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MY laddie, my laddie, with the mane of tawny gold,
The soft blue eyes, the open brow, the mouth like Cupid's bow —
My laddie, my laddie, you are scarcely six years old,

But the ages have been garnering the wonders you shall know.

For you has Science hoarded her secrets strange and rare;

For you have wise men toiled and delved, for you have brave men fought;
To make your pathway beautiful, have sea and earth and air

Through centuries of waiting in mystic patience wrought.

No battle of the hoary past but had its gage for you;

No rune of solemn Norn or Fate but sends its thrilling strain
To you, for whose glad coming all forces, old and new,

Are blending in concurrent notes, are sounding time's refrain.

My laddie, O my laddie, I am wistful as I clasp

Your little hand within my own, and think how many men,

Gone far from earth and memory, beyond our mortal grasp,
Are living and are breathing, dear child, in you again: —

The line of Flemish weavers, who were stout and tough as steel ;

The brave old Holland gentlemen, called "Beggars of the Sea";
The coifed and wimpled Puritans, sweet maids and matrons leal, —

Who poured their weakness and their strength in the blood of you and me.

My laddie of the golden hair, there stand at God's right hand

His saints who went through blood and flame, the yeomen of our line;

And there are seraphs singing in the glorious better land

Whose heart- beats kept, when here on earth, the pace of yours and mine.

Kneel, little laddie, at my side, there's no defence like this,

An evening prayer in childish trust, and let him scoff who may, —

A daily prayer to God above, a gentle mother's kiss,
Will keep my little laddie safe, however long the day.

Those stanch old burghers of the past, these nearer gentlemen,

Sans peur et sans reproche, who look through your sweet eyes of blue,

Were honest men, clean-handed, and they told the truth;— what then?
'Tis all I crave, my laddie, when I pray to God with you.

Vol. LXXXVIII.— No 524—15 Copyright, 1893, by Harper and Brothers. All rights reserved.



33art jFfrst.

u Mimi Pinson est une blonde,
Une blonde que Ton connait;
Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,
Landeiirette ! et qu'un bonnet !"

IT was a fine sunny showery day in
The big studio window was open at the
top, and let in a pleasant breeze from the
northwest. Things were beginning to
look shipshape at last. The big piano, a
semi-grand by Broad wood, had arrived
from England by "the Little Quickness"
{la petite vitesse), as the goods trains are
called in France, and lay, freshly tuned,


alongside the eastern wall ; on the wall
opposite was a panoply of foils, masks,
and boxing-gloves.

A trapeze, a knotted rope, and two par-
allel cords, supporting each a ring, de-
pended from a huge beam in the ceiling.
The walls were of the usual dull red, re-
lieved by plaster casts of arms and legs
and hands and feet; and Dante's mask,
and Michael Angelo's alto-rilievo of Leda
and the swan, and a centaur and Lapith
from the Elgin marbles — on none of these
had the dust as yet had time to settle.

There were also studies in oil from the
nude; copies of Titian, Rembrandt, Ve-

lasquez, Rubens, Tintoret, Leonardo da
Vinci — none of the school of Botticelli,
Mantegna, and Co. — a firm whose merits
had not as yet been revealed to the many.

Along the walls, at a great height, ran
a broad shelf, on which were other casts
in plaster, terra -cotta, imitation bronze:
a little Theseus, a little Venus of Milo, a
little discobolus ; a little flayed man
threatening high heaven (an act that
seemed almost pardonable under the cir-
cumstances!) ; a lion and a boar by Ba-
rye; an anatomical figure of a horse with
only one leg left and no ears; a horse's
head from the pediment of the Parthe-
non, earless also; and the bust of Clytie,
with her beautiful low brow, her sweet
wan gaze, and the ineffable forward shrug
of her dear shoulders that makes her bos-
om a nest, a rest, a pillow, a refuge — to
be loved and desired forever by genera-
tion after generation of the sons of men.

Near the stove hung a gridiron, a fry-
ing-pan, a toasting-fork, and a pair of
bellows. In an adjoining glazed corner
cupboard were plates and glasses, black-
handled knives, pewter spoons, and three-
pronged steel forks; a salad-bowl, vine-
gar-cruets, an oil-flask, two mustard-pots
(English and French), and such like things
— all scrupulously clean. On the floor,
which had been stained and waxed at
considerable cost, lay two chetah -skins
and a large Persian praying-rug. One-
half of it, however (under the trapeze
and at the farthest end from the window,
beyond the model throne), was covered
with coarse matting, that one might
fence or box without slipping down and
splitting one's self in two, or fall with-
out breaking any bones.

Two other windows of the usual French
size and pattern, with shutters to them
and heavy curtains of baize, opened east
and west, to let in dawn or sunset, as the-
case might be, or haply keep them out.
And there were alcoves, recesses, irregu-
larities, odd little nooks and corners, to
be filled up as time wore on with end-
less personal k nick knacks, bibelots, pri-
vate properties and acquisitions — things
that make a place genial, homelike, and
good to remember, and sweet to muse
upon (with fond regret) in after-years.




And an immense divan spread itself in
width and length and delightful thick-
ness just beneath the big north window,
the business window — a divan so immense
that three well-fed, well-contented Eng-
lishmen could all lie lazily smoking their
pipes on it at once without being in each
other's way, and very often did!

At present one of these Englishmen —
a Yorkshireman, by-the-way, called Taffy
(and also the man of
Blood, because he was
supposed to be distant-
ly related to a baronet)
— was more energeti-
cally engaged. Bare-
armed, and in his shirt
and trousers, he was
twirling a pair of Ind-
ian clubs round his
head. His face was
flushed, and he was
perspiring freely and
looked fierce. He was
a very big young man,
fair, with kind but
choleric blue eyes,
and the muscles of
his brawny arm were
strong as iron bands.

For three years he
had borne her Majes-
ty's commission, and
had been through the
Crimean campaign without a scratch.
He would have been one of the famous
six hundred in the famous charge at Bal-
aklava but for a sprained ankle (caught
playing leap-frog in the trenches), which

kept him in hospital on that momentous
day. So that he lost his chance of glory
or the grave, and this humiliating mis-
adventure had sickened him of soldiering
for life, and he never quite got over it.
Then, feeling within himself an irresisti-
ble vocation for art, he had sold out; and
here he was in Paris, hard at work, as
we see.

He was good-looking, with straight
features ; but I regret to say that, besides
his heavy plunger's mustache, he wore
an immense pair of drooping auburn
whiskers, of the kind that used to be
called Piccadilly weepers, and were after-
wards affected by Mr. Sothern in Lord
Dundreary. It was a fashion to do so
then for such of our gilded youth as could
afford the time (and the hair) ; the bigger
and fairer the whiskers, the more beauti-
ful was thought the youth ! It seems in-
credible in these days, when even her
Majesty's household brigade go about
with smooth cheeks and lips, like priests
or play-actors.

" What's become of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms. . . ?"

Another inmate of this blissful abode
— Sandy, the Laird of Cockpen, as he was


called — sat in simi-
larly simple attire at
his easel, painting at a
lifelike little picture of
a Spanish toreador sere-
nading a lady of high
degree (in broad day-
light). He had never
been to Spain, but he had
a complete toreador's kit — a bargain which
he had picked up for a mere song in the
Boulevard du Temple — and he had hired
the guitar. His pipe was in his mouth —
reversed; for it had gone out, and the




were spilt all over his trousers,
where holes were often burnt in this way.
Quite gratuitously, and with a pleas-
ing Scotch accent, he began to declaim :

"A street there is in Paris famous

For which no rhyme our language yields ;
Roo Nerve day Petty Shong its name is —
The New Street of the Little Fields "

And then, in his keen appreciation of
the immortal stanza, he chuckled audibly,
with a face so blithe and merry and well
pleased that it did one good to look at

He also had entered life by another
door. His parents (good pious people in
Dundee) had intended that he should be
a writer to the signet, as his father and
grandfather had been before him. And
here he was in Paris famous, painting
toreadors, and spouting the "Ballad of
the Bouillabaisse," as he would often do
out of sheer lightness of heart — much
oftener, indeed, than he would say his

Kneeling on the divan, with his elbow
on the window-sill, was a third and much
younger youth. The third he was "Lit-
tle Billee." He had pulled down the
green baize blind, and was looking over
the roofs and chimney-pots of Paris and
all about with all his eyes, munching the
while a roll and savory saveloy, in which
there was evidence of much garlic. He

ate with great relish, for he was very
hungry; he had been all the morning at
Carrel's studio, drawing from the life.

Little Billee was small and slender,
about twenty or twenty-one, and had a
straight white forehead veined with blue,
large dark blue eyes, delicate regular
features, and coal-black hair. He was
also very graceful and Avell built, Avith
very small hands and feet, and much
better dressed than his friends, who went
out of their way to outdo the denizens
of the quartier latin in careless eccen-
tricity of garb, and succeeded. And in
his winning and handsome face there was
just a faint suggestion of some possible
very remote Jewish ancestor — just a tinge
of that strong, sturdy, irrepressible, in-
domitable, indelible blood which is of
such priceless value in diluted homoeo-
pathic doses, like the dry white Spanish
wine called montijo, which is not meant
to be taken pure; but without a judicious
admixture of which no sherry can go
round the world and keep its flavor in-
tact; or like the famous bull-dog strain,
which is not beautiful in itself; and yet
just for lacking a little of the same no
greyhound can ever hope to be a cham-
pion. So, at least, I have been told by
wine -merchants and dog-fanciers — the
most veracious persons that can be. For-
tunately for the world, and especially for
ourselves, most of us have in our veins
at least a minim of that precious fluid,
whether we know it or show it or not.
Tant pis pour les autres !

As Little Billee munched he also gazed
at the busy place below — the Place St.
Anatole des Arts — at the old houses op-
posite, some of which were being pulled
down, no doubt lest they should fall of
their own sweet will. In the gaps be-
tween he would see discolored old cracked
dingy walls, with mysterious windows
and rusty iron balconies of great antiqui-
ty—sights that set him dreaming dreams
of mediaeval French love and wickedness
and crime, by-gone mysteries of Paris!

One gap went right through the block,
and gave him a glimpse of the river, the
"Cite," and the ominous old Morgue; a
little to the right rose the gray towers of
Notre Dame de Paris into the checkered
April sky. Indeed, the top of nearly all
Paris lay before him, with a little stretch
of the imagination on his part; and he
gazed with a sense of novelty, an interest
and a pleasure for which he could not



have found any expression in mere lan-

Paris! Paris!! Paris!!!

The very name had always been one to
conjure with, whether lie thought of it as
a mere sound on the lips and in the ear,
or as a magical written or printed word
for the eye. And here was the thing
itself at last, and he, he himself, ipsissi-
mus, in the very midst of it, to live there
and learn there as long as he liked, and
make himself the great artist he longed
to be.

Then, his meal finished, he lit a pipe,
and flung himself on the divan and sighed
deeply, out of the over-full contentment
of his heart.

He felt he had never known happiness
like this, never even dreamt its possibil-
ity. And yet his life had been a happy
one. He was young and tender, was Little
Billee; he had never been to any school,
and was innocent of the world and its
wicked ways; innocent of French espe-
cially, and the ways of Paris and its Latin
quarter. He had been brought up and
educated at home, had spent his boyhood
in London with his mother and sister,
who now lived in Devonshire on some-
what straitened means. His father, who
was dead, had been a clerk in the Trea-

He and his two friends, Taffy and the
Laird, had taken this studio together.
The Laird slept there in a small bedroom
off the studio. Taffy had a bedroom at
the Hotel de Seine, in the street of that
name. Little Billee lodged at the Hotel
Corneille, in the Place de l'Odeon.

He looked at his two friends and won-
dered if any one, living or dead, had ever
had such a glorious pair of chums as

Whatever they did, whatever they said,
was simply perfect in his eyes ; they were
his guides and philosophers as well as his
chums. On the other hand, Taffy and
the Laird were as fond of the boy as they
could be.

His absolute belief in all they said and
did touched them none the less that they
were conscious of its being somewhat in
excess of their deserts. His almost girlish
purity of mind amused and charmed them,
and they did all they could to preserve
it, even in the quartier latin, where purity
is apt to go bad if it be kept too long.

They loved him for his affectionate dis-
position, his lively and caressing ways;

and they admired him far more than he
ever knew, for they recognized in him a
quickness, a keenness, a delicacy of per-
ception, in matters of form and color, a
mysterious facility and felicity of execu-
tion, a sense of all that was sweet and
beautiful in nature, and a ready power of
expressing it, that had not been vouchsafed
to them in any such generous profusion,
and which, as they ungrudgingly admitted
to themselves and each other, amounted
to true genius.

And when one within the immediate
circle of our intimates is gifted in this
abnormal fashion, we either hate or love
him for it, in proportion to the greatness
of his gift; according to the way we are

So Taffy and the Laird loved Little
Billee — loved him very much indeed. Not
but what Little Billee had his faults. For
instance, he didn't interest himself very
warmly in other people's pictures. He
didn't seem to care for the Laird's guitar-
playing toreador, nor for his serenaded
lady — at all events he never said any-
thing about them, either in praise or
blame. He looked at Taffy's realisms
(for Taffy was a realist) in silence, and




nothing tries true friendship so much as
silence of this kind.

But, then, to make up for it, when they
all three went to the Louvre, he didn't
seem to trouble much about Titian either,
or Rembrandt, or Velasquez, Rubens, Ve-
ronese, or Leonardo. He looked at the
people who looked at the pictures, instead
of at the pictures themselves; especially
at the people who copied them, the some-
times charming young lady painters— and
these seemed to him even more charming
than they really were— and he looked a
great deal out of the Louvre windows,
where there was much to be seen : more
Paris, for instance — Paris, of which he
could never have enough.

But when, surfeited with classical beau-
ty, they all three went and dined together,
and Taffy and the Laird said beautiful
things about the old masters, and quar-
relled about them, he listened with defer-
ence and rapt attention, and reverentially
agreed with all they said, and afterwards
made the most delightfully funny little
pen-and-ink sketches of them, saying all
these beautiful things (which he sent to
his mother and sister at home) ; so lif el ike,
so real, that you could almost hear the
beautiful things they said; so beautiful-
ly drawn that you felt the old masters
couldn't have drawn them better them-
selves; and so irresistibly droll that you
felt that the old masters could not have
drawn them at all — any more than Mil-
ton could have described the quarrel be-
tween Sairey Gamp and Betsy Prig; no
one, in short, but Little Billee.

Little Billee took up the "Ballad of
Bouillabaisse" where the Laird had left
it off, and speculated on the future of
himself and his friends, when he should
have got to forty years— an almost im-
possibly remote future.

These speculations were interrupted by
a loud knock at the door, and two men
came in.

First, a tall bony individual of any
age between thirty and forty-five, of Jew-
ish aspect, well featured but sinister. He
was very shabby and dirty, and wore a
red b6ret and a large velveteen cloak,
with a big metal clasp at the collar. His
thick, heavy, languid, lustreless black hair
fell down behind his ears on to his shoul-
ders, in that musicianliUe way that is so
offensive to the normal Englishman. He
had bold brilliant black eyes with long
heavy lids, a thin sallow face, and a

beard of burnt-up black which grew al-
most from his under eyelids; and over it
his mustache, a shade lighter, fell in two
long spiral twists. He went by the name
of Svengali, and spoke fluent French
with a German accent, and humorous
German twists and idioms, and his voice
was very thin and mean and harsh, and
often broke into a disagreeable falsetto.

His companion was a little swarthy
young man — a gypsy, possibly — much
pitted with the smallpox, and also very
shabby. He had large soft affectionate
brown eyes, like a King Charles spaniel.
He had small nervous veiny hands with
nails bitten down to the quick, and car-
ried a fiddle and a fiddlestick under his
arm, without a case, as though he had
been playing in the street.

"Ponchour, mes enfants," said Sven-
gali. " Che vous amene mon ami Checko,
qui choue du fiolon gomme un anche!"

Little Billee, who adored all "sweet
musicianers," jumped up and made Gecko
as warmly welcome as he could in his
early French.

"Ha! le biano!" exclaimed Svengali,
flinging his red beret on it, and his cloak
on the ground. " Ch'espere qu'il est pon,
et pien t'accord!"

And sitting down on the music-stool,
he ran up and down the scales with that
easy power, that smooth even crispness
of touch, which reveal the master.

Then he fell to playing Chopin's im-
promptu in A flat, so beautifully that
Little Billee's heart went nigh to bursting
with suppressed emotion and delight.
He had never heard any music of Chopin's
before, nothing but British provincial
home-made music — melodies with vari-
ations, " Annie Laurie," " The Last Rose
of Summer," "The Blue Bells of Scot-
land," innocent little motherly and sister-
ly tinklings, invented to set the company
at their ease on festive evenings, and
make all-round conversation possible for
shy people, who fear the unaccompanied
sound of their own voices, and whose
genial chatter always leaves off directly
the music ceases.

He never forgot that impromptu, which
he was destined to hear again one day
in strange circumstances.

Tben Svengali and Gecko made music
together, divinely. Little fragmentary
things, sometimes consisting but of a few
bars, but these bars of such beauty and
meaning! Scraps, snatches, short melo-



dies, meant to fetch, to charm immediate-
ly, or to melt or sadden or madden just
for a moment, and that knew just when
to leave off — czardas, gypsy dances, Hun-
garian love-plaints, things little known
out of eastern Europe in the fifties of this
century, till the Laird and Taffy were
almost as wild in their enthusiasm as
Little Billee — a silent enthusiasm too
deep for speech. And when these two
great artists left off to smoke, the three
Britishers were too much moved even
for that, and there was a

Suddenly there came a
loud knuckle-rapping at the
outer door, and a portentous
voice of great volume, and
that might almost have be-
longed to any sex (even an
angel's), uttered the Brit-
ish milkman's yodel, "Milk
below !" and before any
one could say "Entrez," a
strange figure appeared,
framed by the gloom of the
little antechamber.

It was the figure of a
very tall and fully devel-
oped young female, clad in
the gray overcoat of a
French infantry soldier,
continued netherwards by
a short striped petticoat, be-
neath which were visible
her bare white ankles and
insteps, and slim, straight,
rosy heels, clean cut and
smooth as the back of a
razor; her toes lost them-
selves in a huge pair of
male list slippers, which
made her drag her feet as
she walked.

She bore herself with easy
unembarrassed grace, like
a person whose nerves and
muscles are well in tune,
whose spirits are high, who
has lived much in the at-
mosphere of French studios,
and feels at home in it.

This strange medley of
garments was surmounted
by a small bare head with
short, thick, wavy brown
hair, and a very healthy
young face, which could
scarcely be called quite

beautiful at first sight, since the eyes were
too wide apart, the mouth too large, the
chin too massive, the complexion a mass
of freckles. Besides, you can never tell
how beautiful (or how ugly) a face may
be till you have tried to draw it.

But a small portion of her neck, down
by the collar-bone, which just showed
itself between the unbuttoned lapels of
her military coat collar, was of a delicate
privetlike whiteness that is never to be
found on any French neck, and very few




English ones. Also, she had a very fine
brow, broad and low, with thick level
eyebrows much darker than her hair, a
broad, bony, high bridge to her short nose,
and her full broad cheeks were beauti-
fully modelled. She would have made a
singularly handsome boy.

As the creature looked round at the as-
sembled company and flashed her big
white teeth at them in an all-embracing
smile of uncommon width and quite irre-
sistible sweetness, simplicity, and friendly
trust, one saw at a glance that she was
out of the common clever, simple, humor-
ous, honest, brave, and kind, and accus-
tomed to be genially welcomed wherever
she went. Then suddenly closing the
door behind her, dropping her smile, and
looking wistful and sweet, with her head
on one side and her arms akimbo, " Ye're
all English, now, aren't ye?" she ex-
claimed. 4 ' I heard the music, and thought
I'd just come in for a bit, and pass the
time of day: you don't mind? Trilby,
that's my name— Trilby O'Ferrall."

She said this in English, with an accent
half Scotch and certain French intona-
tions, and in a voice so rich and deep and
full as almost to suggest an incipient
tenore robusto; and one felt instinctively
that it was a real pity she wasn't a boy,
she would have made such a jolly one.

"We're delighted, on the contrary,"
said Little Billee, and advanced a chair
for her.

But she said, " Oh, don't mind me; go
on with the music," and sat herself down
cross-legged on the model-throne near
the piano.

As they still looked at her, curious and
half embarrassed, she pulled a paper par-
cel containing food out of one of the coat
pockets, and exclaimed :

"I'll just take a bite, if you don't object;
I'm a model, you know, and it's just rung
twelve — ' the rest. ' I'm posing for Durien
the sculptor, on the next floor. I pose to
him for the altogether."

44 The altogether?" asked Little Billee.

" Yes— Ven8emble, you know— head,
hands, and feet — everything — especially
feet. That's my foot," she said, kicking
off her big slipper and stretching out the

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