Before leaving Richmond we pay a visit to the studio of the well-known sculptor, E. V. Valentine, of whom Virginia is so justly proud. The studio is full of minor works of art; hands and feet, as though they were lately amputated, are flung in dusty corners; masks and faces frown or smile from the walls, and many-winged cherubs are flying over our heads. Some have flown away, and are fixed in monumental marble in some far-away graveyard; and bygone beauties, some robed in white, some in the salmon-coloured glory of terra-cotta, are crowded on the shelves, face downward or upward, tumbled one over the other without the slightest regard to their dignity. On one side of the room stands a dwarfed equestrian figure of General Lee; he appears to have been arrested sword in hand as he was galloping to the front, the look and attitude are startlingly life-like; we can almost fancy we hear the word of command issuing from the stony lips; one touch of the magic wand would make the marble palpitate and live; but the living must die, and this piece of sculptured stone will stand for ages to come; long after generation on generation has passed away, he will still stand in the light of the world’s eyes even as he is standing before us now, with the “light of battle on his face” and the word of command upon his lips. On the opposite side of the room lies the reverse figure; there the patriot chief is stretched full length upon his bier as on a bed of rest, the noble face set in a mighty calm, the left arm thrown across his breast, the right straightened at his side, grasping his sword, “the attitude in which he always slept upon the battle-field.” So one of his faithful followers tells us as he looks down on the recumbent figure.
“Why represent him in repose?” he demurs. “To me, who have seen him so often in action, it is not the attitude in which he should have been immortalised.”
We think otherwise as we gaze on the serene and noble face set in the calm of—is it sleep? or death? After action, repose; after the battle-fever, rest. To us it is sweet, not sad, to think how—
“To the white regions of eternal peace
The General has gone forward!”
In the centre of the room a huge calico extinguisher has descended from the ceiling, and hides something we are about to see; some invisible machinery upraises the extinguisher, and reveals a muffled group, swathed in wet linen, which is slowly unwound—and we gaze upon the sculptor’s masterpiece, Andromache, modelled in clay. He has chosen no moment of tragic agony for his work; but a still scene of home life. Hector has gone to the war—the pain of parting is over, and Andromache sits at her spinning-wheel, her hands lying listlessly in her lap, the thread still between her fingers, her eyes looking forward but seeing nothing. Her thoughts have wandered after her hero, and are lost on the battle-field. The attitude, full of grace, is one of utter despondency, the lovely face is full of sadness and longing, shadowed by a weariness that tells of almost helpless despair. A lizard, the emblem of death, is stealing out from among the folds of her drapery, to snap the thread that lies so loosely in her hand. Her child, a sunny-faced, smiling cherub, has climbed upon her lap, and is playing with her neck ornament, trying in vain to attract her attention, and watching for the smile of recognition to dawn upon her lips.
The work is still in an unfinished state; the artist being occupied in arranging the draperies and carrying out other details of his work. It is exquisite in design and finely executed. I have no doubt that this rare work of art, will, when completed, find its way into the European galleries. Meanwhile the artist turns a shower of spray upon the beautiful group, wraps her again in her damp swathing clothes, the calico extinguisher descends, and Andromache is lost to view.
CHAPTER III.
Fire and ruins.—Through sylvan scenes.—The cave of Luray.—A jewelled city underground.—The white savages of Wise County.
After spending a delightful week in Richmond, we begin to think it is time to be “moving on.” So anxious are we to resume our journey southward, we decide to go by the evening train, but unfortunately about mid-day a thick smoke fills the air, and over-spreads the city like a funeral pall. We learn that the railway bridge is on fire, burning so furiously, and spreading so rapidly, that in the space of an incredibly short time the buildings on either side are gutted, and the wind carries the flying sparks over the city, and for a time it is in danger of total destruction; people rush out of their houses, and watch breathlessly the result; but the sparks fly over the house-tops in a flaming shower, setting fire to one roof after another; and at last, after scaring half the town, catching at the tindery thatch of the Allan House, threatening to destroy one of the chief landmarks of the ill-starred poet’s life, but the passers by rush to the rescue, and the old house is saved for the benefit of new generations of relic hunters.