we might be more at our ease-for I vow this is no less than the third time that I have been interrupted in my listening by the necessity of feeing this Porter. -With all my heart! rejoined the Painter-come to my studio whenever it shall be convenient for you-and so saying he gave me his card. And here the Conductor shouted "New York!" and La Fleur seized my gripsack, exclaiming : "Forty minutes late!" -Upon my word, said I to myself, if I am but forty minutes late, and not thrice forty years, I am much mistaken! NEW YORK. The Opéra Comique. -I am in the mood, said I to the Clerk at my hotel, to see a play.-Kajoola, said he, is your affair.-Tis an opéra comique, with the best of music, and you shall see the prettiest women in New York. -Tant mieux! said I-I would not paint the lily-yet I vow there is a sweet concomitancy between a pretty face and a pretty tune, and no song was ever the less sweet for coming from rosy lips.I bet you, he said. 'Tis not a matter for a wager, quoth I. -Following the Clerk's directions, I found myself seated in a vast theatrewhich for its marble stairs and its gilt walls-might, I thought, have called itself a palace. The musicians were playing the ouverture as I came in. -Presently the curtain rose-and O Pudour! O Native modesty!-O ye gentle Nymphs of Diana, ye who once cast the shield of your own loveliness between Acteon and your Mistress!-I dare say Acteon scarce noted the difference-shall I tell you what I saw ? -Just heavens!-I blush while I write it some thirty hussies marched on the Stage-clad-shall I thus abuse thee, thou good old English participle? -clad, then, in silks and velvets-but as tight and close to their forms as if each were a harlequin or an acrobat! -What is this? said I to the spectator next me.-'Tis the Pages' Chorus, answer'd he. But wait until you shall see them as the Amazons!--I had no mind to wait-I went incontinently out -The man at the door would have stopp'd me-Return check? quoth he.Nay, friend, said I—I have had my check, and am even now de retour.-He look'd at me as if I were a lunatick. --Now I hold that a pretty woman is worth all the other pretty things in this world-So I cannot bear to see this Temple of human Beauty so degraded, and profaned.-I had as lief put breeches on the Venus de Medicis—and make a trollop of her in a twinkling. -The essence of beauty, said I to the Doorkeeper-is the fillip it gives to the imagination-and no woman is so fair as our fancy of her. I love a trim waist-but it must be in a neat bodice -a graceful. . . . walk-but 'tis best revealed in the undulations of a petticoat that is neither prudish nor trop coquet-a glove may be the most seductive thing in the world, if it go but to the elbow-or make but a discreet sally up a white arm-but to stretch the suitability of a glove to all imaginable purposesto dress a woman as you bind a bookas an upholsterer covers a chair-——'tis a foul profanation, said I.-Do you know where you live? asked the Doorkeeper. -In Castaly, said I.-I have never been there, said the Doorkeeper. NEW YORK. THE STUDIO. -Why should I-I said to myselfcondemn one art because another has displeased me ?-As well say that all medicine is quackery, because I have had an encounter with a Veterinary.-And with this thought in my mind, I set forth to visit the Painter.-His atelier-for so I found 'twas call'd-was in a vast building, which many others of his craft inhabited in common-To what end?— thought I-Now, were the Patrons of art thus hived, 'twere easy to step in and pick your patron.-But this assembling in competition of the patroniz'd has to me an air pas trop comme-il-faut. -I found my Painter hous'd in a mighty fine place. But in the furnishing of it he must have counted on a prodigious floor-and clean forgot the other five plane spaces-for he had so many rugs that he had been forced to hang them on his walls and indeed, upon his lounges and his chairs-'twas a miracle, if a Turk had known where to sit crosslegged. -But why babble I of rugs, when the fairest Model in the world stood, beautifying a Grecian dress-in a shrineor so I conceiv'd it at the end of the room ?—it was at the OTHER end.-I reflected on the way that Life presents us her chances. -I am glad to see you, said the Painter. -I am glad to see-said I. -Mademoiselle Didon-said he, presenting me-but I'll be hang'd if your name have not escaped me.-Monsieur Alors, said I. -Je ne vous sçavois pas françois-I did not take you for a Frenchman, he said. -Parfois, I answer'd; now and thenbut 'tis at most a case of cœlum non animum-he look'd surly-my Latin was too much for him.-You will not mind if I paint while we talk, he said-Mademoiselle, you have lost your pose! -Now I will engage that Mademoiselle had not lost her. pose for whatever pose she took, 'twas lovely to look upon.-But it was true, that the gesture he had set her, she had as clean lost on my appearance, as I had lost my nationality. -Now she essay'd to slip back into her proper posture-She stood poised in an attitude of indication, as who should say -voilà―see there.--Quoi ?—I do not know; but it was pretty to think that there was something there that interested her. I stepp'd forward, and supported her outstretch'd index finger with my own.-Mademoiselle is fatigued, said I.-With pointing at nothing, Monsieur, said she.—C'est une haute distinction, said I. -Your picture-I address'd myself to the Painter, has no doubt some famous classical subject-Hero perceiving Leander's head emerging from the waves-ou bien Lydia s'apercevant d'HORACE or Lucretia -Subject -he cried-do you think I a This is a Composition, says he.— "Tis a question of lines and harmony.A composition, in fact-is. composition. And what does that mean? quoth L-It means nothing, said he. If it meant anything, it would not be art.--I have heard much the same thing said of Poetry, I repliedbut I had no thought that the rule was of such general application.-Is it also true in selling of breeches and stockings? -Je vous ferois observer,-I would have you observe said the Painter, -that 'tis but the tip of Mademoiselle Didon's finger that you are required to support.-You would make me a niggard, said I.--But here there came a timid knock-and the Painter went to the door. For better convenience in talking to the person outside-he put the door between himself and-us.-I declare and protest-it was a delicate situation. -For there stood I, with the tip of my finger lifting the tip of the Model's finger-or, if it was not the precise geometrical tip of her finger-let him who would take a foot-rule to VENUS appraise the extent of my transgression-I say I supported the tip of her finger-. I knew an epicure, once-would carve a fowl and save himself the second jointhe was twice wedded;-but 'tis to no purpose here-but I must tell you that there ran such a strange current of lively emotion-such strange tingling and agreeable disturbance-from my heart to the tip of my finger, where it met another current so like it I dare swear they were twins-and thence set backthat first the model look'd to the right THE STUDIO. -and I to the left-and then I look'd to the right and she to the left--and then, in the natural ordinance of alternation-our eyes met--and at this juncture, as I have said, the Painter put himself behind the door. THE STUDIO. THE DOOR. -Now there are many things that may happen in the time that a man is behind a door.-In the giving out of mouths, for example, many a man would have had a smaller one had he had an inch or two of oak between him and the distributing genius.-Had Aladdin been behind the door when the Princess Badroulbadour passed for the first time might he not have made some honest wench of his own degree a happy wife instead of obtruding his peasantry upon a princess of high degree ?-Or had CASSIO been behind the door when OTHELLO treated his lady to such bad language and affronted her pretty neck with his blackamoor hands-might he not have rush'd in and cast OTHELLO neck and heels out of windowand thereby vindicated the honor of a very chaste and excellent lady? -But on this occasion-I had no need to reason so abstractly-for the Painter only bade a little boy begone who had come to offer himself for a model-and came back to us.-The pose is easy to resume, I said. 'Tis needless, said he—I have drawn the arm. For the rest, your aid is not necessary.-Bonjour, Mademoiselle, I said. I hope, sir-I may be accorded some further lessons in art.-Do you need them? he asked-I am but a novice, said I.—It was as if the atmosphere had grown suddenly chill.-I bowed profoundly-perhaps my bow inclined a little toward the model-I quitted the Studio. THE CORRIDOR. -The long corridor that led to the street was dark-I pick'd my way carefully. Of a sudden I heard a faint sound of sobbing-my heart moved within me.-Who is it?-I said. -"Tis only I, sir-said the Boy. -It was the Boy, I saw, that the Painter had turn'd away so abruptly-he was crouch'd in a corner, crying as if his heart would break.-'Tis only I, he said. Il avoit des larmes dans sa voix.'Tis only I, said I, for the most of us in this world. He alone is happy who hath another to whom he is as he is to himself.-And what is thy trouble?— — Thereupon he told me that the Painter had engaged him for that day-but that, being come, he found a better model had offer'd-she was preferredand there was no employment for him though, as he pathetically told me, he was but two shillings an hour, while she was-at the least-a dollar.And with that, his tears overcame him and NIOBE, seeing him, would I am convinced-have hid her mouchoir out of sight-and blush'd for it's lace edging. -When it is a question of pretty ladies, said he-'tis little they think of the children. -Thou art a young philosopher, said I-but thy philosophy will serve thee better when thou art older.-And I gave him a silver piece of the worth of two shillings.-It was a foolish thing— God grant my wisdom be no matter than my foolishness. thanked me not at all; but ran off singing-'twas a sort of thanks. worse He -But while I had been talking with the Boy, the night had been coming on rapidly--without my observing of it. There was but little light left in the corridor-when I heard sound as of steps approaching 'tis time. to go home, said I-and then, looking up-I perceiv'd —— THERE was a story in the newspapers the other day about a Massachusetts minister who resigned his charge because someone had given his parish a fine house, and his parishioners wanted him to live in it. His salary was too small, he said, to admit of his living in a big house, and he would not do it. He was even deaf to the proposal that he should share the proposed tenement with the sewing societies and clubs of his church, and when the matter came to a serious issue, he relinquished his charge and sought a new field of usefulness. The situation was an amusing instance of the embarrassment of riches. Let no one to whom restricted quarters may have grown irksome, and who covets larger dimensions of shelter, be too hasty in deciding that the minister was wrong. Did you ever see the house that Hawthorne lived in at Lenox? Did you ever see Emerson's house at Concord? They are good houses for Americans to know and remember. They permitted thought. A big house is one of the greediest cormorants which can light upon a little income. Backs may go threadbare and stomachs may worry along on indifferent fillings, but a house will have things, though its occupants go without. It is rarely complete, and constantly tempts the imagination to flights in brick and dreams in lath and plaster. It develops annual thirsts for paint and wall-paper; the plumbing in it must be kept in order on pain of death. Whatever price is put on coal, it has to be heated in winter; and if it is rural or suburVOL. VIII.-25 ban, the grass about it must be cut even though funerals in the family have to be put off for the mowing. If the tenants are not rich enough to hire people to keep their house clean, they must do it themselves, for there is no excuse that will pass among housekeepers for a dirty house. The master of a house too big for him may expect to spend the leisure which might be made intellectually or spiritually profitable in acquiring and putting into practice fag ends of the arts of the plumber, the bell-hanger, the locksmith, the gasfitter, and the carpenter. Presently he will know how to do everything that can be done in the house, except enjoy himself. He will learn about taxes, too, and water-rates, and how such abominations as sewers or new pavements are always liable to accrue at his expense. As for the mistress, she will be a slave to carpets and curtains, wall-paper, painters and women who come in by the day to clean. She will be lucky if she gets a chance to say her prayers, and thrice and four times happy when she can read a book or visit with her friends. To live in a big house may be a luxury, provided that one has a full set of money and an enthusiastic housekeeper in one's family, but to scrimp in a big house is a miserable business. Yet such is human folly, that for a man to refuse to live in a house because it is too big for him, is such an exceptional exhibition of sense that it becomes the favorite paragraph of a day in the newspapers. An ideal of earthly comfort, so common that every reader must have seen it, is to get a house so big that it is burdensome to maintain, and fill it up so full of jimcracks that it is a constant occupation to keep it in order. Then, when the expense of living in it is so great that you can't afford to go away and rest from the burden of it, the situation is complete and boarding-houses and cemeteries begin to yawn for you. How many Americans, do you suppose, out of the droves that flock annually to Europe, are running away from oppressive houses? When nature undertakes to provide a house, it fits the occupant. Animals who build by instinct build only what they need, but man's building instinct, if it gets a chance to spread itself at all, is boundless, just as all his instincts are. For it is man's peculiarity that nature has filled him with impulses to do things, and left it to his discretion when to stop. She never tells him when he has finished. And perhaps we ought not to be surprised that in so many cases it happens that he doesn't know, but just goes ahead as long as the materials last. If another man tries to oppress him, he understands that and is ready to fight to death and sacrifice all he has, rather than submit; but the tyranny of things is so subtle, so gradual in its approach, and comes so masked with seeming benefits, that it has him hopelessly bound before he suspects his fetters. He says from day to day, "I will add thus to my house; " "I will have one or two more horses; ""I will make a little greenhouse in my garden;" "I will allow myself the luxury of another hired man;" and so he goes on having things and imagining that he is richer for them. Presently he begins to realize that it is the things that own him. He has piled them up on his shoulders, and there they sit like Sindbad's old Man and drive him; and it becomes a daily question whether he can keep his trembling legs or not. All of which is not meant to prove that property has no real value, or to rebut Charles Lamb's scornful denial that enough is as good as a feast. It is not meant to apply to the rich, who can have things comfortably, if they are philosophical; but to us poor, who have constant need to remind ourselves that where the verbs to have and to be cannot both be completely inflected the verb to be is the one that best repays concentration. NOTHING can be more significant to anyone who considers criticism from the utilitarian point of view, than the silent swiftness with which any art outgrows its current definitions. A striking illustration is the way in which the pertinence and value of the still copious talk about the conflict between realism and romanticism in the art of fiction have, so to speak, lapsed. This talk still fills the air, though the echoes it awakens grow sensibly fainter and fainter, whereas fiction itself has ceased to divide on these lines. There is still, of course, as there always has been and always will be, the old contrast of temperaments; as in other departments of literature and the fine arts, the novelist's work is inevitably colored by the view of his material which, instinctively, he takes. But the most ardent controversialist would not maintain that this temperamental difference in virtue of which one writer treats his material scientifically and another imaginatively-is the difference between realism and romanticism as these terms are used. Realism, as actually and universally understood, has the field all to itself; it is an evolution; it justifies itself historically, and has "come to stay." In a word, the painting of life and the world, of character and manners, is nowadays artistically conscientious — as a few years back it had not thought of being in avoiding solecisms. This is the feeling of the time; no novelist escapes it save at the expense of a barren eccentricity. Living in our day, Shakespeare would certainly not give his Roman soldiers watches, nor would a new "Ivanhoe" have an "historical error on every page." And, in the same degree, to counsel novelists to be observant, to eschew romantic idealization, to examine the nature and follow the suggestion of their material, is now merely to beat the air. No literary artist of even the second rank does otherwise. On the other hand, if the present devotion to what is called truth -as conspicuous in painting and sculpture as in literature-be as hostile to imaginativeness as the romanticists assert, it is not by "harking back" along the line of evolution that imaginativeness is to be secured. |