I have a bone to pick with my friends the artists! I use the word ‘friends’ advisedly, for have I not had the entrée for years to several studios in artistic Kensington? First and foremost was that of poor T. L. Rowbotham, who was so suddenly removed from amongst us some ten years ago, leaving a reputation for breezy coast scenery, which is still green in the memory of the public. My ground of offence is this: that they invest their subjects with so much of their own poetical imagination, that when we subsequently make acquaintance with the localities, an acute sense of disappointment is experienced. Thus, I had been familiar for years with the exquisite engraving after Turner of Abbotsford, wherein the abode of the Wizard of the North peers forth like some huge baronial castle from a dense forest of trees which extends to the bank of the murmuring Tweed. The happy time arrived at length when I was fated to make acquaintance with Scotland and its lovely scenery. Need I say that I included in my explorations Abbotsford and Melrose. My heart beat high as I felt that I was within a couple of miles of renowned Abbotsford. Could I not see in my mind’s eye the massive entrance porch, as sketched by Sir William Allan, R.A.; the baronial hall with the knights in armour, and so on? What was the reality? A very comfortable country mansion, not of any great size, and the dense forest melted into thin air! I must candidly admit, with respect to the last point, that the artist was not responsible for this omission, as the plantation had been cut down for sanitary reasons by the descendants of the great Sir Walter. But the rooms were terribly shrunken as compared with the images in my mind’s eye, as created by the imaginative Turner and Allan. Melrose Abbey could not be better; but I was disappointed to find the sacred fane so hemmed in by poor buildings, which never appear in the artist’s sketches.
On one occasion, I was carefully watching the deft fingers of my friend Smith, as he rapidly placed upon paper the outward resemblance of a picturesque water-mill in a valley in the Lowlands. Suddenly his pencil described a swelling mountain in the far distance. In vain I protested at this outrage on authenticity and vraisemblance. Smith was firm, and descanted in eloquent terms on the improvement caused by the addition. Herein lies the key of my ground of complaint.
Haddon Hall is another of my painful awakenings. It is worthy a pilgrimage to explore those tapestried halls, for they are full of interest, and the Hall itself is beautifully situated. But he who has never studied the hundreds of views of Haddon which are in existence, will be the happier man. The chambers have a dwarfed and shrunken appearance. The miniature terrace with its moss-grown steps looking like a view seen through the wrong end of a telescope, completed my disappointment.
Fontainebleau was a success, because I was not familiar with any magnified views thereof. Always excepting the famous courtyard in front of the renowned horse-shoe staircase, down the steps of which the defeated Emperor slowly trod ere he bade farewell to his legions, prior to his departure for Elba. Do we not all know the celebrated print after Horace Vernet, wherein Napoleon I. is depicted embracing General Petit, while the stalwart standard-bearer of the erst victorious eagle covers his weeping face with one hand. In the immense space, the serried ranks of the Imperial Guard stand like mournful statues. I sighed as I contemplated the moderate-sized square. Another illusion had departed!
Any one who has seen the chamber at Holyrood in which Mary Stuart held high festival with her ladies, listening the while to the love-songs of the Italian Rizzio, will candidly admit that it is one of the smallest supper-rooms in existence! Snug, decidedly—‘exceeding snug,’ as Sir Lucius O’Trigger remarks with respect to intramural interment in the Abbey at Bath. And here I must admit that there is one brilliant exception to the theory I have laid down—Edinburgh! I have never heard a single individual express disappointment with the first sight of ‘Auld Reekie!’ Climatic surroundings of course increase or diminish the enthusiasm. Probably no city has been so profusely illustrated, and when the special points are seen for the first time, they are recognised as old familiar friends. Well do I remember my first experience. The transit from the south at that time was not managed with the same speed or the same punctuality as nowadays. I was timed to arrive at the Caledonian station at eleven P.M. It was considerably past midnight, and dark as pitch, when I stepped into a cab amidst torrents of rain, and requested to be driven to a certain hotel. During the journey, I fancied I caught a glimpse of the Scott Monument, and felt a spasmodic thrill in consequence. When I descended to the breakfast-room the following morning, all was changed. Before my gaze stretched the long line of Princes Street, with the elegant Gothic spire of Scott’s Monument tapering gracefully into the blue sunlit air. The cries of the Newhaven fishwives were as music to my ear.
I was so impatient to mount the Castle Hill and the Calton Hill, that I wished I could be Sir Boyle Roche’s bird, and be in two places at once. To describe the views from these celebrated eminences would be to relate a ‘twice-told tale.’ But even at this distance of time I smile at my outspoken delight as I ‘spotted’ places I had been familiar with from childhood (on paper), and their unexpected relation to each other. ‘Why, that is Holyrood below me!’ and then I remembered that the old palace must have a local habitation somewhere. But there are two effects which remain for ever imprinted on my memory. The rainclouds had gathered again, and as they scudded rapidly across the heavens, the Castle and Rock were one moment in bright sunlight, and then involved in the deepest gloom, so that the green-covered base appeared as unsubstantial in the mist as a fairy palace. The second effect was the Old Town at night as viewed from Princes Street, with the twinkling lights piled high in air, as if they denoted the lofty towers of a palace of the gnomes. The walk of a few yards changes the entire scene. Arthur Seat, Salisbury Crags, and the Pentlands seen from a different angle create a new picture. Edinburgh, changeable and inexhaustible, the kaleidoscope of cities!
I wish to touch with becoming reverence on the disillusions which may lie under the pictorial representations of the Holy Land. Inspired by those illustrations, how often have I in imagination left Jerusalem by one of the city gates, and explored the Valley of Jehoshaphat, ascended the Mount of Olives, and followed the convolutions of the brook Kedron, the gently rising moon illumining meanwhile the garden of Gethsemane! Would a personal examination of some of those sacred places be attended with perfect satisfaction? I fear not.
THE SICKROOM FIRE.
I am neither doctor nor nurse by profession, but have had twice in my lifetime to abandon my ordinary occupation and take charge of members of my family who suffered from severe illness. Like others who were not taught ‘the regular way,’ I had to meet difficulties as they arose, and, as often happens, necessity became the mother of invention.
My first patient was my father: he suffered from nervous fever; and the slightest noise caused him great suffering, every sound appearing to be magnified to an extraordinary degree. It was, of course, important that nothing should occur to break the light sleep which he got from time to time. His illness occurred in winter, and the season was an unusually severe one of frost. It was necessary to keep a fire in the bedroom; yet I found that the poking of it, dropping of cinders on the fender-pan, and the putting of coals on the fire, interfered sadly with my patient’s rest; and I saw that I must get rid of the noise if my nursing was to be a success. My first step was to send out of the room both fender and fire-irons, and to get an ordinary walking-stick, such as is sold for sixpence. With this I cleared the bars and did what poking was necessary for several weeks. When it took fire, as it occasionally did, a rub upon the hob put it out. All the rattle of fire-irons and fender was got rid of, and my first difficulty was overcome. My remaining trouble was putting coals on the fire. If I shook them out of the scuttle into the grate, it made a deal of noise; if I rooted them out with a scoop, the sound was nearly as great, and more irritating, because more prolonged. I managed to get out of that difficulty by making up the coal in parcels. I brought my coal-box downstairs, and taking a couple of scoopfuls of coal at a time, I folded it in a piece of newspaper, and then tied each parcel with string. I put the parcels one upon another in it until the coal-box was full, and took them to my patient’s room. When the fire wanted replenishing, I placed a parcel upon it; the paper burned, away, and the coal settled down gently with little or no sound. After this, the fire was no longer a trouble to me or to my patient.