International Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science, Vol. 1

"Why did I fear him so much?" murmured Lady Lucy to herself. "I ought not to have needed such an assurance as this to throw myself at his feet, and bear even scorn and rebuke, rather than prolong the reign of falsehood and deceit. Yes—yes," and gathering a heap of papers in her hand with the "love-letter" beneath, she descended the stairs.

There is no denying that Lady Lucy paused at the library door—no denying that her heart beat quickly, and her breath seemed well-nigh spent; but she was right to act on the good impulse, and not wait until the new-born courage should sink.

Mr. Ferrars had finished the newspaper, and was writing an unimportant note; his back was to the door, and hearing the rustle of his wife's dress, and knowing her step, he did not turn his head sufficiently to observe her countenance, but he said, good-humoredly,

"At last! What have you been about? I thought we were to go out before luncheon to look at the bracelet I mentioned to you."

"No, Walter—no bracelet—you must never give me any jewels again;" and as Lady Lucy spoke she leaned against a chair for support. At such words her husband turned quickly round, started up, and exclaimed.

"Lucy, my love!—in tears—what has happened?" and, finding that even when he wound his arm around her she was still mute, he continued, "Speak—this silence breaks my heart—what have I done to lose your confidence?"

"Not you—I—" gasped the wife. "Your words at breakfast—this letter—have rolled the stone from my heart—I must confess—the truth—I am like Mrs. Beaufort—in debt—frightfully in debt." And with a gesture, as if she would crush herself into the earth, she slipped from his arms and sank literally on the floor.

Whatever pang Mr. Ferrars felt at the knowledge of her fault, it seemed Overpowered by the sense of her present anguish—an anguish that proved how bitter had been the expiation; and he lifted his wife to the sofa, bent over her with fondness, called her by all the dear pet names to which her ear was accustomed, and nearer twenty times than once gave her the "kiss of forgiveness."

"And it is of you I have been frightened!" cried Lady Lucy, clinging to his hand. "You who I thought would never make any excuses for faults you yourself could not have committed!"

"I have never been tempted."

"Have I? I dare not say so."

"Tell me how it all came about," said Mr. Farrars, drawing her to him; "tell me from the beginning."

But his gentleness unnerved her—she felt choking—loosened the collar of her dress for breathing space-and gave him the knowledge he asked in broken exclamations.

"Before I was married—it—began. They persuaded me so many—oh, so many—unnecessary things—were—needed. Then they would not send the bills—and I—for a long time—never knew—what I owed—and then—and then—I thought I should have the power—but—"

"Your allowance was not sufficient?" asked Mr. Ferrars, pressing her hand as he spoke.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! most generous, and yet it was always forestalled to pay old bills: and then—and then my wants were so many. I was so weak. Madame Dalmas has had dresses I could have worn when I had new ones on credit instead, and—and Harris has had double wages to compensate for what a lady's maid thinks her perquisites; even articles I might have given to poor gentlewomen I have been mean enough to sell. Oh, Walter! I have been very wrong; but I have been miserable for at least three years. I felt as if an iron cage were rising around me,—from which you only could free me—and yet, till to-day, I think I could have died rather than confess to you."

"My poor girl! Why should you have feared me? Have I ever been harsh?"

"Oh, no!—no—but you are so just—so strict in all these things—"

"I hope I am; and yet not the less do I understand how all this has come about. Now, Lucy,—now that you have ceased to fear me—tell me the amount."

She strove to speak, but could not.

"Three figures or four? tell me."

"I am afraid—yes, I am afraid four," murmured Lady Lucy, and hiding her face from his view; "yes, four figures, and my quarter received last week gone every penny."

"Lucy, every bill shall be paid this day; but you must reward me by being happy."

"Generous! dearest! But, Walter, if you had been a poor man, what then?"

"Ah, Lucy, that would have been a very different and an infinitely sadder story. Instead of the relinquishment of some indulgence hardly to be missed, there might have been ruin, and poverty, and disgrace. You have one excuse,—at least you knew that I could pay at last."

"Ah, but at what a price! The price of your love and confidence."

"No, Lucy—for your confession has been voluntary; and I will not ask myself what I should have felt had the knowledge come from another. After all, you have fallen to a temptation which besets the wives of the rich far more than those of poor or struggling gentlemen. Tradespeople are shrewd enough in one respect—they do not press their commodities and long credit in quarters where ultimate payment seems doubtful—though—"

"They care not what domestic misery they create among the rich."

"Stay: there are faults on both sides, not the least of them being that girls in your station are too rarely taught the value of money, or that integrity in money matters should be to them a point of honor second only to one other. Now listen, my darling, before we dismiss this painful subject forever. You have the greatest confidence in your maid, and entre nous she must be a good deal in the secret. We shall bribe her to discretion, however, by dismissing Madame Dalmas at once and forever. As soon as you can spare Harris, I will send her to change a check at Coutts', and then, for expedition and security, she shall take on the brougham and make a round to these tradespeople. Meanwhile, I will drive you in the phaeton to look at the bracelet."

"Oh, no-no, dear Walter, not the bracelet."

"Yes—yes—I say yes. Though not a quarrel, this is a sorrow which has come between us, and there must be a peace-offering. Besides I would not have you think that you had reached the limits of my will, and of my means to gratify you."

"To think that I could have doubted—that I could have feared you!" sobbed Lady Lucy, as tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. "But, Walter, it is not every husband who would have shown such generosity."

"I think there are few husbands, Lucy, who do not estimate truth and candor as among the chief of conjugal virtues:—ah, had you confided in me when first you felt the bondage of debt, how much anguish would have been spared you!"

* * * * *

JONES ON CHANTREY.22

The criticisms of Literature in the London Times are as clever in their way as the other articles of that famous journal. It keeps a critic of the Poe school for pretenders, and the following review of a recent life of Chantrey the sculptor is in his vein. It embodies a just estimate of the artist.

A good life of Chantrey would be a welcome and a serviceable contribution to the general store. Chantrey was a national sculptor in the sense that Burns was a national poet. His genius, of the highest order, indicated throughout his career the nature of the soil in which it had been cherished. As man and artist he was essentially British. By his own unassisted strength he rose from the ranks, and achieved the highest eminence by the simplest and most legitimate means. His triumph is at once a proof of his power, and an answer to all who, instead of putting shoulder to the wheel, console their mediocrity by railing against the cold exclusiveness of aristocratic institutions.

Chantrey began life in a workshop. A friend, toward the close of the artist's life, passing through his studio, was struck by a head of Milton's Satan lying in a corner. "That head," said Chantrey to his visitor, "was the very first thing that I did after I came to London. I worked at it in a garret, with a paper cap on my head, and, as I could then afford only one candle, I stuck that one in my cap that it might move along with me, and give me light whichever way I turned." A still severer school of discipline had, previously to his appearance in the London garret, given his mind the practical turn chiefly characteristic of his life and works. He was born in 1782, at Norton, in Derbyshire, and when eight years old lost his father. His mother married again, and in 1798 proposed to apprentice him to a solicitor in Sheffield. Whilst walking through that town the boy saw some wood carving in a shop window. His good angel was with him at the moment, and stood his friend. Chantrey begged to be made a carver, and he was accordingly apprenticed to a Mr. Ramsay, a wood carver in Sheffield.

At the house of his master the apprentice often met Mr. Raphael Smith, known for his admirable crayon drawings. The acquaintance led to a more refined appreciation of art, and excited in the youth so strong a desire to cultivate it in a higher sphere, that at the age of 21 he gave to his master the whole of his wealth, amounting to £50, to cancel his indentures. Had he waited patiently for six months longer, his liberty would have been his own, unbought. Leaving the carver's shop Chantrey began to study in earnest. He painted a few portraits, which brought him in a little money, and, with a little more borrowed from his friends, he started for London. Here, guided by common sense, he sought employment as an assistant carver. He might have starved had he started as a professional painter.

Whilst laboring for subsistence Chantrey still used his brush, and also laid the foundation of his coming success by making models in clay of the human figure. He would hang, says his present biographer, pieces of drapery on these models, "that he might get a perfect knowledge of the way, and the best way, that it should be represented. In this manner he was accustomed to work, and when he had completed one figure or mass of drapery he pulled it down and began to model another from drapery differently arranged; for at that time he never did anything without nature or the material being before him." In 1808 Chantrey's first imaginative work was exhibited. We have already mentioned it. It was the head of Satan produced in the garret.

For eight years, according to Chantrey himself, he did not gain £5 by his modeling. A fortunate commission, however—the bust of Horne Tooke—finally obtained for him other commissions, amounting altogether To £12,000. In 1811 "he married his cousin Miss Wale; with this lady he received £10,000; this money enabled him to pay off some debts he had contracted, to purchase a house and ground, on which he built two houses, a studio and offices, and also to buy marble to proceed in the career he had begun." In 1812 he executed for the city of London a statue in marble of George III., placed in the council-chamber of Guildhall, and in 1817 he produced the exquisite monument—not to be surpassed for tenderness of sentiment and poetic beauty—of the two children whose death this piece of sculpture now commemorates in Lichfield cathedral. With this achievement the race was won. In 1818 he was elected an associate of the Royal Academy, and as soon after as the practice of the Academy admitted he was elevated to the rank of Academican.

From this period until his death, in 1841, the career of the sculptor was a series of noble and well rewarded efforts. He amassed a fortune, which at his death he bequeathed to the Royal Academy for the promotion of British art. He was a favored subject of three successive Sovereigns, and the friend and companion of the most illustrious among his contemporaries. His death was somewhat singular. For two years he had been in a declining state of health, but his condition had given his friends no immediate alarm. On the 22d of November he wrote to Sir Charles Clarke, from Norwich, expressing his intention to go to town on the following day, and announcing an invitation to Audley-end, which he had accepted for the 8th of the following month. On Thursday, the 25th of November, a friend called at his house in London, between 5 and 6 o'clock, and was pressed to dine. As he could not do so, Chantrey accompanied his visitor on his way home as far as Buckingham Palace, complaining on the way of a slight pain in the stomach, but at the same time receiving his friend's condolences with jokes and laughter. The clock struck 7 when the friends shook hands and parted. At 9 Chantrey was dead.

Let us regard Chantrey from what point we may, the features that present themselves to the observer bear the same unmistakable stamp. As sculptor and as man, at home or abroad, in his serious recreations or pleasurable pursuits, in his temper and social bearing, Francis Chantrey was a thorough Englishman. Heaven endowed him with genius, and his sound sense enabled him to take the precious gift as a blessing. Sheffield, that reared him, had no cause to be uneasy on his account; the prudence and shrewdness of the North were admirably mingled with the aesthetic qualities of the South. In the pocketbook which accompanied the sculptor on his Italian tour, notes were found referring to the objects of art visited on the way, and in the same tablet were accurate accounts of expenditure and the current prices of marble. Avoiding as much as possible the treatment of purely poetical subjects, Chantrey by the force of simplicity idealized the most ordinary topics. He shrank from allegory by a natural instinct, yet his plain unadorned forms have the elevation and charm of a figurative discourse. "Chantrey," says Mr. Jones.

"Cast aside every extrinsic recommendation, and depended entirely on form and effect. He took the greatest care that his shadows should tell boldly and in masses. He was cautious in introducing them, and always reduced them as much as might be compatible with the complete development of the figure. He never introduced a fold that could be dispensed with, rarely deviated from long lines, and avoided abrupt foldings. His dislike to ornament in sculpture was extreme."

In architecture he liked it no better. Superfluous embellishment in this branch of art he held to be either concealment of inability or a development of puerile taste. Fine buildings, he asserted, must still be fine, if divested of every ornament and left altogether bare. Apparent artlessness is the consummation of art. The busts of Chantrey bear immortal testimony to the fact.

The manly and courageous view which Chantrey took of his duties as an artist sustained him in every attempt he made to impress that view upon his works. He is described as "shrinking from no difficulty," as being "deterred by no embarrassment that labor, assiduity, and good sense could surmount." His independence was as great as his energy, and both smacked of the Saxon blood in his veins. The manner of the sculptor was rough and unceremonious, but he exhibited as little coarseness in his demeanor as in the massive figures of his chisel, which might offend some by their heaviness, but which gratified all by their undoubted grandeur and dignity. The quiet yet splendid generosity of Chantrey was equally characteristic of his country. He assisted the needy largely and unobtrusively. Instances of his bounty are on record which would do honor to the wealthiest patron of art. How much more luster do they shed upon the indefatigable day-laborer? If we follow the sculptor from his studio to the open fields, he is still national to the backbone. He escapes from London to pass days with his rod at the river side, or to walk with his gun on his arm "from 10 o'clock until half-past 4 without feeling the least fatigue." Yesterday he killed two salmon in the Conway, at Llanrwst, and to-day he kills "28 hares, 8 pheasants, 4 partridges—total, 40 head, all from my own gun." Visit him at home and e is the prince of hospitality. His dinners are of the best, and he is never happier than when presiding at them. Like an Englishman, he was proud of the illustrious society his success enabled him to summon around him, and, like an Englishman too, he had greater pride still in dwelling upon the humbleness of his origin, and in recounting the history of his difficult journey from struggling obscurity to worldwide renown.

Now, what we contend for is—without presuming ourselves to attempt anything like a worthy portraiture of Francis Chantrey—that here, ready-made to the hand of any man competent to the task of illustrating a life full of instruction for the rising brotherhood of art, is a subject which it behooved the Royal institution that has so largely profited by Chantrey's liberality and fame, not to neglect, much less throw away. The book which we have taken for the foundation of this notice, written by a Royal Academician, is a disgrace to the Royal Academy. Is then, we ask, no single member of that gifted body competent to say a word or two in plain English for the departed sculptor, that such a melancholy exhibition of helplessness must needs be sent forth as a tribute from excellence to excellence? The life of Chantrey properly written could not but prove of the utmost value to Englishmen, and simply because it is the career of a man attaining the highest distinction by means thoroughly understood by his countrymen, and by the exercise of an intellect at all times under the salutary influence of a wholesale national bias. Jones on Chantrey is Jenkins on Milton; the poet of Moses and Son upon the Inferno of Dante—the ridiculous limping after the sublime.

The great aim of Mr. George Jones, R.A., in his present undertaking, seems to have been to exhibit his own vast erudition and his great command of the hard words of his native tongue. Indeed, he quotes so much Greek and Latin, and talks so finely, that it is only to be regretted that he does not now and then come down from his stilts in order to gratify himself with a little intelligible English and his readers with some homely grammar. It will be our painful duty to submit to the reader's notice a specimen or two of Mr. Jones' peculiar style, which, together with the profound simplicity of his original remarks, make up as curious a production as it has ever fallen to our lot to read and to criticise.

When our old friend, M. Soyer, declared his conviction that "to die is a religious duty which every human being owes to his Creator," and that when the parents of a family are suddenly cut off, the unfortunate event "not only affects the children personally, but their future generations, by destroying all the social comfort which generally exists in such families, and probably would cause misery to exist instead of happiness," it occurred to us that sterner truisms in more naked guise it would be difficult to produce. We had not then read Jones. His self-evident propositions are perfectly astounding. Here are a few of them.

"Chantrey believed that the mind and morals are improved by the contemplation of beautiful objects." Who could have supposed it? "Chantrey was convinced that variety in building, if under the guidance of good sense and propriety, tends much to the beauty of a country." Is it possible? "Chantrey believed that all which has been done may be exceeded when genius and ability are equal to the task, for as Raphael has surpassed the lay-figure art of most of his predecessors, so no reason exists why Raphael should not be surpassed." Had he never spoken again, this idea would have procured him a niche next to Francis Bacon. The sculptor actually believed that even the glories of the past may be outdone when there are genius and ability enough in the world to surpass them! Will Mr. Jones favor us with the day and precise moment at which this wonderful conception entered the great sculptor's mind? We should like to record it. "Chantrey felt that the blind adoration of right and wrong was likely to mislead the public." We really think we have heard the remark before. "Chantrey referred every object to the Creator of all, and admired without limit the works of the Great Artificer, from the smallest leaf to the noblest production, and in his mundane calling aimed at an imitation of that excellence of beauty which nature has displayed." There is nothing like getting at the idiosyncrasies of the famous. Since Chantrey, according to Jones, has set the example of referring creation to a creator, and of studying nature when be wished to imitate her, we can only trust that the practice may henceforward be universally adopted. Chantrey was of opinion—no, we mistake, this is Jones' own—Jones is of opinion that "although the literary education of artists ought to be as extensive as possible, yet they may sometimes require the assistance of those whose opportunities and abilities have enabled them to make a deeper research." Finely said. Jones is a case in point. We do not know the extent of his literary education, but whatever it be, the assistance of Lindley Murray would, we are certain, be of infinite service to him at this moment.

We forget how many thousands of pounds, poor Chantrey left to the Royal Academy. Jones never tires of lauding the Academy by referring to the munificent bequests; yet this, we repeat, is the return made by that favored institution, in the person of one of its chief members, to the no less distinguished and generous donor. The life of Chantrey would not have been difficult in the hands of a moderately informed artist. "Dear Jones, we wanted a man of taste (d—n taste), we mean judgment," and your professed regard for your friend should not have rested content until it had found one.

* * * * *

SONG

BY R. H. STODDARD  I've left my native home afar,    Beyond the dark blue main;  And many a mouth may come and go    Ere I return again:  But months and years must come and go    As rolling waves depart,  Ere I forget to give you all    A home within my heart!  I come to you as swallows come,    Across the stormy foam;  My chief delight in alien lands,    To sing my songs of home:  Nor will I once regret my home    And all the sea that parts,  If you will only give me now    A home within your hearts!* * * * *[From the Athenaeum.]

VIRGINIA TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.23

This is a suggestive book, with its prophetic motto,—its dedication to Lord Bacon, the fit patron of discoverers,—and its curious map, "described by Captayn John Smith," adorned with ships, and huge whales, and all the land so closely dotted over with tall trees and molehill-sized mountains, and here and there the mark of an Indian settlement just visible. Worthy William Strachey, Gent., what would be his surprise to look over a map of Virginia Britannia,-that "ample tract of land" with "sufficient space and ground enough to satisfie the most covetous,"—in the year 1850; and to mark the teeming and busy population, the steamboats that navigate the "five faire and delightfull navigable rivers" within the Chesapeake Bay, the railroads that intersect the whole country and the vast human tide still pouring westward? "This shall be written for the generation to come," is his motto; and interesting it is to the reader to follow him in his narrative of the toils and privations of the good company to which he was secretary, and in his full and minute account of the produce of the country, and its strange inhabitants. Who William Strachey was, Mr. Major, notwithstanding all his diligence, has not been able to ascertain. In his dedication to Lord Bacon, he describes himself as having been "one of the Graies-Inne Societe," and his narrative affords ample proof of his being a man of learning and worth: but of his family, the date of his birth or of his death, we have no record.

The earlier attempts to colonize North America were numerous, but all unfavorable. "Divers voyages" were made thither from the year 1578 to the close of the reign of Elizabeth, but without success; nor were the first adventurers in the reign of her successor more fortunate.

"At the time of the death of Queen Elizabeth, one hundred and eleven years subsequent to the great discovery of the Western World by Columbus, the Spaniards, on whose behalf his discovery had been made, were the sole permanent settlers in this wide and wealthy continent. In 1606, the French began to make settlements in Canada and Acadie, now Nova Scotia, but it was not till 1607 that the enterprise, which was finally destined to lay the foundation of British occupancy of American soil, was undertaken. Twenty-three years had expired since the patent has been granted to Sir Walter Raleigh to discover and take possession, with little less than royal privileges, of remote heathen and barbarous lands, hitherto not actually possessed by any Christian prince; and yet not an acre of American soil had hitherto become the property of the English….. It was shortly after this period, viz., A° 1605-6, that Richard Hakluyt, the 'presidium et dulce decus' of our Society, to whom, as Robertson justly remarks, 'England is more indebted for its American possessions than to any man of that age,' used influential arguments with various gentlemen of condition, to induce them to present a petition to King James to grant them patents for the settlement of two plantations on the coast of North America. This petition issued in the concession of a charter, bearing date the 10th of April 1606, by which the tract of country lying between the thirty-forth and forty-fifth degrees of latitude was to be divided into nearly equal portions, between two companies; that occupying the southern portion to be called the first colony (subsequently named the London Company), and that occupying the northern, to be called the second colony (subsequently named the Plymouth Company). The patent also vested in each colony a right of property over fifty miles of the land, extending along the coast each side of the point of first occupation, and a hundred miles inland. The chief adventurers in the London or South Virginian Company, with which as the first settlement we now have principally to do, were Sir Thomas Gates, Sir George Somers, Richard Hakluyt, and Edward Maria Wingfield. The command of the expedition was committed to Captain Newport."