University of Virginia Library

GAINSBOROUGH.

Scene—The room of an old-fashioned house in Sudbury.
Enter young Gainsborough, with his mother, speaking earnestly.
GAINSBOROUGH.
Well, but, dear mother, I dislike these looms—
Treddles and shuttles, steaming vats and stoves.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Speak with respect, dear boy, and quietly.

GAINSBOROUGH.
I would not hint a feeling otherwise
Than kind, and most respectful to my sire;
Others, however, may have feelings too.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Forget your feelings, and remember fortune.
Think what a life of industry may yield,—
Wealth to command the highest influence;
Wealth to assist the poor—to raise the weak;
To be a benefactor and a friend
Unto the town that bred you! That were well!

GAINSBOROUGH.
But to inhale the sickly breath of crowds;
Exchange the fresh glad breeze of early morn
For the close atmosphere of carded wool;
Sweet Nature's quiet face, for the quick whirl
And everlasting din of shafts and wheels!
No; Nature's manufactory for me:
She moves on silently, though reproducing
Faster than man, with all his new-found helps.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Your brother Humphrey would not argue thus.

GAINSBOROUGH.
Make Humphrey, then, the weaver; let him be
The right hand of my father; let his name
Continue on the trade of “crapes” and “says.”
I'll carve out fortune with my palette knife;
A brush shall be my engine; and for steam,
For steam, I'll get up perseverance—yes,
High-pressure perseverance. I'll not fail!
Never believe I'll fail.

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Consider this:
A tenth-rate fortune is a thing to prize;
A tenth-rate reputation—what is that?

GAINSBOROUGH.
But I'll be first!—

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
First?—my poor boy—be first?

GAINSBOROUGH.
I will work out the poetry of Art;
Make painting read as easily as a book;
Illustrate life and the intents of life;
Bid Nature sit for likeness of herself,
And fix the evanescent, by a wand
Potent as young Aladdin's. You will see!
My colours, these poor colours, shall be actors,
And with each day's performance bring me fame.
Kings, queens, and nobles, warriors, ministers,
Shall tread the stage, and keep it with applause.
The world itself shall be my theatre!—
Mother, there is a bond between us twain
Which makes affection but one common pulse
Guiding two hearts—'tis instinct, some would say:
Mother, there is an instinct to be great—
And that I feel!—throbbing each ardent pulse,
Coursing my veins as if to win the goal.
Can Nature err who thus reveals herself?

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Your father's disappointment—think of that!

GAINSBOROUGH.
He'll not be disappointed—or, if so,
But for a time—a very little time.
What is this wealth, of which he talks so much?
Death, that can make even a Crœsus poor,
Cannot deprive the artist of his gains!
No man hath more than a life-interest
In what his toil amasses. Death stays all,
Nothing he taketh with him: not so Fame—
It lends a halo even to the tomb,
Crowns the dead brow, honours the lifeless hand,
Enrobes the mortal with immortal worth:—
Death cannot rob the artist of his due,
For it enricheth e'en his very dust!
And for his life—think of his glowing life!
To linger in the light of golden eves;
Take lessons of the clouds, the streams, the hills;
Ramble 'mid woody rocks and winding glades;
To watch the panorama of the roads,—
The rustic cart to distant market bound,
The harvest waggon on its rumbling way,
Children beneath the hedgerow gathering haws,
The ploughman and his team, or tripping lass
With wicker basket and her weekly eggs.
All country pictures have a charm for me!
The sheep that spot the mead, like drifting snow;
The lowing kine within the sedgy pool;
Crows wandering home before the dusk of eve;
The aged woodman shelt'ring from the storm;
Even the shepherd dog, by meadow gate,
Waiting some well-known footstep, are enough
To fill my mind with pictures yet to be!

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
Manhood succeeds to youth—and manhood sighs
To find youth's world a dream! Could I but think
Thy way were sure!

GAINSBOROUGH.
Be sure I'll bring you fame;
My name shall be an honour to your years,
And, as you walk, people that pass shall say,
That is the mother of young Gainsborough.
Oh! what a joy, some day to hear you own,—
But once my son proved backward to my wish;
But once—and after that no son more true;
My wish rose not so high as he did mount.
Fame then how sacred—how divinely dear—
How doubly welcome, if my mother's heart
But share the harvest which her son hath won!
Could I yet live to hear you own at last—
My son, your choice was right! You were my hope;
But now you are my pride!

MRS. GAINSBOROUGH.
You are my pride!
And God make good your hope.

[She falls on his neck, weeping.