And the ashes of the city
Be our universal grave!”
W. E. A.
SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
A LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.
Dear Eusebius,—Your letter of inquiry reached me at Gratian’s, just at the moment we were setting off to pay a visit of a few days to our friend the Curate, who had ensconced himself in happiness and a curacy about an easy day’s ride from his former abode. From that quarter I have no news to tell you, but that the winning affability even of Gratian cannot obtain a smile or look of acknowledgment from Lydia Prateapace. She passes him in scorn. We found the Curate and his bride on his little lawn, before the door of the prettiest of clerical residences. She was reading to him, and that I know will please you; for I have often heard you say that a woman’s reading inspires the best repose of thought, and gives both sweetness and dignity to reflection; that then the true listener is passive under the fascination and sense of all loveliness, and his ideas rise the fairer, as the flowers grow the brighter that bend to the music of the sweet-voiced brook. If every reviewer had such a reader, criticism would fall merciful as the “gentle dew,”—ink would lose its blackness. They rose to greet us with the best of welcomes; and like less happy lovers,
“That day they read no more.”
The house is simply, yet elegantly furnished. To the little library with its well-filled shelves of classical and English literature, female fingers had lent a grace—there were flowers, and the familiarity of work, to humanise the severest author in this living depository of the thoughts of all ages. The spirit of Plato might look through his mesmerised binding and smile. The busts of ancient poets seemed to scent the fragrance, and bow their heads thankful. I could not resist the pleasure of patting our old acquaintance Catullus on the back, as I passed, which Gratian saw, and said—“Ay, ay, that’s the rogue to whom I sacrificed swine.” A few spaces unoccupied by books, were filled with choice prints from pictures by Raffaele. The most appropriate was the “School of Athens,” not the least pleasing that portrait of the “gentle musician.” The Curate saw how much these prints attracted my notice, and said that he would give me a treat on the morrow, as he expected a package of prints all framed and glazed, which a wealthy relative, with whom, however, he added, he was not very well acquainted, had sent him—and he expected us to attend the unpacking. It is a present, he said, to furnish my curacy, but I know nothing of the giver’s taste. I wished at the time, that my friend Eusebius had been present at the unpacking; for I did not augur much of the collection, and I thought the grace of his, that is of your wit, Eusebius, might be wanted either in admiration or apology. For if you happened not to like the picture,
“I’ll warrant you’ll find an excuse for the glass.”
Shall I describe to you our doings and our sayings on this occasion? imagine the case before—us and in the words of another old song,
“It is our opening day.”