 | CHAPTER V. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
“Anch' io son pittore!”
Correggio.
There was one subject, in which the family at Wyllys-Roof
felt particularly interested just then, and that was,
Charlie Hubbard's picture. This piece was to decide finally
the question, whether Charlie should be an artist, or a merchant's
clerk; a question which he himself considered all-important,
and which caused much anxiety to his friends.
The house in which the Hubbards lived was a grey,
wooden cottage, of the smallest size; curious gossips had, indeed,
often wondered how it had ever been made to contain
a large family; but some houses, like certain purses, possess
capabilities of expansion, quite independent of their apparent
size, and connected by mysterious sympathies with
the heads and hearts of their owners. This cottage belonged to
the most ancient and primitive style of American architecture;
what may be called the comfortable, common sense order—far
superior, one might suppose, to either Corinthian or Composite,
for a farm-house. The roof was low, and unequally
divided, stretching, on one side, with a long, curving slope,
over the southern front; which was scarce seven feet high:
towards the road the building was a little more elevated, for
a dormer-window gave it the dignity of a story and a half.
for wooden walls—were covered with rounded shingles, long
since grey, and, in spots, moss-grown. Twice the cottage
had escaped a more brilliant exterior; upon one occasion it
had been inhabited by an ambitious family, who talked of a
coat of red paint; fortunately, they moved away, before concluding
a bargain with the painter. Again, when the Hubbards
took possession of the `old grey house,' a committee of
ladies actually drove over from Longbridge, with the intention
of having it whitewashed; but, the experienced old
negro engaged to clean generally, gave it as his opinion, that
the shingles were not worth the compliment. The windows
were very small; more than half the glass was of the old,
blue bull's-eye pattern, no longer to be found at modern
glaziers, and each heavy window-shutter had a half-moon
cut in its upper panel, to let in the daylight. When we
add, that there was a low porch before the door, with a sweet-briar
on one side, and a snowball on the other, the reader will
have a correct idea of the house inhabited by our friends, the
Hubbards.
The cottage stood within a little door-yard, near the gate
which opened on the lawn of Wyllys-Roof; and, immediately
opposite the place recently purchased by Mr. Taylor.
Here the family had lived for the last twelve years; and,
from that time, Miss Patsey had been obliged to struggle
against poverty, with a large family of younger brothers and
sisters, dependent, in a great measure, upon her prudence
and exertions.
Mr. Hubbard, the father, a respectable Presbyterian minister,
had been, for half his life, in charge of a congregation in
Connecticut, where, by-the-bye, Mr. Pompey Taylor, at that
time a poor clerk, had been an unsuccessful suitor for Patsey's
hand. After a while, the family had removed to Longbridge,
where they had lived very comfortably and usefully,
until, at length, the minister died, leaving his widow and
seven children entirely unprovided for. Happily, they possessed
with a garden and a little meadow adjoining, was purchased
for his brother's family by Mr. Joseph Hubbard, known to
the young people as Uncle Josie: he was a merchant, in
easy circumstances, and cheerfully gave the thousand dollars
required. The cottage was furnished by the minister's
congregation. Many useful presents were made, and many
small debts forgiven by kind neighbours. With this humble
outfit the family commenced their new career. Mrs. Hubbard,
the second wife, and mother of the three younger children,
had lost the use of one hand, by an attack of paralysis.
She had always been a woman of very feeble character; and
although treated with unvarying kindness and respect by her
step-children, could do little towards the government or assistance
of the family. It was Patsey who toiled, and managed,
and thought for them all. With the aid of two
younger sisters, mere children, at first, and an old black
woman, who came once a week to wash, all the work was
done by herself, including baking, ironing, cooking, cleaning,
&c.; and yet Patsey found time to give up four hours a day
to teaching a class of some dozen children, belonging to several
neighbouring families. This school furnished the only
money that passed through her hands, and contributed the
only regular means of support to the family. They received,
however, much kind assistance, in many different ways;
indeed, otherwise, it would have been scarcely possible to
keep a fireside of their own. There had been, in all,
nine children; but the eldest son, a missionary, died before
his father; the second had already gone to Kentucky, to seek
his fortunes as a physician; he had married young, and,
with children of his own to support, it seemed but little he
could do for his step-mother; he sent for a younger brother,
however, engaging to provide for him entirely. Another son
was educated by his rich Longbridge relative, kind Uncle
Josie; another uncle, a poor old bachelor, known to the
neighbourhood as Uncle Dozie, from a constant habit of napping,
Catherine. In the course of a few years, Uncle Josie's protégé
became an assistant in the school where he had been
educated; Kate Hubbard, Uncle Dozie's favourite, married
a quick-witted, but poor, young lawyer, already introduced
to the reader, by the name of Clapp.
Still, there remained in the family two younger daughters,
and Charlie, besides Miss Patsey and Mrs. Hubbard. By
the exertions and guidance of Patsey, the assistance of friends,
and their own good conduct, the young people, in due time,
were all growing up, endowed with good principles, good
educations, and with respectable prospects opening before
them. At the period of our narrative, the third daughter
hoped shortly to become an under-governess in the school
where she had been educated; and Mary, the youngest of
the family, had such a decided taste for music, that it was
thought she would have no difficulty in supporting herself,
by giving lessons, in the course of two or three years. Of
all the family, Charlie was the one that caused his friends
the most anxiety. He was a fine, spirited, intelligent boy;
and Uncle Josie had promised to procure a situation for him,
with his son-in-law, a commission-merchant and auctioneer,
in New York. This plan was very pleasing to Mrs. Hubbard
and Miss Patsey; but, unfortunately, Charlie seemed
to have no taste for making money, and a fondness for pictures
and pencils, that amounted almost to a passion. Here
was an unexpected obstacle; Charlie was the pet and spoiled
child of the family. All the rest of the young people had
been quite satisfied with the different means of support that
had offered for each; and they had followed their respective
careers with so much quiet good sense, that Charlie's remonstrances
against the counting-house, and his strong fancy for
an artist's life, was something quite new, and which Miss
Patsey scarcely knew how to answer. There was nothing
in the least poetical or romantic about Patsey Hubbard, who
was all honest kindness and straight-forward common sense.
work of imagination; scarcely knew one tune from another;
and had never looked with pleasure at any picture, but one,
a portrait of her own respected father, which still occupied
the place of honour in their little parlour, nearly covering
one side of the wall. This painting, to speak frankly, was
anything but a valuable work of art, or a good likeness of
the worthy minister. The face was flat and unmeaning,
entirely devoid of expression or relief; the body was stiff
and hard, like sheet-iron, having, also, much the colour of
that material, so far as it was covered by the black ministerial
coat. One arm was stretched across a table, conspicuous
from a carrot-coloured cloth, and the hand was extended over
a pile of folios; but it looked quite unequal to the task of
opening them. The other arm was disposed of in some
manner satisfactory to the artist, no doubt, but by no means
easy for the spectator to discover, since the brick-coloured
drapery which formed the back-ground to the whole, certainly
encroached on the side where nature had placed it.
Such as it was, however, Miss Patsey admired this painting
more than any she had ever seen, and its gilt frame was
always carefully covered with green gauze, no longer necessary
to preserve the gilding, but rather to conceal its
blackened lustre; but Charlie's sister belonged to that class
of amateurs who consider the frame as an integral part of
the work of art. It was, perhaps, the most promising fact
regarding any future hopes of young Hubbard's, as an artist,
that this same portrait was far from satisfying his taste, uncultivated
as it was. Charlie was, for a long time, so much
ashamed of his passion for drawing, that he carefully concealed
the little bits of paper on which he made his sketches,
as well as the few old, coarse engravings he had picked up
to copy. But, one day, Miss Patsey accidentally discovered
these treasures between the leaves of a number of the Longbridge
Freeman, carefully stowed away in an old chest of
drawers in the little garret-room where Charlie slept. She
view of Boston; and an old French print called L'Eté, representing
a shepherdess making hay in high-heeled shoes and
a hoop; there were copies of these on bits of paper of all
sizes, done with the pen or lead-pencil; and lastly, a number
of odd-looking sketches of Charlie's own invention. The
sight of these labours of art, was far from giving Miss Patsey
pleasure, although it accounted for the surprising disappearance
of her writing-paper, and the extraordinary clipping,
she had remarked, of late, on all notes and letters that were
left lying about, from which every scrap of white paper was
sure to be cut off. She spoke to Charlie on the subject, and,
of course, he had to confess. But he did not reform; on the
contrary, matters soon grew worse, for he began to neglect
his studies. It happened that he passed the whole summer
at home, as the school where his brother had been assistant,
and he himself a pupil, was broken up. At last, Miss Patsey
talked to him so seriously, about wasting time on trifles,
that Charlie, who was a sensible, warm-hearted boy, and
well aware of the exertions his sister had made for him, promised
amendment, and actually burnt all his own sketches,
though the precious engravings were still preserved. This
improvement only lasted a while, however, when he again
took to drawing. This time he resolutely respected Miss
Patsey's paper, but that only made matters worse, for he
became more ambitious; he began to sketch from nature;
and, having a special fancy for landscape, he used to carry
his slate and arithmetic into the fields; and, instead of becoming
more expert in compound interest, he would sit for
hours composing pictures, and attempting every possible
variety in the views of the same little mill-pond, within a
short distance of the house. He soon became quite expert in
the management of his slate and pencil, and showed a good
deal of ingenuity in rubbing in and out the white shading on
the black ground, something in the manner of a stump-drawing;
but, of course, these sketches all disappeared before
from the neighbour who had promised to keep him in practice
until the winter, when he was to enter the counting-house.
At last, however, Charlie determined to have an explanation
with his mother and sister; he made a clean breast as
to the misdoings on the slate, and boldly coming to the point,
suggested the possibility of his being able to support himself,
one day, as an artist, instead of a commission merchant.
Poor Miss Patsey, this was a sad blow to her! It had been
her cherished ambition to see Charlie an upright, prosperous
merchant; and now that his prospects were brightening, and
a situation was provided for him, that he should be only a
painter! She had a very low opinion of artists, as a class,
and she would almost as soon have expected Charlie to
become a play-actor, or a circus-rider. When the boy found
that both Uncle Josie and Uncle Dozie thought his idea a
very foolish one, that Miss Patsey was very much distressed,
and Mrs. Hubbard could not be made to comprehend the
difference between an artist and a house-painter, he again
abandoned his own cherished plans, and resumed his commercial
studies. Unfortunately, one day, Elinor was choosing
a book as a present for her old play-fellow, at a book-store
in Philadelphia, when she laid her hand on the Lives
of the Painters. These volumes finally upset Charlie's
philosophy; he immediately set to work to convince Miss
Patsey and Uncle Josie, by extracts from the different lives,
that it was very possible to be a good and respectable man,
and not only support himself, but make a fortune, as an artist.
Of course, he took care to skip over all unpleasant points, and
bad examples; but when he came to anything creditable, he
made a note of it—and, one day, pursued Miss Patsey into
the cellar, to read to her the fact that Reubens had been an
ambassador.
Miss Patsey confided her anxieties to Mr. Wyllys, who
was already aware of Charlie's propensities, and, indeed,
Patsey, not to oppose the boy's wishes so strongly, but to give
him an opportunity of trying what he really could do; and
as the expense was a very important consideration with the
Hubbards, he made Charlie a present of a palette and colours,
and kindly took him, one day, to Philadelphia, to see Mr.
S—, who gave him some advice as to the way in which
he should go to work. This assistance Charlie received,
upon condition that he should also, at the same time, continue
his other studies; and in case any two artists that his friend
might consult, should declare, on seeing his work, that he
did not show talent enough to promise reasonable success, he
was, from that time, to devote himself to business. For a
while, Charlie was a great deal happier than a king. He
immediately began a view of his beloved little mill-pond, and
then attempted one of a small sheet of water in the neighbourhood,
called Chewattan Lake. These, after having been
touched and re-touched, he carried, with a portfolio of drawings,
to New York, and with a fluttering heart and trembling
hands laid them before two distinguished artists, Mr. C—
and Mr. I—, to whom Mr. Wyllys had given him letters.
The decision of these gentlemen was not discouraging, upon
the whole; but they found that he had set out wrong in the
arrangement of his colours, and having corrected the mistake,
they proposed his painting another piece in oils, to determine
whether the faults in the first were the result of ignorance,
or of a false eye for colour; for on this point his judges disagreed.
It must be confessed that Charlie's clouds might
give some idea of such vapours as they may exist in the moon;
but certainly the tints the youth had given them were very
remarkable for an earthly atmosphere.
It was upon this last picture—another view of Chewattan
Lake—that Charles was engaged, heart and soul, when the
Wyllyses returned home. One afternoon, Mr. Wyllys proposed
to Miss Agnes and Elinor, to walk over and call upon
Miss Patsey, and see what their young friend had done.
“Here we are, Charlie, my lad; you promised us a look
at your work this week, you know;” said Mr. Wyllys, as he
walked into the neat little door-yard before the Hubbards'
house, accompanied by the ladies.
Charlie was at work in the vegetable garden adjoining the
door-yard, weeding the radishes.
“Everything looks in very good order here, Charles,”
observed Miss Wyllys. “You have not given up the garden,
I see, although you have so much to do now.”
“Your beds and your flowers look as neat as possible,”
said Elinor; “just as usual. You don't seem to have gone
far enough in your career to have learned that, un beau desordre
is the effect of art,” she added, smiling.
“No, indeed; it is to be hoped I never shall, for that
would throw my mother and sister into despair, at once!”
Miss Patsey, who had heard the voices of the party, now
came from the little kitchen, where she had been baking, to
receive her friends.
“Elinor has just remarked that things do not look as if
you had an artist in the house; everything is neat as wax,”
said Mr. Wyllys, stepping into the little parlour.
Miss Patsey was beginning to resign herself to hearing
Charlie called an artist, although the word had still an unpleasant
sound to her ear.
“Charles is very good,” she replied, “about keeping his
things in their place; he does not make much litter.”
After some inquiries about Mrs. Hubbard—who, it seems,
was taking her afternoon nap — Mr. Wyllys asked to see
Charlie's work.
“You must let us look at it, Charles,” said Miss Agnes;
“we have been waiting, you know, quite impatiently for the
last week.”
“If we must go up to your studio for it, we'll rest awhile
first,” said Mr. Wyllys taking a seat.
“You mortify me, sir,” said Charlie, “by using such great
words about my little doings, even in pleasantry. I am half
afraid to show my work; but I will bring it down.”
“I hope we shall find some improvement—that is all we
can expect at present, my boy. We don't look for a Claude
yet.”
Charlie blushed, in the excess of his modesty.
“Pray, bring all your sketches, too,” said Elinor. “Mary
wrote me you were drawing all winter; you must have a
great deal that we have not seen.”
“They are certainly not worth looking at; but such as
they are, you shall see them.”
“And don't forget the Arithmetic, too,” said Mr. Wyllys,
smiling; “we had better look a little into Compound Interest,
of course.”
Charlie looked as if that were rather a sore subject, as he
left the room.
While he was gone, a carriage stopped at the little gate.
It proved to be the Taylors; and Mr. Taylor, with his wife,
and a couple of children, walked in. After a general salutation
had been exchanged, and two additional chairs had
been brought from a bed-room, to accommodate such an
unusual number of visiters, Mr. Taylor turned to Miss Patsey,
and observed, in a jocular way:
“It is not etiquette, I believe, to call twice in the same day;
but I hope you will excuse us; for on this occasion, Mrs.
Taylor has come to transact a little business.”
“As you seem to be engaged, Miss Hubbard, we will put
it off until another time,” said Mrs. Taylor.
“Just as you please,” replied Miss Patsey. “I am always
glad to see my friends.”
Mr. Taylor, however, liked quick measures, and never
postponed business if he could help it.
“We came to see you, this afternoon, about our two
youngest children; if you can conveniently take them into
your school, it would suit us very well.”
Charlie, at that moment, returned with his picture in one
hand, and a portfolio in the other. He was rather sorry to
find the Taylors there, for he was far from admiring the
and asked to look at it at once. The canvass was placed
near a window, in the proper light, and the covering removed.
The Wyllyses were immediately struck with
Charlie's rapid improvement; there was, indeed, no comparison
between the young man's first attempts at the art,
and this last piece. His friends all congratulated him on his
success, and Charlie was delighted.
“This settles the question, I think, Miss Patsey,” said Mr.
Wyllys.
“I suppose so,” said Miss Patsey, with a shake of the
head, and a smile. “I think I can see myself that this
picture looks more natural than the first.”
“Quite a tasty painting,” said Mr. Taylor, stepping up
with a decided air towards the canvass. “I should conclude,
however, that you would find portrates a more advantageous
business.
“I like landscapes best, sir,” replied the youth; and turning
to Mr. Wyllys, he added: “Mr. S— advised me to
please myself as to the subjects I worked upon.”
“Certainly,” answered Mr. Wyllys; “and you seem to
prefer my mill-pond, Charlie, to the human face divine.”
“But, here are sketches of faces,” said Elinor, looking
over the portfolio; “very good, too;—this is excellent—
grandpapa, do you know yourself? And Miss Patsey—very
good — Aunt Agnes, too! Why, Charles, you must have
drawn all these from memory.”
The sketches Elinor was looking at, were roughly done in
ink or lead-pencil; but were generally good likenesses. Mr.
Wyllys took up one, that had not yet been observed by the
rest of the party; he smiled, and passed it to his granddaughter.
Elinor coloured, and her heart beat as she looked
at it, for it was a sketch of Harry. Mr. Taylor was standing
behind her, and recognised it immediately.
“That is Mr. Hazlehurst, if I am not mistaken; and a
very good likeness, Miss Wyllys.”
“I suppose, your son and Harry have met, in Paris, Mr.
Taylor,” said Miss Agnes, by way of turning his attention
from Elinor.
“Yes, madam, Thomas mentions having had some intercourse
with Mr. Hazlehurst, and observes, that he sees him,
almost every day, in the Tullyrees; which, Thomas says, is
the rendy-vuss of the fashionable world, in Paris.”
“Will your son return home soon?”
“Why, no; I think not. He went for six months; but
he calculates, now, to stay some time longer. I am told, Mr.
Hazlehurst will not return until next year; — they might
make the Európean tower together. But Thomas seems
to like the caffies and the bully-vards of Paris, too much to
move from that city.”
Elinor was going to take another sketch from the table,
when Charlie quickly passed his hand between Mr. Taylor
and herself, and drew the paper away.
“I beg your pardon—but it is a wretched thing; I did not
know it was there,” said the youth, hastily.
“Pray, let me look at it,” said Elinor, “for, I thought, I
recognised a friend.”
“You must not see it, indeed, Miss Elinor; I dare say,
you took it for anybody but the right person;” said Charlie,
a good deal embarrassed, and hurriedly handing Elinor
something else to look at.
She was surprised at his nervous manner, but said nothing
more.
“I honestly think, Charlie,” said Mr. Wyllys, who had
been examining the landscape, “that Mr. C—, and Mr.
I—, will tell you to persevere, after this. There is something
about the water, in your picture, that strikes me as
unusually good.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so; for there is nothing
I like to paint so much as water. I took great pains with
that part of my piece; but it does not satisfy me yet.”
“Do you intend to make use of water-colours altogether,
in your paintings?” asked Mr. Taylor.
Charlie looked puzzled, and the merchant repeated his
question.
“I should think, you would find water-colours cheaper;
but oils must be more durable. Which are most generally
in use among painters?”
Charlie, understanding the point, at last, explained that
water-colours, and oils, were two entirely distinct branches
of the art.
“Which is your picture, there, done in?”
“I am learning to paint in oils, sir.”
“And that portrate, overhead, which is your father, I presume;
is that in oils, too?”
“Yes, sir.—There are very few pictures, of that size, in
water-colours, I believe. Here is a miniature, in water-colours,
which Mrs. Van Horne lent me; I am taking a
large picture, in oils, from it.”
Mr. Taylor examined the miniature. “It has puzzled me
considerably,” he observed, “to know how painters could
change the size of an object, and be correct, without measuring
it off in feet and inches; but, I suppose, that is what you
term perspective.”
One is sometimes surprised by the excessive ignorance, on
all matters concerning the fine arts, betrayed in this country,
by men of some education; very clever, in their way, and
quite equal to making a speech or a fortune, any day. In
Europe, just notions, on such matters, are much more widely
spread. But, after all, such a state of things is perfectly
natural; we have hitherto had no means of cultivating the
general taste, in America, having few galleries or even
single works of art, open to the public. With the means,
it is probable, that as we grow older, we shall improve, in
this respect. That there is talent, ay, genius, in the country,
sufficient to produce noble works of art, has been already
proved. Nor can it be doubted, that there is latent feeling,
and taste enough, among the people, to appreciate them, if
it were called forth by cultivation. It is only a brutal and
think. The cultivation necessary, however, is not that which
consists in forcing the whole body of the people to become
conceited smatterers: but that which provides a full supply
of models for mediocrity to copy, and for talent to rival.
It is evident, that common sense requires us to pursue one
of two courses; either to give true talent, in every field—in
literature, in music, painting, sculpture, architecture—some
share of the honourable encouragement which is its due, or
else honestly to resign all claim to national merit, in these
branches of civilization; leaving the honour to the individual.
As neither the government, nor men singly, can do
much toward encouraging the arts, this would seem to be
the very field in which societies might hope to produce great
results. Would it not be a good innovation, if those who
often unite to present some public testimonial of respect to
an individual, should select, instead of the piece of plate,
usual on such occasions, a picture or work of sculpture?
Either, it is to be supposed, if respectable in its way, would
be a more agreeable offering, to a person of education, than
gold or silver in the shape most modern workmen give them.
Under such circumstances, who would not prefer a picture
by Cole or Wier, a statue like Greenough's Medora, Power's
Eve, or Crawford's Orpheus, to all the silver salvers in New
York? Who would not prefer even a copy from some fine
bust or head of antiquity, from some celebrated cabinet picture,
to the best medal that has yet been struck in this country?
Thoughts like these were passing through Mr. Wyllys's
mind, as he sat looking at Charlie's picture. Mrs. Taylor
had, in the mean time, been making arrangements for her
younger children to enter Miss Patsey's school for the summer.
Mr. Taylor having joined the ladies, something was
heard about `terms,' and the affair appeared settled. Miss
Agnes having mentioned to Mrs. Taylor that she had intended
calling on her, but would now postpone it until another day,
she consented to do so, aware that the visit should have been
paid some time before. Accordingly, they all left the Hubbards
together.
It was not often that Miss Patsey's little parlour was so
full, and so much littered, as it had been that afternoon; it
generally looked crowded, if it contained two or three persons
besides the minister's portrait, and was thought out of
order, if the large rocking-chair, or the clumsy, old-fashioned
tea-table did not stand in the very positions they had occupied
for the last twelve years.
Very different was the aspect of things at Mr. Taylor's.
Not that the rooms were imposing, in size, but the elegance
of the furniture was so very striking. Of course, there were
two drawing-rooms, with folding-doors and Brussels carpets;
while everything corresponded to a fashionable model. Mrs.
Taylor, good soul, cared very little for these vanities of life.
The window-blinds, in her two drawing-rooms, were never
opened, except for some occasional morning visiter or evening
tea-party; she herself used what she called the `living
room,' where she could have her younger children about her,
and darn as many stockings as she chose. The drawing-rooms
were opened, however, for the Wyllyses, who were
urged to stay to tea. Miss Agnes declined the invitation,
though Mr. Wyllys and herself remained long enough to
look at the plan of a new house, which Mr. Taylor was to
build shortly; it was to be something quite grand, far surpassing
anything of the kind in the neighbourhood, for Mr.
Taylor had made a mint of money during the past winter.
| CHAPTER V. Elinor Wyllys, or, The young folk of Longbridge | |