University of Virginia Library

A TALE OF THE DESTROYER.

BY J. W. FIELD.

During a residence of some years in Europe, I became
acquainted with the history of one of those unfortunate beings
which the demon Intemperance delights to make his prey.
One of that class at which he has ever hurled his death-dealing
darts; delighting to soil, with his desolating touch, the laurels
that would otherwise be green and glorious—I allude to the
“Sons of Genius.”

Albert Kent, is a name unknown to fame; not because its
possessor had not talent sufficient to enable him to do things
worthy of being remembered, and written on the imperishable
pages of history, but rather because while one hand was building
up his reputation as a genius, the other was equally active
in establishing his claim to the title of a drunken profligate.
The first time his name attracted my attention, was when, on
passing through one of the manufacturing towns of England, I
saw a group of people gazing at something in the window of a
picture-dealer; and my curiosity being excited, I joined the
crowd, and beheld a painting of very superior merit; one
indeed, that gave me the highest opinion of the artist as a man
of genius.

On asking one of the gentlemen if he knew by whom the
picture was painted, the whole crowd turned and looked at me
in mute astonishment; as if to express their wonder that any
one should be ignorant of the author of that picture. But on

discovering from my general appearance that it was a stranger
who made the inquiry, they at once informed me that “Poor
Kent” was the artist. “Poor Kent,” thought I to myself;
and can the producer of such a gem as that be poor? The unsatisfied
expression that my countenance wore on receiving this
short reply, made the gentleman whom I addressed, comprehend
the state of my feelings; and looking me in the face with
a kind and yet pitiful smile, he remarked, “You seem to be
unacquainted with Mr. Kent, sir.”

“Indeed I am,” I replied, “but should like to become acquainted
with him, if it is in your power to afford me that
pleasure, sir.”

“Ah!” said my friend, with a sorrowful countenance,
“that I cannot do; but if you will accompany me to my home,
I will give you something of his history;” and, putting his arm
in mine, we turned away from the window.

“I have felt much interest in that poor man,” he added,
as we wended our way in the direction of his dwelling, “and as
you seem anxious to know something of him, it will afford me
pleasure to gratify you, though the tale is a sorrowful one.”

On arriving at our destination I was shown into the parlor,
which was furnished in the true English style, snug and neat;
tastefully and elegantly adorned, it seemed to speak to my very
soul, whispering, this is home.

“That sir,” said my friend, pointing to a painting enclosed
in a frame, beautifully ornamented with scroll work and flowers
of burnished gold, “that sir, is one of the productions of poor
Kent, which I learned was in the possession of the tavern-keeper,
where our unfortunate friend was in the habit of spending
much of his time. This work he sold to the landlord for
Two Pounds Ten, most of which he spent in that very house, in
drinking and treating a gang of those `hangers on,' who ever

follow in the wake of generous-hearted genius, to feast on the
life's blood of their victims. I purchased this picture, the last
but one he ever produced, from the heartless dealer in liquid
death, for Ten Pounds, who exulted over the excellent bargain
he had made as he jingled the ten pieces of gold in his pocket.”

The subject of the picture to which my attention was
called, was taken from the “Tempest,” and represented Miranda
at the moment when she replies to Ferdinand's inquiry
of “wherefore weep you?” she answers him

The trembling, weeping beauty, blushing through her
tears, and yet half confiding, stands before the noble youth her
heart is doating on, with that maiden innocence and loveliness
that the great poet has given her; and a better rendering of the
passage I never beheld, though the subject has been a favorite
one with many of our best artists.

Another of his productions which much interested me, was
“A Mother teaching her Child his Evening Prayer.” Bowed
by her side with clasped hands, his eyes are fixed in a dreamy
gaze upon the features of a sleeping babe lying in his mother's
lap; the kneeling boy is evidently thinking more of his little
brother, than of what his mother is saying. We fancy we hear
him repeating, mechanically, the words which are uttered for
him, while his thoughts and youthful imagination are in that
land of which he has heard, and where his parent has told him
his little sister has gone; and, looking upon the sleeping babe,
he wonders if he too will go and be an angel. I could not look
upon that little dreaming face without shedding tears for the
days of innocence gone by in my own life; and without weeping,
that the heart that had conceived, and the hand that had

embodied so much of innocence and sweetness should ever be
contaminated by sin, and that sin intemperance.

“Kent,” remarked my friend, breaking in upon the train
of melancholy musing that had begun to flood my soul, “in his
early days, was the pride of his parents. His talents were early
discovered, and he was placed by his father under the instruction
of a competent teacher; his progress was rapid and cheering,
and he soon found himself in possession of an excellent studio,
with commissions for portraits from his most distinguished townsmen.
But finding his taste for a more extended field of art increasing,
he resolved to visit London, and perfect his knowledge
of the human figure, and then devote himself to historical subjects
rather than to portraiture. While in London, he became
acquainted with the late and lamented Sir David Wilkie. The
works of that artist pleased him more than anything he had yet
seen, and had a great influence upon his style, and rural scenes
and cottage life became the subjects of his pencil.

While he was in London his father died, and he prepared
to return and settle again in his native village. But, alas! in
that great city of sin, he had contracted that fatal habit, which
has proved the destruction of so many thousands of the noblest
of earth's children. On his return he was met by the companions
of his youth, who came to congratulate him on the success
which had crowned his new attempts, as well as to console him
for the loss of his parent; but in a few months, many of these
very companions were his constant attendants. They had
found out his weak points, and while they came professing
admiration for his works, they in reality thought a great deal
more of his cheerful company, and the wine which his purse
could, and did afford them, than they did of his talented productions;
the former they could appreciate because more congenial
with their already established habits: it was not long

before most of his time was consumed by these vampyres.
Frequently he tried to cast off this habit, which he found was
chining him with its links of agony; but after every calm
came a storm, more fearful and desolating than the one which
had preceded it. His mother, mortified and heart-broken, soon
followed her companion to the grave, and Kent, freed from
every tie which had bound him at all to society, now gave himself
up to the most abandoned dissipation.

“I have seen him,” continued my friend, “drunken,
ragged and filthy, standing at the corner of the street, and
railing at and cursing the passers by, so that the police in pity
have taken and shut him up until he should become sober. I
have seen him, sir, followed by crowds of boys, hooting at him
and making sport of his wretchedness, and I have wept to see
the temple of the soul so basely defiled! But for him there was
no hope, he felt it; he knew it; and yielded to the chain that
he had suffered to be coiled around him in his unthinking moments,
when he took the first glass! Unprincipled and unfeeling
men have made large sums of money, by getting him to
paint pieces for them for little more than the drink he consumed
while employed upon them. Thus was he enticed onward
to his ruin!”

“And how,” I eagerly inquired, “did he terminate his
unhappy existence?” feeling, at the same time, an instinctive
horror creep through my nerves, for I had pictured him dying,
neglected and alone, in the very depths of poverty and wretchedness.

“His death, sir, was a fearful one, and such as I never
wish to hear of again. He had been for nearly four weeks employed
on a work, which it was confidently believed would be
the best thing he had ever produced, as he was offered a very
good price by one of our wealthy and benevolent gentlemen, if

he would but abandon his cups and paint him a picture representing
a ship-wrecked mariner, a scene in the life of the gentleman
himself, and the one we were so late admiring.

Kent accomplished his work to the satisfaction of all; and
promising his friend, in the most solemn manner, that he would
never again touch the destroyer, he was paid the sum agreed
upon. He purchased himself new clothing, and appeared like
a man again. Hope, once more, revived in the hearts of those
who were his sincere friends and well-wishers. But in an evil
hour he drank again, and then gave himself up to revel and
to riot. Many endeavored to save him, but it was too late—too
late; the chords of the fiery fiend had bound him on the altar
of sacrifice.

Maddened and goaded on by the demon Rum, he struck,
in his drunken revel, one of those who had been instrumental
in bringing him to that fearful precipice, and who was then as
Jrunk as himself. A fight ensued; the keeper of that `mantrap'
ordered them out, and fighting their way to the door,
Kent was thrown; when his fiendish antagonist seized him by
the feet and dragged him down the steps—Poor Kent was
killed!”