“We had to pay! You never paid anything, Moss,” cries Clive, laughing; and indeed the negus imbibed6 by Mr. Moss did not cost that prudent7 young fellow a penny.
“Well, well; I suppose at these swell parties you ‘ave as bush champade as ever you like,” continues Moss. “Lady Kicklebury at obe — small early party. Why, I declare you know the whole peerage! I say, if any of these swells8 want a little tip-top lace, a real bargain, or diamonds, you know, you might put in a word for us, and do us a good turn.”
“Give me some of your cards,” says Clive; “I can distribute them about at the balls I go to. But you must treat my friends better than you serve me. Those cigars which you sent me were abominable9, Moss; the groom10 in the stable won’t smoke them.”
“What a regular swell that Newcome has become!” says Mr. Moss to an old companion, another of Clive’s fellow-students: “I saw him riding in the Park with the Earl of Kew, and Captain Belsize, and a whole lot of ’em — I know ’em all — and he’d hardly nod to me. I’ll have a horse next Sunday, and then I’ll see whether he’ll cut me or not. Confound his airs! For all he’s such a count, I know he’s got an aunt who lets lodgings11 at Brighton, and an uncle who’ll be preaching in the Bench if he don’t keep a precious good look-out.”
“Newcome is not a bit of a count,” answers Moss’s companion, indignantly. “He don’t care a straw whether a fellow’s poor or rich; and he comes up to my room just as willingly as he would go to a duke’s. He is always trying to do a friend a good turn. He draws the figure capitally: he looks proud, but he isn’t, and is the best-natured fellow I ever saw.”
“He ain’t been in our place this eighteen months,” says Mr. Moss: “I know that.”
“Because when he came you were always screwing him with some bargain or other,” cried the intrepid12 Hicks, Mr. Moss’s companion for the moment. “He said he couldn’t afford to know you: you never let him out of your house without a pin, or a box of eau-de-cologne, or a bundle of cigars. And when you cut the arts for the shop, how were you and Newcome to go on together, I should like to know?”
“I know a relative of his who comes to our ’ouse every three months, to renew a little bill,” says Mr. Moss, with a grin: “and I know this, if I go to the Earl of Kew in the Albany, or the Honourable13 Captain Belsize, Knightsbridge Barracks, they let me in soon enough. I’m told his father ain’t got much money.”
“How the deuce should I know? or what do I care?” cries the young artist, stamping the heel of his blucher on the pavement. “When I was sick in that confounded Clipstone Street, I know the Colonel came to see me, and Newcome too, day after day, and night after night. And when I was getting well, they sent me wine and jelly, and all sorts of jolly things. I should like to know how often you came to see me, Moss, and what you did for a fellow?”
“Well, I kep away because I thought you wouldn’t like to be reminded of that two pound three you owe me, Hicks: that’s why I kep away,” says Mr. Moss, who, I dare say, was good-natured too. And when young Moss appeared at the billiard-room that night, it was evident that Hicks had told the story; for the Wardour Street youth was saluted14 with a roar of queries15, “How about that two pound three that Hicks owes you?”
The artless conversation of the two youths will enable us to understand how our hero’s life was speeding. Connected in one way or another with persons in all ranks, it never entered his head to be ashamed of the profession which he had chosen. People in the great world did not in the least trouble themselves regarding him, or care to know whether Mr. Clive Newcome followed painting or any other pursuit: and though Clive saw many of his schoolfellows in the world, these entering into the army, others talking with delight of college, and its pleasures or studies; yet, having made up his mind that art was his calling, he refused to quit her for any other mistress, and plied16 his easel very stoutly17. He passed through the course of study prescribed by Mr. Gandish, and drew every cast and statue in that gentleman’s studio. Grindley, his tutor, getting a curacy, Clive did not replace him; but he took a course of modern languages, which he learned with considerable aptitude19 and rapidity. And now, being strong enough to paint without a master, it was found that there was no good light in the house in Fitzroy Square; and Mr. Clive must needs have an atelier hard by, where he could pursue his own devices independently.
If his kind father felt any pang20 even at this temporary parting, he was greatly soothed21 and pleased by a little mark of attention on the young man’s part, of which his present biographer happened to be a witness; for having walked over with Colonel Newcome to see the new studio, with its tall centre window, and its curtains, and carved wardrobes, china jars, pieces of armour22, and other artistical properties, the lad, with a very sweet smile of kindness and affection lighting23 up his honest face, took one of two Bramah’s house-keys with which he was provided, and gave it to his father: “That’s your key, sir,” he said to the Colonel; “and you must be my first sitter, please, father; for though I’m a historical painter, I shall condescend24 to do a few portraits, you know.” The Colonel took his son’s hand, and grasped it; as Clive fondly put the other hand on his father’s shoulder. Then Colonel Newcome walked away into the next room for a minute or two, and came back wiping his moustache with his handkerchief, and still holding the key in the other hand. He spoke25 about some trivial subject when he returned; but his voice quite trembled; and I thought his face seemed to glow with love and pleasure. Clive has never painted anything better than that head, which he executed in a couple of sittings; and wisely left without subjecting it to the chances of further labour.
It is certain the young man worked much better after he had been inducted into this apartment of his own. And the meals at home were gayer; and the rides with his father more frequent and agreeable. The Colonel used his key once or twice, and found Clive and his friend Ridley engaged in depicting26 a life-guardsman — or a muscular negro — or a Malay from a neighbouring crossing, who would appear as Othello, conversing27 with a Clipstone Street nymph, who was ready to represent Desdemona, Diana, Queen Ellinor (sucking poison from the arm of the Plantagenet of the Blues), or any other model of virgin28 or maiden29 excellence30.
Of course our young man commenced as a historical painter, deeming that the highest branch of art; and declining (except for preparatory studies) to operate on any but the largest canvasses31. He painted a prodigious32 battle-piece of Assaye, with General Wellesley at the head of the 19th Dragoons charging the Mahratta Artillery33, and sabring them at their guns. A piece of ordnance34 was dragged into the back-yard, and the Colonel’s stud put into requisition to supply studies for this enormous picture. Fred Bayham (a stunning35 likeness) appeared as the principal figure in the foreground, terrifically wounded, but still of undaunted courage, slashing36 about amidst a group of writhing37 Malays, and bestriding the body of a dead cab-horse, which Clive painted, until the landlady38 and rest of the lodgers39 cried out, and for sanitary40 reasons the knackers removed the slaughtered41 charger. So large was this picture that it could only be got out of the great window by means of artifice42 and coaxing43; and its transport caused a shout of triumph among the little boys in Charlotte Street. Will it be believed that the Royal Academicians rejected the “Battle of Assaye”? The masterpiece was so big that Fitzroy Square could not hold it; and the Colonel had thoughts of presenting it to the Oriental Club; but Clive (who had taken a trip to Paris with his father, as a delassement after the fatigues44 incident on this great work), when he saw it, after a month’s interval45, declared the thing was rubbish, and massacred Britons, Malays, Dragoons, Artillery and all.
“Hotel de la Terrasse, Rue46 de Rivoli,
“April 27 — May 1, 183-.
“My Dear Pendennis — You said I might write you a line from Paris; and if you find in my correspondence any valuable hints for the Pall47 Mall Gazette, you are welcome to use them gratis48. Now I am here, I wonder I have never been here before, and that I have seen the Dieppe packet a thousand times at Brighton pier49 without thinking of going on board her. We had a rough little passage to Boulogne. We went into action as we cleared Dover pier — when the first gun was fired, and a stout18 old lady was carried off by a steward50 to the cabin; half a dozen more dropped immediately, and the crew bustled51 about, bringing basins for the wounded. The Colonel smiled as he saw them fall. ‘I’m an old sailor,’ says he to a gentleman on board. ‘I was coming home, sir, and we had plenty of rough weather on the voyage, I never thought of being unwell. My boy here, who made the voyage twelve years ago last May, may have lost his sea-legs; but for me, sir —’ Here a great wave dashed over the three of us; and would you believe it? in five minutes after, the dear old governor was as ill as all the rest of the passengers. When we arrived, we went through a line of ropes to the custom-house, with a crowd of snobs52 jeering53 at us on each side; and then were carried off by a bawling54 commissioner55 to an hotel, where the Colonel, who speaks French beautifully, you know, told the waiter to get us a petit dejeuner soigne; on which the fellow, grinning, said, a ‘nice fried sole, sir — nice mutton-chop, sir,’ in regular Temple Bar English; and brought us Harvey sauce with the chops, and the last Bell’s Life to amuse us after our luncheon56. I wondered if all the Frenchmen read Bell’s Life, and if all the inns smell so of brandy-and-water!
“We walked out to see the town, which I dare say you know, and therefore shan’t describe. We saw some good studies of fishwomen with bare legs, and remarked that the soldiers were very dumpy and small. We were glad when the time came to set off by the diligence; and having the coupe to ourselves, made a very comfortable journey to Paris. It was jolly to hear the postillions crying to their horses, and the bells of the team, and to feel ourselves really in France. We took in provender57 at Abbeville and Amiens, and were comfortably landed here after about six-and-twenty hours of coaching. Didn’t I get up the next morning and have a good walk in the Tuileries! The chestnuts58 were out, and the statues all shining, and all the windows of the palace in a blaze. It looks big enough for the king of the giants to live in. How grand it is! I like the barbarous splendour of the architecture, and the ornaments60 profuse61 and enormous with which it is overladen. Think of Louis XVI. with a thousand gentlemen at his back, and a mob of yelling ruffians in front of him, giving up his crown without a fight for it; leaving his friends to be butchered, and himself sneaking62 into prison! No end of little children were skipping and playing in the sunshiny walks, with dresses as bright and cheeks as red as the flowers and roses in the parterres. I couldn’t help thinking of Barbaroux and his bloody63 pikemen swarming64 in the gardens, and fancied the Swiss in the windows yonder; where they were to be slaughtered when the King had turned his back. What a great man that Carlyle is! I have read the battle in his History so often, that I knew it before I had seen it. Our windows look out on the obelisk65 where the guillotine stood. The Colonel doesn’t admire Carlyle. He says Mrs. Graham’s Letters from Paris are excellent, and we bought Scott’s Visit to Paris, and Paris Re-visited, and read them in the diligence. They are famous good reading; but the Palais Royal is very much altered since Scott’s time: no end of handsome shops; I went there directly — the same night we arrived, when the Colonel went to bed. But there is none of the fun going on which Scott describes. The laquais de place says Charles X. put an end to it all.
“Next morning the governor had letters to deliver after breakfast, and left me at the Louvre door. I shall come and live here, I think. I feel as if I never want to go away. I had not been ten minutes in the place before I fell in love with the most beautiful creature the world has ever seen. She was standing66 silent and majestic67 in the centre of one of the rooms of the statue-gallery; and the very first glimpse of her struck one breathless with the sense of her beauty. I could not see the colour of her eyes and hair exactly, but the latter is light, and the eyes I should think are grey. Her complexion68 is of a beautiful warm marble tinge69. She is not a clever woman, evidently; I do not think she laughs or talks much — she seems too lazy to do more than smile. She is only beautiful. This divine creature has lost an arm, which has been cut off at the shoulder, but she looks none the less lovely for the accident. She maybe some two-and-thirty years old; and she was born about two thousand years ago. Her name is the Venus of Milo. O Victrix! O lucky Paris! (I don’t mean this present Lutetia, but Priam’s son.) How could he give the apple to any else but this enslaver — this joy of gods and men? at whose benign70 presence the flowers spring up, and the smiling ocean sparkles, and the soft skies beam with serene71 light! I wish we might sacrifice. I would bring a spotless kid, snowy-coated, and a pair of doves and a jar of honey — yea, honey from Morel’s in Piccadilly, thyme-flavoured, narbonian, and we would acknowledge the Sovereign Loveliness, and adjure72 the Divine Aphrodite. Did you ever see my pretty young cousin, Miss Newcome, Sir Brian’s daughter? She has a great look of the huntress Diana. It is sometimes too proud and too cold for me. The blare of those horns is too shrill73 and the rapid pursuit through bush and bramble too daring. O thou generous Venus! O thou beautiful bountiful calm! At thy soft feet let me kneel — on cushions of Tyrian purple. Don’t show this to Warrington, please: I never thought when I began that Pegasus was going to run away with me.
“I wish I had read Greek a little more at school: it’s too late at my age; I shall be nineteen soon, and have got my own business; but when we return I think I shall try and read it with Cribs. What have I been doing, spending six months over a picture of sepoys and dragoons cutting each other’s throats? Art ought not to be a fever. It ought to be a calm; not a screaming bull-fight or a battle of gladiators, but a temple for placid74 contemplation, rapt worship, stately rhythmic75 ceremony, and music solemn and tender. I shall take down my Snyders and Rubens when I get home; and turn quietist. To think I have spent weeks in depicting bony life-guardsmen delivering cut one, or Saint George, and painting black beggars off a crossing!
“What a grand thing it is to think of half a mile of pictures at the Louvre! Not but that there are a score under the old pepper-boxes in Trafalgar Square as fine as the best here. I don’t care for any Raphael here, as much as our own St. Catharine. There is nothing more grand. Could the Pyramids of Egypt or the Colossus of Rhodes be greater than our Sebastian? and for our Bacchus and Ariadne, you cannot beat the best you know. But if we have fine jewels, here there are whole sets of them: there are kings and all their splendid courts round about them. J. J. and I must come and live here. Oh, such portraits of Titian! Oh, such swells by Vandyke! I’m sure he must have been as fine a gentleman as any he painted! It’s a shame they haven’t got a Sir Joshua or two. At a feast of painters he has a right to a place, and at the high table too. Do you remember Tom Rogers, of Gandish’s? He used to come to my rooms — my other rooms in the Square. Tom is here with a fine carrotty beard, and a velvet76 jacket, cut open at the sleeves, to show that Tom has a shirt. I dare say it was clean last Sunday. He has not learned French yet, but pretends to have forgotten English; and promises to introduce me to a set of the French artists his camarades. There seems to be a scarcity77 of soap among these young fellows; and I think I shall cut off my mustachios; only Warrington will have nothing to laugh at when I come home.
“The Colonel and I went to dine at the Cafe de Paris, and afterwards to the opera. Ask for huitres de Marenne when you dine here. We dined with a tremendous French swell, the Vicomte de Florac, officier d’ordonnance to one of the princes, and son of some old friends of my father’s. They are of very high birth, but very poor. He will be a duke when his cousin, the Duc d’Ivry, dies. His father is quite old. The vicomte was born in England. He pointed78 out to us no end of famous people at the opera — a few of the Fauxbourg St. Germain, and ever so many of the present people:— M. Thiers, and Count Mole79, and Georges Sand, and Victor Hugo, and Jules Janin — I forget half their names. And yesterday we went to see his mother, Madame de Florac. I suppose she was an old flame of the Colonel’s, for their meeting was uncommonly80 ceremonious and tender. It was like an elderly Sir Charles Grandison saluting81 a middle-aged82 Miss Byron. And only fancy! the Colonel has been here once before since his return to England! It must have been last year, when he was away for ten days, whilst I was painting that rubbishing picture of the Black Prince waiting on King John. Madame de F. is a very grand lady, and must have been a great beauty in her time. There are two pictures by Gerard in her salon83 — of her and M. de Florac. M. de Florac, old swell, powder, thick eyebrows84, hooked nose; no end of stars, ribbons, and embroidery85. Madame also in the dress of the Empire — pensive86, beautiful, black velvet, and a look something like my cousin’s. She wore a little old-fashioned brooch yesterday, and said, ‘Voila, la reconnoissez-vous? Last year when you were here, it was in the country;’ and she smiled at him: and the dear old boy gave a sort of groan87 and dropped his head in his hand. I know what it is. I’ve gone through it myself. I kept for six months an absurd ribbon of that infernal little flirt88 Fanny Freeman. Don’t you remember how angry I was when you abused her?
“‘Your father and I knew each other when we were children, my friend,’ the Countess said to me (in the sweetest French accent). He was looking into the garden of the house where they live, in the Rue Saint Dominique. ‘You must come and see me often, always. You remind me of him,’ and she added, with a very sweet kind smile, ‘Do you like best to think that he was better-looking than you, or that you excel him?’ I said I should like to be like him. But who is? There are cleverer fellows, I dare say; but where is there such a good one? I wonder whether he was very fond of Madame de Florac? The old Count does not show. He is quite old, and wears a pigtail. We saw it bobbing over his garden chair. He lets the upper part of his house; Major-General the Honourable Zeno F. Pokey, of Cincinnati, U.S., lives in it. We saw Mrs. Pokey’s carriage in the court, and her footmen smoking cigars there; a tottering89 old man with feeble legs, as old as old Count de Florac, seemed to be the only domestic who waited on the family below.
“Madame de Florac and my father talked about my profession. The Countess said it was a belle90 carriere. The Colonel said it was better than the army. ‘Ah oui, monsieur,’ says she very sadly. And then he said, ‘that presently I should very likely come to study at Paris, when he knew there would be a kind friend to watch over son garcon.’
“‘But you will be here to watch over him yourself, mon ami?’ says the French lady.
“Father shook his head. ‘I shall very probably have to go back to India,’ he said. ‘My furlough is expired. I am now taking my extra leave. If I can get my promotion91, I need not return. Without that I cannot afford to live in Europe. But my absence in all probability will be but very short,’ he said. ‘And Clive is old enough now to go on without me.’
“Is this the reason why father has been so gloomy for some months past? I thought it might have been some of my follies92 which made him uncomfortable; and you know I have been trying my best to amend93 — I have not half such a tailor’s bill this year as last. I owe scarcely anything. I have paid off Moss every halfpenny for his confounded rings and gimcracks. I asked father about this melancholy94 news as we walked away from Madame de Florac.
“He is not near so rich as we thought. Since he has been at home he says he has spent greatly more than his income, and is quite angry at his own extravagance. At first he thought he might have retired95 from the army altogether; but after three years at home, he finds he cannot live upon his income. When he gets his promotion as full Colonel, he will be entitled to a thousand a year; that, and what he has invested in India, and a little in this country, will be plenty for both of us. He never seems to think of my making money by my profession. Why, suppose I sell the ‘Battle of Assaye’ for 500 pounds? that will be enough to carry me on ever so long, without dipping into the purse of the dear old father.
“The Viscount de Florac called to dine with us. The Colonel said he did not care about going out: and so the Viscount and I went together. Trois Freres Provencaux — he ordered the dinner and of course I paid. Then we went to a little theatre, and he took me behind the scenes — such a queer place! We went to the loge of Mademoiselle Fine who acted the part of ‘Le petit Tambour,’ in which she sings a famous song with a drum. He asked her and several literary fellows to supper at the Cafe Anglais. And I came home ever so late, and lost twenty napoleons at a game called bouillotte. It was all the change out of a twenty-pound note which dear old Binnie gave me before we set out, with a quotation96 out of Horace, you know, about Neque tu choreas sperne puer. O me! how guilty I felt as I walked home at ever so much o’clock to the Hotel de la Terrasse, and sneaked97 into our apartment! But the Colonel was sound asleep. His dear old boots stood sentries98 at his bedroom door, and I slunk into mine as silently as I could.
“P.S. — Wednesday. — There’s just one scrap99 of paper left. I have got J. J.‘s letter. He has been to the private view of the Academy (so that his own picture is in), and the ‘Battle of Assaye’ is refused. Smee told him it was too big. I dare say it’s very bad. I’m glad I’m away, and the fellows are not condoling100 with me.
“Please go and see Mr. Binnie. He has come to grief. He rode the Colonel’s horse; came down on the pavement and wrenched101 his leg, and I’m afraid the grey’s. Please look at his legs; we can’t understand John’s report of them. He, I mean Mr. B., was going to Scotland to see his relations when the accident happened. You know he has always been going to Scotland to see his relations. He makes light of the business, and says the Colonel is not to think of coming to him: and I don’t want to go back just yet, to see all the fellows from Gandish’s and the Life Academy, and have them grinning at my misfortune.
“The governor would send his regards, I dare say, but he is out, and I am always yours affectionately, Clive Newcome.”
“P.S. — He tipped me himself this morning; isn’t he a kind, dear old fellow?”
Arthur Pendennis, Esq., to Clive Newcome, Esq.
“‘Pall Mall Gazette,’ Journal of Politics, Literature and Fashion, 225 Catherine Street, Strand102,
“Dear Clive — I regret very much for Fred Bayham’s sake (who has lately taken the responsible office of Fine Arts Critic for the P. G.) that your extensive picture of the ‘Battle of Assaye’ has not found a place in the Royal Academy Exhibition. F. B. is at least fifteen shillings out of pocket by its rejection103, as he had prepared a flaming eulogium of your work, which of course is so much waste paper in consequence of this calamity104. Never mind. Courage, my son. The Duke of Wellington you know was best back at Seringapatam before he succeeded at Assaye. I hope you will fight other battles, and that fortune in future years will be more favourable105 to you. The town does not talk very much of your discomfiture106. You see the parliamentary debates are very interesting just now, and somehow the ‘Battle of Assaye’ did not seem to excite the public mind.
“I have been to Fitzroy Square; both to the stables and the house. The Houyhnhnm’s legs are very well; the horse slipped on his side and not on his knees, and has received no sort of injury. Not so Mr. Binnie; his ankle is much wrenched and inflamed107. He must keep his sofa for many days, perhaps weeks. But you know he is a very cheerful philosopher, and endures the evils of life with much equanimity108. His sister has come to him. I don’t know whether that may be considered as a consolation109 of his evil or an aggravation110 of it. You know he uses the sarcastic111 method in his talk, and it was difficult to understand from him whether he was pleased or bored by the embraces of his relative. She was an infant when he last beheld112 her, on his departure to India. She is now (to speak with respect) a very brisk, plump, pretty little widow; having, seemingly, recovered from her grief at the death of her husband, Captain Mackenzie in the West Indies. Mr. Binnie was just on the point of visiting his relatives, who reside at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, when he met with the fatal accident which prevented his visit to his native shores. His account of his misfortune and his lonely condition was so pathetic that Mrs. Mackenzie and her daughter put themselves into the Edinburgh steamer, and rushed to console his sofa. They occupy your bedroom and sitting-room113, which latter Mrs. Mackenzie says no longer smells of tobacco smoke, as it did when she took possession of your den1. If you have left any papers about, any bills, any billets-doux, I make no doubt the ladies have read every single one of them, according to the amiable114 habits of their sex. The daughter is a bright little blue-eyed fair-haired lass, with a very sweet voice, in which she sings (unaided by instrumental music, and seated on a chair in the middle of the room) the artless ballads115 of her native country. I had the pleasure of hearing the ‘Bonnets of Bonny Dundee’ and ‘Jack of Hazeldean’ from her ruby116 lips two evenings since; not indeed for the first time in my life, but never from such a pretty little singer. Though both ladies speak our language with something of the tone usually employed by the inhabitants of the northern part of Britain, their accent is exceedingly pleasant, and indeed by no means so strong as Mr. Binnie’s own; for Captain Mackenzie was an Englishman, for whose sake his lady modified her native Musselburgh pronunciation. She tells many interesting anecdotes117 of him, of the West Indies, and of the distinguished118 regiment119 of infantry120 to which the captain belonged. Miss Rosa is a great favourite with her uncle, and I have had the good fortune to make their stay in the metropolis121 more pleasant, by sending them orders, from the Pall Mall Gazette, for the theatres, panoramas122, and the principal sights in town. For pictures they do not seem to care much; they thought the National Gallery a dreary123 exhibition, and in the Royal Academy could be got to admire nothing but the picture of M’Collop of M’Collop, by our friend of the like name; but they think Madame Tussaud’s interesting exhibition of waxwork124 the most delightful125 in London; and there I had the happiness of introducing them to our friend Mr. Frederick Bayham; who, subsequently, on coming to this office with his valuable contributions on the Fine Arts, made particular inquiries126 as to their pecuniary127 means, and expressed himself instantly ready to bestow128 his hand upon the mother or daughter, provided old Mr. Binnie would make a satisfactory settlement. I got the ladies a box at the opera, whither they were attended by Captain Goby of their regiment, godfather to Miss, and where I had the honour of paying them a visit. I saw your fair young cousin Miss Newcome in the lobby with her grandmamma Lady Kew. Mr. Bayham with great eloquence129 pointed out to the Scotch130 ladies the various distinguished characters in the house. The opera delighted them, but they were astounded131 at the ballet, from which mother and daughter retreated in the midst of a fire of pleasantries of Captain Goby. I can fancy that officer at mess, and how brilliant his anecdotes must be when the company of ladies does not restrain his genial132 flow of humour.
“Here comes Mr. Baker133 with the proofs. In case you don’t see the P. G. at Galignani’s, I send you an extract from Bayham’s article on the Royal Academy, where you will have the benefit of his opinion on the works of some of your friends:—
“‘617. ‘Moses Bringing Home the Gross of Green Spectacles,’ Smith, R.A. — Perhaps poor Goldsmith’s exquisite134 little work has never been so great a favourite as in the present age. We have here, in a work by one of our most eminent135 artists, an homage136 to the genius of him ‘who touched nothing which he did not adorn:’ and the charming subject is handled in the most delicious manner by Mr. Smith. The chiaroscuro137 is admirable: the impasto is perfect. Perhaps a very captious138 critic might object to the foreshortening of Moses’s left leg; but where there is so much to praise justly, the Pall Nall Gazette does not care to condemn139.
“‘420. Our (and the public’s) favourite, Brown, R.A., treats us to a subject from the best of all stories, the tale ‘which laughed Spain’s chivalry140 away,’ the ever new Don Quixote. The incident which Brown has selected is the ‘Don’s Attack on the Flock of Sheep;’ the sheep are in his best manner, painted with all his well-known facility and brio. Mr. Brown’s friendly rival, Hopkins, has selected Gil Blas for an illustration this year; and the ‘Robber’s Cavern’ is one of the most masterly of Hopkins’ productions.
“‘Great Rooms. 33. ‘Portrait of Cardinal141 Cospetto,’ O’Gogstay, A.R.A.; and ‘Neighbourhood of Corpodibacco — Evening — a Contadina and a Trasteverino dancing at the door of a Locanda to the music of a Pifferaro.’— Since his visit to Italy Mr. O’Gogstay seems to have given up the scenes of Irish humour with which he used to delight us; and the romance, the poetry, the religion of ‘Italia la bella’ form the subjects of his pencil. The scene near Corpodibacco (we know the spot well, and have spent many a happy month in its romantic mountains) is most characteristic. Cardinal Cospetto, we must say, is a most truculent142 prelate, and not certainly an ornament59 to his church.
“‘49, 210, 311. Smee, R.A. — Portraits which a Reynolds might be proud of — a Vandyke or Claude might not disown. ‘Sir Brian Newcome, in the costume of a Deputy-Lieutenant,’ ‘Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, K.C.B.,’ painted for the 50th Dragoons, are triumphs, indeed, of this noble painter. Why have we no picture of the Sovereign and her august consort143 from Smee’s brush? When Charles II. picked up Titian’s mahl-stick, he observed to a courtier, ‘A king you can always have; a genius comes but rarely.’ While we have a Smee among us, and a monarch144 whom we admire — may the one be employed to transmit to posterity145 the beloved features of the other! We know our lucubrations are read in high places, and respectfully insinuate146 verbum sapienti.
“‘1906. ‘The M’Collop of M’Collop,’— A. M’Collop — is a noble work of a young artist, who, in depicting the gallant147 chief of a hardy148 Scottish clan149, has also represented a romantic Highland150 landscape, in the midst of which, ‘his foot upon his native heath,’ stands a man of splendid symmetrical figure and great facial advantages. We shall keep our eye on Mr. M’Collop.
“‘1367. ‘Oberon and Titania.’ Ridley. — This sweet and fanciful little picture draws crowds round about it, and is one of the most charming and delightful works of the present exhibition. We echo the universal opinion in declaring that it shows not only the greatest promise, but the most delicate and beautiful performance. The Earl of Kew, we understand, bought the picture at the private view; and we congratulate the young painter heartily151 upon his successful debut152. He is, we understand, a pupil of Mr. Gandish. Where is that admirable painter? We miss his bold canvasses and grand historic outline.’
“I shall alter a few inaccuracies in the composition of our friend F. B., who has, as he says, ‘drawn it uncommonly mild in the above criticism.’ In fact, two days since, he brought in an article of quite a different tendency, of which he retains only the two last paragraphs; but he has, with great magnanimity, recalled his previous observations; and, indeed, he knows as much about pictures as some critics I could name.
“Good-bye, my dear Clive! I send my kindest regards to your father; and think you had best see as little as possible of your bouillotte-playing French friend and his friends. This advice I know you will follow, as young men always follow the advice of their seniors and well-wishers. I dine in Fitzroy Square today with the pretty widow and her daughter, and am yours always, dear Clive, A. P.”
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1
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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2
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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3
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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4
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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5
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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6
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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7
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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9
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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10
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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12
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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13
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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15
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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16
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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17
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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19
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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20
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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21
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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22
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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23
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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24
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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25
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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26
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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28
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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29
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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30
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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31
canvasses
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| n.检票员，游说者，推销员( canvass的名词复数 )v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的第三人称单数 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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32
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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33
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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34
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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35
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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36
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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37
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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38
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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39
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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40
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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41
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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43
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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44
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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45
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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46
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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47
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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48
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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49
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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50
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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51
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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52
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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53
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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54
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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55
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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56
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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57
provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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58
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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59
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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60
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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62
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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63
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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64
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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65
obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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67
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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71
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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72
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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73
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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74
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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75
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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76
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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77
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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78
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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79
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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80
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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81
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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82
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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83
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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84
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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85
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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86
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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87
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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88
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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89
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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90
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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91
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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92
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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93
amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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94
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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95
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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96
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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97
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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98
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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99
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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100
condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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101
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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102
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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103
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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104
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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105
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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106
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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107
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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109
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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110
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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111
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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112
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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113
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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114
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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115
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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116
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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117
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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118
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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119
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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120
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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121
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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122
panoramas
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| 全景画( panorama的名词复数 )； 全景照片； 一连串景象或事 | |
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123
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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124
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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125
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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126
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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127
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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128
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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129
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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130
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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131
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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132
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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133
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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134
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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135
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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136
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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137
chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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138
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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139
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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140
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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141
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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142
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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143
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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144
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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145
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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146
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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148
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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149
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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150
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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151
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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152
debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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