interrupt you ?" To which he answered, " You can't help inter- rupting me if you come in." "Then I will go out again," said I. "That is quite a different thing," said he; "I don't want you to go out again, but society is full of these unmeaning phrases." There was something of the Dr. Johnson about Leigh ; he hated these weak remarks, but they drew him out, and gave him an opportunity for a curt reply, or some smart sarcasm which, although it might sound cruel, was nothing of the sort — very often it was just, and was more humorous than serious. And if such jests earned him the name of " Dagger Leigh," the dagger was a theatrical one, that slid up into the hilt and did not inflict a mortal wound ; as, for instance, in criticising Holman Hunt's over-fastidiousness in detail, he said, " If Holman Hunt had to paint Everton toffee he would go to Everton to paint it." One laughs at the quaint LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 91 conceit without admiring Hunt's earnestness any the less. I remember he showed me some hundreds of sketches of figures supposed to be saying something or acting some passage from Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, Longfellow, &c. They were touched in with sharpness and precision, well drawn, and slightly tinted, and I dare say if I saw them now I might think more of them than I did then. I wonder what has become of them all ! Occasionally a happy composition or a study from nature turned up like an unexpected beam of sunshine. In some larger designs he had given free reins to his fancy. One I remember was an allegory of "Youthful Hope," Hope seated in a white balloon going up into a blue and yellow sky with pink Amo- rini flying around, their wings all sorts of colours, and hundreds of other figures looking on — some ugly demons among them — the whole presenting a vast scene more extraordinary perhaps than beau- tiful. After supper, as it was a fine evening, we leant out of window smoking, and the talk somehow veered round to philosophy. He said that the stumbling-block to young men was the difficulty they had in realising the non- existence of existence, or the immateriality of mate- rial, the conception only being the true thing or true existence, the perception being the lower capacity of the bodily senses to see things or become conscious of things that d(j nut exist. 92 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY I was not versed in Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason," and metaphysics were to me simple be- wilderment. It so happened that during our con- versation an organ-grinder was turning out tunes, horrible tunes, just under the window, and almost put a stop to our conversation, so I ventured to ask if that organ-grinder was an existence or not. I certainly did not wish to conceive him at that moment ; but did the fact that my bodily senses perceived him (both saw him and heard him) prove that he did not exist .^ "Now, if I threw him a copper, and he picked it up and bowed and wished us ' good-night ' and went away, then no doubt he would cease to exist to our senses." "True, and you would still have the conception of the organ-grinder." That is quite true, for I still remember the grinning tormentor of my ears. But how about the organ-grinder's conception of us .-^ He perceived us, and got a copper from us ; but does that prove our non-existence, and does our existence depend on our being a concep- tion of that organ-grinder's brain or otherwise ? I think we both agreed that we were not conceived by the organ-grinder. After he had passed on, and "Pop goes the Weasel" was no longer heard, Leigh pointed to a star. "That star," said he, "does not exist in fact. I conceive only that it exists, therefore it exists simply because I conceive it, not because I perceive it." "I suppose, then," said I, "it is only a coinci- LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 93 dence that you and I both conceive and perceive that star at the same time ; or are there two stars, since I conceive it as well as you ? " Now, the best way out of the argument was to turn it into a joke ; and he said something about seeing double, or I star one and you star two. So either he saw that I was incapable of following him into the regions of the unconditioned, or his philo- sophy was only his fun after all, for I said, referring to his remark — " What is a pun in metaphysics ? " "Jets," said he, "mere jets of superfluous gas." And, like Mrs. Jameson with her "why not?" Leigh had a ready wit for summing up an argu- ment with a pun. However, he discoursed very learnedly on Plato, Socrates, Pythagoras, and the Epicureans ; and after that he dilated on the force of will. He said he caused a porte-crayon to fall out of a man's hand simply by willing it. He was at some distance off, and whether the young man heard him say what he was going to do, I don't know ; but gradually that young man's fingers re- laxed their hold, and the porte-crayon fell to the ground. If that student's name was Brown, the mystery could be easily solved, as I shall have occasion to explain later on. Speaking of town and country, he said he hated the country, "pigs live in the country ;" nor did he care for painting, or for music, or for theatres, nor many more things. "What, then, do you care for.'*" said I. 94 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY " Thought," was his reply. "Cogito, ergo sum." The last time I saw Leiofh was one niofht when the gallery in Newman Street was lighted up for a festive meeting of his boys, old and new ; and where, on a goodly row of easels, were displayed the pictures that those boys had painted for the Academy and other exhibitions, and had brought there for the master's inspection before sending them to pass the ordeal of the selecting com- mittees. Leiorh was then sufferinsf from a mortal disease — cancer in the tongue, brought on, it was said, by constant smoking. And although he knew that his days, nay, even his hours were numbered, and he was unable to speak, still there he was in his best black velvet cap and his best black velvet cassock shaking hands with his pupils, and at the same time holding- a white silk hand- kerchief over his mouth. He went round to each work, examined it, pointed to the parts he liked, and nodded approval or patted the young painter on the back with a significant smile that yet was full of sadness, now and then endeavouring to say something, but the words were inarticulate. After staying as long with us as his illness would allow, he wished us all "good-night," and beckoned to his son Harry, to whom he whispered, " If I should die to-night say nothing to the boys, for I should not like their evening to be spoilt." We sat down to a simple supper, smoked and chatted over our glasses ; and, not knowing the end was so near, were merry as usual. A day or two LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 95 after this our eood friend and master breathed his last. He died on the 20th of April i860, aged fifty-two. He was buried in Highgate Cemetery, and a long train of his sorrowing pupils followed him to the grave. It was under Leigh's roof that I first met Henry Stacy Marks, R.A., who, in his "Pen and Pencil Sketches," has given an excellent description of our kind friend and his art school, so that it is not necessary for me to go further over the ground. Yet I must say a few words about some of my fellow- students. Among them was Walter Thornbury, who began a literary career by studying art — no better begin- ning. We often sat side by side making drawings from the antique to send up to the Royal Academy, with a view to becoming students there. Thornbury — always chatty, impetuous, and in a hurry — made haste, not slowly, but with so little consideration that on one occasion he found, when he had drawn in the figure, and nearly finished the upper part of it, he had no room on his paper for the feet. W'hat was to be done ? There was no time to begin it over again. We consulted to- gether, and I must plead guilty to the advice I gave him, which was to put a cross at the bottom of the paper where the legs left off, then another at the top, and there draw the feet which he could not get in down below. This he did, sent in the drawing to the Royal Academy, and had it back not very long afterwards. 96 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY He soon threw aside the pencil for the pen, and I have no doubt picl-ied up a good deal of the knowledge of art, which he afterwards made use of, from the conversation of Leigh ; perhaps also from the discussions of the students as they sat round the stove while resting from work, and in which Marks used to distinguish himself by his apt quotations from Shakespeare and the discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Thornbury read a good deal too, for instead of passing his time in the Royal Academy schools, copying more Apollos, Dancing Fauns, and Discoboli, he spent from morning till night in the British Museum racing through books and making notes. His first volume appeared while he was still at Leigh's ; and of course was in verse, and very good verse I thought it. It was entitled " Lays and Legends, or Ballads of the New World." Other volumes soon followed, such as " Art and Nature," "Life in Spain," "British Artists from Hogarth to Turner," and notably the " Life of Turner," a much used and much abused book, full of material, crowded with anecdote, and just the sort of hunting- oround that is valuable to those biographers who have to get their information second-hand. You cannot open the book without coming upon something interesting. As I do not profess to be a judge of literature, I can only say that the writings of Thornbury give me much plea- sure. He is never dull, and always bright and picturesque. As an art critic he was amusing. LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 97 if nothing else. It was not in his nature to be sneerful, or ill-mannered, or conceited ; he talked of pictures as he would talk of anything else, racily and cheerily, and, if he could not refrain from a joke at the expense of the artist, it was not of a character to do injury either to the painter or his picture. As an instance, I remember he said of Millais' beautiful "Autumn Leaves," where some rather Pre-Raphaelite young girls, with reddish hair, are making a bonfire, that the artist had evi- dently selected his models from " Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plai7i!' There was another lively student at Leigh's, whose name was Brereton, but it has not descended to posterity. He was handsome and witty, and would sing at his work the old songs, such as " The woodpecker tapping at the hollow beech- tree." He would draw in the outline of an antique with the greatest facility, put a few specimen dots on it, and say he would take it home for his sisters to finish, as they had more patience, and could do the stipple much better than he. Poor Wycherley was another student there, but his face was always concealed (with the ex- ception of his eyes) by a coloured handkerchief He toiled away patiently at a large picture of the gallery, with all its casts and easels, and other details ; was amiable and intelligent ; but his short life was but a lingering death, and I think he only lived just long enough to finish his first picture. A student of rather an eccentric sort was an G 98 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY elderly gentleman, who seemed to have suddenly taken it into his head to begin life over again, and to start as an art-student at the age of fifty. We thought he must be very well off, for he not only looked so in his dress, but furnished himself with artists' materials of the newest, quite regardless of expense — a mahogany easel, a very spick-and- span drawing-board, and an unlimited supply of Whatman's best drawing-paper. Of this he took a clean sheet every morning, pinned it to his drawing-board, worked away quietly and steadily, till his eold watch told him it was time to leave off for the day ; then, in emulation of faithful Pene- lope, he would tear up his work, pack up his traps, and retire. This was the individual referred to at the beginning of this chapter, who, under the pretence of studying art, went to the school for the sake of hearing Leigh's conversation. I must not forget an amusing character who formed one of our group at that time, namely, Brown, or Scotch Brown, or Caledonian Brown, as we sometimes called him. As he was not well off, and found it difficult to pay even the small fee that was fixed for admission and instruction at the Academy in Newman Street, the kind master would, without speaking a word, push back the proffered amount with a nod of the head, as much as to say, " Wait for better times." Our Scotch friend, whose heart was much bigger than his purse, was not ungrateful, and showed his appreciation in a rather original way. LEIGH IN NEWMAN STREET 99 Leigh, among other pecuHarities, got suddenly bitten with spiritualism, and imagined himself a powerful medium. Now and then, in the after- noon, he would hold a seance, and lecture to the students very learnedly on the subject, entering into the strange phenomena of animal magnetism, clairvoyance, mesmerism, psychology, &c. This would be followed by a turning of tables, and a series of other demonstrations, such as seating some one in a chair, then making a few passes with the hands, and telling him he could not get up. If the individual did get up, he was said not to be a good subject, and Brown would take his place. After he had been well mesmerised, Leigh would tell him he could not rise ; bade him try to do so. Brown twisted and struggled, contorted his features, and appeared to be almost exhausted with the effort, and would at last exclaim, "Eh! 1 cannot!" He would then be subjected to further experiments, and proved to be a wonderfully good subject, and entirely under the control of the medium. When I met him some years afterwards, he confessed that he had only been shamming, but excused himself on the ground that Leigh let him be at the school for nothing, and even helped him sometimes besides. "So, my deear Stoorie," said he, "what could I doc? It was the only way I could repay him for his kindness." It must not be supposed that there was the slightest collusion on the part of Leigh, who thoroughly believed that Brown was under his lOO SKETCHES FROM MEMORY mesmeric influence. Nor do I think the reader will have much difficulty in guessing which student it was whose fingers gradually relaxed and let fall the porte-crayon, when Leigh willed that he should do so. And I trust, also, that he will think more of the kindness of the master who frequently re- mitted the fees of his poorer pupils, than of the credulity which was thus imposed upon out of gratitude. XVI THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1852 CZ, ONE of the things I would rather not recollect is the first picture I sent to the Royal Academy. The can- vas was a large one, and contained eight portraits in the cos- tume of the Crinoline period, which is per- haps the ugliest we have ever gone through. The Academy was then located in Trafalgar Square, and my "first" picture was hung at the top of the north room. It so happened that I looked in on the very day when the whole family who sat for it went to see it. As there were eight of them, and several friends besides, all look- ing up at the same time, other visitors, as they came in, looked up too, until quite a little crowd was collected. One individual referred to his catalogue, then to the picture, and exclaimed, very audibly, "What an ugly group!" This was un- 102 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY fortunate, as some of the friends had just been saying what good likenesses they were. I did not wait to be congratulated on my success. This was in the year 1852. I find, in looking at the list of Academicians and Associates in the catalogue for that date, that not one of the R.A.s, and only four of the A. R.A.s, are now living. The latter have, of course, become full members, but two of them have retired. Turner died the year before, having been a member for fifty-two years. Sir Charles Eastlake was the accomplished President ; Stanfield, David Roberts, Leslie, Web- ster, Sir Edwin Landseer, Creswick, Herbert, Maclise, Mulready, Redgrave, and F. R. Lee were at the height of their popularity ; and among the Associates were Thomas Sidney Cooper, E. M. Ward, W. P. Frith, J. C. Hook, J. H. Foley, Alfred Elmore, E. W. Cooke, and F. R. Pickersgill. These names, some of which sound like those of old English masters, give us a pretty good idea of the sort of exhibition then in vogue. The critic then, as now, scarcely found the show up to the average, but that it owed its ad- vantages mainly to the efforts of the younger men in art ; and yet the chief of these younger men came in for a pretty good share of abuse. It is regretted that Sir Charles Eastlake and Sir Edwin Landseer do not exhibit, but then the latter had sent in the previous year his magnificent picture "The Monarch of the Glen," and "A Midsummer Night's Dream." THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1852 103 In looking down the catalogue one is surprised at the number of interesting subject pictures and "historic genre," that must have given a popular character to the Exhibition. For instance, there was " The Parting of Lord and Lady Russell, 1683," by Charles Lucy; "Alfred the Saxon Kino- disguised as a Minstrel in the Tent of Guthrun the Dane," by Daniel Maclise, R.A. ; " The Three Inventors of Printing," Guttenberg, Faust, and Scheffer, examining and discussing the merits of Scheffer's invention of movable types, by S. A. Hart, R.A. ; " A Subject from Pepys' Diary, 1665," by Alfred Elmore; "Pope making love to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu," by W. P. Frith, A. R.A. ; and " Charlotte Corday going to Execution," by E. M. Ward, A. R.A. This must have been a very sensational picture ; it is well known by engravings. "Corday is conducted from her prison by a file of Republican guards, followed by a priest, and flanked by one of the furies of the Faubourgs. Robespierre, Danton, and Camille Desmoulins have placed themselves in her path in order to study in her features the expression of that fanaticism which might threaten them on the morrow." Among the landscapes are — " An Avenue at Althorp," by F. R. Lee; "The Woodland River," by Redgrave; "The Stream at Ivy Bridge," by Jutsum ; " Venice," by David Roberts ; " The Sere Leaf," and " The Timber Waggon," by Linnell ; "The Bay of Baia^," by Stanfield ; "Effect after 104 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Rain, Venice," by J. Holland; and many others that had a local interest, as well as the charm of colour and composition. Besides these were those domestic pieces always pleasing, such as "A School Playground," by T. Webster ; " A Cottage Fireside," by George Smith; and other works so characteristic of their painters that we can almost fancy we see them ; such as " A Grey Horse," by Abraham Cooper ; " The Christian Pilgrims," by W. C. T. Dobson ; " Juliet," by C. R. Leslie; "Cows," by T. S. Cooper; "The Bird's Nest in Danger," by W. T. Witherington ; "Going to Market," by J. Stark; "Othello's De- scription of Desdemona," by J. C. Hook (quite different from what he does now, but good in colour) ; "Master Slender," and "The Madrigal," by J. C. Horsley ; and a large fruit piece, " The Seneschal," by George Lance ; " Burns and Highland Mary," by Thomas Faed ; " The Foundling," by G. B. O'Neill; "The Novice," by Elmore; " Hagar," life size, by Armitage. Nor was an exhibition in those days ever complete without a battle-piece by Jones, R.A. ; " An Evening Effect," by Danby ; portraits by J. P. Knight and Watson Gordon ; and fruit and flower pieces by the Misses Mutrie. The above short list shows that the display of pictures contained much to interest the general public, whether they were connoisseurs in art or not, and much to admire even if they were. I cannot pretend to remember many of them, and only vaguely recall them by looking over the cata- THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1852 105 logue. But there are still two or three that were also at that same show which I have not yet men- tioned, and which I cannot forget. These were the pictures of the young men who gave strength, nay, a new life, to English art, although they were almost frantically abused at the time. John Everett Millais had in 1850 startled the art public of England by his picture called " The Carpenter's Shop," a work which now everybody knows ; but it then seemed to have the peculiar property of making dull people witty, good-tempered people angry, and quite proper people use bad language. But many others saw in it the advent of a great artist. It was followed, as my readers well know, by works as strong and as fascinating, such as " Mariana in the Moated Grange," and the quaint but delightful " Wood- man's Daughter ; " the first made me read Tennyson, and the second showed me how to paint sunlight. In the year we are now recalling, 1852, he turned many of his critics into admirers by his pathetic " Huguenot," and his beautiful " Ophelia." Not- withstanding much fault-finding these works sent all the younger men to nature, and had they done nothing else, they would have done more than all the lecturers, art-masters, art-critics, and the rest of our guides put together. But they did more than this, so it seems to me ; they woke a new interest in art, showing that it is a living thing continually growing and throwing out new forms and fashions and ideas, new interpretations of nature, new com- binations of colour, and new methods of workman- io6 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY ship. For this reason I think we should be careful how we laugh to scorn the latest eccentric novelty ; there may be, there generally is, something in it which leads to greater achievements, as in the case of Millais. But, on the other hand, it is not ad- visable to do as is now too much the fashion, namely, to worship and copy an individual. Millais' admirers did not copy Millais' pictures, they only tried to copy nature as he did. At all events, I can speak for myself. Some three or four years after my " ugly group," and after seeing Millais' most poetical " Autumn Leaves," I painted " The Bride's Burial," or " The Burial of Juliet," a picture that was lately exhibited at Messrs. Shepherd's gallery, and of which several critics said some kind things. Holman Hunt is another remarkable painter who exhibited a strange and fascinating picture at this Exhibition. It was called " The Hireling Shep- herd," was wonderfully strong in colour, and looked like the work of a man intensely earnest, who seemed to labour almost like a martyr at a craft which he looked upon as somewhat akin to a religious duty. "The shepherd, having caught a death's-head moth, is showing it to a maiden ; both figures are seated on the grass ; the scene is a meadow with trees, bounded on one side by a field of ripe corn, and on the other by a field just reaped." Although this and other pictures by this unique master were not appreciated at first, " The Light THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN 1852 107 of the World," produced a few years later, became one of the most widely known and popular of modern pictures. There must be something almost magic in the art that can penetrate into our minds and thoughts as this does. It seems to me hardly possible to forget a picture by Holman Hunt when once we have looked at it carefully. I never yet saw one of his important works that I felt 1 could take less than half-an-hour to look at, and often a great deal longer ; nor is this to be wondered at when we know the years it takes him to paint them, and the extraordinary pains he bestows upon them. There are a few names in this year's catalogue that I will here make a note of, because they have for me a personal interest. One is Behnes the sculptor, at whose studio in Osnaburg Street I first modelled in clay, as mentioned in the early part of this book ; another is H. P. Ashby, who presented me with a silver palette when I was a schoolboy. He has a view of Hastings, sketched on the spot. I wonder whether it was such an unusual thine in those days to work directly from nature that it was worthy of note in the catalogue when such was the case. Then there is my old friend F. Smallficld, the painter of " Colonel Newcome in the Charterhouse " and other conscientious works, who exhibits "A Knitter." J. Archer, another old friend, who from minute richly coloured Pre-Raphaelite work branched off into life-size full-length portraits. And W. W. Fenn, "the blind painter," who still paints beautiful io8 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY pictures in words, which he dictates to an amanu- ensis. His two drawings are " EHzabeth Castle, Jersey, from the Rocks," and " Botham Mill, near Retford." They were exhibited in the Water-Colour room. Fenn, who became an author because he was deprived of the power of expressing his ideas with the pencil, not only wrote the charming stories em- bodied in his "Blind Man's Holiday," and "'Twixt the Lights," &c., but also several pleasant biog- raphies of his brother artists ; among them one of myself He has made such a flattering picture of me that I cannot help feeling it is less like what I am than what I should like to be, which I can only account for by the fact that my dear Fenn has never seen me ; or if he has, it was when the light was fading. Many a time have I sat by his side at the Arts Club, and as many a time have had pleasant chat ; and consequently his good heart has no doubt conjured up a more agreeable picture than it would have been had his pen been guided by his eyesight. G. A. STOREY, BY HIMSELF. XVII EARLY WORKS IN the previous chapter I alluded to two of my pictures painted in the fifties, which were ex- hibited in a well-known gallery in King Street, St. James's, namely, "The Bride's Burial," and "The Annunciation." I called there with a friend to see 109 no SKETCHES FROM MEMORY them, but was informed by the poHte dealer that they were both sold. Thinking to improve the golden opportunity, I asked that polite dealer if he would like to have any more of my pictures, since he had been so successful with these. "Yes," said he, with a little hesitation, "but they must be early works'' Is there, then, a particular charm about our "early works" that our later performances do not possess } Or has time mellowed them down just as it does a good vintage of port ? Or are there certain conditions connected with "early works" which cause them to be interesting? The painter is in the spring-time of life, with few cares and anxieties, full of hope and ambition, and most pro- bably in love, and if he paints from his heart, as true painters do, he must needs put sentiment and even love into his work ; and unless blinded by vanity, he looks with reverence and delight at the achievements of those who have gfone before him, and whose names seem like magic words that fire him with enthusiasm, and with the hope that one day his name too may be written in history. Now, whether my name will ever be written in history or whether it will be rubbed out from the scroll of painters, I must leave an open question — I would rather not inquire too much. But that I was, when I painted my "early works," full of hope and am- bition, I will not deny, and also that I painted from my heart and took the greatest delight in the achievements of those whose names have come down to us surrounded by a nimbus. EARLY WORKS in I attribute much of the pleasure 1 took in the f ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^MM^t^ "i^BaM. •' ^K ^■mI^^^^^^^Kk^a'. 1 '^* •'■ f in^'"^ "^^ \ 1^ Vk. 1 Irln. '^r .•^':;.' J^ r\^ 1 ^iir ' ikt ^^^^« H - 4. ^^H ffip^^^ 1 ^^^^^^P w v^^MflBL ' ... ■— -^ /^^^^^H 4 ^^^^^^^^^^^Hv^l^^^^^F ^^^^^.^^^^H^I^H THE WIDOWED BRIDE — AN EARLY WORK. works of the great masters to the guidance of Leshe. A devoted admirer of them himself, he made me 112 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY share his enthusiasm, although it was an enthusiasm so quietly and gently expressed. The charm of colour and composition held me spell-bound, and I have often said to myself, if I could only produce a beautiful piece of colour, and a perfect composition of lines and masses, I should be satisfied. The works of Raphael had a strange fascination for me, for, at all events, here was the perfect composition of line if not the finest note of colour, and a certain purity and even divinity of expression that I have seldom seen in other painters. Hence my first picture, if we leave out of account the "ugly group," was "A Madonna and Child," certainly a fitting subject for any artist's first picture, whether we consider it as an offering to the Church, which in the old days was the great patron of art, or whether as a tribute to nature herself, the fair mother of art. This was followed in the next year by another devotional subject, "The Holy Family," and also by a most ambitious composition in pen and ink of " The Creed," beginning with God the Father and the Creation, and finishing with the Last Judgment, all included in one design in which were many hundreds of figures. But unfortunately these lofty themes were not attractive to ordinary purchasers, and I had to consider that I had taken up art as a business, and not as an accomplishment or pastime, nor was I a well-to-do amateur who could afford to paint for the honour and glory of the thing only. So I modestly descended from these flights and depicted "A Fair Musician," "The Maid of the EARLY WORKS 1 1 \^ Mill," " Pet Dogs," and portraits of mammas and babies and such things, that brought in a little return, though not much. But still I longed to paint poetical things and beautiful things, and hence many of my early works may have that tendency, though there was generally a sadness about the subjects, and perhaps too many shortcomings in their execution, which prevented their success. I am afraid also that my years of studentship were ^^ not sufficiently de- voted to study in the schools, but rather to the more agreeable occupa- tion of painting pictures under the paternal roof, where I had not to think where my daily bread was to come from, or to fear sleeping out in the cold for want of a lodging. I must confess, also, to being somewhat divided in my affections between painting and the Muse, and my dear mother has often reproved me for sitting up late at night writing poetry, not only tiring my eyes and my brain, but wasting her candles. Perhaps I had certain private and personal reasons for writino- love sonnets and woeful ballads, since "every one becomes a poet as soon as he is touched }i love's follv. 114 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY by love," and there may have been a certain con- solation in imagining myself " as a nightingale who t T \V 1 / M ■ Z;-s^ ■^^*^^^Sf0^^Jr- !J^^ '^'^ LKSSONS OF LOVE. sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds," EARLY WORKS 115 But speaking more generally, it must surely be to the advantage of the painter to have an ideal, which he fosters and flatters and shapes into a per- fect imaofe that he strives to realise in his work. The teachings of art schools are as nothing com- pared to the lessons of love. The soft expression, the endearing forms that the artist depicts, come from that mistress alone, and all that resembles, harmonises with, and glorifies his ideal, is eagerly seized upon and portrayed with earnestness and truth. Thus love leads him to contemplate and desire the beautiful, and to seek it not only in art but in nature. Michael Angelo tells us in one of his madrigals — " Per fido essempio alia mia vocazione Nascendo mi fu data la bellezza." " I have a faithful guide in my loved labour, One that is born in me, a sentiment Which never errs, but knows the Beautiful, And is both lamp and mirror to my art. 'Tis by this gift that I uprise in thought, And view the grand ideal that I strive In Painting and in Sculpture to depict." I could quote many more passages from Michael Angelo's poems in the same vein, for it has been my great pleasure at quiet times to turn many of his sonnets and madrigals into English ; but I will only add the remarks of the prophetess Diotima, who, in her discourse to Socrates on love, says — " He who aspires to love rightly ought from his earliest youth to seek an intercourse with beautiful forms, and first ii6 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY to make a single form the object of his love, and therein to generate intellectual excellencies. He ought then to consider that beauty, in whatever form it resides, is the brother of that beauty which subsists in another form ; and if he ought to pursue that which is beautiful in form, it would be absurd to imagine that beauty is not one and the same thing in all forms, and would therefore remit much of his ardent prefer- ence towards one, through his perception of the multitude of claims upon his love." And she further goes on to say — " Such a life as this, my dear Socrates, spent in the con- templation of the beautiful, is the life for men to live." — Shelley's Translation of ^* The Banquet. ^^ With such ideas as these budding in the young painter's mind, he is apt to look forward to achieve- ments for which he is not fully equipped, and to attempt that which only the great ones before him have mastered. He is not thinking of the practical picture-buyer, but is lost in a dream of ambition, of hope crowned with success, and of the delight of generating beauty ; so that it is not unlikely that there is a charm from these causes in the early work of a true artist, which is absent when, in after years, he finds that the world takes a very different view of his productions to that which fascinated his mind's eye when he thought himself on the threshold of fame. He sees that that same world is not at all startled or astonished by his efforts, and that his dream of fame has dissolved into a mist, his castles in the air have come tumbling down one after an- EARLY WORKS 117 other, and oh ! humiHating thought ! that perhaps his early works were chiefly prized by that polite THE BRIDE'S BURIAL. picture-dealer on account of the extremely low price at which he purchased them, and the decent profit he made upon them. ii8 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY It is, however, but fair, both to the critics and myself, to quote here certain press opinions of these "early works," which were published at the time of their exhibition a year or two ago ; because they are at the same time a sequence to and perhaps a corroboration of the foregoing remarks on a young man's work, especially as they help my story in a way that I could not do myself One paper. Public Opinion, says — " Two Pre-Raphaelite pictures by Storey when he was in his twenty-first year come as revelations. They are delightful in colour, rich and voluptuous, and excellent in sentiment." The Daily News says— " But more interesting are some very early works by G. A. Storey, A.R.A., which show that this artist was once amongst the disciples of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. The pictures here resemble somewhat in strength and bril- liancy of colour some of the first works of Millais. One called " hispiration " (The Annunciation), a devotional subject, has remarkable touches of beauty of a quaintly archaic kind." And the Morning Post says — " Among the modern pictures are two by Mr. G. A. Storey, probably the best he has ever painted, 'Juliet' and ' Inspiration,' works remarkable for beauty of colour, poetic grace of design, and general deftness of execution." However, these works did not sell till years afterwards, at very reduced prices, and for a long time I was most unsuccessful, so much so that I EARLY WORKS 119 again wept in words, and, like Shelley's nightingale, sat and sang in darkness — " My young companions run before me fast, Full of success they turn their faces back, And seem to wonder that I should be last To follow in their track." EDWARD CRESSY. These "young companions" were "the St. John's Wood C\\([uc," as it was called, and consisted of Caldcron, Marks, George Leslie, Hodgson, I20 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Yeames, and Wynfield, besides myself; and ot these I shall have occasion to speak by-and-by. They took a more practical view of art than I did, and no doubt deplored that I should give way to melancholy and conceive such subjects as the "Closed House," an incident in the Great Plague of London, "A Song of the Past," "The Widowed Bride,"and "The Bride's Burial." But in addition to these I painted a good many portraits, over a hundred, among them one of myself at the age of nineteen, which is at the beginning of this chapter, and one of Edward Cressy, a learned man and delightful companion, which is on page 119. He was an architect by profession, nor was there any subject in science, art, or literature that he was not conversant with ; and yet his chief occupation was to inspect and to report upon the main drainage of London to the Board of Works, which made him say that he lived in the bowels of the earth. He was the first to advise Sir Henry Doulton to introduce the art element into his pottery, who, more out of friend- ship than with any expectation of business arising from it, had a mediaeval salt-cellar, lent by H. S. Marks, R.A., reproduced. This was followed by other experiments, more or less successful, until at length they developed into the magnificent art pottery works of Doulton & Co., which in a certain sense may be said to be the outcome of Edward Cressy's suggestion. SKETCH FROM THE PICTURE BY VELASQUEZ IN MADRID. XVIII SPAIN IT used to be said some thirty or forty years ago that every one who went to Spain wrote a book about it. And there is something so strange, 122 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY so novel, and so romantic in this old country, that there really seems every excuse for doing so. When I went there in 1862, it seemed to me that I had not only entered a land that was totally different from anything I had seen before, but that I had gone back in time some two hundred years, and that the ways of the people with whom I was living were not as our ways, but belonged rather to some remote period, when it was a common thinor to see the oxen treading^ out the corn, a sight I actually witnessed in my journey from Bayonne to Madrid. Most of the books on Spain that I have read are either descriptive of its scenery, its buildings, or the outer aspect of its people, with notes on its history, its art, its romance, &c., which are in many cases excellent guide-books, and among them none more excellent than that by Mr. Richard Ford (1847). B^it they do not, like " Don Quixote" or the " History of Gil Bias," make you intimate with the people themselves, with their thoughts, their friend- ships, their virtues and their follies, their strength and their weakness, and, I may add, the delightful side of their character, which you can only find out by living with them and being in sympathy with them. As soon as I entered Spain, and long before I could understand many words of its language, I was dubbed " Seiior Don Adolfo," and I felt I had come amone friends whom I could trust, whose society I could enjoy, whose hearts certainly were SPAIN 123 good, whatever may have been the deficiencies about their heads. Although, of course, I met with many clever and intelligent Spaniards, true descendants of Cer- vantes and Velasquez, still, perhaps, on the whole, the description which my little friend Ramoncito gave me of his countrymen, as contrasted with the French, seems to be pretty correct. " Los Fran- ceses," said he, " tienen mucho cabeza pero muy poco corazon : los Espafioles tienen poco cabeza pero mucho corazon." (The French have much brain but little heart : the Spaniards, not much brain, but very much heart.) It may be imagined, then, that my visit to Spain was one of those pleasant episodes in my life which I cannot forget, and which I am only too glad to recall, and to pass through again in these " Sketches from Memory." As I had an uncle living in Madrid who had made it his home, his mtmdo, as he called it, for more than thirty years, and was acquainted with all the Dons of the capital, from royalty down- wards, I was soon introduced by him to many dis- tinguished caballeros. I was also made a member of the one club there, " II Casino del Principe," where I made many other friends, both English and Spanish. So that, instead of being a mere sightseer or tourist, a stranger in the land, passing through it with my " Murray's Guide" for my only friend, I was at once introduced to the people themselves ; and being, as 1 have already stated, 124 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY a cosmopolitan, I was soon almost as much at home in Spain as in England, and felt it quite as natural to be called " Seiior Adolfo " as Mr. Storey. I regret much that instead of hurrying on to Madrid, as I was obliged to do, I did not have more time to linger over the grand scenery of the Pyrenees, and to make acquaintance with the brave Basques. As I passed through the north of Spain by diligence (the railway to Madrid was not com- pleted), I was much struck by the beauty of the country, which seemed to have as many shrubs and wild flowers about it as we find in England. Groups of picturesque villagers sat in the shade of the trees, laughing and playing the guitar, whilst others danced in the evening sun. The Basque girls, with long plaits down their backs, their rich- coloured dresses, and their glowing faces, are parti- cularly charming ; and I felt that I had come to a land where hundreds of pictures were already composed for me, and all I had to do was to copy them, expecting that the farther I went the more rich would be the supply. But, alas ! the expected seldom comes to pass. The first thing that struck me about the Spaniards was a mixture of dignity and simplicity, and about the young women an almost childishness, which, however, was very agreeable. In the interior of the diligence, among my fellow-travellers, were two pretty young ladies, about seventeen and nineteen respectively, who amused themselves during the SPAIN 125 journey by spinning a small spring humming-top in their hands. When one got tired of the toy her sister took it up and went on spinning it, even without looking at it, as though she were doing some fancy work, and seemed to have an idea that it passed the time more pleasantly than sitting still doine nothinor. But it amused me to see them taking their turns. So did their beautiful language, which I did not understand, but which I could imagine had been invented for the purpose of pro- ducing rich and musical sounds, and for making their mouths form themselves into lovely shapes. Now and then they laughed heartily, and their father, a military-looking man, appeared to upbraid them for their childishness. But they laughed all the more, and handed him the top, as much as to say he was jealous, and wanted to play with it himself; but he put it back with a dignified air and lighted a fresh cigar. He was extremely polite to me, so also was another passenger, who had wrapped his head up in several red pocket-handkerchiefs, and looked very like a brown old mummy. Our conversation, if I may call it so, was carried on by signs and nods, with a little French here, a little Spanish there, and a few English words mixed in ; the most fatiguing part of it was keeping up a smile. When we arrived at San Sebastian I tried to make them understand that I appreciated their con- sideration for a stranger in an unknown land. I was to have come out with an English Iriend, whose business as an engineer on the Spanish 126 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY irrigation works made him well acquainted with the country and the language. But he had been prevented at the last moment from accompanying me, and I was wondering how I should get on, and longing to meet with either a Brown, a Jones, or a Robinson, when a thorough Englishman, with rosy face and sandy whiskers, got down from the co7ipd of the diligence and asked if he could be of any assistance to me, as he could see I was a fellow-countryman. Of course I was delighted, and still more tickled when one of the porters of the inn addressed him as " Senor Robinson." I really had then met one of the immortal trio. Of San Sebastian, the scene of many a desperate fight between the French and English during the Peninsular War, I can say but little. It is at the foot of the Pyrenees, and surrounded by fine scenery. Here we dined, my first Spanish dinner, which I did not at all dislike, notwithstanding the abuse of Spanish cooking that I had heard so much of from the believers in roast beef pure and simple. We were waited on by pretty Basque girls ; so what with the novelty, and the fact that I had met a " Robinson," and being very hungry, I much enjoyed my Spanish dinner cooked in oil. The two pretty girls, and my other travelling companions, also dined at the table-dltSte, and then I discovered that the individual whose head was wrapped up in red pocket-handkerchiefs and looked very brown, and whom I took for a man, was their mother ! Thirteen hours' more travelling by diligence SPAIN 127 brought us to the railway station at Burgos, but, as it was three o'clock in the morning and quite dark, I have no recollection of it. The rest of the night, and nearly all the next day, we passed in the slow railway train, traversing the dreary plateau of Cas- tile. As I looked out of window, for hour after hour I saw nothing but the same dead flat of dried- BRIDGE AT TOLEDO. up country, with here and there a bare granite rock rising out of it. It was like being at sea on dry land, except that it was very dusty. Now and then we came upon a village of dazzling whiteness, the houses with square black holes in them for windows, but no glass, sometimes just a mat hung over them to keep out the sun or the wind. But not a flower 128 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY nor a leaf, not a tree nor a blade of grass, for nearly three hundred miles. Where were my pictures? where was the rich colour and the joyousness that I had seen near San Sebastian ? And I could scarcely refrain from saying with Touchstone : " Ay, now am I " (in Spain) ; " the more fool I ; when I was at home I was in a better place, but travellers must be content." PHILIP IV. (AFTER VELASQUEZ) XIX MADRID TV /r Y recollections of Madrid are not altogether ^^ ^ flattering to the capital (jf Spain, "the only- Court on earth." A dull still atmosphere pervaded the place ; there was a laziness about the people, I 129 ijo SKETCHES FROM MEMORY both mental and physical, which was marked in the slowness of their walk. No one seemed inclined to do anything except smoke cigarettes — all business was put off till to-morrow, manana. Intrigue and place-hunting were the occupations of the better (?) classes ; the bull-ring was the delight of the mob. The women, though graceful, were not beautiful, and I was surprised to see so many who had rather a fair German type than the rich dark eyes and complexions of the girls of Andalusia, though the fact of their wearing veils, instead of the ugly bonnets then in vogue in England and France, added greatly to their charm, and their usino- fans to shield their faces from the sun, instead of parasols, was another addition to their fascinations. The city itself did not strike me as particularly beautiful, nor even quaint ; but still there was one thing which made amends for all its other shortcomings, and that was, and is, the magnificent picture-gallery, which is second to none in the world. I had not been many hours in Madrid before I visited it. The Museo on the Prado is not a very prepossessing structure, and like everything Spanish, requires to be known a little and understood very much before you can thoroughly appreciate and enjoy it. But whatever the outside of this Museo may be, the inside is full of treasures. The splendid array of pictures by Titian, Paul Veronese, Rubens, Tintoret, and others, is enough to satisfy the most greedy eye for colour ; and the grand works by Velasquez are alone worth a pilgrimage to the city MADRID 131 in the desert. And yet, strange to say, when I first saw the latter I felt a disappointment that I can hardly describe, and that I should have been ashamed perhaps to confess, were it not that it was quite natural. They appeared cold and severe by the side of the glowing and voluptuous colouring of the masters just named, and it was only by degrees that I got to understand and admire them. And then each day I learnt to understand and admire them more, especially as I sat in front of them trying to translate them into water-colour sketches, of which I made a good number. Besides, I had just come from England with certain Pre-Raphaelite tendencies and the new school more or less on the brain, and was not prepared at once to appreciate the grand sweep of the brush which expressed in a touch all that the " minutists" expressed in laborious stippling. I passed many a day in the Museo sketching from the pictures. I began with the "Bacchanal" by Titian, attracted to it by its beautiful colour. It is a companion picture to the " Bacchus and Ariadne " in our National Gallery. While at work on it I kept looking at the " Meninas," or Maids of Honour, in the same room, Velasquez' celebrated picture that Luca Giordano called " the gospel of art," and that Sir David Wilkie said was like a Dutch picture on a large scale. It is so well known that I need not describe it more than to say it represents thfi Infanta Margarita, with her maids of honour, two dwarfs, a large dog, and the portrait of Velas- quez himself standing at his easel, with the Red 132 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Cross of Santiago on his breast, that was painted by the King, who was himself an amateur artist. John PhiHp was then at work on a portion of the central group, the little Infanta, and a fine piece of work it is, quite in the spirit of the master. It now belongs to the Royal Academy. Strange to say, we did not know each other then and didn't speak, because there was no one to introduce us!! How I regret it! I met him afterwards in London. He said it was a question of which should speak first, but I did not like to approach a Royal Academician. Our modern critics may perhaps smile at the idea of having so much respect for one of the body. He, however, did not remain long in Madrid after my arrival; but Edwin Long and J. B. Burgess appeared upon the scene, and we spent many a pleasant even- ing together. Long had wonderful facility in copying the works of Velasquez, and his rapidity was extra- ordinary, sometimes taking only three or four days to a full-length portrait. These copies, and his sketches of Spanish life, were among the best bits of painting that he ever did, for he worked with a surprising freedom which astonished the natives, who seemed to go to sleep over their copying or to live in a prolonged siesta. Lieutenant-Colonel George Fitch, my mother's only brother, had long been a resident in Madrid. He had fought in the Seven Years' Civil War in Spain and Portugal, and had many a story to tell of his exploits and adventures. He knew every inch of the "Puerto del Sol," the " Alcala," and the MADRID 133 " Prado" ; had been in many an engagement in the streets of the capital, as well as on the slopes of San Sebastian and other places. He showed me several marks on the walls and trees of Madrid which were made by shots from cannon which he had directed, one especially on a large old tree near the Prado, which he called " Fitch's Mark." He was also one of the chief movers in getting the English Govern- ment to buy the acre of ground, about a mile outside the town, which is now the British cemetery. So bigoted were the Spaniards that formerly decent burial was denied to Englishmen, whose "heretic carcases " were supposed to pollute the soil of Spain ; and even those English soldiers who, under Wel- lington, fell in this country's cause, were allowed no resting-place in it save in the sands of the sea- shore. It was many years since I had seen this thorough old soldier, who, in aspect, was not altogether unlike Von Moltke, nor did he seem to have any fear in his composition. I somehow missed seeing him on my arrival in the morning, but found him at the club, the "Casino del Principe," in the evening. Here he introduced me to several of his friends, both Spanish and English, and afterwards we sat in a corner of one of the gilded saloons and naturally talked of family matters until it was time to go to bed. He had taken some apartments for me in the Calle de Leon, not far off, and eventually I was made a temporary member of the Casino for the three or four months that I remained in Madrid. 134 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Here I learnt somewhat of the curious manners and customs, morals and otherwise, of this strange country, and formed some agreeable acquaintance- ships that were useful to me. The colonel and I, or Don Juan (pronounced Don Guon), as he was frequently called, used to dine together at the Cafe Europoea, partly for economy's sake, and partly because we got a very good dinner there, and then finished the evening at the club. A few days after my arrival we were taking our accustomed meal at the above-named restaurant, when we were hailed from a far corner by a merry little Basque gentle- man, an old general, who, like most Spaniards, was full of heart — mucJio corazon. He invited us to dine with him, and kept up a brief conversation right across the dining-room, oblivious of the many people present, who took not the slightest notice, as is their polite custom. He wanted to know who I was, and was informed that I was " un gran ritratista " ; just arrived from " Inglaterra" ; the nephew of the "Coronel"; that we would not intrude upon his hospitality, as our own dinner was being served. Eventually he came and took dessert at our table. He was very animated, talking partly in English, partly in French, and the rest in Spanish, so that I managed to understand at least the drift of his con- versation. Hearing that I was an artist, he said that I must paint a picture of his little boy, and after that a picture of his big boy, and after that his two daughters, and then his wife and himself in a group. Nor were my performances to end there. He would MADRID 135 introduce me to the great Dons in Madrid, who would all wish to be painted by me, and I was to finish up with the Queen herself and the rest of the royal family. Here indeed was fortune smiling at last ; my mournful pictures of brides' burials and incidents in the Plague of London were to be suc- ceeded by hidalgos of Spain and personages of the royal blood ; the career of Velasquez and Vandyke was opened up before me ; I had only to work and be happy. The General Don Jose de J. told me to call upon him the next day, wrote down his address, and then took leave of us. When he had gone the Colonel shook his head and smiled. He said Don Jose, whom he called " Old Jack of Trumps," was a very old friend of his and quite sincere, but I need not build castles in the air from what he had said, and added, "As the Duke of Wellington remarked — ' Two and two make four in every other country but Spain.'" The next morning I started off rather early to call on Don Jose, thinking that the sooner business was attended to the better. I went up to the second floor, to the tlat indicated by the concierge, and knocked several times without effect ; at length a little wicket or grating about six inches square was opened by a cross-looking old woman, with her head tied up in a silk pocket-handkerchief. I inquired for "General Don Jose de J." "Who.'^" said she. I repeated the name. She said she did not know him, he did not live there, and then closed the little shutter, but not before 1 had noted two 136 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY other domestics, with their heads also tied up, sweep- ing and dusting the apartments. I went away rather disconcerted, and when I told my uncle of my adventure he at first said I must have mistaken the house or the flat, and advised me to go back in the afternoon. " Besides," said he, "no one ever calls in the morning in Madrid." So back I went, knocked at the same door, which was immediately opened by a tidy little maid. I asked for the General Don Jose de J. "Oh yes, Sefior, he is at home," and I was ushered into the drawing-room. I began to wonder how the mistake of the morning had arisen, when in came Don Jose leading a stately lady in black silk, whom he introduced to me as Seilora de J., his wife. They were followed by two pretty girls, young and elegant, who bowed and smiled, and said a few words of welcome ; but the General did most of the talking. These were the daughters whose portraits I was to paint by-and-by. But strange to say, 1 felt a slight confusion when I discovered that the stately lady in black, now all smiles and affability, was no other than the cross old woman who had opened the wicket to me in the morning, and the two elegant young ladies were the two supposed domestics whom I had seen dusting the furniture. And why should they not, and still be as pretty and sweet, nay, sweeter.^ But in Spain, though poverty is everywhere and in every class, it must not stand confessed, it must be hidden under a cloak or a mantilla. Often as you pass along the streets MADRID 137 in the evening, ladies, judging from their voices and their elegance, come up to you and beg for some assistance in their sorrow. They do not make a long story like our professional beggars, but the little hand, sometimes gloved, is held out, and more often than not a small coin is dropped into it. Don Jose's little boy, with whom I was to begin my long list of portraits, was a pale-faced unin- teresting child, and I am glad to say that I entirely forget what my picture was like. I painted it at the house, and soon got on friendly terms with the " cross old woman," who turned out to be very amiable, and also the two young ladies, whose portraits, however, I did not paint, for they told their papa that they were sure they would never be able to sit still enough. As to the young man, he had no time to spare, nor any patience, and Senora was not inclined to have herself portrayed now the bloom of youth was no longer upon her. As to Don Jose himself, he confessed he would have sat had the others consented, indeed, he would not have minded forming part of a group ; but alone he did not consider himself good enough to be made a picture of. All that I could say was that I felt the various objections were unanswerable. The fact is, that in Spain " the text is not always to be taken as it says " ; many fair promises are made out of mere politeness, which, on the other hand, it is polite not to expect to be fulfilled. An Englishman does not understand this at first, and often makes amusing mistakes in consequence. 138 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY Perhaps, and it only struck me afterwards, Don Jose did not really want a portrait of his little boy even, and that out of politeness I ought to have said that my engagements at the Museum in copying Velasquez would prevent me doing it at present. And this was rather forced upon my mind by the strange way in which the General set about paying for it. The price was ^10, not much, one would think, for a General living in Madrid, with a large estate in Bilbao. However, nothing was said about payment, of course, and as I went to the club every evening, I saw Don Jose con- stantly, but he never saw me. He went straight to the tables where they were playing " Trente et quarante," staked a goodly pile of duros, which were regularly swept up by the croupier night after night, and then he hurried out of the place. I watched this proceeding for several evenings, and saw piles of silver coin swept away that would more than have paid his small debt to me. Of course I guessed his object, and had half a mind to go up to him and tell him that if he were risking all this for me not to do so any more ; but the Colonel shook his head, and told me I did not understand the Spaniards. At the end of four or five even- ings the little General came up to me in the most amiable humour, and said he had been looking for me to say how delighted he was with his boy's portrait, and put ^10 into my hand, adding that for several nights he had been trying to win the money to pay for it, but that fate would not MADRID 139 have it so, luck went against him, and he felt it would continue to do so until he had paid his debt. No doubt there is a good deal of superstition among the Spanish gamblers, some even going so far as to think the Almiorhtv takes an interest in the play of those who call in His assistance. I remember one elderly gentleman, of a staid and serious countenance, who used always, on entering the card-room, to go up to a corner and say a short prayer in his hat before he risked his duros and his ofold onzas. Upon another occasion the play was in full swing, the table covered with silver and gold, the banker just exclaiming, " Couleur gagne," when a little tinkling bell was heard in the street below ; a procession of priests and acolytes was passing on its way to administer the last sacrament to a dying man. In an instant every voice was hushed, and every one in the room was on his knees. The sound of a dull chant, mingled with the fumes of incense, rose amid the dead silence that for a minute or two reigned round the gambling table, and not until it had entirely died away did any one rise or attempt to resume the game. I was naturally impressed by this scene, although an English friend kneeling by my side scoffed at it. I said, " Why do you kneel ? " "Because," said he, "I should have a dagger into me if I did n