FRANK.
I think you would like to hear about a little friend of mine called Frank. That is, he was a little friend of mine, for he is grown into a man now; and though a friend still, he is by no means little, being above six feet high. However, what I am going to tell you of him occurred years ago.
Frank’s father died when he was quite young, and his mother, marrying again, went out to India; so it happened that he lived in London with his grandfather and grandmother. They, of course, were quite old people, and he was always very glad to spend a part of his holidays with some cousins at their house in the country, which was very near to where I lived. I was not quite grown up at that time, but I was so much older than Frank that he looked upon me as a very wise person, and one quite fitted to give him advice.
Now Frank had a great talent for drawing, and I think that was what drew us together, for I had a turn that way also. He used to sketch the beautiful scenery in the neighbourhood; and, although he only sketched in pencil, he obtained good effects of distance, gave correctly the foliage of the different trees, and, above all, he seemed by natural genius always to choose just the subjects which formed a nice composition as a picture.
He was at this time about twelve or thirteen years of age, and whenever he talked to me about his own future, which he very often did, I could not help encouraging him to become an artist. His grandfather, I knew, had other views, and intended him to be a merchant, there being some advantageous opening for him in that way. Still I advised Frank at least to let his grandfather know how much he wished to be an artist, and to show him some of his sketches; “because,” as I said, “if he consents, it is time you should be put in the way of studying art properly.”
Well, Frank followed my advice. After spending his holidays in the country, he went to pass one day in town at his grandfather’s before going to school. In the evening after dinner, when he was sitting with his grandfather and grandmother, he suddenly broke out with:—
“Grandpapa dear, I want to be an artist.”
“An artist!” said grandpapa; “why, what fancy is this? I didn’t know you had a taste that way. Here, let me see if you can draw this.”
He placed before his grandson a small ancient vase, which he took from a glass case; for Frank’s grandfather, I must tell you, was a great collector of ancient things—relics, and curiosities.
Frank took his place at the opposite side of the table, and set to work. At last he brought the paper round to grandpapa. There was the vase, very fairly and correctly copied:—But I think I had better give you an account of what happened in grandpapa’s own words, as he told it all to me some time afterwards.
“The vase was well drawn, no doubt,” said grandpapa, “but after all it was nothing extraordinary; and I was giving the paper back to Frank, when I noticed that there was some drawing on the other side. Looking at it again, I saw two heads—mere sketches, but better likenesses I never saw. One was his grandmamma; there she was to the very life. The other—well, the other was a caricature, rather than a portrait, of me. I was made to appear ugly and ridiculous, instead of the good-looking old gentleman I am;” (He said this laughing) “still, it was a likeness, I confess. I tried to be angry, but laughed instead, and exclaimed: ‘Ah, Frank, Frank! you shall be an artist if you like; you certainly have talent, but you must turn it to better account than by making caricatures of your old grandfather.’”
Frank is now grown up, and has already obtained some fame as an artist. I saw two pictures of his at the Royal Academy exhibition the other day, which were admired and praised by everybody.
