“THE CONNOISSEURS.”
ENGRAVED BY PERMISSION OF HENRY GRAVES & CO., LONDON. AFTER THE PAINTING BY SIR EDWIN LANDSEER.
([SEE PAGE 814].)

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XIII. SEPTEMBER, 1886. No. 11.

[Copyright, 1886, by The CENTURY CO.]

STORIES OF ART AND ARTISTS: ENGLISH PAINTERS.

By Clara Erskine Clement.

When Henry VIII. came to the throne of England, he was a magnificent prince. He loved pleasure and pomp and invited many foreign artists to his court. After a time, however, he became indifferent to art, and it is difficult to say whether he lessened or added to the art-treasures of England.

The long reign of Queen Elizabeth—forty-seven years—afforded great opportunity for the encouragement of art. But most of the painters whom she employed were foreigners.

King Charles I. was a true lover of art. Rubens and Vandyck were his principal painters, and Inigo Jones his architect; the choice of such artists proves the excellence of his artistic taste and judgment. He employed many other foreign artists, of whom it need only be said that the English artists profited much by their intercourse with them, as well as by the study of foreign pictures which the King purchased.

In fact, before the time of William Hogarth, portraits had been the only pictures of any importance which were painted by English artists, and no one painter had become very eminent. No native master had originated a manner of painting which he could claim as his own.

Hogarth was born near Ludgate Hill, London, in 1697.

In 1734, he produced some works which immediately made him famous. He had originated a manner of his own; he had neither attempted to illustrate the stories of Greek Mythology, nor to invent allegories, as so many painters had done before him; he simply gave form to the nature that was all about him, and painted just what he could see in London every day. His pictures of this sort came to be almost numberless, and no rank in society, no phase of life, escaped the truthful representation of his brush.

He was a teacher as well as an artist, for his pictures dealt with familiar scenes and subjects and presented the lessons of the follies of his day with more effect upon the mass of the people than any writer could produce with his pen, or any preacher by his sermons.

Hogarth died at his house in Leicester Fields, on October 26, 1764.

His success aroused a strong faith and a new interest in the native art of England, which showed their results in the establishment of the Royal Academy of Arts. A little more than four years after Hogarth's death, this Academy was founded by King George III. The original members of the Academy numbered thirty-four, and among them was

Joshua Reynolds,

who afterward became its first president.

His father, Samuel Reynolds, was the rector of a grammar school at Plympton, in Devonshire, and in that little hamlet, on July 16, 1723, was born Joshua, the seventh of eleven children.

When Joshua was but a mere child, his father was displeased to find him devoted to drawing; on a sketch which the boy had made, his father wrote: "This is drawn by Joshua in school, out of pure idleness." The child found the "Jesuit's Treatise on Perspective," and studied it with such intelligence that before he was eight years old he made a sketch of the school and its cloister which was so accurate that his astonished father exclaimed, "Now this justifies the author of the 'Perspective' when he says that, by observing the laws laid down in his book, a man may do wonders; for this is wonderful!"

When about twelve years old, Joshua, while in church, made a sketch upon his thumb-nail of the Rev. Thomas Smart. From this sketch, he painted his first picture in oils; his canvas was a piece of an old sail, his colors were common ship-paint, and he did his work in a boathouse on Cremyll Beach.

In 1740, when Joshua was seventeen years old, his father tried to carry out his plan to apprentice him to a druggist, but the boy was greatly opposed to this. He said, "I would prefer to be an apothecary rather than an ordinary painter; but if I could be bound to an eminent master, I should choose that." Fortunately Lord Edgecumbe and other friends advised the boy's father in his favor, and so Joshua was finally sent to London and bound to Thomas Hudson, then the best portrait painter in England. After two years, Hudson suddenly dismissed the youth from his studio, though his agreement was for four years; the master said that Joshua neglected his orders, but others believed Hudson to be jealous of his pupil's success.

Joshua returned to Devonshire and settled at Plymouth, five miles from his home. There he painted about thirty portraits of the principal persons of the neighborhood, at the price of three guineas each. One of these portraits, painted in 1746, was shown to him thirty years later, when he lamented that his progress in all that time had been so little.

At the home of his friend, Lord Edgecumbe, he had formed a friendship with the young Commodore Keppel, who in 1749 was ordered to the Mediterranean. He invited Reynolds to sail with him as his guest, and, the invitation being accepted, the painter did not return to England until the end of 1752. He visited Portugal, Spain, Algiers, Minorca, Italy, and France.

He kept diaries during this journey, which are very interesting and valuable; they contain many sketches of scenes and pictures which he admired, as well as his written opinions of all that he saw. Several of these diaries are in the Lenox Library, in New York; others are in the Soane Museum, London, and in the Museum of Berlin.

Not long after his return to England, Reynolds settled himself in London. He lived in handsome rooms in St. Martin's Lane, and his sister Frances was his housekeeper.

Very soon Reynolds's studio came to be the popular resort of artists, and, through the influence of Lord Edgecumbe, many nobles became his patrons. He painted a full-length portrait of Commodore Keppel, which at once established his reputation. The Commodore was represented as standing on a rocky shore with a stormy sea in the background. This picture was received with enthusiasm, and in his second London year Reynolds had one hundred and twenty sitters, among whom were many notable people. The artist removed to Great Newport street, and charged twelve guineas for a bust, twenty-four guineas for half-length and double that sum for a full-length portrait.

Dr. Johnson and Reynolds met for the first time in 1753, and from that time they were faithful friends. Dr. Johnson delighted not only in Reynolds's success as a painter, but, perceiving his other talents, he insisted on his writing for The Idler, by which means the artist published a series of brilliant articles and made himself a name in literary circles. This kindness was more than repaid, for, after Dr. Johnson became too poor to keep house for himself, he was always welcome to the home and purse of Reynolds.

In 1760, the master again raised his prices for his work, and at about the same time established himself in the house in Leicester Square, in which he passed the remainder of his life. This house was very fine, and, though it exhausted all his savings to fit it up, he spent still more in setting up a gorgeous carriage for his sister, and in other expenses which served to advertise his success to all who observed them.

Reynolds seemed to have reached the height of popularity, when, in 1768, he was elected first President of the Royal Academy, and was knighted by the King. He was of great advantage to the Academy, and heartily devoted to its interests. He was active in establishing its schools and equipping them with models, libraries, and conveniences for study; he gave much attention to its exhibitions, and founded the famous Academy dinners, at which men of rank and genius were brought together in such a way as to render these occasions the most remarkable gatherings in the United Kingdom. From time to time he also delivered his well-known "Discourses on Art," which are notable alike for the good judgment in the selection of the subjects treated, and for the literary skill with which they are written.

About 1770, Sir Joshua built a villa at Richmond Hill. In the same year, he spent a month in Plympton, and at that time also, he brought to his home his niece, Theophila Palmer, who remained with him until her marriage, eleven years later. She was very beautiful, and is known to all the world as the "Offy" of the famous "Strawberry Girl." Other pictures of her which Sir Joshua painted also became famous.

With the exception of the trip with Commodore Keppel Sir Joshua spent little time out of England. In 1768 he visited Paris, and in 1780 he passed two months in Holland and Germany. When absent from London, he was usually at the house of some friend in the country, or at his old home, of which he was always fond.

COPY OF A PORTRAIT BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

Few men have been so much admired by such a diversity of people as was Sir Joshua Reynolds. The testimony of his friends presents him to us as a man of admirable character. Perhaps no one knew him more intimately than James Northcote, who was received into his family as a poor Devonshire lad; he remained with Sir Joshua five years, and left him a prosperous painter. Northcote found him kindly, modest, and lovable in every way. He thus describes him personally: "In his stature, Sir Joshua Reynolds was rather under the middle size, of a florid complexion, roundish, blunt features, and a lively aspect; not corpulent, though somewhat inclined to it, but extremely active; with manners uncommonly polished and agreeable. In conversation, his manner was perfectly natural, simple, and unassuming. He most heartily enjoyed his profession, in which he was both famous and illustrious; and I agree with Mr. Malone, who says he appeared to him to be the happiest man he had ever known."

In 1789, Sir Joshua lost the sight of his left eye, and though this changed his whole life, he retained his calm cheerfulness, and occupied his mind with the exciting topics of the time; for it happened that the storming of the Bastille occurred in the very week in which he gave up his pencil. He still used his brush a very little to finish or retouch works which were still on his hands, but he sadly said: "There is now an end of pursuit; the race is over, whether it is lost or won."

In 1790, troubles arose in the Academy, and Sir Joshua felt himself so badly used that he resigned his presidency and his membership of the institution. The King requested him to return, but he refused until the Academy publicly apologized to him. He then resumed his office, and in December delivered his final discourse.

THE LADIES WALDEGRAVE. (FROM A PAINTING BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.)

The remainder of his life was a gradual decline; his sight grew weaker, and his strength less, until February 23, 1792, when he died easily, never having suffered much pain. The King directed that his body should lie in state in the Academy rooms in Somerset House. The funeral was grand and solemn; the pall-bearers were dukes, marquises, earls, and lords; ninety-one carriages followed the hearse, in which were the first nobles, scholars, and prelates of the realm, with all the members and students of the Academy. He was buried near Sir Christopher Wren, in St. Paul's Cathedral, where Vandyck had already been laid, and where, in later years, a goodly number of painters have been buried around him. In 1813, a statue, by Flaxman, was erected to his memory near the choir of the cathedral, and a Latin inscription recounts the talents and virtues of the great man whom it commemorates.

Having thus traced the story of Sir Joshua's life, it now remains to speak of him more especially as an artist.

His highest fame is as a portrait painter, and as such he was a great genius. He had the power to reproduce the personal peculiarities of his subjects with great exactness; he was also able to perceive their qualities of temper, mind, and character, and he made his portraits so vivid with these attributes that they were likenesses of the minds as well as of the persons of his subjects. In his portrait of Goldsmith, self-esteem is as prominent as the nose; passion and energy are in every line of Burke's face and figure; and whenever his subject possessed any individual characteristics, they were plainly shown in Reynolds's portraits. So many of these pictures are famous that we can not speak of them in detail. Perhaps no one portrait is better known than that of the famous actress, Mrs. Sarah Siddons, as the Tragic Muse. It is a noble example of an idealized portrait, and it is said that the "Isaiah" of Michael Angelo suggested the manner in which it is painted. Sir Thomas Lawrence declared this to be the finest portrait of a women in the world, and it is certain that this one picture would have made any painter famous. Sir Joshua inscribed his name on the border of the robe, and courteously explained to the lady, "I could not lose the honor this opportunity afforded me of going down to posterity on the hem of your garment."

The original of this work is said to be that in the gallery of the Duke of Westminster; a second is in the Dulwich Gallery. In speaking of Sir Joshua as a portrait painter, Mr. Ruskin says: "Considered as a painter of individuality in the human form and mind, I think him the prince of portrait painters. Titian paints nobler pictures, and Vandyck had nobler subjects, but neither of them entered so subtly as Sir Joshua did into the minor varieties of heart and temper."

His portraits of simply beautiful women can scarcely be equaled in the world. He perfectly reproduced the delicate grace and beauty of some of his sitters and the brilliant, dazzling charms of others. He loved to paint richly hued velvets in contrast with rare laces, ermine, feathers, and jewels. It is a regret that so many of his works are faded, but after all we must agree with Sir George Beaumont, when he said: "Even a faded picture from him will be the finest thing you can have."

The most attractive of his works are his pictures of children. It is true that they too are portraits, but they are often represented in some fancy part, such as the "Strawberry Girl,"[1] a portrait of his niece Offy; Muscipula, who holds a mouse-trap; the Little Marchioness; the Girl with a Mob-cap, and many others. He loved to paint pictures of boys in all sorts of characters, street-peddlers, gipsies, cherubs, and so on. He often picked up boy models in the street and painted from them in his spare hours, between his appointments with sitters. Sometimes he scarcely hustled a beggar boy out of his chair in time for some grand lady to seat herself in it. It is said that one day one of these children fell asleep in so graceful an attitude that the master seized a fresh canvas and made a sketch of it; this was scarcely done, when the child threw himself into a different pose without awakening. Sir Joshua added a second sketch to the first and from these made his beautiful picture of "The Babes in the Wood." More than two hundred of his pictures of children have been engraved, and these plates form one of the loveliest collections that can be made from the works of any one artist.

When Sir Joshua was at the height of his power, he was accustomed to receive six sitters a day, and he often completed a portrait in four hours.

Good prints from his works are now becoming rare and are valuable.

As we close this account of Sir Joshua Reynolds, it is pleasant to remember that so great a man was so good a man, and to believe that Burke did not flatter him when, in his eulogy, he said: "In full affluence of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the expert in art and by the learned in science, courted by the great, caressed by sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native humility, modesty, and candor never forsook him, even on surprise or provocation; nor was the least degree of arrogance or assumption visible to the most scrutinizing eye in any part of his conduct or discourse."

[ [1] An engraving of this picture was given as the frontispiece of St. Nicholas for April, 1876; and our readers will remember also the account of Sir Joshua Reynolds's portrait of "Little Penelope Boothby" in St. Nicholas for November, 1875, illustrated with a full-page reproduction of the painting.—Ed.

Richard Wilson

was another original member of the Academy, and though not the first English artist who had painted landscapes, he was the first whose pictures merited the honorable recognition which they now have. Wilson's story is a sad one; he was not appreciated while he lived, and his whole life was saddened by seeing the works of foreign artists, which were inferior to his own, sold for good prices, while he was forced to sell his to pawnbrokers, who, it is said, could not dispose of them at any price.

Wilson was the son of a clergyman and was born at Pinegas, in Montgomeryshire, in 1713. He first painted portraits and earned money with which, in 1749, he went to Italy, where he remained six years. His best works were Italian views, and he is now considered as the best landscape painter of his day, with the one exception of Gainsborough.

Wilson died in 1782, and it is pleasant to know that after more than sixty years of poverty he received a legacy from a brother, and the last two years of his life were years of peaceful comfort.

Thomas Gainsborough,

though a great artist, had an uneventful life. He was the son of a clothier and was born in Sudbury, in Suffolk, in 1727. His boyish habit of wandering about the woods and streams of Suffolk, making sketches, and finding in this his greatest pleasure, induced his father to send him to London to study art, when about fifteen years old. He studied first under a French engraver, Gravelot, who was of much advantage to him; next he was a pupil of Francis Hayman at the Academy, in St. Martin's Lane, but Nature was his real teacher.

After a time he settled in Hatton Square, and painted both portraits and landscapes. But at the end of four years of patient work, his patrons were so few that he left London and returned to Sudbury.

It happened that once when he was sketching a wood-scene, Margaret Burr had crossed his line of sight; he had added her figure to his picture, and from this circumstance they had come to be friends. Soon after, Gainsborough returned to his home, and Margaret became his wife. He was careless and unthrifty, while she was quite the reverse. She was thus a true helpmate to him, and to her carefulness we owe the preservation of many of his pictures.

After his marriage, Gainsborough settled in Ipswich; in 1760 he removed to Bath, and here both in portraits and landscapes he made such a reputation, that when, fourteen years later, he removed to London, he was considered the rival of Reynolds in portraits and of Wilson as a painter of scenery. Gainsborough was one of the original Academicians, and on one occasion at a gathering of artists, Sir Joshua Reynolds proposed the health of Gainsborough, and called him "the greatest landscape painter of the day." Wilson, who was present, was piqued by this, and exclaimed:

"Yes, and the greatest portrait painter, too."

Sir Joshua realized that he had been ungracious and apologized to Wilson.

Gainsborough exhibited many works in the gallery of the Academy, but in 1783 he was offended by the hanging of one of his portraits, and refused to send his pictures there afterward. He was an impulsive, passionate man, and he had several disputes with Sir Joshua, who always admired and praised the work of his rival. But when about to die, Gainsborough sent for Reynolds to visit him, and all their differences were healed. The truth was that they had always respected and admired each other. The last words of Gainsborough were:

"We are all going to heaven, and Vandyck is of the company."

He died August 2, 1788.

The celebrated "Blue Boy," by Gainsborough, now in the Grosvenor Gallery, is said to have been painted to spite Sir Joshua, who had said that blue should not be used in masses.

But there was a soft and lovable side to this wayward man. His love for music was a passion, and he once gave a painting of his, "The Boy at the Stile," to Colonel Hamilton as a reward for his playing the flute.

His portraits may be thought to have too much of a bluish gray in the flesh tints, but they are always graceful and pleasing. In 1876, his famous painting "The Duchess of Devonshire" was sold for the exceptionally high price of fifty thousand dollars.

George Romney

was born at Beckside, in Cumberland, in 1734. His life was very discreditable.

It is more pleasant to speak of his pictures, for his portraits were so fine that he was a worthy rival to Sir Joshua Reynolds. His pictures are mostly in private galleries, but that of the beautiful Lady Hamilton, in the National Gallery, is a famous work. He was ambitious to paint historical subjects, and some of his imaginary pictures are much admired. He was fitful in his art, and he began so many works which he left unfinished, that they were finally removed from his studio by cart-loads. There was also an incompleteness in the pictures which he called finished; in short, the want of steadfastness, which made him an unfaithful husband and father, went far to lessen his artistic merit. At the same time, it is true that he was a great artist and justly celebrated in his best days; his works excel in vigorous drawing and brilliant, transparent color. His pictures are rarely sold, and are as valuable as those of his great contemporaries, Reynolds and Gainsborough.

Thomas Lawrence

is the only other portrait painter of whom mention need be made here. He was born at Bristol, in 1769, and much of his work belongs to our own century.

His father had been trained for the law, but had become an inn-keeper. When a mere child, Thomas entertained his father's customers by his recitations, and took their portraits with equal readiness.

When he was ten years old, his family removed to Oxford, where he rapidly improved in his drawing. When he first saw a picture by Rubens he wept bitterly and sobbed out:

"Oh, I shall never be able to paint like that!"

In 1785, he received a silver palette from the Society of Arts as a reward for a copy of Raphael's "Transfiguration," which he had made when but thirteen years old.

“THE BLUE BOY.” (AFTER THE PAINTING BY THOMAS GAINSBOROUGH. BY PERMISSION, FROM A FAC-SIMILE OF THE ETCHING BY RAJON, PUBLISHED BY “L’ART.”)

In 1787, the young painter entered the Royal Academy, London, and from that time his course was one of repeated successes. Sir Joshua Reynolds was his friend and adviser; he early attracted the attention of the King and Queen, whose portraits he painted when but twenty-two years old. He was elected to the Academy in 1794; after Sir Joshua's death he was appointed painter to the King; he was knighted in 1815, and five years later he was elected president of the Academy. He was also a member of many foreign academies and a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Rarely is the path to honor and fame made so easy as it was to Sir Thomas Lawrence.

COPY OF A PORTRAIT BY GEORGE ROMNEY.

His London life was brilliant. His studio was crowded with sitters, and money flowed into his purse in a generous stream,—for his prices were larger than any other English painter had asked. But all this did him little good, for somehow he was continually in debt and always poor.

In 1814 he visited Paris, but he was recalled that he might paint the portraits of the allied sovereigns, their statesmen, and generals. These works were the first of the series of portraits of great men in the Waterloo Chamber at Windsor Castle. In 1818 he attended the Congress at Aix-la-Chapelle, for the purpose of adding portraits of notable people to the gallery of the Prince-Regent. At length he was sent to Rome to paint a likeness of the Pope and Cardinal Gonsalvi. He seems to have been inspired with new strength by his nearness to the works of the great masters in the Eternal City, for those two portraits are in merit far beyond his previous work, and after his return to England from 1820 to 1830, his pictures had a vigor and worth that was wanting at every other period of his life. While in Rome, he also painted a portrait of Canova which he presented to the Pope.

When he reached London, he found himself to be the president-elect of the Academy; it was a great honor, and Lawrence accepted it with modesty.

George IV., following the example of the graciousness of Charles I. toward Vandyck, hung upon the painter's neck a gold chain bearing a medal, on which the likeness of his majesty was engraved. In the catalogue of the Academy, 1820, Lawrence is called "Principal Painter in Ordinary to his Majesty, Member of the Roman Academy of St. Luke's, of the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence, and of the Fine Arts in New York." To the last he had been elected in 1818, and had sent to the academy a full-length portrait of Benjamin West.

From that time on, there is little to relate of his life, except that he was always busy and each year sent eight fine works to the Academy Exhibition. His friends and patrons showed him much consideration, and various honors were added to his list, already long. He was always worried in regard to money matters, and he grieved much over the illness of his favorite sister, but there was no striking event to change the even current of his life.

On January 7, 1830, he expired suddenly, exclaiming, "This is dying,"—almost the same words used by George IV., a few months later.

Sir Thomas Lawrence was a man of fine personal qualities; his generosity may be called his greatest fault, for his impulses led him to give more than he had—a quality which causes us to admire a man while at the same moment it makes him guilty of grave faults.

He was always generous to unfortunate artists and, in that way, he spent large sums. He was also true to his ideas of right and wrong, even at the expense of his own advantage.

As an artist, Lawrence can not be given a very high rank, in spite of the immense successes of his life. As in every case, there are opposite opinions concerning him. He has hearty admirers, but he is also accused of mannerisms and weakness. His early works are the most satisfactory, because most natural; they are good in design, and rich in color.

Joseph Mallord William Turner

was an artist of great genius, and has exercised a powerful influence on the art of the nineteenth century. He was the son of a barber, and was born in Maiden Lane, London (a squalid alley in the parish of Covent Garden), on April 23, 1775. When the boy was five years old, he was taken by his father to the house of a customer of the barber's, and while the shaving and combing went on, the child studied the figure of a rampant lion engraved upon a piece of silver. After his return home, he drew a copy of the lion so excellent that it decided his career, for then and there the father determined that his son should be an artist. As a child and youth, he was always sketching, and while he was fond of nature in all her features, he yet had a preference for water views with boats and cliffs and shining waves.

In 1789, when fourteen years old, he entered the classes of the Royal Academy, where he worked hard in drawing from Greek models. He had the good fortune to be employed by Dr. Munro to do some copying and other works, and by this stroke of luck he revelled in the fine pictures and valuable drawings with which the house of his patron was filled. Toward the end of Sir Joshua Reynolds's life, Turner was a frequent visitor at his studio.

In 1790, he sent his first contribution to the Academy Exhibition; it was a view of Lambeth Palace, in water-colors. During the next ten years, he exhibited more than sixty works, embracing a great variety of subjects. The pictures included views from more than twenty-six counties of England and Wales.

In 1802, he was made a full member of the Academy and he also visited the continent for the first time, traveling through France and Switzerland only. He visited Italy in 1819, in 1829, and again in 1840.

The pictures of Turner are often compared with those of Claude Lorraine, and at times he painted in rivalry with Cuyp, Poussin, and Claude, aiming to adopt the manner of these masters.

In 1806, Turner followed the example of the great Lorraine in another direction. Claude had made a Liber Veritatis, or "Book of Truth," containing sketches of his finished pictures, in order that the works of other painters could not be sold as his. Turner determined to make a Liber Studiorum, or "Book of Studies." It was issued in a series of twenty numbers, containing five plates each, and the subscription price was £17.10s. There were endless troubles with the engravers and it was not paying well, and was abandoned after seventy plates were issued. It seemed to be so worthless that Charles Turner, one of the engravers, used some of the proofs for kindling paper. After the artist became famous, however, this Liber Studiorum grew to be very valuable. Before Turner died, a copy was worth thirty guineas, and more recently a single copy has brought three thousand pounds, or nearly fifteen thousand dollars. Colnaghi, the London print dealer, paid Charles Turner fifteen hundred pounds for the proofs which he had not destroyed; and when the old engraver remembered how he had lighted his fires, he exclaimed, "I have been burning bank-notes all my life."

COUNTESS GREY AND CHILDREN. (FROM A PORTRAIT BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.)

Turner grew very rich, but he lived in a mean, careless style. As long as his father lived, he waited upon his great son as a servant might have done; and after his death, an untidy, wizened old woman, Mrs. Danby, was the only person to care for the house or the interests of the painter. His dress was that of a very common person, and it is impossible to understand how a man who so admired the beautiful in nature could live in so miserly a manner as that of Turner.

Some time before his death, Turner seemed to be hiding himself; his friends could not discover his retreat, until, at last, his old housekeeper traced him to a dingy Chelsea cottage. When his friends went to him, he was dying, and the end soon came. His funeral, from Queen Anne street, was an imposing one. The body was taken to St. Paul's Cathedral, and there, surrounded by a large company of artists and followed by the faithful old woman, it was laid to rest between the tombs of Sir Joshua Reynolds and James Barry. His estate was valued at about seven hundred thousand dollars and he desired that most of it should be used to establish a home for poor artists, to be called Turner's Gift. But the will was not clearly written—his relatives contested it, and in the end, his pictures and drawings were given to the National Academy; one thousand pounds was devoted to a monument to his memory; twenty thousand pounds established the Turner Fund in the Academy and yields annuities to six poor artists; and the remainder was divided amongst his kinsfolk.

Perhaps there never was a painter about whose works more extreme and conflicting opinions have been advanced. Some of his admirers claim for him the very highest place in art. His enemies can see nothing good in his works and say that they may as well be hung one side up as another, since they are only a mixture of splashes of color, and lights and shades. Neither extreme is correct. In some respects, Turner is at the head of English landscape painters, and no other artist has had the power to paint so many different kinds of subjects or to employ such variations of style in his work. His water-colors are worthy of the highest praise; indeed, he created a school of water-color painting. At the same time, it is proper to say that the works executed in his latest period are not even commended by Ruskin,—his most enthusiastic admirer,—and are not to be classed with those of his earlier days and his best manner.

This master was so fruitful, and he made so vast a number of pictures in oil and water-colors, of drawings, and of splendid illustrations for books, that we have no space in which to speak properly of the different periods of his art. A large and fine collection of his paintings is in the South Kensington Museum; "The Old Temeraire," the picture which he would never sell, is there. "The Slave Ship," one of his finest pictures, is owned in Boston, and other celebrated works of his are in New York; but most of his pictures, outside the South Kensington Museum, and the National Gallery, are in private collections, where no catalogues have ever been made, so that no estimate of the whole number can be given.

I shall tell you of but one more English painter,—an artist whose life and works are both very interesting, and of whom all young people must be fond,—

Edwin Landseer.

He was the youngest of the three sons of John Landseer, the eminent engraver, and was born at No. 83 Queen Anne street, London, in March, 1802. The eldest son, Thomas, followed the profession of his father, and in later years, by his faithful engraving after the works of Edwin, he did much to confirm the great fame of his younger brother. Charles, the second son of John Landseer, was a painter of historical subjects, and held the office of Keeper of the Royal Academy during twenty years.

Edwin Landseer had the good fortune to be aided and encouraged in his artistic tastes and studies, even from his babyhood, for there are now in the South Kensington Museum, sketches of animals made in his fifth year, and good etchings which he did when eight years old.

John Landseer taught his son to look to nature alone as his model. When fourteen, he entered the Academy schools, and divided his time between drawing in the classes and sketching from the wild beasts at Exeter Change. He was a handsome, manly boy, and the keeper, Fuseli, was very fond of him, calling him, as a mark of affection, "My little dog boy."

He was very industrious and painted many pictures; the best of those known as his early works is the "Cat's Paw." It represents a monkey using the paw of a cat to push hot chestnuts from the top of a heated stove; the struggles of the cat are useless and her kittens mew to no purpose. This picture was once sold for one hundred pounds; it is now in the collection of the Earl of Essex, at Cashiobury, and is worth more than three thousand pounds. It was painted in 1822.

Sir Walter Scott was in London when the "Cat's Paw" was exhibited, and he was so pleased by the picture that he sought out the young painter and invited him to go home with him. Sir Walter's well-known love of dogs was a foundation for the intimate affection which grew up between himself and Landseer. In 1824, the painter first saw Scotland, and during fifty years he studied its people, its scenery, and its customs; he loved them all and could ever draw new subjects and new enthusiasm from the breezy north. Sir Walter wrote in his journal, "Landseer's dogs are the most magnificent things I ever saw, leaping and bounding and grinning all over the canvas." The friendship of Sir Walter had a great effect upon the young painter; it developed the imagination and romance in his nature and he was affected by the human life of Scotland so that he painted the shepherd, the gillie, and the poacher, and made his pictures speak the tenderness and truth as well as the fearlessness and the hardihood of the Gaelic race.

Landseer remained in the home of his father, until he was a person of such importance that his friends felt that his dignity demanded a separate establishment and urged this upon him. He could not lightly sever his home ties, and it was after much hesitation that he removed to No. 1 St. John's Wood Road, where he passed the remainder of his life. He named his home "Maida Vale," in remembrance of the favorite dog of Sir Walter Scott. It was a small house with a garden and a barn, which he converted into a studio; from time to time he enlarged and improved it, and it became the resort of a distinguished circle of people who learned to love it for its generous hospitality and its atmosphere of joyous content.

The best period of Landseer's life was from 1824 to 1840. In the latter year, he had the first attack of a disease from which he was never again entirely free; he suffered from seasons of depression that shadowed all his life with gloom, and at times almost threatened the loss of his reason.

It is said that Landseer was the first person who opened a communication between Queen Victoria and the literary and artistic society of England. Be that as it may, he was certainly the first artist to be received as a friend by the Queen, who soon placed him on an unceremonious and easy footing in her household.

He was a frequent visitor at the royal palaces and received many rich gifts from both Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Between 1835 and 1866, he painted a great many pictures of the Queen, of the various members of her family and of the pets of the royal household. In 1850 he was knighted and was at the very height of his popularity and success.

With the single exception of Sir Joshua Reynolds, he visited and received in his own house more distinguished persons than any other British artist. He was the intimate friend of Dickens, Chantrey, Sidney Smith, and other famous men.

Landseer had an extreme fondness for studying and making pictures of lions, and from the time when, as a boy, he dissected one, he tried to obtain the body of every lion that died in London. Dickens was in the habit of relating that on one occasion, when he and others were dining with the artist, a servant entered and asked, "Did you order a lion, sir?" as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The guests feared that a living lion was about to enter, but it turned out to be the body of the dead "Nero," of the Zoölogical Gardens, which had been sent as a gift to Sir Edwin.

His skill in drawing was marvelous, and was once shown in a rare way at a large evening party. Facility in drawing had been the theme of conversation, when a lady declared that no one had yet drawn two objects at the same moment. Landseer would not allow that this could not be done, and immediately took two pencils and drew a horse's head with one hand and at the same time, a stag's head with the other hand. He painted with great rapidity; he once sent to the exhibition a picture of rabbits painted in three-quarters of an hour. Mr. Wells relates that at one time when Landseer was visiting him, he left the house for church just as his butler placed a fresh canvas on the easel before the painter; on his return, three hours later, Landseer had completed a life-sized picture of a fallow-deer, and so well was it done that neither he nor the artist could see that it required retouching.

Several portraits of Landseer exist and are well known, but that called the "Connoisseurs," painted in 1865 for the Prince of Wales, is of great interest. Here the artist has painted a half-length portrait of himself engaged in drawing, while two dogs look over his shoulders with a critical expression.

In 1840, Landseer made a quite extended tour in Europe, and that was the only time that he was long absent from Great Britain. In 1853, several of his works were sent to the Exposition in Paris; he was the only English artist who received the great gold medal.

Sir Edwin Landseer was also a sculptor, and though he executed but few works in this art, the colossal lions at the base of Nelson's Monument in Trafalgar Square, London, are a triumph for him. He was chosen for this work on account of his great knowledge of the "king of beasts."

At his death he had modeled but one; the others were copied from it under the care of the Baron Marochetti.

Sir Edwin continued to work in spite of sadness, failing health and sight, and in the last year of his life he executed four pictures, one being an equestrian portrait of the Queen.

He died October 1, 1873, and was buried with many honors in St. Paul's Cathedral. He left a property of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds; the pictures and drawings in his studio were sold for seventy thousand pounds, and all this large sum, with the exception of a few small bequests, was given to his brother Thomas and his three sisters, ten thousand pounds being given to his brother Charles.

I suppose that many of the pictures of Sir Edwin Landseer are well known to the readers of St. Nicholas. "High Life" and "Low Life," "A Highland Breakfast," "Dignity and Impudence," the "Cat's Paw," "The Monarch of the Glen," the "Piper and Nutcrackers," and others, are familiar in the form of prints to many people in many lands, and they are pictures which all must love. It is needless to add any long opinion of the artistic qualities of this master; the critic Hamerton has happily summed up an estimate of him in these words: "Everything that can be said about Landseer's knowledge of animals, and especially of dogs, has already been said. There was never very much to say, for there was no variety of opinions, and nothing to discuss. Critics may write volumes of controversy about Turner and Delacroix, but Landseer's merits are so obvious to every one that he stood in no need of critical explanations. The best commentators on Landseer, the best defenders of his genius, are the dogs themselves; and so long as there exist terriers, deer-hounds, and blood-hounds, his fame will need little assistance from writers upon art."

ONE OF THE LANDSEER LIONS AT THE BASE OF THE NELSON MONUMENT, TRAFALGAR SQUARE, LONDON.

UNDER THE SNOW.

By Lilian Dynevor Rice.

All in the bleak December weather,
When north winds blow,
Five little clovers lay warm together
Under the snow.
"Wait," said they, "till the robins sing;
Wait, till the blossoms bud and spring;
Wait, till the rain and the sunbeams gay
Our winter blanket shall fold away—
Then, we will try to grow."

All in the fragrant May-time weather,
When south winds blow,
Five little clovers crept close together
Under the snow.
Poor, pink babies! They might have known
'Twas only the pear-tree blossoms blown
By the frolic breeze; but they cried, "Oh, dear!
Surely the spring is late this year!
Still, we will try to grow."

All in the sultry August weather,
When no winds blow,
Five little clovers were sad together
Under the snow.
'Twas only the daisies waving white
Above their heads in the glowing light;
But they cried, "Will we never understand?
It always snows in this fairyland—
Yet, we will try to grow."

All in the bright September weather,
When west winds blow,
Five little clovers were glad together
Under the snow.
For now 'twas the muslin kerchief cool,
Of a dear little lass on her way to school.
"The sweetest snow-fall of all," said they;
"We knew our reward would come some day,
If only we'd try to grow!"

NAN'S REVOLT.

By Rose Lattimore Alling.

Chapter V.

he Ferris tea-table was a very cheery board, where good spirits of a most delightful and commendable kind flowed freely. The stiff and solemn Wilders, who "partook of the joys of life furtively," were inclined to be scandalized. Who cared? Not the Ferrises, and so, as has been said, that happy family enjoyed life despite their critical neighbors, and as they all gathered about the scarlet cloth that evening, they looked like a band that ought never to be broken.

Fun and laughter ran so high that the dear, tired father forgot his legal cares and cracked his jokes. These were more or less bad,—but what matter so long as the children thought him "just the darlingest, funniest man in the world." No guest remained long in that genial atmosphere without discovering the source of this sunny family-life, and the true tendency of the current beneath all the froth and ripple of the nonsense.

From father and mother, down to little Claire, it was a family of friends. That was the entire secret. There were no petty animosities, no bickerings; everything was open and above-board. Sincere and loving confidence bound them together. The girls were interested in all their father's cases in court; while he, in turn, listened to all their girlish performances with undivided attention. No new gown or hat was completely satisfactory until he had passed a favorable judgment. Here in his own small court he was "Judge Ferris," in that title's noblest sense. And the mother? She was best sister of all among her daughters,—"Mother and sister and queen,—all in one precious little woman," as Nan said, lifting her off her feet with a vigorous embrace.

But the toast was getting cold, and the festivity began as the plates went 'round. The judicial wrinkles in Mr. Ferris's forehead were pulled out by those radiating from the outer corners of his kind eyes; the mother utterly lost her authority as the mirth rose to a gale; and nobody paid the slightest attention to Lou's request for the honey.

"Nan," said Mrs. Ferris, laughing, "you are the only one who isn't behaving outrageously, so please attend to your sister's wants." But her observant eye did not leave her daughter's thoughtful face, and she asked, during a purely accidental lull in the chatter,—for she sympathized even with moods in her children:—"What is it, dear; what are you thinking about? You seem to be taking the butter-dish into your confidence—we are jealous."

Nan drew her eyes away, and, giving her mother a bright look, she answered: "Why, I was thinking of the time, before we went to boarding-school, when Papa called Evelyn and me to him and asked us which we would rather have him do, scrimp us all our lives on advantages and education, so that he could lay up something for our future, or, instead of dowry or legacy, have our money as we went along, depending upon our ability for the future."

"And we voted as a single man, didn't we?" said Evelyn.

"We did that same, Evelyn; we decided that we wanted but little here below, but that we wanted that little right away!"

"And I recall how magnanimously you promised to share my last crust with me," said Mr. Ferris, hitching Nan's chair nearer to him.

"Yes," continued she, "I'll never desert you. But I was going to say that I don't think I have kept my part of the agreement. You have given me advantages which even richer girls have not had, and I have not done a thing with them yet. I have had a whole year of idleness, and I'm tired of it, and want to go to work."

The family had heard something of this independent mood before, but, as nothing alarming came of it, they received this announcement without any demonstration of surprise; indeed, Mr. Ferris attended to the dissolution of the sugar in his second cup of tea before looking up, and then he said, "Yes?" with a slowly rising inflection.

"Yes!" came from Nan with a short downward one; "Yes, sir, and I have a plan this time, and wish to consult my beloved family before doing anything rash."

"So that you can do it afterward with a clear conscience, I suppose?" ventured her father, wickedly.

"No, I shall do something a hundred times rasher if you oppose this plan, for it is the least revolutionary thing I can think of."

"Well?"—said her father, inquiringly.

"You know how hard Aunt Hettie has tried to induce one of us to come down to New York and spend the winter with her and Uncle Nat, and how we have all begged off because they live so quietly and so far up town, we thought we should simply stagnate? I should like to go there this winter, not, I blush to say, for their sakes alone, but because I wish to study."

NAN FOUND CATHY FILLING A FIREPLACE WITH GOLDEN-ROD. ([SEE NEXT PAGE].)

"What! study more?" groaned Lou, who was only fourteen, and in the toils of cube-root.

"Yes, study more," asserted Nan. "I want to take a course of lessons in a school of design, for I think I may do something in that line that may pay, after a while. Now, observe the latent beauty of my scheme. By spending the winter with them, I shan't need any new clothes—which means that I intend to pay for my lessons out of my own allowance."

"Oh, never mind that, dear child," Mr. Ferris said lovingly.

"Yes, I will mind! That is just what makes us girls so good-for-nothing;—we don't 'mind' enough! I really think it would be fun to actually need a new dress and know I couldn't have it until I earned it—buttons, whale-bones, and braid. Anyhow, if it were not fun, it would be good for my character. Now what do you all think?" and Nan helped herself to cake, observing that the others had finished theirs.

Mr. Ferris, heaving an involuntary sigh, began:

"Well, dear, as you know, your mother and I consider it our duty to bring up our girls so that each can, if the necessity should come, earn her own living; and perhaps the time is here for one to fly out of the nest to try her wings,—ah, me!"

"But that is just what I don't want to do; and one reason I hit upon this plan is that it will take me away from home only one winter, perhaps, and then not among strangers," said Nan.

"But," objected Mr. Ferris, "do you know anything about this school?"

"The Cooper Institute? I should think so. Why, it was reading about this particular branch of decorative art in the newspaper, the other day, that made me think of it."

"Then, little girl," he said fondly, "I think I am pleased with your plan."

When they were all grouped before the fire, and Mr. Ferris had drawn Nan close to him, as though somehow he were about to lose her, Evelyn took her mother's hand in hers and began:

"Papa, don't think I am going to do nothing; I am not like Nan, nor can I do the things she can; but I try to believe each has a special talent, and if I have a passion, it is for housekeeping; and Mother and I have a lovely plan!" And those two exchanged a laughing glance of great portent.

Anything like secrecy immediately aroused in the Ferris family the most vehement denunciation.

"What do you mean?" demanded the chorus.

"Well, then, Mother hasn't the slightest idea what we are going to have for breakfast to-morrow morning, because I am the housekeeper of this house, and I am going to buy everything and plan everything, and pay all the bills,—with a little pecuniary aid from you, Papa,—and make a study of beef and poultry, while Mother is going to do fancy-work and read French novels. But I am only going to learn to do well what ninety-nine girls out of every hundred have to do,—so there!"

"Splendid! splendid!" shouted Mr. Ferris, going over to this oldest of the flock and taking her face lovingly between his hands. "I declare, I don't know of which to be proudest; you mutually surpass each other, my children."

"Wait until after to-morrow morning's breakfast, and I fear you will be able to decide!" called the new housekeeper, as she disappeared to have a consultation with the cook.

All these revolutionary measures were not of the sudden growth that their speedy results seem to indicate. Any girl who enjoys the luxury of aimlessness during that long-desired period after she has "finished," will, sooner or later, encounter that arch-fiend of happiness, satiety,—the Apollyon of those who exist merely to have a "good time." Nan had been reared amidst the most healthy influences, and her vigorous young nature demanded more nourishing rations than those offered by the life she had been leading. However, this longing had only come of late, for she had been most devoted to the pomps and vanities, while her parents had looked on with some anxiety, but held their peace, trusting that she would "come out all right."

Bert's surroundings were different, her home influences being wholly worldly, her mother desiring nothing more of her daughter than that she should move among the best circles, finally making a brilliant marriage. Bert had not only dutifully but eagerly explored those aristocratic precincts, and had enjoyed herself hugely, as she observed everything in her own original and critical way, amusing herself with her own conclusions. Her wit and breeziness made her always welcome, and she could even enliven the clammy atmosphere of a young ladies' luncheon, as there was always sure to be grateful laughter at her end of the table. This success was exhilarating for a while, until she began to discover that she got very little for her pains. She herself needed stimulating; she demanded equal exertion from others; "why should she be interested in uninteresting people?" she should like to know. She didn't find out. She was already very privately admitting to herself that she "would like to shake the best circles from center to circumference." But the poor girl did not know what might be the social result, and to make a break had never occurred to her as a possibility until Nan's audacity suggested it.

So, while Bert sat on the other side of her father's desk and signed letters in her most elegant hand, "Mitchell & Co., per B.," wondering if the junior members of the firms to which she had been writing would ever guess who "B." was, or if they would conclude it stood for some stupid, round-shouldered Brown or Bates or Baker,—Nan sped down to Cathy's to be the first to announce Bert's business career, as Evelyn's new cares detained her at home.

THE “B.” OF MITCHELL & CO.

Nan found Cathy filling a fireplace with a yellow glory of golden-rod.

"That's lovely!" commented Nan. "But what if you want a fire some of these cool evenings?"

"Why, that's the beauty of my idea; the fire is all ready to light under these, and when we want one all we have to do is to let the whole thing burn up; the golden-rod will be dried by that time, and then I can get more. See?"

"Good; that's sensible; for if there is any thing I hate, it is a grate too fine to have a big, roaring fire in it. You always were an artist in flowers. But that isn't what I came to remark. What do you suppose Bert has done now?"

Then followed a long talk, such as only girls are equal to, during which Bert's clerkship and Evelyn's housekeeping venture were discussed, and Nan's own plans divulged.

"Oh, me!" Cathy sighed hopelessly. "This is all very soul-stirring; I only am behind. I can't dash about and assert myself as you girls do, and besides, I think it is my duty to stay at home with Mother."

This duty Cathy had borne sweetly, for her mother was a doleful companion, who was making the mistake of casting a shadow over this daughter's life because her only other daughter had not been spared to her. This grief and the loss of her husband many years before had not taught her to make the lives of those still left to her as happy as possible; yet Cathy cheerfully made "sunshine in a shady place," while Fred manfully shouldered his father's business, which weighed heavily on his young shoulders.

"But I do want an object in life besides," continued Cathy, "for staying where I am put is only half my duty. If I should relieve Mother of the housekeeping I believe she would die, so I can't follow Evelyn's example. What can I do?" she asked mournfully.

Nan was reflecting that there were three kinds of girls,—those who led, like Bert; those who are led, like Evelyn; and those who must be pushed, like Cathy. "And maybe it is my duty to push," she thought.

"Well, Catherine," she began, settling herself in her chair, "would you really like to earn your own living?"

"Yes; I most certainly should like to do something toward it, for I have often wondered if dear old Fred didn't forego part of his own profits from the nursery for our sakes. Did you girls find out your vocations all alone, without any help or suggestion from others?" she continued.

"Bert did, of course," said Nan. Who ever knew her to take advice from anybody? But Evelyn and I talked all day and all night, and alternately propped each other's falling spirits, and last night the jury of the entire family sat upon us!"

"Oh, yes——" and Cathy sighed again. "But you see I have nobody. Mother wouldn't be interested, and Fred wouldn't hear of such a thing. He thinks a girl should be very feminine, and let her brother support her if she has no father. No, I must get on without sympathy."

"But you shan't! I'm here on purpose to help you as I have been helped. I feel it my duty to pass on the impulse."

"You are a dear, good girl, and I love you," Cathy said gratefully. "I'll be your humble servant and do just what you tell me. I wish I could go to New York with you and take lessons in flower-painting."

"You'd never get rich selling a daisy and a lily and a little buttercup. You would better go to raising golden-rod in your brother's nursery, and then peddle it about the city, filling people's fireplaces at a dollar apiece!"

"I wish I could. Do you know, I should just love to raise flowers——"

"That's it!" screamed Nan delightedly. "Just the thing! Have a hot-house,—cut-flowers for the million,—beat Haas & Schaeffer out of town! You could do it, Cathy; you have exquisite taste in flowers, and everybody will be crazy to have a basket or bouquet from the high-art green-house! We girls will always buy of you,—why, Haas sent me a lot of carnations for the Atwood party without any stems to them——"

"And he never knows enough to have narcissus or daffodils, or any of those stylish flowers!" excitedly broke in Cathy, with dilated eyes.

"And don't you charge quite five dollars apiece for rose-buds either!"

"And I will cut lots of leaves with them; and funeral people shall not have those hideous 'gates ajar' from my establishment!"

But at this both girls burst into a merry laugh, and seriously set about discussing the ways and means.

Cathy decided to find out the cost of such an undertaking, and the business outlook of the project before consulting Fred.

Nan remembered that her father knew a man somehow connected with a green-house in another city.

Cathy mentioned a certain corner of their grounds where she could build hers.

Nan suggested that she go down to Johnson's and see what books there were on the subject; and so on, until at last they parted with a happy sense of lively stir and aim.

But these four fortunes were not made in a day, and the time seemed long before much but discouragement was achieved. Just here is where the masculine pertinacity is valuable. Business results are slow, and the feminine mind chafes at delay, and wants to see the net gain immediately.

Bert found stenography very tedious, if not quite a bore; and there came many days when she would have been willing to slip back into social inertness, and keep to her slippers and book rather than present herself in the dingy office. Although, when once she had conquered, it wasn't so bad, for there was a bright rug on the floor, and a small feather-duster, hung up by a scarlet ribbon, did effective service. Her sense of the humorous also came to her aid, for the expression of relieved suspense she caught on her father's face as she appeared regularly morning after morning amused her, and the one of loving friendliness that began to settle there more than repaid her.

“I PLAY LOUD WALTZES ON THE PIANO, UNTIL THE SILENCE OF THESE SEPULCHRAL ROOMS IS PUT TO FLIGHT.” ([SEE NEXT PAGE].)

On Saturday, at the end of her first week, she found a little pile of silver by her plate. She regarded it curiously for a moment, then inquired doubtfully:

"Is this the exact sum you would have paid to a Mr. Snipkins, had such a person been hired in my place, and done the work I have done?"

"Exactly, Bertha; no more, no less," her father replied, smiling.

"Earned," she murmured, slowly dropping the pieces one by one into her purse. "What a queer feeling! Money for an equivalent given—I don't believe I shall ever spend it!"

Mr. Mitchell looked particularly pleased, as he said: "Ah, you begin to appreciate what a dollar stands for."

Evelyn's table blossomed out into all manner of pretty devices, each studied from a newly purchased cook-book. The butter reposed in beautifully shaped rolls on a feathery bed of parsley; even homely roasted potatoes looked inviting as they lay in a nest made of the snowy folds of a fringed napkin. Mr. Ferris declared he was twice fed by Evelyn's banquets. So it was all very fine until the bills came in at the end of the month; not that daintiness in serving cost anything, but she had erred in other directions. Evelyn was in consternation, for she had confidently supposed she could save a snug little bit from the sum allotted for housekeeping expenses, and this amount she was at liberty to spend as she chose, and she had already chosen to get a dozen tinted finger-glasses, a Japanese bowl for broken ice, another for salad, and so on, until, to her mind's eye, her table was a dream of color and form; but when that eye opened on the grocery bill, and the butcher's bill, and the milk bill, and then on minus six dollars and eighty-five cents, it nearly dropped a tear of shame and disappointment.

"No," she thought, after suppressing her first impulse to ask her mother what to do, "no! If I have been extravagant, I must find out where, and pay for it; and this deficit shall come out of my own allowance. Next month I will do better."

And she did.

Nan wrote from New York, about the middle of November:

"Thanksgiving is coming, but I'm not. As my highest earthly desire is to earn twenty-five dollars, I'm not going to spend that much, especially as I haven't got it, for just two days' pleasure. I may mention, by way of a mere casual remark, that at present there isn't the dimmest possibility of my earning a punched coin this year, unless I happen to take a prize next spring. In my own humble imagination I have already done this and have, of course, chosen the things I shall buy with the money! But I do wish there were no rudiments to learn. They keep one back so! All this week I've devoted the forces of my nature to drawing straight lines and angles, However, I have long suspected that one of my faults was dislike of real hard work, so I am going to 'peg right along,' and lay foundations.

"There are several nice girls in the class, and Aunt Hettie says that I may invite Ruth Manning, who has no home to go to, here to Thanksgiving dinner. I am having a gay time shaking up this quiet house. I play "loud waltzes on the piano," and sing at the top of my voice, which you well know penetrates to the gables of the garret, until the silence of these sepulchral rooms is put to flight. I am also adding worldly touches to these same tombs, and dear Aunty sees how much prettier they look, and wonders she never thought of the little changes I've made. And what do you think—I trimmed her up a bonnet; quite different from her usual head-gear, I can tell you, with really a furtive air of style about it!—and I held her before the glass until I made her own that she liked it; and when I marched her in to show it to Uncle Nat, and commanded him to say it was becoming, he said it looked like one she wore when he was courting her, whereat he kissed her, and she blushed with pleasure. She will wear that bonnet next Sunday, although I think she expects instant excommunication.

"Tell Evelyn I long for the locusts and wild honey she seems to be serving up so charmingly; also that we made a great hit when we made over my brown suit, for it is quite 'the thing.' I think it is splendid of Fred Drake to loan Cathy the money to start her green things.

"I'm going to paper my room with common manilla paper, when I get home, and then put splashes of gilt on it, happy-go-lucky style. I saw a room done so.

"Hug yourselves all around, for

"Your loving

"Nan Ferris."

Yes, Cathy's brother behaved nobly when he once found she was determined; and, when this hitherto gentle and submissive creature announced to him that she could get her house built, heated, and stocked for from six to eight hundred dollars, mentioning other items showing careful study of the subject, and asked if she could not have that amount out of her share of the property, he not only promised to "fix it some way," and chucked her under the chin, as a special mark of tenderness, but offered her the services of a young German boy who was in his employ.

So it was not long before the sound of the hammer was heard in the land, and the first snowflakes of winter fell on countless panes of glass, while her little forest of tender plants sprouted and climbed, and blossomed in the humid air below.

(To be continued.)

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

By Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Chapter XII.

very few days after the dinner-party at the Castle, almost everybody in England who read the newspapers at all knew the romantic story of what had happened at Dorincourt. It made a very interesting story when it was told with all the details. There was the little American boy who had been brought to England to be Lord Fauntleroy, and who was said to be so fine and handsome a little fellow, and to have already made people fond of him; there was the old Earl, his grandfather, who was so proud of his heir; there was the pretty young mother who had never been forgiven for marrying Captain Errol; and there was the strange marriage of Bevis, the dead Lord Fauntleroy, and the strange wife, of whom no one knew anything, suddenly appearing with her son, and saying that he was the real Lord Fauntleroy and must have his rights. All these things were talked about and written about, and caused a tremendous sensation. And then there came the rumor that the Earl of Dorincourt was not satisfied with the turn affairs had taken, and would perhaps contest the claim by law, and the matter might end with a wonderful trial.

There never had been such excitement before in the county in which Erleboro was situated. On market-days, people stood in groups and talked and wondered what would be done; the farmers' wives invited one another to tea that they might tell one another all they had heard and all they thought and all they thought other people thought. They related wonderful anecdotes about the Earl's rage and his determination not to acknowledge the new Lord Fauntleroy, and his hatred of the woman who was the claimant's mother. But, of course, it was Mrs. Dibble who could tell the most, and who was more in demand than ever.

"An' a bad lookout it is," she said. "An' if you were to ask me, ma'am, I should say as it was a judgment on him for the way he's treated that sweet young cre'tur' as he parted from her child,—for he's got that fond of him an' that set on him an' that proud of him as he's a'most drove mad by what's happened. An' what's more, this new one's no lady, as his little lordship's ma is. She's a bold-faced, black-eyed thing, as Mr. Thomas says no gentleman in livery 'u'd bemean hisself to be guv orders by; an' let her come into the house, he says, an' he goes out of it. An' the boy don't no more compare with the other one than nothin' you could mention. An' mercy knows what's goin' to come of it all, an' where it's to end, an' you might have knocked me down with a feather when Jane brought the news."

In fact there was excitement everywhere at the Castle; in the library, where the Earl and Mr. Havisham sat and talked; in the servants' hall, where Mr. Thomas and the butler and the other men and women servants gossiped and exclaimed at all times of the day; and in the stables, where Wilkins went about his work in a quite depressed state of mind, and groomed the brown pony more beautifully than ever, and said mournfully to the coachman that he "never taught a young gen'leman to ride as took to it more nat'ral, or was a better-plucked one than he was. He was a one as it were some pleasure to ride behind."

But in the midst of all the disturbance there was one person who was quite calm and untroubled. That person was the little Lord Fauntleroy who was said not to be Lord Fauntleroy at all. When first the state of affairs had been explained to him, he had felt some little anxiousness and perplexity, it is true, but its foundation was not in baffled ambition.

While the Earl told him what had happened, he had sat on a stool holding on to his knee, as he so often did when he was listening to anything interesting; and by the time the story was finished he looked quite sober.

"It makes me feel very queer," he said; "it makes me feel—queer!"

The Earl looked at the boy in silence. It made him feel queer, too—queerer than he had ever felt in his whole life. And he felt more queer still when he saw that there was a troubled expression on the small face which was usually so happy.

"Will they take Dearest's house away from her—and her carriage?" Cedric asked in a rather unsteady, anxious little voice.

"No!" said the Earl decidedly—in quite a loud voice in fact. "They can take nothing from her."

"Ah!" said Cedric, with evident relief. "Can't they?"

Then he looked up at his grandfather, and there was a wistful shade in his eyes, and they looked very big and soft.

"That other boy," he said rather tremulously—"he will have to—to be your boy now—as I was—wont he?"

"No!" answered the Earl—and he said it so fiercely and loudly that Cedric quite jumped.

"No?" he exclaimed, in wonderment. "Wont he? I thought——"

He stood up from his stool quite suddenly.

"Shall I be your boy, even if I'm not going to be an earl?" he said. "Shall I be your boy, just as I was before?" And his flushed little face was all alight with eagerness.

How the old Earl did look at him from head to foot, to be sure. How his great shaggy brows did draw themselves together, and how queerly his deep eyes shone under them—how very queerly!

"My boy!" he said—and, if you'll believe it, his very voice was queer, almost shaky and a little broken and hoarse, not at all what you would expect an earl's voice to be, though he spoke more decidedly and peremptorily even than before,—"Yes, you'll be my boy as long as I live; and, by George, sometimes I feel as if you were the only boy I had ever had."

“SHE WAS TOLD BY THE FOOTMAN AT THE DOOR THAT THE EARL WOULD NOT SEE HER.”

Cedric's face turned red to the roots of his hair; it turned red with relief and pleasure. He put both his hands deep into his pockets and looked squarely into his noble relative's eyes.

"Do you?" he said. "Well, then, I don't care about the earl part at all. I don't care whether I'm an earl or not. I thought—you see, I thought the one that was going to be the Earl would have to be your boy, too, and—and I couldn't be. That was what made me feel so queer."

The Earl put his hand on his shoulder and drew him nearer.

"They shall take nothing from you that I can hold for you," he said, drawing his breath hard. "I wont believe yet that they can take anything from you. You were made for the place, and—well, you may fill it still. But whatever comes, you shall have all that I can give you—all!"

It scarcely seemed as if he were speaking to a child, there was such determination in his face and voice; it was more as if he were making a promise to himself—and perhaps he was.

He had never before known how deep a hold upon him his fondness for the boy and his pride in him had taken. He had never seen his strength and good qualities and beauty as he seemed to see them now. To his obstinate nature it seemed impossible—more than impossible—to give up what he had so set his heart upon. And he had determined that he would not give it up without a fierce struggle.

Within a few days after she had seen Mr. Havisham, the woman who claimed to be Lady Fauntleroy presented herself at the Castle, and brought her child with her. She was sent away. The Earl would not see her, she was told by the footman at the door; his lawyer would attend to her case. It was Thomas who gave the message, and who expressed his opinion of her freely afterward, in the servants' hall. He "hoped," he said, "as he had wore livery in 'igh famblies long enough to know a lady when he see one, an' if that was a lady he was no judge o' females."

"The one at the Lodge," added Thomas loftily, "'Merican or no 'Merican, she's one o' the right sort, as any gentleman 'u'd reckinize with 'alf a heye. I remarked it myself to Henery when fust we called there."

The woman drove away; the look on her handsome, common face half frightened, half fierce. Mr. Havisham had noticed, during his interviews with her, that though she had a passionate temper and a coarse, insolent manner, she was neither so clever nor so bold as she meant to be; she seemed sometimes to be almost overwhelmed by the position in which she had placed herself. It was as if she had not expected to meet with such opposition.

"She is evidently," the lawyer said to Mrs. Errol, "a person from the lower walks of life. She is uneducated and untrained in everything, and quite unused to meeting people like ourselves on any terms of equality. She does not know what to do. Her visit to the Castle quite cowed her. She was infuriated, but she was cowed. The Earl would not receive her, but I advised him to go with me to the Dorincourt Arms, where she is staying. When she saw him enter the room, she turned white, though she flew into a rage at once, and threatened and demanded in one breath."

“‘SHALL I BE YOUR BOY, EVEN IF I’M NOT GOING TO BE AN EARL?’ SAID CEDRIC.”

The fact was that the Earl had stalked into the room and stood, looking like a venerable aristocratic giant, staring at the woman from under his beetling brows, and not condescending a word. He simply stared at her, taking her in from head to foot as if she were some repulsive curiosity. He let her talk and demand until she was tired, without himself uttering a word, and then he said:

"You say you are my eldest son's wife. If that is true, and if the proof you offer is too much for us, the law is on your side. In that case, your boy is Lord Fauntleroy. The matter will be sifted to the bottom, you may rest assured. If your claims are proved, you will be provided for. I want to see nothing either of you or the child so long as I live. The place will unfortunately have enough of you after my death. You are exactly the kind of person I should have expected my son Bevis to choose."

And then he turned his back upon her and stalked out of the room as he had stalked into it.

Not many days after that, a visitor was announced to Mrs. Errol, who was writing in her little morning room. The maid, who brought the message, looked rather excited; her eyes were quite round with amazement, in fact, and being young and inexperienced, she regarded her mistress with nervous sympathy.

"It's the Earl hisself, ma'am!" she said in tremulous awe.

When Mrs. Errol entered the drawing-room, a very tall, majestic-looking old man was standing on the tiger-skin rug. He had a handsome, grim old face, with an aquiline profile, a long white mustache, and an obstinate look.

"Mrs. Errol, I believe?" he said.

"Mrs. Errol," she answered.

"I am the Earl of Dorincourt," he said.

He paused a moment, almost unconsciously, to look in to her uplifted eyes. They were so like the big, affectionate, childish eyes he had seen uplifted to his own so often every day during the last few months, that they gave him a quite curious sensation.

"The boy is very like you," he said abruptly.

"It has been often said so, my lord," she replied, "but I have been glad to think him like his father also."

As Lady Lorridaile had told him, her voice was very sweet, and her manner was very simple and dignified. She did not seem in the least troubled by his sudden coming.

"Yes," said the Earl, "he is like—my son—too." He put his hand up to his big white mustache and pulled it fiercely. "Do you know," he said, "why I have come here?"

"I have seen Mr. Havisham," Mrs. Errol began, "and he has told me of the claims which have been made——"

"I have come to tell you," said the Earl, "that they will be investigated and contested, if a contest can be made. I have come to tell you that the boy shall be defended with all the power of the law. His rights——"

The soft voice interrupted him.

"He must have nothing that is not his by right, even if the law can give it to him," she said.

"Unfortunately the law can not," said the Earl. "If it could, it should. This outrageous woman and her child——"

"Perhaps she cares for him as much as I care for Cedric, my lord," said little Mrs. Errol. "And if she was your eldest son's wife, her son is Lord Fauntleroy, and mine is not."

She was no more afraid of him than Cedric had been, and she looked at him just as Cedric would have looked, and he, having been an old tyrant all his life, was privately pleased by it. People so seldom dared to differ from him that there was an entertaining novelty in it.

"I suppose," he said, scowling slightly, "that you would much prefer that he should not be the Earl of Dorincourt."

Her fair young face flushed.

"It is a very magnificent thing to be the Earl of Dorincourt, my lord," she said. "I know that, but I care most that he should be what his father was—brave and just and true always."

"In striking contrast to what his grandfather was, eh?" said his lordship sardonically.

"I have not had the pleasure of knowing his grandfather," replied Mrs. Errol, "but I know my little boy believes——" She stopped short a moment, looking quietly into his face, and then she added, "I know that Cedric loves you."

"Would he have loved me," said the Earl dryly, "if you had told him why I did not receive you at the Castle?"