LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 334, 8 July 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

♦ A STUDIO PARTY. {From London Society.) CContinved.) ‘Judged by the standard of the late Mr Vandyke, it leaves a good deal to be desired,’ says little bald-pated Max Limner, in his most sarcastic tones, which, by-the-way, being high, slow, quaint, and clear, give all his utterances peculiar character and point; and now, as he refers to the hands in the picture, he urges that ‘ though the colour and execution are good, the drawing is very faulty.’ ‘Perhaps,’ cuts in rosy-faced, portly old Dabbleton, a distinguished amateur; ‘ but colour and execution are worth something, and you seldom or ever find very accurate drawing going with them. ’ ‘ Precisely, ’ cries Limner ; ‘ because, when you do, you find a very great painter; and a very great painter is a very rare being. That is what I intended to imply by my reference to Mr Vandyke, of lamented memory; and I could point to one or two more like him, who have gone from amongst ns—such as certain obscure professors by the names of Velasquez, Holbein, Hogarth, and one Reynolds, familiarly spoken of as Sir Joshua. They had the knack—yes, indeed !’ ‘Ah ! there’s little Max, finding fault as usual, and making odious comparisons,’ whispers a drawling, sauve, handsome, muchdressed gentleman, into Dabbleton’s ear. ‘ Limner is really too hard upon the moderns ; he has said one or two ‘ doosid ’ uncivil things about my Gothic designs at Winterstowe, I can tell you. I know him—a selfish, disappointed little brute,’ adds this eminent architect, as Dabbleton and he throw themselves into a seat, side by side. ‘ Disappointed, certainly,’ replies Dabbleton, ‘but not altogether so selfish as you would think. Now, I put it to you, my friend; there’s Max Limner, hard upon sixty, has remained single all his life ; lives by himself, and to himself; and is called by everybody a selfish old bachelor. Now I put it to you, I say, which of the two is the more selfish, he, or his brother, Ernest, who, at the age of twenty, and being in receipt of some fifty pounds a year, marries a girl without a penny, has ten children, one after another, as fast as he can, and then dies, and leaves Max to take care of the widow and family? Ernest never denied himself the pleasures of matrimony—not a bit of it: he did not allow any selfish thoughts for the future to interfere with his present enjoyment: there was no selfish caution about him ! He must have a home and a family, and anybody may pay for the one, and keep the other. Poor Max is the “anybody;” and he, forsooth, because he cannot afford to marry in the face of such responsibilities, is called a selfish old bachelor! Damme! I have no patience with the world, and its cant on such points. We know nothing of each other —not one of us. Limner seems to you what he seems to many—an unrenowned portrait-painter, and a sayer of hard things; but, after What I have told you, you’ll give him credit for a tender heart as well, I hope; and,’ adds Dabbleton, as he finishes his somewhat oracular discourse, ‘ you must admit that, if he now and then says a severe thing, you never hear him say a stupid one!’ Lounging amidst the throng, these scraps of character and talk crop up, and one is puzzled to know which sense has the prior claim to attention, sight or hearing—for, be it said with all respect, the strangest and most eccentric-looking dogs abound. Clever fellows all as we know; but how one longs that some of them would get their hair cut!

Yonder short, hatchety, pale-faced, thin, dark man lets it grow, lank and dank, almost to his shoulders, adding, in conjunction with the single tuft on his chin, yards in effect to the length of his countenance, as if it were the presentment of the artist as seen in a spoon held upright ! What wonder that the eminent caricaturist Spangarno, the little dark, lively, thick-set man who is observing him so closely, should probably re produce him in a cartoon portrait when the painters of the period are dealt with by the dexterous pencil. Again, yonder tall, broad-faced, snubnosed, rubicund party wears his thick, sandy, dapple-grey hair brushed out all round his head, as if it had just been touzled in a hand-to-hand contest with the hooknosed man he is talking to ; and who, in his turn, appears to be trying to hide the results of the results of the scrimmage which has cost him well-nigh all his locks, by bringing wisps of what is left of them at the back, across to the front, and securing them there by an imperfectly hidden piece of elastic. Once more: that jockey-like little man, red, as the phrase goes, abcut the gills, is marvellous as to hair; for, fitting somewhat close to the sides of his head, it stands bolt upright on the top, suggesting utter defiance of any attempt to put a hat on, and as though its owner’s intention was to add to his stature by the exaltation of his thatch. Each one seems bent on exaggerating his personal characteristics. Thin and narrow men do all they can to make themselves look thinner and narrower; broad, round men spread themselves out sideways by every possible contrivance. The spoon-

portrait simile will apply to each and all, according to whether the domestic instrument be held horizontally or perpendicularly. The ‘curled’ locks are not entirely absent cither, as that handsome, stout, slovenly, velvet-coated old gentleman smoking the long china-bowled German pipe testifies; and (so strangely unconscious are we of there ever being anything peculiar in our pwn habits) he tells you placidly, as he blinks benignantly at the company, that ‘ it’s a sad pity some of these chaps don’t go to the barber !

Old Sam Honeysett seems to be quite oblivious of the fact that Charles-the-First curls, hanging down to the neck, are conspicuous, and do not go well with nineteenth century clothes. His own beard is unkempt and ragged as a crow’s nest; but he will say with the utmost complacency, ‘ Good God ! look at that fellows beard ; it hasn’t had a comb through it for months. Such a pity to be so careless !’ And, truly, in the matter of beards, as in hair, some of your artistic celebrities are open to comment. Being people who are supposed to have an especial eye for the beautiful, and who display the greatest taste in all matters appealing to the sight, it is strange how they occasionally lose no chance of disfiguring their own persons. They will wear the most ill-assorted colours, the worst-made clothes, and of the most unbecoming and unpractical cut, as though there were something derogatory and contemptible in conforming to customs which, if not exaggerated, are at least convenient, and set * the human face and form divine ’ off to some advantage. Strange, too, that the contrasts which such a gathering as this affords do not strike them. Do they not see, for instance, what a far more pleasant exterior is presented (leaving good looks out of the question) by yonder upright, soldierly-looking personage, than by the man he is talking to ? They are both in evening dress, both equally well favoured by nature; but the one just takes decent care of himself, has his hair properly trimmed his garments made to fit him easily, and, if he lounges, lounges like a gentleman; whilst the other evidently cuts his hair himself, if it ever be cut at all, slouches like a ploughboy, and apparently has been dressed by the same bucolic individual’s tailor. In the streets, or in the fields, the contrast would be equally strong, for the wonders in wide-awakes and inappropriate pea-jackets which, now and then, your artist yields to, are astounding. The soldier is not a fop, but the painter looks like a backwoodsman in town for a holiday. Of course we know he is a much cleverer fellow than his companion, who is only an able sketcher as well as warrior. Indeed, the artist is a very eminent man ; but would he be one whit less so if, by the smallest expenditure of care, he avoided this disregard of personal appearance ? He paints pictures full of the most delicate and subtle beauties, showing an intimate knowledge of costume and its appropriate accessories, its colour and its cut; his house is appointed, down to the minutest details, with the rarest regard to the gratification of the eye : why, therefore, in the name of all that is rational, should he not carry out these principles upon his own person, instead of Hying directly in their face by making a veritable guy of himself ? Old Honeysett says, * He looks like a foreman of works,’and that he ‘expects every minute to see him pull a two-foot rule out of the seam pocket of his trousers.’ ‘Peter Dumpher began as a drawingmaster, you know,’ goes on Honeysett, ‘but did not make much hand of it. His dress and manners were against him. The young ladies declared that he never explained anything to them, but just went muddling on with his own sketch for a lesson, without a vord; and, although the mammas and the governesses thought that he behaved very properly, and were not afraid of the girls falling in love with him, they didn’t like the whiffs of tobacco hanging about his beard. Terrible nonsense, that teaching, after all ! I tried it at once, but I found I could only teach the people that could not learn; the clever ones could teach themselves. Terrible lot of humbug in drawing-mastering. The best artists are seldom the best masters; you want a gentlemanly, nice-looking chap with a good address—like Fillian, over there—more than a first-rate painter. Then he’ll make lots of money by teaching. ’ ‘ After all, I am not sure there is greater humbug amongst the drawing-masters than the painters,’ here breaks in little Limner. ‘ A hundred years lienee, hardly one of the present men’s names will be known; and long before that, I believe there will be a great explosion, and the heirs of the people who have given thousands of pounds for modern pictures will find them not worth as many shillings. There’ll be a burst-up, sir ! and very properly: and the only pity is that it won’t leave behind a fatty stench or something to warn the future buyers. A parcel of untrained, inexperienced youngsters, not without talent perhaps, but requiring years for its development, yet vamped up by a few mercenary dealers, and the press, and receiving preposterous prices for their earliest productions, cease to improve from that moment, and Mammon instead of Minerva becomes their idol ever after.’

‘ Talking about me, eh Limner ?’ here interposes a tall, broad-shouldered young giant gentlemanlike and distinguished, and at the same time suggesting one of Alaric’s Goths dressed by Poole. Kindly and cheery is Gerald Bucatma, as his twinkling eye and boisterous yet goodnatured laugh proclaim ; Goth-like only in form and bearing, and with an overwhelming whirlwindish manner, recalling visions of invaded Italy. ‘Well,’ he adds, ‘the dealers don’t do much for me, whatever the press does. I have as fine a collection of my own works as any painter in England. I am the proud possessor of nearly everything I have exhibited during the last seven years ; and I am twenty-seven to day. Never mind ! ha, ha ! they’ll see the error of their ways soon ! Yes, this is my birthday,’ he rattles on, ‘ and look, what I’ve had given to me. I shall wear it, it is just my form.’

Bucauna, who comes of a good family, and is a man of fortune, has, notwithstanding, all his life declared for the artist’s career. He disdains the name of amateur, and works as diligently as if his bread depended on it. He is a great favorite everywhere, and a little knot of friends soon gathers round him to examine a gem of great antiquity, set in a massive gold ring, and which he is flourishing on the forefinger of his large right hand. * What a beautiful thing !’ interrupted Sam Honeysett. ‘ Dear me ! I wish I was only twenty-seven, and then perhaps I should have a present too !’ ‘Ah ! so do I ’ cries little Limner, ‘ for then perhaps I should have a future !’ (2b he continued.)