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happened to settle in our smoky northern | have no reason to be ashamed. You see, town. It seemed to us that he had lived I do whatever work comes to my hand.” there always, and in all his life had done As he spoke, he took off the cloth that nothing but teach, teach, teach.

covered the parcel, and disclosed a large Are you never tired of it?” I asked wooden panel on which was faintly disone day.

cernible a painting, representing a swan “Tired, — yes!” he said with his habit- with two necks swimming in a very blue ual smile. " But one must not mind being river. It was a sigo-board ! tired, Miss Ellen ; it is my work, you see. “ This poor swan looks just ready to

“Such unrewarded work!” I could sing his death-song, or perhaps I should not help saying it, as I looked down the say songs, since he has two throats," said long rows of desks, on which lay drawings my master ; " but I am going to make him in every stage of badness. His eyes fol. young again." lowed mine with a funny twinkle in them. "You are going to do this!” I ex

Certainly, I do feel sometimes that it claimed. would be pleasant to teach those who truly “One must live,” said Mr. Hirsch wished to learn. They none of them work, cheerfully, “and one must help others to those young ladies. Ah! in our old studio live. This picture will possess one adit was different. What ambition ! But- "vantage; it is sure to be hung. There Mr. Hirsch opped short, shrugged his are many artists who would be glad if bent shoulders, and began to put away they could say as much as that of their the drawings and prepare the room for his works.” next class. I remained to finish a chalk A few days later a note, misspelt, and study ; I think I was the only one of his in a cramped foreign hand, signed Célie lady-pupils who worked with zeal. Pres. Hirsch, informed me that the next drawently he came up and looked over my ing-lesson must be put off as my master shoulder.

was ill. “Pretty well ! ” he said. “ You have a “ You had better go to-morrow and infeeling for form, Miss Ellen. It is a pity quire for him," said my father. you do not devote more time to painting; bunch of grapes with you." you might perhaps do something."

I had never before been to my drawing. “Do you really think so ?”

master's house; the rooms where we took Well, it might be so, with time and our lessons were in another part of the pains," said my master slowly. “ You are town. The little slipshod girl who an. receptive. If we cannot create, it is al. swered the bell, instead of replying to my ways something if we can receive and inquiries, merely rapped at a door in the distribute. And I have perhaps a few entrance passage, called out, “You're secrets, - I have learnt something. I am wanted, madam,” and disappeared. A no artist myself; but I would like, if it high-pitched voice called out “Come in.” may be, to make one artist."

I opened the door and found myself in a But,” I ventured to ask, "why are you tiny sitting-room. By an empty grate sat no artist, you who know so much? Why a woman neatly dressed in shabby black, do you not yourself paint?”

who rose hastily when she saw He spread out his hands, smiling. “ It “ Pardon, mademoiselle!” she said. "I is too late - I am old — and I have no had not expected a visitor; forgive me time for painting. Once indeed I had my that I did not open to you. I am lame, I dreams, – but not now.

walk with difficulty, and to-day I am Ah, what a pity!” I said.

tired.” She had a crutch by her side and “Not at all, .no, when one grows old seemed infirm and old, though as I afterone does not cease dreaming; one's wards found, her age could not have ex. dreams alter, that is all. I have my dream ceeded forty-five. always,” said my master, still smiling. She told me that Mr. Hirsch was in bed

We were interrupted by a ring at the with bronchitis, but she hoped he would outer door. Mr. Hirsch went and opened soon be able to resume bis lessons. She it, and after a short parley with some one apologized for asking me into a cold outside, returned, carrying a huge square rooin : “ He needed the fire up-stairs.” parcel. As it seemed heavy I went to his When I opened my basket she cried, Oh, assistance, and between us we got it into ciel ! and held up her hands with delight. a little inner room which he reserved for “ This is indeed goodness; only this his own use.

morning I was thinking, if I had but some “This is my own business,” he said. grapes for my husband !” She took them “ My pupils might laugh at it, though I with a tender touch, almost a caress. “It

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is so long since I have held grapes in my of a huge salmon, which ornamented the hand,” she said ; "it is as if I were once window of a small fishing-tackle shop. On more in France. Will-mademoiselle do this occasion he seemed a little embarme the favor to sit down while I take them rassed, and I turned quickly away and to monsieur? He will like to make you never afterwards referred to our meeting, his thanks.” She spoke slowly, with a Gradually I learnt the meaning of all French accent much stronger than her this industry. Anatole, the young origihusband's. While she was gone I looked nal of the charcoal portrait, was being about me. I think, at that time of my life, supported as a student in Paris at the I had never seen so poor a room. It had expense of his stepfather. “He will be a in it, with two exceptions, nothing but the great artist, I am sure of it,” said Mr. most absolutely needful furniture, and that Hirsch to me. “ It is our duty to develop of the homeliest. These exceptions were his genius." striking. The first was a handsomely “ Does he know how hard

you

work?" carved and gilt frame containing the head, I asked. “Would he like you to do all apparently a portrait, of a young man this for him ? " sketched in charcoal. The other was “Ah — bah! It is nothing," said Mr. much more remarkable. It was an oil Hirsch, smiling. painting representing a group of French “ That is what he always says,” said his peasants returning from the harvest-field. wife; “ but it has been everything to us Even I, ignorant as I was, could perceive to Anatole and me." that it was a work of great power and One day, when Mr. Hirsch was out, she beauty. Its delicate pearl-grey tones so told me the story. How happy she had perfectly harmonized, its tender, restrained been with her first husband, the young feeling riveted my attention. I was still artist just rising into fame, till he was looking at it when Mrs. Hirsch returned. shot down in the street on that terrible

“Ah!” she said, "that was painted by fourth of December, 1851; bow Mr. my first husband. He was a great artist. Hirsch, his favorite pupil, had stood by his You never heard of him? It is because side in that hopeless fight for law and libhe died young, before he was appreciated. erty and had carried him back, a dying If he had lived he would have been man, to the little studio which had been so famous. Mr. Hirsch says so, and he full of life and hope; how she had found knows," she concluded, with an odd mix. berself left quite alone with her little boy ture of pride in her two husbands. " And of three years old. “I was an orphan, 1 that,” she added, turning to the charcoal had no one, no one,” she said with falling sketch, "is his son, my Anatole, drawn by tears. * I had been hurt by an accident; bimself.”

I was lame, as you see me now, and I "He then is also an artist ?

could get no work. We nearly starved “He is a student. He has his father's all that winter, I and the boy. I had sold genius; some day he too will be an artist.” | all that we could sell except that picture ;

After this first visit, for one reason or she looked towards the painting on the another I often went to my drawing-mas- wall. “It was his last; it broke my heart ter's house. His cough hung long about to think of parting with it; but I had him, and before he could go out he offered made up my mind that it must go, when to give me and his other pupils lessons at one day Gottlieb came, and asked if he home if we chose to come. I gladly might work for me and the boy. He said availed myself of the offer. Mrs. Hirsch he owed everything to my husband, and was usually present, busy with some fine he would like to make some return. He needlework, which po doubt helped to eke had heard of some work in England as a out the family income. I observed that teacher of drawing. There was only one my, master paid her a certain deference, way, mademoiselle, and I thought of my and almost always addressed her as ma- boy. We were married, and he has been dame. As both husband and wife were the best of husbands to me. Since then constantly occupied, I could not at first we have had many struggles, but we have understand why they seemed so poor. always had enough to live upon. Mr. Nothing seemed to come amiss to Mr. Hirsch has tried everything. He wished Hirsch. Sometimes he would be painting to be a painter, but no one would buy his a sign-board, sometimes designing a play- pictures, and the boy's education has cost bill, or drawing ornamental headings for much money; so bé has had to turn his tradesmen's circulars. Once, in an out-of-hand to anything that came. I have often the-way corner of the town, I came upon been sorry; but then he is not a genius him engaged in freshening up the portrait like my first husband and my boy."

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One morning, coming early to the draw. | me look over his portfolios. They were ing-school, I found Mr. Hirsch hard at full of sketches, some of them memorials work before a small easel. Contrary to of bis student days, some done at odd his wont he was so absorbed that he did times in his years of teaching. There were not notice the opening of the door, and I also a few finished pictures which he had came quite close to him before he stirred, failed to sell. My father, who was someclose enough to see that his usual air of thing of a connoisseur, came and looked siniling patience was exchanged for an at them, and bought two of the pictures. expression of intense eagerness which Really, Mr. Hirsch," he said, “ I had made him appear at least ten years no idea you were such an artist, or I would younger. When he noticed me he looked have given myself the pleasure of looking up like a schoolboy caught in some mis. at your work sooner. It is a loss for our chievous trick.

town that you do not continue painting.” “ You find me wasting my time sadly, A faint color came into my master's Miss Ellen ; but I had really no work tili pale face, and his eyes sparkled. It was you came, so I amuse myself a little.” long since he had had the pleasure of talk

I looked at the easel, on it was a small, ing with one who really knew anything half-tinished oil sketch, an old woman sell- about pictures; and then the sale of his ing flowers in the street.

work was a solid proof of appreciation. • It is a little figure that I saw,” said my “I have sometimes thought," he said in master, as if apologizing for his occu- a hesitating way, “since my son has had pation. “ You see, she is old, and she is the good fortune to do a little for himself ugly, and so is the street she sits in, but lately, that I might venture to spend some the flowers brighten all. It pleases me to of my leisure in that manner, paint them, though I do but waste my erosity, your kind words,” he added with tiine."

a low bow to my father, 66 will make it “Surely it cannot be waste of time to easier." paint like this.”

A few weeks later Mr. Hirsch beck“Not for a student. For a student I oned to me mysteriously from the door of might even say that this would be good his little inner room, the same where he work. But for a painter it is nothing. had repainted the two-necked swan. I Once I thought to be a painter, but I be- laid down my brush and wentin. He was gan too late, and it is all at an end now. It standing before an easel on which a picneeds inuch labor, very much labor. Iture was dawning. The subject was the have not had the time."

same as the little sketch I had before • You did not work at it long?"

seen, an old woman with flowers.

" This “ Three — no, four years; that is noth- subject haunts me,” he said ; “ the flowers ing, it needs a lifetime. I was a poor which brighten dull lives, the beauty boy, a farmer's son in the Vosges, and I which God sends into our dreariest used to draw, many a time, when I should streets ; I think perhaps I might be able have been ininding my work. I am sorry to paint it. If I could put into my picfor it now.

When I came to be a man í ture all that I can see in the face of the went to Paris, and found my way to an old woman who comes to sit to me, there artist's studio. He took me in as his ser- should be something in it to touch the vant, to mix his colors and clean his heart; but that is very hard.” brushes and go on his errands. I was All that autumn and winter Mr. Hirsch happy enough to see him paint, and try at worked at his picture whenever he had any odd times to imitate him; but when he spare time; and my father managed to found out that I loved painting he got an- sell a few sketches for him, so that he other lad to serve him, and made me his might allow himself more leisure for this pupil, and treated me as a brother. Those happy toil. It was wonderful to see how were happy days, indeed ; but he died, the return to his beloved art transformed and since then I have had to get a living him. He held up his head and seemed for myself, and my family, and I could not bright and almost young. I sometimes do it by art.”

felt sorry when I looked at him, and saw Now I understood why Mr. Hirsch how sanguine he was growing. In bis worked so hard for his stepson. I under. rapt attention to his work he appeared to stood too, that he had given the boy much forget what he had once told me, that it was more than time and labor; he had given now too late for him to become an artist. bis dearest wish, the dream of his life. "I shall send it to the Academy,” he

After I had surprised his picture on the said one day when it was almost done. easel, Mr. Hirsch would sometimes let." That is best. It may not sell, but at

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least people will see what I can do; it will “ The news is but just come,” he said. make a beginning.'

“ Had you heard he was going to try? I remembered all that I had heard of He would not tell us, lest I should be dispictures rejected, and wondered if he appointed if he did not succeed.” I looked would have any chance, but it seemed un- to madame for an explanation. She sat kind to damp his happy confidence. with an open letter in her hand; her spec

When the picture was finished he asked tacles were wet, and tears were trickling my father to look at it. It was really a unheeded down her cheeks; but her lips beautiful thing, full of feeling; but, as my wore a smile of perfect satisfaction. father saw much more plainly than I, de- I was fairly bewildered.

" Has some fective in many points from want of expe- one got your picture hung after all ? ” I rience and long practice.

asked. “How does it strike you? Have I “My picture ?” said my master abmade any success?” asked Mr. Hirsch sently: * Ah, yes, it has been rejected. I eagerly. “Now the time is near I trem- had almost forgotten. That bubble has ble; I think I have been a fool to hope.” burst; it was a silly dream; I ought to

“We should always hope,” said my have known better than to fancy I could father kindly.

“In your case I would be an artist now. But I cannot think of hope much."

disappointment on this golden day, this At length came the eventful day when day of joy, when all my toil is rewarded. the picture was screwed down in its For twenty years I have worked and wooden case, hopelessly beyond all reach hoped for this. Anatole, our Anatole has of final touches, and despatched to the gained the Prix de Rome !" London agent who was to send it in.

It is what his dear father had most at All through April I thought of it con-heart,” said madame. " When first he tinually. Would it be skied? Would it, saw him in his little cap he said: “Célie, by any happy accident, find a good place, my friend, our son shall be a painter, he a place where some connoisseur might see shall study at Rome !!.. And it is thou and praise it? I had heard that a good who hast done it, Gottlieb,” she added, deal depended on size, and this picture turning to her husband; “it is owing to was small. Surely the hangers would be thee! How can I ever thank thee?” struck by its touch of poetry, its signs of Say no more,” said her husband. patient labor, and place it where it could " Has not his wish been mine for twenty be seen to advantage. My excitement years ? Célie, when our Anatole is a great could hardly have been greater if it had man he shall come to London; it is in been my own work. When the Academy London that artists are appreciated. He catalogue arrived (I had it sent down on shall have a gallery like Doré, but his the day of publication) my hand shook so pictures will be of another sort. And I much that I could hardly open it. I turned will stand at the door and show the people to the list of names, but that of my old in, and hear when they praise him; and I friend was not among them. I looked shall say: “These pictures were painted through all the long list of pictures from by my master's son, who is also the dear beginning to end, then looked again. In son of my heart. Ah! what happiness !" vain! I could hardly believe such a mis- Madame softly echoed his words. I fortune possible, and yet it was too cero left the two still smiling, weeping, laughtain. After all my master's care and ing, in their little dingy room, while the pains, his picture, his dear picture, into sun shone in and lighted the dead paintwhich he had put so much love and er's picture, and the portrait of Anatole, thought, was not accepted!

and the wrinkled, happy faces of the busSeveral days elapsed before I dared to band and wife, gazing with delight on visit him; at last I screwed up my courage those two precious treasures. and went.

Before the exhibition on which we had To my astonishment he met me smiling, built such vain hopes was ended, my father radiant. He held both his thin hands out had a severe illness, and during his slow to me.

“I hoped you would come,” he recovery it was decided that he must live said. “I wanted to tell you our good henceforth in a milder climate. Among news, you who will sympathize."

the friends from whom we parted I was “What!” I stammered, wondering if not least sorry to leave Mr. Hirsch and some one had hoaxed him with the belief l:is wife, and I think that our regrets were that he was successful, or if, by happy mutual. chance, there was a mistake in the cata. For several years we resided chiefly on logue. “I thought, I feared

the Continent, and during our brief visits LIVING AGE. VOL. LXXIV. 3804

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to England I had no opportunity of seeing of charges, a sermon and lecture or two, our old friends in the north. Mr. Hirsch, some hymns and hymn-tunes, and a good his struggles, and his sacrifices, had many articles in the Christian Advocate and long faded into a dim background of half- Review, of which he was editor from 1861 to forgotten memories, when I found in a stories; for humor and tenderness these come

1866. His best productions are his Suffolk Florentine hotel a copy of an English

near to “Rab and his Friends." newspaper, in which was noticed a newly opened exhibition of pictures by a young An uneventful life, like that of most counFrench artist, M. Anatole - The try clergymen.. But as Gainsborough and painter was mentioned with praise, critical Constable took their subjects from level and discriminating, such as men are the East Anglia, as Gilbert White's Selborne better for reading; and in one short para. bas little to distinguish it above other graph, coupled with a few words of fine parishes in Hampshire,* so I believe that and penetrating appreciation, was the the story of that quiet life might, if rightly name of my old drawing-master.

told, possess no common charm. I have listened to my father's talks with Fitz. Gerald, with Mr. Donne, and with one or two others of his oldest friends ; such talks were like chapters out of George

Eliot's novels. His memory was marvel. From Blackwood's Magazine. lous. It seems but the other day I told A SUFFOLK PARSON.

him I had been writing about Clarendon;

and “Clarendon,” he said, “was boro, I The chief aim of this article is to pre know, in 1608, but I forget the name of sent to a larger public than the readers of the Wiltshire parish, his birthplace. Look a country newspaper my father's Suffolk it up." I looked it up, and the date was stories ; but those stories may well be 1608; the parish (Dinton) was, sure prefaced by a sketch of my father's life. enough, in Wiltshire. Myself I have had Such a sketch I wrote shortly after his again to consult an encyclopædia for both death, for Mr. Leslie Stephen's great date and place-name, but he remembered

Dictionary of National Biography.” It the one distinctly and the other vaguely runs thus:

after possibly thirty years. In the same Robert Hindes Groome, Archdeacon of way he could recall the whole plot of a Suffolk, was born at Framlingham in 1810. play which he had not seen for half a cenOf Aldeburgh ancestry, he was the second son tury. Holcroft's “Road to Ruin,” thus, of the Rev. John Hindes Groome, ex-fellow was one that he once described to me. of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and rector He was a master of the art, now well-nigh for twenty-six years of Earl Soham and Monk lost, of " capping verses;” and he had a Soham in Suffolk. From Norwich school he

rare knowledge of the less-known Eliza. passed to Caius College, Cambridge, where

bethan dramatists. In his first charge he graduated B.A. in 1832, M.A. in 1836. In 1833 he was ordained to the Suffolk curacy and one

of his hearers, Canon “Grundy,

occurs a quotation from an “old play;” of Tannington-with-Brundish; in 1835 trav. elled through Germany as tutor to Rafael inquired what play it might be.“ Ford's," Mendizabal, the son of the Spanish ambas- said my father, “o'Tis pity she's no better sador ; in 1839 became curate of Corfe Castle, than she should be.'And the good mau Dorsetshire, of which little borough he was was perfectly satisfied. But stronger than elected mayor ; and in 1845, succeeded his his love of Wordsworth and music, of the father as rector of Monk Soham. Here in classics and foreign theology, was his love the course of forty-four years he built the of Suffolk - its lore, its dialect, its people. rectory-house and school, restored the fine old church, erected an organ, and re-hung the As a young man he had driven through it bells. He was Archdeacon of Suffolk from with Mr. D. E. Davy, the antiquary; and 1869 till 1887, when failing eyesight forced as archdeacon he visited and re-visited its him to resign, and when the clergy of the three hundred churches in the Norwich diocese presented him with his portrait. He diocese during close on a score of years. died at Monk Soham, 19th March, 1889. I drove with him twice on his rounds, and Archdeacon Groome was a man of wide cul. there was not a place that did not evoke ture – a man, too, of many friends. Chief

some memory.

If he could himself have among these were Edward FitzGerald, Wil-written those memories down! He did liam Bodham Donne, Dr. Thompson of Trin- make the attempt, but too late. This was ity, and Henry Bradshaw, the Cambridge librarian, who said of him, “I never see

all the result: Groome but what I learn something new.”

* I remember once walking from Alton to Petery He read much, but published little a couple l field, and passing unconscious through Selborne.

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