THE STORY OF A "POTBOILER."

New Zealand Times, Volume XXXI, Issue 4774, 11 July 1876, Page 3

THE STORY OF A "POTBOILER."

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. " Pet!" The above syllable, uttered in a musical bass, roused me once more to consciousness. Where was I ? What was I ? Not many hours ago I was safely ensconsed, a virgin, unblemished piece of white canvas, in a snug corner of Mr. Kowney's shop in Rathboneplace, W. Now I find myself tightly fastened by ci-uel tin tacks across four strips of wood, and perched perilously on the cross bar of a tall easel, in a lofty, empty, uncarpeted, scantily furnished " studio," which obtained its sole light from a large window or "skylight," in the roof. From my insecure promotion, I take in the position of affairs. " Yes, Pet, a brand new canvas. And what does Pet think I'm going to paint on it ? . . . You can't guess ' one little bit,' eh ? Well, then, I'm going in for a new line altogether. Fact is, you see, the ' Historical' does not pay. Strange, but too true. Dealers tell me their customers tell them they haven't room—think of that! —haven't room for any work of art, however grand, whenever it runs into more than half a dozen feet or so. Now I can't get even a small subject, such as, say ' Boadicea,' or ' Nero blazing up the Rumuns,' into anything under ' fourteen ' by nine '..... Saw old Vamp yesterday .... wants me to paint a ' potboiler,' and if he likes it, will commission me for more Eh? What's a 'potboiler?' Bless and save us ! You, a modern artist's wife, and don't know the meaning of a ' potboiler.' I'll tell you. Imagine a sweetly ' pretty-pretty' little picture, ' popular' in subject, ' fetching' in ' treatment.' Here's one sort—'Kiss Mamma.' Sweetly clean child, in a sweetly smart frock, held "up by a sweetly smart nurse, with a sweetly clean apron, to kiss sweetly smart Mamma, in a sweet satin dress. Here's another—'The Old, Old Story.' Sweetly pretty young lady in boat up the river, withsweetly pretty youngman—eloquent eyes—golden hair—lots of it—strawberries and cream —spoonings—green trees — pdtc d£ foie gras—love champagne sunshine —nicey-nicey— about eighteen by twelve, in inches, not feet. Those are ' potboilers,' Pet, from ' Pot,' noun, you know, and ' Boil,' verb ; keeps the domestic pot a-boiling, you twig, because the intelligent B.P. can understand that, and—buys it. It never understands High Art, bless you ! No. Why, look at my ' Belisarius' over there —been on my hands for years; and, as you know, Pet, they'll only lend five bob on him round the corner And now, Pet, I want you to give me a 'sitting,' and look quite pretty. Will you do the first, and can you do the second ?" The idea ! But would she not! And could she not ! And the second little osculatory business that followed was so tantalisingly charming that I nearly fell off my perch from very envy. In another ten minutes the process of my metempsychosis commenced. By the same time next day, happening to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror opposite, I could scarcely recognise my former clean person. It got worse and worse. I was scratched all over with hard chalk, dabbed fiercely, at with big brushes, poked at with small ones, and scraped viciously with a sharp palette knife. This sort of thing lasted several weeks, the only alleviation I derived during the process being the frequent '.' sittings" of my dear mistress. " For one of your sweet smiles," I murmured painfully, "will I gladly endure even this confounded palette knife." In due course I was "finished," and all my master's friends came to " pass their opinion" on me. The verdict was quite untmimous. I was " a stunning portrait, and at the same timo I was a first-rate popular ' potboiler.'" It was delightful to witness tho pretty blushes of my young mistress as she received compliments and congratulations as the charming original. One day came Mr. Vamp, the celebrated "dealer." He peered at me through his gold double eye-glass long and carefully. Then he took snuff. Then he slapped my master loudly on tho shoulder. "The Tery thing, s'help me!" said tho great man. "Tell yer what, dear boy ; I'll make it a 'fifty,' if yer calls it by a good fancy name, and lets mo 'ave the next three yer does of the same sort." " You are moßt kind," said my master; "but,

you see, it's really a Portrait, and the only one I have of my dear wife, and—and —it's not for sale, Mr. Vamp." From that day we got poorer and poorer, going from bad to worse. My master painted several more of the "same sort," but Mr. Vamp was so angry he would not even look at them. We lived a struggling, povertystricken existence for some eighteen months. At last, one sad day, my poor mistress fell sick. In one short week she was dead. Her last words were : "Don't—don't part with my portrait, Fred! Promise. . . . Now kiss—kiss the— the ■original." And with that kiss warm on her pallid lip.s she fell back—dead. Things became worse and worse. To kill his grief he took to drinking heavily. Picture after picture, even articles of clothing, were pawned to satisfy this new want. . . . One terrible hour at last came. Everything that he could raise a few shillings upon had gone. I was the sole survivor. I saw him look at me Btrangely. He had taken a great deal, but wanted more He seized me in his hands, and rose, as though to go I felt myself wrestling, as it were, in his grasp A new instinct seemed to possess me. I became animate with the spirit of my dead mistress. Speech came to me. " Do you forget," I cried, mournfully, gazing into his face with her great, sad eyes—- " do you forget my last request so soon —your last promise—that last kiss on these lips, now cold in death ?" He started, trembling violently. " The voice of conscience," he said hoarsely. " Nay, 'tis hers—my Pet—poor, dead Pet !" He has not parted with me. He changed from that hour—worked hard. Mr. Vamp, hearing his story, relented. He painted many more of the " same sort," and sells everything. . . . I now hang over bis bed. The very first object on waking, the very last on sleeping, his eyes fall on me, and linger—lovingly.