LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2691, 22 November 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE STORY OF SAMBO. It is pleasing to consider that this is, on the -whole, a just world —a world of tit for tat and give and take —wherein we claim a right to possess ourselves of an eye for an eye or a tooth for a tooth, to give carte for tierce and kick for slap, and generally to ‘ hold our own ’ in a proper and independent sort of way. It is a humble and meek, if occasionally soaring, figure painter, in whose mouth butter would decline to molt, that is moralising in this manner —one who, curiously enough, is given to theorise about things in a bellicose and aggressive fashion, of which you would not deem him capable ; hut who, if driven into a corner, with no policeman hy, would no doubt accept, with a feeble and sickly smile of deprecation, as many thumps as you thought fit to give him, without the smallest effort to retaliate. Well, yoii see, there must ho people like that, mustn’t there ? I’m not above being taught hy anyone ; would thankfully receive a lesson from the dustman, or accept with bowed bead a bint from the crossing-sweeper. There’s no false pride about mo. Even dumb quadrupeds and fishes can teach us something often, and provide us with pabulum for instructive meditation. There’s my raven now. He’s only a biped, hut, my, what a clever bird. Think, indeed ! he’s a mine of thought, with a clear and wholesome notion, such as does him credit, of returning a Roland for an Oliver. This sable fowl of mine (christened Sambo hy affectionate god-parents), is after the fashion of his bettors, given to likes and dislikes. For some reason of his own —no doubt an excellent one —he took a violent antipathy to Sophonisha. Who’s Sophonisba ? Great powers ! How ignorant people are who make a parade of appearing well-informed ! Sophonisha was my favorite model. She and I were the best of friends. She was the flint and I the steel. Together wo were wonderfully brilliant. If an idea came into my head I had hut to hint it to Sophonisha in the abstract, and there it was pourtrayed in action —concreted. ‘The Massacre of the Innocents,’ for instance. Mother wailing over child with throat cut. Distracted parent picking up the pieces. Bless you, there it was —Sophonisha’s hair was down in no time ; her spinal oord all of a quiver with maternal frenzy ; her eyes glared out of their sockets till your blood ran cold to look at ’em, while her fingers were tight clenched and her teeth set. Talk of Delacroix and his Medea. Pooh, sir ! Fudge ! If I had only painted all the grand historical works which Sophonisha and I planned together, my fortune and reputation would have been made long since ; hut somehow or other we occupied so much time in the discussion of this attitude and that motive of drapery, that the day was past and Sophonisba exhausted before I could get to work, and somehow or other tbe said chefs d’anivres never grew into more tangible form than Sopbonisba’s suggestive poses. "Whilst wo were arguing and wrangling over our subject that blessed bird used to sit with his head on one side and a white film over his eyes, watching ns ; and I verily believe that he was convinced he could do it all better far than we did, for he used to give a contemptuous croak after a while, and go waddling off out of the door and down the garden path, with a grin all- down his spine ; and spreading out his wings to the sun, and, twisting round his head so oft that it seemed as if he were trying to wring it off, would perform an intricate and independent pose plastique upon his own account for his own private delectation and amusement. And so, you see, as they became in some sort rivals, Sophonisha and that fowl grew to hate each other with a mortal loathing. Sho got a fancy that ho was bewitched, and really grew quite frightened of the bird, for his manners were diabolical, and “there was a fiendish cunning in his eye. Sometimes, when she was posing and I at work, both of us silent and fatigued, and jiutout upon our labor, buried in our own thoughts or listening to the distant hum of bees and insects in the garden, sho would make mo jump (I always was a nervous man) hy giving vent to a loud yell. Then I would lay down my palette, and scratch my head with vexation, for how’s a man to do good work if he’s to be startled out of his life ? And then she would begin to cry, and declare she couldn’t help it, for the devilish fowl had crept up unawares, and having selected a plump and tender spot, had plunged his beak into her leg. That he should have cultivated such had habits was trying, I admit, and this was a trick ho was very fond of playing off upon his enemies. A raven’s beak is very sharp, and it is not quite pleasant to find it suddenly inserted under your tendon Aoliillies, or wedged in between tbe muscles of your calf. You didn’t forget it for a week, I can tell you; so there is litttle wonder that Sophonisha wept. But Sophonisha, if not as full of resource as was her foe, was gifted with a spirit of her own. When resting from work, she would lay traps for her astute enemy, lure him to her with caressing blandishments hacked up with scraps of meat, and when ho had incautiously hopped within distance, sho would give him such a kick as sent him staggering, and trembling, and screeching to the extreme end of the big studio, where he would sit awhile gasping for breath, pluming his feathers, and recovering from his surprise, whilst planning occult revenge. Sophonisha and I had many a tiff over that fowl, which simmered at last into a real quarrel. Coming into the room suddenly one day, I was aware of a mighty hustle, and was pained to cateh my model — flagrante delicto —in an act of deliberate cruelty. Sho had tucked up her sleeves and skirts, so as to give her malignity free play, had driven the bird into a corner, and was belabouring him as hard as sho could with blows from my sturdy maulstick. It was lucky I came in when I did. The wretched Sambo was huddled into a ruffled bunch of feathers; his beak was open; the film rose and fell over his eyes like the shade of a policeman’s lantern ; ho had not so much as a grunt loft in him. ‘ For shame, Sophonisha ! ’ I cried, in indignation, ‘ you’ve nearly killed my poor innocent pot ! ’ ‘ I wish I had —quite,’ was the sullen rejoinder of the ill-conditioned female. Yes ; scales fell from before my eyes. I perceived evil traits in her such as I had before boon blind to. Little by little the conviction dawned on me that the favorite model was more than vulgar and red-nosed. She was a thief ! There could bo no doubt about it. Alas! alas! I laid snares, placing with seeming carelessness valuable nioknacks within her reach. Sho pocketed them. It is very sad to ho disillusioned. Our dolls are all stuffed with straw, of course. Sophonisba had an itching palm and a thirsty throat, and was, moreover, a picker-up of unconsiderod trifles. It was kleptomania —a disease I argued to myself. Tho poor misguided lady could not help it! Somehow it was always tho most precious things that she took. There was method in her madness. I could not hear it any longer. In the throes of exasperation I flung scathing words at my old friend. Tho raven, conscious of uproar, withdrew his head from under his wing to deliver an appreciative, if sickly, croal. Sophonisha drew herself up, and put on her clothes with a haughty dignity, such as I should never have supposed her capable of. Refusing the proffered seven shillings for the sitting, she flounced out of the°studio, swearing hy tho hones of a

deceased parent to set foot within my place no more. ‘lt was admirably acted!’ I observed grimly to Sambo, who, recovering his spirits as soon as her back had vanished, was pluming himself in triumph upon a chair rail. ‘lt was all very well, wasn’t it. Sambo ?’ I cried aloud, ‘ to spurn those humble shillings with the air of a captive princess. Those little jewelled pouncetboxes arc worth more than shillings, ain’t they ? and the old-fashioned watches with which she has walked off from time to time. Sho is a thief. Sambo, my boy—a common pickpocket 1 How low V Sambo winked his eye, and croaked, ‘ Sho is !’

Reproachfully I raised a finger, and improved the occasion. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘ that you were the first cause of her disgrace. . But for her conduct to you, I never should have seen her faults. Ignorance is bliss. It behoves you to ho sorry, not triumphant. You ought to bo ashamed of yourself.’ To be continued.