Not Dead Yet

Front matter

VOL. I. LONDON FEINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. NEV. -STREET SQUARE BT J. C. JEAFFKESON, AUTHOR OF "LIVE IT DOWN," "OLIVE BLAKE'S GOOD WORK," "A BOOK ABOUT DOCTORS," &c. &_. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1864. The right of Translation is reserved. CONTENTS or 'THE ElEST VOLUME. CHAT. PAGE I. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN', ATTENTION 1 If. NOT LONG SINCE 3 III. TRAFALGAR SQUARE 6 IV. THE OCTAGON ROOM 10 V. AN ACT OF SALE AND A DEED OF GIFT . . .23 VI. AN OBSERVATION, OR A MESSAGE . . . . .31 VII. JOHN BUCKMASTER, OF NEWMAN STREET . . .37 VIII. TWO FRIENDS 52 IX. CONVERSATION, AND A LITTLE MUSIC . . . .65 X. A FINANCIAL ARRANGEMENT 77 XI. MR. RUPERT SMITH COMMUNES WITH HIMSELF 85 XII. MRS. mutimer's GRAND-DAUGHTE _ 91 XIII, PROFESSOR MUTIMER'S WID.W ..... 102 XIV.

A LATE GOOD-NIGHT 117 XV. MR. RUPERT SMITH HAS A FEW WORDS WITH HIMSELF . 122 XVI. A QUIET BREAKFAST 127 xvii. busi ;ess and pleasi.ee 134 XVIII. the new inmate ....... 141 XIX. A SUMMER'S SUNDAY 152 XX. WHAT WILL BE THE E> D OF IT 162 VI !. I. ■i VI CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. chap. pagk xxi. concerning costume and certain other matters . 171 XXII. COATS, COAT-AEMOUR, AND LIVEEIES .... 179 XXIH. THE GRAND VIZIER OF THE ' CLOCK-HOUSE ' . . 193 XXIV. IDA NEWBOLT ........ 205 XXV. A PLAIN DINNER ........ 212 XXTI. THE YOUNGEST CHLLD 224 xxvn. Edward's pupil 239 XXVIII. WHEREIN MR. TURVEY INSTRUCTS MISS LOUISA ON MAT- TEES PERTAINING TO ART ..... 255 XXIX. THOUGHT FOLLOWING THOUGHT 263 XXX. A SECOND WAENLNG 271 XXXI. AT BREAKFAST 284 XXXII. HE THAT WOOS A MAID MUST FEIGN .... 291 XXXIII. SCENE I. : DISCUSSION 300 XXXTV. SCENE H. : PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY . . . .317

Chapter I. Ladies And Gentlemen, Attention

! HE attention of all who peruse this strange story is particularly requested. They are asked to take good heed of little incidents and allusions, of slight touches and delicate hints, not less than of the more striking events and impressive features of the narrative. The writer pre fers this petition less for his own advantage than for the sake of his readers. The tale is so far removed from the commonplace, its positions are so startling, its action is necessarily so dramatic, and the game played by its characters is at the same time so deli cate and so daring, that no amount of artistic short coming on the part of the narrator will make it otherwise than interesting to those who find pleasure in stories of lively action and singular complications. But the teller of this tale wishes to effect in the minds of readers more than the degree of satisfaction necessary for the maintenance of his reputation as a writer of prose fiction.

He wishes for the approval of those whom he seeks to entertain ; but above and beyond this wish for mere approval, he has a desire to confer on those whom he addresses the greatest possible amount of pleasure, and on VOL. I. B leaving them he would fain feel assured that they have not, through inadvertence, missed the significance of aught which he has placed before them. The main facts which constitute the chief plot of this story, were brought to the writer's notice many months since ; and when he first entertained the purpose of weaving them into a work of imagination, he sought and obtained leave to use them, according to his judgment, from Sir Edward and Lady Starling, of Gamlinghay Court, county Hants, and Miss Ida Newbolt, without whose unreserved permission he would never have presumed to render public occurrences which form a painful episode in the history of an honourable family.

That permission having been accorded, the writer proceeded to collect the materials for his history with every attention to those minute points on which the accuracy of biographic labour depends. From Sir Edward and Lady Starling, and Miss Ida Newbolt, he received the details of incidents and transactions which could never have been brought fully to light if their lips had been sealed with regard to their past suffering and shame, and the crime of a bad man who re paid their friendship with treachery, and requited their love with grievous wrong. Other persons also were communicative to the full extent of their knowledge. Having received and carefully digested all the evidence which he could procure from living witnesses, the writer visited several spots in which certain scenes of this domestic drama occurred, and lie spared no pains to familiarise himself with th ■ localities and events which, in the course of his narrative, he will either allude to, or particularly describe.

Chapter II Not Long Since

|™ _| HE date with wliich this story commences H^S ffifl -s n"s far away i'1 tinpast. Indeed, it is g[jj [^fcj so near the present time, that some of tinprincipal characters of the drama are still in the prime of life. The year was a grand one to have lived in ; it is an instructive one to those who reflect upon it. A year great in folly and the crimes to which folly gives birth ; memorable for the suffering it witnessed ; memorable, also, for sublime virtues exhibited, and noble acts done within its cycle. The nations of Europe had not yet entered on the revolutionary movements of 1848. When the rush for new things was made in that same '48, careless men said that the storm had been preceded by a suspicious lull pervading the political life of the time to which attention is now especially directed ; yet whilst this season of imputed lull was being shifted to the immutable past by the mighty hand of the Ever lasting, there was much being done on the surface of the earth — enough to make devout men more fervent than heretofore in prayer — enough to perplex the simple and startle the frivolous — enough to B trouble the brave and fill their hearts with anxiety for the future.

It was a year when men who liked to talk about politics had an abundant supply of topics in events, foreign and domestic. The French had their brilliant affairs in Algeria ; Portugal was carrying on a grim contest with insurrection in her northern provinces ; Spain was in a ferment about matrimonial projects which by no means met with universal satis faction ; in Poland there was a sharp contest between Liberty and General Collin; and California joined hands with the United States, whilst that happy family made war upon the Mexicans. England, too, had her peculiar causes of disquiet and fear, her particular sources also of mirth and gratulation. In Ireland, poor people died of hunger, whilst rich men were removed by assassination ; in India, Sir Harry Smith won the battle of Aliwal, and Sir Hugh Gough the battle of Sobraon.

In London, Lady Blessington received, at Gore House, a distinguished visitor from the fortress of Ham ; and King Hudson still enter tained his worshippers at Albert Gate, although the railway panic, following close on the railway mania, had wrung a wail of agony from the land, and hurled down thousands of families from affluence to want. In populous towns and rural villages the discontent of indigent workmen inspired Chartist leaders with courage, and struck terror into the timid ; and amidst the confusion, consequent on commercial distress and famine, with the angry menaces and denunciations, the misconceptions and miscon structions, which always attend the conflicts of great parties, at heart thoroughly honest and desperately earnest, the grand battle between Free Trade and Protection terminated suddenly in the abolition of the corn laws. By these events and other occurrences scarcely less momentous was marked the year 1846, the year in which this tale begins.

Chapter III. Trafalgar Square

grtsj'idal lTT whatever trouble and anguish filled H English homes, Avhatever fears and per jjjl ta? \M pltxities distressed English hearts, whatever strife and passions maddened English life in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-six, all went brightly and cheerily with the London season of that year — at least, as far as out ward appearances were concerned. At times dis cordant murmurs might break upon the music of festivity ; ever and again ugly stories of fraud, and violence, and starvation found place in the columns of fashionable newspapers; in brilliant drawing rooms sudden tremor and paleness might occasionally seize faces in which care had not as yet had time to bite deep lines ; and when bidden guests assembled at fete, or dinner, or rout, there would be seats unexpectedly empty: but, for the most part, the great world was gay and light of heart, and hot in the pursuit of pleasure — as the great world should be.

Amusements were plentiful. The rich might listen to ' Semiramide ' and ' Lucia di Lammermoor ' at Her Majesty's Theatre; for the less wealthy lovers of music there were M. Jullien's concerts at Covent Garden. The 'Black Domino,' with Mr. Henry Holl as Don Alphonso, was drawing at the Hay market Theatre; the 'Merry Wives of Windsor' brought good houses to the Princess's ; the Ethiopian Singers still raised tuneful riot in St. James's Theatre, where it was rumoured Mdlle. Rachel would, ere many days had passed, enrapture politer assemblies with representations of Comeille and Racine. The season had its heroes and lions. Count D'Orsay was figuring as professional artist as well as man of fashion ; the chief purchasers at the sale of the Saltmarshe collection were mentioned by name ; Prince Louis Napoleon was not without admirers and followers ; and Mr. Gully was a popular favourite, for winning (with the assistance of his jockey), the 'Derby' and the ' Oaks' of the year — a double honour which had not been achieved since 1815, when the Duke of Grafton carried off the two prizes.

Ibrahim Pasha was staying at Mivart's, waiting till the Queen should be sufficiently recovered from her accouche ment to receive him; and the rage for General Tom Thumb — was but rising to its height. Amongst sources of diversion was the exhibition of pictures in the galleries of the Royal Academy, Trafalgar Square, and never had those galleries been more densely crowded with good pictures and well dressed gazers than on Tuesday, June 9, 1 846, at ten minutes past four o'clock, p.m. All the world seemed to be flocking to the much abused temple of high art, and all the world's carriages seemed to be in the Square, ranged in single, double, and triple lines. The sky was with out a cloud, and the sun bore fiercely down — on the tinkling fountains, round which noisy urchins played those violent games, which are never thoroughly enjoyed by noisy urchins except in the hottest of weather ; on the scorched thoroughfares, along which water-carts heavily lumbered, viciously splashing the boots of wayfarers, and vainly endeavouring to keep fine dust on terms of closest intimacy with granite blocks ; on the steps of St. Martin's Church, where beggars lay asleep, basking in the rays which warmed alike rich and poor, just and unjust; on the Duke of Northumberland's lion, who, looking down askant from the right-paw corner of his right-paw eye, surveyed the rout beneath, and wondered how long it would be before he should have some leonine acquaintances stationed at the base of the Nelson monument ; on omnibuses laden with passengers from the City, and omnibuses settingdown visitors to the Academy.

It was a grand day for the Academicians. The fact was beyond doubt. The waiters, looking out from the coffee-room windows of Morley's Hotel, said it was a crush and no mistake. The cautious secretary of the College of Physicians drew his eyes from the window nearest to his official desk, and expressed to the sub-librarian of that learned institution a guarded opinion that, unless he was greatly deceived by appearances, there must be a great many people in town. Mr. Quidnunc, sitting in the bow window of the Union Club House— as he always has sat, does sit, will sit— said that in all his life he had seen nothing equal to it ; that the world must be going stark mad. The attendants at Farrance's cook-shop, beginning to breathe a little less after the fashion of worried dogs, now that luncheon time for the latest of luncheon-eaters had gone by, averred that never in all their long ex perience of ' the business ' had they taken more money in any three hours than in three hours last past, for iced drinks and hot coffee, lobster patties and plates of soup.

The sight was beautiful and exhilarating — beautiful in its contrast of sunlight and shade, its assemblage of colours and forms, the sparkling of the water-jets, and the silvery haze over Parliament Street — exhilarating by the incessant motion of pressing throngs and rolling carriages ; whilst over the brilliant pageantry, and bustling troops, and stirring roar, and merry babbling of the town, was visible the cloudless sky — blue, summerly, and peaceful.

Chapter IV. The Octagon Room

HEY stood in the Octagon Room, straight in front of pictures No. 637 and 640, which pictures were hung in the direct line of sight, if it can be allowed that there was any line of sight in that dim murky octagonal dungeon, which is still termed ' the condemned cell.' In the year 1846, that unpleasant lugubrious closet was not so far given over by the authorities to etchings, line engravings, and official uses as it has been in more recent exhibitions. Hanging committees still made strenuous efforts to persuade themselves and the public that it was possible to fix painted canvas to its walls, in such a manner that it could be critically examined by persons standing in the apartment. In 1846, there were ninety-five pictures in the den, of which ninety-five, No. 637 and No. 640 and Haverty's ' Portrait of Gerald Griffin, Esq., author of " The Collegians " ' were the only works that attracted the notice of those who in uno-uarded moments wandered into the deserted hole.

Indeed. of the other ninety-two pictures it was impossible to get any view at all. No. 637 was a bold unusual picture ; full of pathos, and not devoid of good painting. Even tlie evil genius of the Octagon Room could not quite annihilate its effectiveness. A rude rustic church in an inornate churchyard; a clump of dark yews clustered at points with the snow of winter ; a line of straight repulsive poplars, bare of leaves ; snow lying deep upon the ground ; in the background, a cold bleak stretch of flat marsh-land, sheeted with whiteness, and flecked with stunted willows; at a corner of the churchyard to the left of the fore ground — away from the soil assigned to the ashes of prosperous farmers and higglers of known ancestry — a man in coarse grey dress, a lean, cadiverous, horny-handed labourer, standing alone, without a friend to keep him company, without even a dog at his heels ; at his feet a small coffin of rough deal boards, doubtless containing the corpse of a child ; by the side of the coffin an open grave newly dug — the upturned clay contrasting with the whiteness of the surrounding snow; an air of dull dejection on the man's thin worn face, which was turned away from the coffin at his feet to the bleak desolate marsh land.

This was the picture, a picture that told a sad story with strange force. The man had been ill of fever, and was convalescent; his child had caught the sickness, and died. In the catalogue the picture was called ' Waiting.' No. 640 was a different subject. A graceful girl of sixteen or seventeen summers, wearing a riding habit of light colour and a plumed cap ; holding in her left hand a dainty riding-whip ; her right hand waving a farewell to some person not presented on the canvas ; at her feet, on the foreground, a rose-bud, dropped by that same right hand, an instant before she turned away. A simple picture enough; a young lady on a gravel path, between two slips of grassplot and two borders of garden shrubs. The work was unfinished Little care had been expended upon any part of it except the one figure ; and of that figure the face and head alone had been favoured with the artist's most industrious attention and delicate skill.

But the face was very beautiful, arch, tender, winsome, innocent; and under the border of the green cap, rich folds of warm auburn brown hair covered the upper part of the white forehead, and were gathered into a knot behind. The face, with its perfect symmetry; eyes earnest and mirthful; small pink lips; pure healthy complexion; and gentle composure of expression, was a poet's vision of highly endowed girlhood. The name of 640 was ' For Ever.' They stood in the Octagon Room, in front of these two pictures. In appearance they were widely different person ages. The one was a huge massive man, six feet two inches high, stout in proportion to his height, but in no respect unwieldy. A muscular well shaped man he might have passed for any age between fifty-five and seventy; as an old looking man for fifty-five years, or as a very young looking man for seventy.

Slightly bald at the top of his head, he wore his few iron-grey locks cut short; and not a hair was visible on his large, closely-shaven countenance, except where his black, harsh, shaggy eyebrows overshadowed a pair of keen piercing eyes— and where, at the top of either bare cheek, he displayed the germ of a mutton-chop whisker. Dressed in pepper and salt nether garments, double-breasted frock-coat and ample waistcoat, he wore ordinary attire for an elderly gentleman; but instead of using the high stock or twice-folded neck-tie, still in vogue with men of his day, he allowed his throat the comparative freedom of a light, single tie of gossamer silk, above which appeared a high wall of starched shirt-collar. No one could watch him without being impressed by the power — of which his frame, style, countenance were eloquent.

The other was a very young man, little more than twenty-two years of age. He was a youngster, a lad, a boy; and though he had for more than twelve months enjoyed the dignity of man's estate, he would not have been offended at being called a boy. He was not below the average height of Englishmen ; but placed there in the Octagon Room, within two feet of a giant, he seemed to be of diminutive stature. The contrast had the effect of twofold misrepresen tation, making the giant look grander than he really was, and the youth, of average height, appear a very small, and even insignificant fellow. In 1864 young men wear smooth coats and rough faces; in 1846 they kept their lips and chins smooth, but usually clad themselves in rough shaggy coats. Obeying the fashion of the day, the young man had no sign of moustache or beard ; and his dress was of the uncombed, monkey cloth materials usually worn by students eighteen years since.

It should, however, be observed that he was in deep mourning ; his garb being composed of black cloth and white linen, and a band of dark crape surrounding the cap — which rested on his head without concealing its masses of strong curling hair. The giant stood before No. 640. The young man kept his station before 637- When the giant thought the young man was not looking towards him, the giant turned his eye over his left shoulder and glanced down at the young man. When the young man thought the giant was not looking towards him, the young man turned his eye over his right shoulder and peered up at the giant. Whenever their eyes met (and they glanced at each other at least a dozen times before they entered into conversation), they forthwith turned sharply away to their respective pictures ; the eyes of the giant to No. 640, the eyes of the young man to 637.

Evidently they were interested in each other, examining and scrutinising each other, taking, as they best could, stock of each other, making up their minds to have a few words with each other. ' There are a great many visitors here to-day,' at length observed the giant, in a clear decided voice. ' A great many,' answered the young man, bowing slightly, with a pleasant air of deference to the superior age of the stranger who addressed him ; ' but they don't care to enter this room.' ' They show their good taste in keeping out of it. Even a good picture isn't worth looking at in this dungeon,' responded the giant authoritatively. 'True; the place sadly injures the pictures.' 'It does not hurt the pictures. You mean it injures the artists; that's a widely different matter. Young painters of much promise would succeed too fast to please the old ones of no achievement, if there were no cell like this to hang their works in.

But no matter, youth is wealth ; young men can afford to wait.' ' Not always ; a year sometimes is a very lono time — to young men who are struggling.' 'Young men shouldn't be impatient. Years are shorter and more trifling periods when a man looks back on many of them, than when he has only a few7 of them in the retrospect.' 'Asl am a young man,' answered the youngster, with a smile in his face and a light in his blue eyes, ' I cannot put my experience against yours.' ' Be thankful you cannot : the experience of age comes soon enough, too soon,' answered the giant hardly, and curtly, but not testily. A pause. ' I suppose this may be called an average exhibi tion,' resumed the giant. ' An average exhibition ! — why, the Academy never had one like it ; the English public never saw such a collection of works of art ! ' answered the young man — with warmth that caused the giant a smile. ' We have no great living painter who has not sent something.

When you have Maclise's " Ordeal by Touch," Roberta's " Tombs of the Caliphs," Edwin Landseer's "War," and "Peace," E. M. Ward's " Disgrace of Lord Clarendon," Mulready's " Choos ing the Wedding Gown," and four pictures by Turner — what would you have ? Every one is represented this year — Collins, Pickersgill, Eastlake, Leslie, Webster, Creswick, Egg, Ansdell, Frith. Even the portraits are of unusual excellence or in terest- -Pickersgill's " Duke of Wellington," Count D'Orsay's portrait of " the Duke," Leslie's " Charles Dickens," Grant's picture of the " Queen." ' ' Thank you, I have the catalogue in my hand,' returned the giant. ' Of course the collection is not without a few good things. But what puzzles me is how in this exhibition, as in all others, there is so much rubbish put before the world.

It is always supposed that artists apply to their art, not like mere business men, who turn their hands to whatever they can reasonably hope to make most money by, but because they recognise in themselves a peculiar fitness for the vocation. Now, if that be the case, how comes it that to one fairly competent painter, there are at least a dozen conspicuous failures ? How comes this, I say ? For, Heaven knows, the work they undertake is simple enough, and easy enough, for men cf certain definite powers.' ' Is it all so simple, and easy ? ' replied the very young man, quietly and without any display of surprise or disapprobation, unless a sudden bright ening of his steady blue eyes might be construed as expressive of displeasure. Let it be remarked that his manner and speech, though marked by composure and even slowness, were singularly declaratory of earnestness.

His words, even when he spoke with greatest warmth, came from his lips deliberately ; not sluggishly, or heavily, but with visible care not to overstate or understate his sentiments. The giant, who was observant and shrewd, as well as somewhat insolent and overbearing, soon saw that he was speaking with one who, though he might never be a brilliant talker, would always be found a guileless, open, and strictly conscientious man. He saw, too, that the young man, who imparted so much steady force to words spoken to a stranger in a public place, would in dealing with life do thoroughly to the best of his ability whatever he undertook to perform, and leave unattempted whatever he doubted his power to accomplish well. 'Is it so easy? ' retorted the giant, turning sharp upon his hearer, and raising his right hand orator ically. ' How can you ask the question ?

The natural conditions requisite for the formation of an artist are present in at least five men out of every ten. An artist requires the organs of colour and form ; he must have an eye for the beautiful, and sympathy with those who care for the beautiful ; he must have a steady hand, and a fair amount of common sense. Well, the common sense excepted, these qualities are found in each unit of crowds of young men. The common sense, the practical element, is a difficulty — I grant it. It is the difficulty which [accounts for the failures. Still such men with common sense are plentiful as peas in a pea-stack.' ' But, sir,' inquired the young man, bowing re spectfully, ' how about the difficulties which such a man encounters, when he tries with pencil, brush, chisel to satisfy the public and himself ? ' 'He shouldn't bother his mind about himself,' responded the self-satisfied giant, ' and the pubhc he should regard practically, not with nervous dread, but with shrewd practical observation.

He should study its likes and dislikes, be guided by its humours, by sympathy discover its wants, and then satisfy those wants. He should be in a position to say, " I know to a certainty that the public likes such and such objects of natural scenery, so I'll paint them for it. The pubhc has a taste for such and such classes of historical events, so I'll put them on canvas for it. The public cares for the biographies of such and such sorts of men, so I'll illustrate them for it." This is the practical temper in which an artist should select his subjects. In point of fact, vol. i. c my dear young friend, he should hit off the prevail ing taste.' The giant grew quite paternal in his tone. ' And never oppose it ? ' inquired the young man. ' Never ! ' answered the giant, positively. ' But if the prevailing taste is bad ?' ' That's no affair of the artist's : it's the public's fault, not his.' The giant was dogmatic. 'But shouldn't he try to correct a prevailing bad taste ; to raise the public from what is low to what is high ? ' ' Bless me ! my young friend ; if you like mutton above all other meats, would you think highly of the butcher who, when you ordered a leg of a southdown for your dinner, insisted on sending to your table a sirloin of beef, because he preferred it, and therefore thought it better for you ?

Would you thank him ? Would you employ him ? Would you give up eating mutton ? ' ' You encourage your cook to invent a new dish : why shouldn't you praise an artist who paints a new kind of picture ? ' ' I have a fountain of gratitude,' returned the giant, with a laugh, ' for the servant who gives me a well boiled potato.' ' If the artist is in one sense the servant, he is also the teacher of the public. He has two characters." ' Rather say there are two distinct publics : exhibition haunters, who merely look at pictures, and patrons who buy them.' ' You belong to the latter division, sir, I presume," observed the young artist (for the young man was a painter), colouring slightly, and bowing again — not in homage to the capitalist whom he now regarded as a picture buyer, but in courtesy to the stranger — about whom he was manifesting curiosity which might be deemed intrusive. ' Yes ; I buy pictures.' ' Then, after all, you love art ? ' exclaimed the young man, with an exquisite frankness of astonish ment.

The giant laughed loudly and pleasantly. ' An Englishman, my young friend,' he returned, when his amazement had subsided, ' should love his family and country ; if he is of a very sentimental turn, he may love his Sovereign and his Church ; but he should only respect art, recognising in her a power and a refining source of intellectual gratifica tion, also seeing in her a means of utilising capital. I am in the habit of buying pictures as an invest ment — purely as an investment.' The young artist was surprised, interested, slightly embarrassed; not altogether pleased. ' Now, here is a picture,' resumed the giant, smiling and pointing to No. 640, ' which I think of buying as an investment — purely as an investment. It is unfinished, and, as a whole, it is careless. But the face and attitude are good.

The artist has never exhibited before. His name is Edward Smith. He painted that other picture there, No. 637, for which I wouldn't give a rush.' The young artist blushed deeply, and his right arm trembled. ' He is a clever enough fellow to know which is the better picture. When I was in the price-office just now, I found he had put a price, 30L, on No. 640, and none whatever on the other. He knew C the public might like to buy "The Girl," but would have no care for " The Snow Piece." ' 'Perhaps,' answered the young man, with agita tion in his voice and countenance, ' he wished to retain No. 640 in his possession, and did not think anyone would care to pay 30.. for it.' ' Not very likely.' ' It is possible.' ' Anyhow, he won't refuse to have his own terms accepted.' ' Of course not. He has passed his word,' answered the young artist, seriously. ' But he can break it.