toilet-table occupied a hundred years ago. There are degrees in
decadence: after the Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats from Soho
or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come and
occupy the vacant houses, which still have a respectable look, the
windows being cleaned, and the knockers and plates kept bright, and the
doctor's carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the
countess's, which has whisked away her ladyship to other regions. A
boarding-house mayhap succeeds the physician, who has followed after his
sick folks into the new country; and then Dick Tinto comes with his dingy
brass plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets up his sitters'
throne. I love his honest moustache, and jaunty velvet jacket; his queer
figure, his queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should he not suffer
his ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should he deny
himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian which costs him
eighteenpence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and breaks out into
costume as spontaneously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip. And as
Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak, bristling beard,
and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple creature, got up at a very
cheap rate, his life is so consistent with his dress; he gives his genius
a darkling swagger, and a romantic envelope, which, being removed, you
find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping soul; not a moody poet avoiding
mankind for the better company of his own great thoughts, but a jolly
little chap who has an aptitude for painting brocade gowns, a bit of
armour (with figures inside them), or trees and cattle, or gondolas and
buildings, or what not; an instinct for the picturesque, which exhibits
itself in his works, and outwardly on his person; beyond this, a gentle
creature loving his friends, his cups, feasts, merrymakings, and all good
things. The kindest folks alive I have found among those scowling
whiskeradoes. They open oysters with their yataghans, toast muffins on
their rapiers, and fill their Venice glasses with half-and-half. If they
have money in their lean purses, be sure they have a friend to share it.
What innocent gaiety, what jovial suppers on threadbare cloths, and
wonderful songs after; what pathos, merriment, humour does not a man
enjoy who frequents their company! Mr. Clive Newcome, who has long since
shaved his beard, who has become a family man, and has seen the world in
a thousand different phases, avers that his life as an art-student at
home and abroad was the pleasantest part of his whole existence. It may
not be more amusing in the telling than the chronicle of a feast, or the
accurate report of two lovers' conversation; but the biographer, having
brought his hero to the period of his life, is bound to relate it, before
passing to other occurrences which are to be narrated in their turn.
We may be sure the boy had many conversations with his affectionate
guardian as to the profession which he should follow. As regarded
mathematical and classical learning, the elder Newcome was forced to
admit, that out of every hundred boys, there were fifty as clever as his
own, and at least fifty more industrious; the army in time of peace
Colonel Newcome thought a bad trade for a young fellow so fond of ease
and pleasure as his son: his delight in the pencil was manifest to all.
Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the masters? Whilst his
tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, did he not draw Grindley
instinctively under his very nose? A painter Clive was determined to be,
and nothing else; and Clive, being then some sixteen years of age, began
to study the art, en regle, under the eminent Mr. Gandish, of Soho.
It was that well-known portrait-painter, Alfred Smee, Esq., R.A., who
recommended Gandish to Colonel Newcome, one day when the two gentlemen
met at dinner at Lady Anne Newcome's table. Mr. Smee happened to examine
some of Clive's drawings, which the young fellow had executed for his
cousins. Clive found no better amusement than in making pictures for
them, and would cheerfully pass evening after evening in that diversion.
He had made a thousand sketches of Ethel before a year was over; a year,
every day of which seemed to increase the attractions of the fair young
creature, develop her nymph-like form, and give her figure fresh graces.
He also of course drew Alfred and the nursery in general, Aunt Anne and
the Blenheim spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his earrings, the majestic John
bringing in the coal-scuttle, and all persons or objects in that
establishment with which he was familiar. "What a genius the lad has,"
the complimentary Mr. Smee averred; "what a force and individuality there
is in all his drawings! Look at his horses! capital, by Jove, capital!
and Alfred on his pony, and Miss Ethel in her Spanish bat, with her hair
flowing in the wind! I must take this sketch, I positively must now, and
show it to Landseer." And the courtly artist daintily enveloped the
drawing in a sheet of paper, put it away in his hat, and vowed
subsequently that the great painter had been delighted with the young
man's performance. Smee was not only charmed with Clive's skill as an
artist, but thought his head would be an admirable one to paint. Such a
rich complexion, such fine turns in his hair! such eyes! to see real blue
eyes was so rare nowadays! And the Colonel too, if the Colonel would but
give him a few sittings, the grey uniform of the Bengal Cavalry, the
silver lace, the little bit of red ribbon just to warm up the picture! it
was seldom, Mr. Smee declared, that an artist could get such an
opportunity for colour. With our hideous vermilion uniforms there was no
chance of doing anything; Rubens himself could scarcely manage scarlet.
Look at the horseman in Cuyp's famous picture at the Louvre: the red was
a positive blot upon the whole picture. There was nothing like French
grey and silver! All which did not prevent Mr. Smee from painting Sir
Brian in a flaring deputy-lieutenant's uniform, and entreating all
military men whom he met to sit to him in scarlet. Clive Newcome the
Academician succeeded in painting, of course for mere friendship's sake,
and because he liked the subject, though he could not refuse the cheque
which Colonel Newcome sent him for the frame and picture; but no
cajoleries could induce the old campaigner to sit to any artist save one.
He said he should be ashamed to pay fifty guineas for the likeness of his
homely face; he jocularly proposed to James Binnie to have his head put
on the canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically caught at the idea; but
honest James winked his droll eyes, saying his was a beauty that did not
want any paint; and when Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fitzroy
Square, where this conversation was held, James Binnie hinted that the
Academician was no better than an old humbug, in which surmise he was
probably not altogether incorrect. Certain young men who frequented the
kind Colonel's house were also somewhat of this opinion; and made endless
jokes at the painter's
expense. Smee plastered his sitters with adulation
as methodically as he covered his canvas. He waylaid gentlemen at dinner;
he inveigled unsuspecting folks into his studio, and had their heads off
their shoulders before they were aware. One day, on our way from the
Temple, through Howland Street, to the Colonel's house, we beheld
Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, in full uniform, rushing from Smee's
door to his brougham. The coachman was absent refreshing himself at a
neighbouring tap: the little street-boys cheered and hurrayed Sir Thomas,
as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, he sate in his chariot. He blushed
purple when he beheld us. No artist would have dared to imitate those
purple tones: he was one of the numerous victims of Mr. Smee.
One day, then, day to be noted with a white stone, Colonel Newcome, with
his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., walked from the Colonel's house to Gandish's,
which was not far removed thence; and young Clive, who was a perfect
mimic, described to his friends, and illustrated, as was his wont, by
diagrams, the interview which he had with that professor. "By Jove, you
must see Gandish, pa!" cries Clive: "Gandish is worth the whole world.
Come and be an art-student. You'll find such jolly fellows there! Gandish
calls it hart-student, and says, 'Hars est celare Hartem'--by Jove he
does! He treated us to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and a
bottle of wine, you know."
"The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: you know he only puts
them on on parade days; and turned out for the occasion spick and span.
He ought to be a general officer. He looks like a field-marshal--don't
he? You should have seen him bowing to Mrs. Gandish and the Miss
Gandishes, dressed all in their best, round the cake-tray! He takes his
glass of wine, and sweeps them all round with a bow. 'I hope, young
ladies,' says he, 'you don't often go to the students' room. I'm afraid
the young gentlemen would leave off looking at the statues if you came
in.' And so they would: for you never saw such guys; but the dear old boy
fancies every woman is a beauty.
"'Mr. Smee, you are looking at my picture of 'Boadishia?'' says Gandish.
Wouldn't he have caught it for his quantities at Grey Friars, that's all.
"'Yes--ah--yes,' says Mr. Smee, putting his hand over his eyes, and
standing before it, looking steady, you know, as if he was going to see
whereabouts he should hit Boadishia.
"'It was painted when you were a young man, four years before you were an
associate, Smee. Had some success in its time, and there's good pints
about that picture,' Gandish goes on. 'But I never could get my price for
it; and here it hangs in my own room. Igh art won't do in this country,
Colonel--it's a melancholy fact.'
"'High art! I should think it is high art!' whispers old Smee; 'fourteen
feet high, at least!" And then out loud he says 'The picture has very
fine points in it, Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening of that arm,
capital! That red drapery carried off into the right of the picture very
skilfully managed!'
"'It's not like portrait-painting, Smee--Igh art,' says Gandish. 'The
models of the hancient Britons in that pictur alone cost me thirty pound
--when I was a struggling man, and had just married my Betsey here. You
reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman elmet, cuirass, and javeling
of the period--all studied from the hantique, sir, the glorious
hantique.'
"'All but Boadicea,' says father. 'She remains always young.' And he
began to speak the lines out of Cowper, he did--waving his stick like an
old trump--and famous they are," cries the lad:
"When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods"--
"Jolly verses! Haven't I translated them into alcaics?" says Clive, with
a merry laugh, and resumes his history.
"'Oh, I must have those verses in my album,' cries one of the young
ladies. 'Did you compose them, Colonel Newcome?' But Gandish, you see, is
never thinking about any works but his own, and goes on, 'Study of my
eldest daughter, exhibited 1816.'
"'No, pa, not '16,' cries Miss Gandish. She don't look like a chicken, I
can tell you.
"'Admired,' Gandish goes on, never heeding her,--'I can show you what the
papers said of it at the time--Morning Chronicle and Examiner--spoke most
ighly of it. My son as an infant Ercules, stranglin the serpent over the
piano. Fust conception of my picture of 'Non Hangli said Hangeli.''
"'For which I can guess who were the angels that sat,' says father. Upon
my word, that old governor! He is a little too strong. But Mr. Gandish
listened no more to him than to Mr. Smee, and went on, buttering himself
all over, as I have read the Hottentots do. 'Myself at thirty-three years
of age!' says he, pointing to a portrait of a gentleman in leather
breeches and mahogany boots; 'I could have been a portrait-painter, Mr.
Smee.'
"'Indeed it was lucky for some of us you devoted yourself to high art,
Gandish,' Mr. Smee says, and sips the wine and puts it down again, making
a face. It was not first-rate tipple, you see.
"'Two girls,' continues that indomitable Mr. Gandish. 'Hidea for 'Babes
in the Wood.' 'View of Paestum,' taken on the spot by myself, when
travelling with the late lamented Earl of Kew. 'Beauty, Valour, Commerce,
and Liberty, condoling with Britannia on the death of Admiral Viscount
Nelson,'--allegorical piece drawn at a very early age after Trafalgar.
Mr. Fuseli saw that piece, sir, when I was a student of the Academy, and
said to me, 'Young man, stick to the antique. There's nothing like it.'
Those were 'is very words. If you do me the favour to walk into the
Hatrium, you'll remark my great pictures also from English istry. An
English historical painter, sir, should be employed chiefly in English
istry. That's what I would have done. Why ain't there temples for us,
where the people might read their history at a glance, and without
knowing how to read? Why is my 'Alfred' 'anging up in this 'all? Because
there is no patronage for a man who devotes himself to Igh art. You know
the anecdote, Colonel? King Alfred flying from the Danes, took refuge in
a neaterd's 'ut. The rustic's wife told him to bake a cake, and the
fugitive sovering set down to his ignoble task, and forgetting it in the
cares of state, let the cake burn, on which the woman struck him. The
moment chose is when she is lifting her 'and to deliver the blow. The
king receives it with majesty mingled with meekness. In the background
the door of the 'ut is open, letting in the royal officers to announce
the Danes are defeated. The daylight breaks in at the aperture,
signifying the dawning of 'Ope. That story, sir, which I found in my
researches in istry, has since become so popular, sir, that hundreds of
artists have painted it, hundreds! I who discovered the legend, have my
picture--here!'
"'Now, Colonel,' says the showman, 'let me--let me lead you through the
statue gallery. 'Apollo,' you see. The 'Venus Hanadyomene,' the glorious
Venus of
the Louvre, which I saw in 1814, Colonel, in its glory--the
'Laocoon'--my friend Gibson's 'Nymth,' you see, is the only figure I
admit among the antiques. Now up this stair to the students' room, where
I trust my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour assiduously. Ars longa
est, Mr. Newcome. Vita----'"
"I trembled," Clive said, "lest my father should introduce a certain
favourite quotation, beginning 'ingenuas didicisse'--but he refrained,
and we went into the room, where a score of students were assembled, who
all looked away from their drawing-boards as we entered.
"'Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,' says the Professor, 'and here
that of your young friend--what did you say was his name?' I told him
Rigby, for my dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. too, you
know. 'Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and custos of the room in the
absence of my son. Mr. Chivers, Mr. Newcome; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome, a
new pupil. My son, Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, gentlemen,
assiduity. Ars longa. Vita brevis, et linea recta brevissima est. This
way, Colonel, down these steps, across the courtyard, to my own studio.
There, gentlemen,'--and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says 'There!'"
"And what was the masterpiece behind it?" we ask of Clive, after we have
done laughing at his imitation.
"Hand round the hat, J. J.!" cries Clive. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, pay
your money. Now walk in, for the performance is 'just a-going to begin.'"
Nor would the rogue ever tell us what Gandish's curtained picture was.
Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excellent master, and
regarding all artists save one perhaps a good critic. Clive and his
friend J. J. came soon after and commenced their studies under him. The
one took his humble seat at the drawing-board, a poor mean-looking lad,
with worn clothes, downcast features, and a figure almost deformed; the
other adorned by good health, good looks, and the best of tailors;
ushered into the studio with his father and Mr. Smee as his aides-de-camp
on his entry; and previously announced there with all the eloquence of
honest Gandish. "I bet he's 'ad cake and wine," says one youthful
student, of an epicurean and satirical turn. "I bet he might have it
every day if he liked." In fact Gandish was always handing him sweetmeats
of compliments and cordials of approbation. He had coat-sleeves with silk
linings--he had studs in his shirt. How different was the texture and
colour of that garment, to the sleeves Bob Grimes displayed when he took
his coat off to put on his working jacket! Horses used actually to come
for him to Gandish's door (which was situated in a certain lofty street
in Soho). The Miss G.'s would smile at him from the parlour window as he
mounted and rode splendidly off; and those opposition beauties, the Miss
Levisons, daughters of the professor of dancing over the way, seldom
failed to greet the young gentleman with an admiring ogle from their
great black eyes. Master Clive was pronounced an 'out-and-outer,' a
'swell and no mistake,' and complimented with scarce one dissentient
voice by the simple academy at Gandish's. Besides, he drew very well.
There could be no doubt about that. Caricatures of the students of course
were passing constantly among them, and in revenge for one which a huge
red-haired Scotch student, Mr. Sandy M'Collop, had made of John James,
Clive perpetrated a picture of Sandy which set the whole room in a roar;
and when the Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against the
assembled company, averring that they were a parcel of sneaks, a set of
lick-spittles, and using epithets still more vulgar, Clive slipped off
his fine silk-sleeved coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'Collop into the
back-yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself had acquired
at Grey Friars, and administered two black eyes to Sandy, which prevented
the young artist from seeing for some days after the head of the