Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2016 with funding from Getty Research Institute https://archive.org/details/faedgalleryserieOOfaed THE FAED GALLERY. THE FAED GALLERY A SERIES OF THE MOST RENOWNED WORKS OF THOMAS FAED, REPRODUCED IN HELIOTYPE WITH FULL DESCRIPTIONS, AND A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OE THE ARTIST BOSTON JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, (Late Tickxor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.) 1878 THOMAS FAED. HOMAS FAED, the most eminent living artist of the school of which Wilkie is the representative, was born at Burley Mill, in the picturesque stewartry of Kirkcudbright, in Scotland, in the year 1826. His father, who was an able mechanician, though he had little opportunity of developing his talents in that direction, there carried on business as an engineer and millwright. The beauty of the scenery surrounding his home, and the interesting subjects for an artist with which the neighborhood abounded, soon caught the boy’s attention. In the summer months, when the mill was idle, and there was no grain preparing in the kiln, he was in the habit of converting the smoke-begrimed apartment into a studio, where, like a second Rembrandt, with a fair top-light and a dark background, he painted diligently, using as models the ragged boys who lived in the rustic world around him. His father died when the young artist was yet in his boyhood ; but his elder brother, John, had already, after a severe struggle against early discouragements, attained eminence as a painter in Edinburgh, and was in a position that enabled him to be an invaluable friend and counsellor to his young brother. Recognizing the dawning talent of Thomas, he invited him in 1843 to become a member of his household, and for some years he carefully fostered and en- couraged the gilts which were to him so apparent ; and never was fraternal love more happily displayed or better rewarded. The young aspirant assiduously pursued his studies in the Edinburgh School of Design under the tuition of Sir William Allan, and was a successful competitor for many of the prizes annually awarded in various departments. The earliest work he ventured to exhibit in public was a drawing in water-colors, “The Old English Baron ; ” but he soon abandoned this branch of art, and devoted himself to oil-painting. He advanced in his profession so rapidly, that in 1849, when only in his twenty-third year, he was made an Associate of the Royal Scottish Academy. One of the works painted at this period of his life — “Sir Walter Scott and his Friends at Abbotsford ” — has become widely known through the engraving from it. 2 Thomas Faed. While still living in Edinburgh, Mr. Faed, in 1851, first became an exhibiter at the London Royal Academy, sending three pictures, “ Cottage Piety,” “ The First Step,” and “My Father urged Me Sair,” from Auld Robin Gray. In 1852 he permanently took up his residence in London, and that year exhibited “ Burns and Highland Mary,” and “ The Visit of the Patron and Patroness to the Village School.” In 1853 he painted “Evan- geline,” one of the best known and most popular of his works. This year there appeared at the Academy “The Early Lesson,” and “Sophia and Olivia;” the latter very graceful in composition, and painted with the nicest finish. In the following year he contributed to the Exhibition “ Morning, — Reapers Going Out,” and “ Peggy,” from Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd. In the year 1855 Mr. Faed achieved his first great success in the pic- ture of “ The Mitherless Bairn and from that year may be dated the ever-growing popularity which he has since enjoyed. It is said that this work ran a narrow risk of rejection by the hanging committee of the Royal Academy, and that it only obtained a low and unfavorable place, below the line, in consequence of the wise insistence of a single member. But the public showed a truer appreciation of his merits. It at once commanded the attention of the majority of the critics, who gave it a very high place among the “ pictures of the season ; ” although Mr. Ruskin, in his “ Art-Notes ” of the year, declared that the work was “throughout the most commonplace ‘ Wilkieism,’ — white spots everywhere.” Mr. Faed also exhibited this year two less important works, “ Children Going to Market,” and “ From Our Own Correspondent.” In the year 1856 he painted for Lady Burdett-Coutts a pendant to “ The Mitherless Bairn,” the almost equally admi- rable “ Home and the Homeless.” “Highland Mary” was also in the Academy this year, and “Conquered but not Subdued” was exhibited in the Glasgow Art-Union. His only contribution in 1S57, “The First Break in the Family,” still further increased his fame. In the year following, Mr. Faed exhibited four works, “The Sunbeams,” “The Welcome,” “The Ayrshire Lassie,” and “A Listener Ne’er Hears Gude o’ Himsel’.” The latter work is full of humorous suggestions. The listener, a rather elderly widower, had written to his sweet-heart a letter, “ saft, couthie, and slee ; ” and was now on the point of paying her a visit, carrying with him a present of the “ brawest cheap shawl ” he could find. He stands in the doorway ; and the scene that meets his gaze is best described in the words of the poet Ballantine, who wrote them on first seeing the picture : — “ There sat my braw Joe wi’ young Colin Dalzell, An’ his glaiket sister, wha tongue’s like a bell, A -gigglin’, an’ ettling my letter to spell : A listener ne’er hears gude o’ himsel’.” In vigor of execution and dramatic force, this picture surpassed any thing that Mr. Faed had as yet done. Thomas Faed. o “Sunday in the Backwoods” was exhibited in 1859. The subject was suggested to the artist by the letter of an emigrant, giving an account of the new life and of himself and his family, and saying that the only drawback to their contentment with their lot was the illness of poor Jeanie. The scene is in the Canadian backwoods, and shows the emigrant household gathered in front of their log-cabin around the father, who is reading the Bible to them. There are eleven figures in the group, — one of them a girl sitting in an arm-chair, propped with pillows, and her fair face hectic with the deadly bloom of consumption. She is listening with a most touching look of sadness, yet of resignation, in her fever-bright eyes. The expressions of all the faces are admirable ; but especially so is the grave, shrewd dignity of the pioneer father, and the fading beauty of the dying girl. It is a work of the rarest excellence of its kind, and is one of the most noteworthy productions of the artist. In i860 was exhibited “His Only Pair,” — a delightful bit of humor, representing a mother engaged in the interminable task of mending what looks like a hopelessly ragged pair of trousers, the youthful proprietor of which sits bare-legged and impatient on the table. In 1861 Mr. Faed was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy; and he, this year, exhibited his oreat work, “ From Dawn to Sunset.” His contributions in 1862 were “Kate Nickleby,” “A Flower from Paddy’s Land,” — both of them single figures, — and “ War News to an Old Soldier.” With these the artist sent the only portrait he has ever exhibited, — an admirable one of the son of Mr. Hepworth Dixon. The next year he sent three pictures, — “Train up a Child,” “The Irish Orange-Girl,” and “The Silken Gown ; ” the latter illustrative of the Scottish sonm “ An Ye shall walk in Silk Attirel' <_> “ Baith Faither and Mither ” and “Our Washing Day” were exhibited in 1864; the latter work showing some buxom lassies chatting and laughing over their wash-tubs. This year Mr. Faed was elected a Royal Academician. He is also an honorary member of the Scottish Royal Academy. “The Last ol the Clan” was exhibited in 1865 ; and the next year appeared “Pot- Luck ” and “ Ere Care Begins ; ” the last-mentioned being his diploma-picture, — a work which all members of the Academy must present to the body on being elected one ot their number. Of this picture Mr. Palgrave said, in his review of the exhibition of the year, “Mr. I homas Faed’s simple mother and child is what ‘diploma-work’ should be, — a choice example of the artist’s style. Nature surely comes closest to the heart when least adorned. I here is a pathos in the pictures of the Scotch school, like that in the poems of Burns.” “The Poor, the Poor Man’s Friend,” was exhibited in 1867 ; and “Worn Out,” “The Flower o’ Dunblane,” and “The Cradle,” in 1868. The year following he sent five pictures, — the largest number he has ever exhibited at one time, — “Faults on Both Sides,” “ Homeless,” “ Letting the Cows into the Corn,” “ Donald M'Tavish,” 4 Thomas Faed. and “Only Herself,” — all homely subjects, treated with consummate art and the truest pathos. The last-named picture — one of the most touching of the artist’s works — shows a lonely old woman, with a heavily-laden basket, resting at the foot of a rude stile. Her worn face and resigned action tell their own story as completely as a volume might. In 1870 appeared “When the Day is Gone” and “The Highland Mother,” and in 1871 “A Wee Bit Fractious.” The next year was exhibited “God’s Acre,” and in 1873 “Happy as the Day is Long,” “ A Lowland Lassie,” and “ A Skye Lassie.” Three works were in the exhibition of 1874, — “Violets and Primroses,” “The Sailor’s Wife,” and “Forgiven;” the last, perhaps, the greatest of Mr. Faed’s recent pictures. He did not appear amongst the exhibiters in 1875; but the next year he contributed “Morning” and “She Never told Her Love;” and in 1S77 “Little Cold Tooties,” “A Runaway Horse,” and “In Time of War.” These later pictures, like the artist’s earlier works, have as their subjects domestic incidents in rustic and humble life, and show the same vigorous execution, har- monious coloring, masterly delineation of character, and unaffected pathos. CONTENTS. PAGE I. Evangeline ............. 7 II. Highland Mary ............ 11 III. Home and the Homeless . . . . . . . . . 15 IV. The Mitherless Bairn .......... 17 V. From Dawn to Sunset . . . . . . . . . . .21 VI. The Last of the Clan .......... 23 VII. War News to an Old Soldier ......... 25 VIII. The Poor, the Poor Man’s Friend . . . . . . . . 27 IX. My Ain Fireside ............ 29 X. Erin, Farewell! ............ 33 XI. The First Break in the Family . . . . . ... . -35 XII. The Reaper. ............ 37 XIII. Sunday Afternoon ............ 41 XIV. Train up a Child ........... 45 XV. Baith Faither and Mitiier .......... 47 XVI. Music hath Charms ........... 49 XVII. The Offer 51 XVIII. Accepted ............. 53 XIX. Happy as the Day is Long 55 XX. A Wee Bit Fractious .......... 57 XXI. The Miller’s Daughter ........... 59 XXII. Faults on Both Sides 63 XXIII. The Orange-Girl . . . . . . . . . . . -65 XXIV. Worn Out . ............ 67 5 EVANGELINE. HIS picture, which has been repeatedly engraved, has most deservedly attained a wider popularity than any other of the artist’s smaller works. The heroine of Mr. Longfellow’s exquisite poem is resting for a moment by some “ name- less grave ” in a strange churchyard. Many a weary year had passed since the burning of Grand-Pre, When on the falling tide the freighted vessels departed, Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into exile, — Exile without an end, and without an example in story. Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians landed : Scattered were they like flakes of snow when the wind from the north-east Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks of Newfoundland. Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from city to city, From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern savannas ; From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where the Father of Waters Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to the ocean, Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the mammoth. Friends they sought, and homes ; and many, despairing, heart-broken, Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend nor a fireside. Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the churchyards. Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and wandered, Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all things. Fair was she, and young ; but, alas ! before her extended, Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its pathway Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and suffered before her, Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and abandoned, As the emigrant’s way o’er the Western desert is marked by Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in the sunshine. 7 Evangeline. Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, unfinished ; As if a morning of June, with all its music and sunshine, Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly descended Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. Sometimes she lingered in towns, till urged by the fever within her, Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of the spirit, She would commence again her endless search and endeavor : Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the crosses and tombstones Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps in its bosom He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber beside him. Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper, Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward. Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her beloved and known him ; But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgotten. Then would they say, “ Dear child ! why dream and wait for him longer ? Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel? others Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as loyal?” Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, “ I cannot ! Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere ; For whe;n the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the pathway, Many things are made clear that else lie hidden in darkness.” Thereupon the priest, her friend and father- confessor, Said with a smile, “ O daughter ! thy God thus speaketh within thee ! Talk not of wasted affection : affection never was wasted : If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment : That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work of affection. Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike. Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven.” Cheered by the good man’s words, Evangeline labored and waited. Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the ocean ; But with its sound there was mingled a voice that whispered, “ Despair not ! Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheerless discomfort, Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of existence. HIGHLAND MARY. Y far the most interesting of the rustic beauties whom the genius of Burns has immortalized is Mary Campbell, the object of the deepest passion of his life, and the inspirer of some of the loveliest songs he ever wrote. His acquaintance with her began when he was in his twenty-third year, and while he was living at Mossgiel with his brother. She was at that time a servant in the family of a gentleman in the neighborhood. They solemnly pledged themselves to each other. “We met,” says Burns, “by appointment, on the second Sunday in May, in a sequestered spot by the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell before she should embark for the West Highlands to arrange matters among- her friends for our projected change of life.” Their farewell was accompanied by all the simple cere- monials common among the country-folk on such occasions. The lovers, standing on each side of a small brook, laved their hands in the stream, and, holding a Bible between them, vowed to be faithful to each other. This Bible is now preserved at Alloway with other relics of Burns ; and to one of the covers is fastened a lock of Highland Mary’s golden hair. Within are inscribed verses of Scripture relating to the sacredness of vows, in the poet’s handwriting. The artist, with exquisite grace and tenderness, has depicted Highland Mary as rest- ing by the roadside on her journey to her home. Shortly after her arrival there, various mischances made Burns for a while think or seeking his fortune in the West Indies. It was then that he wrote the song, “Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary?” It was but a few months after their parting on the banks of the Ayr that Mary Campbell left Inver- ary to meet her lover, to take leave of him before his proposed departure. But on the journey she was seized with a fever, and died in a few days ; the tidings of her death reaching Burns before he had even heard of her illness. How passionate was his griei at this loss, and how lasting his memory of his early love, is known to every one. Three Highland Mary. years after her death he wrote the exquisite elegy, “ To Mary in Heaven ; ” and, years later, the song of “ Highland Mary.” Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie ! There Simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry ! For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom ! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o’er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi’ monie a vow and locked embrace, Our parting was fu’ tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursel’s asunder. But oh fell Death’s untimely frost That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green’s the sod and cauld’s the clay That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly. And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo’ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary. 13 some HOME AND THE HOMELESS. HESE two histories — one of domestic happiness, the other of abject misery — the artist describes in these passages from Burns and Wordsworth. For the first : — “ His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnily, His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a’ his weary, carking cares beguile, An’ makes him quite forget his labor an’ his toil.” And for the last : — “ But for her babe, And for her little orphan-boy, she said, She had no wish to live ; that she must die Of sorrow.” We see the inside of a Scottish laborer’s cottage. The cotter, his work for the day done, is playing with his youngest child, whom he is coaxing with an apple. The wife, who is placing on the table “The halesome parritch, chief o’ Scotia’s food,” watches the pair with delighted eyes. In contrast to this is the wretched woman shrink- ing in the farther corner of the room with her two children, one of whom, in utter weari- ness, has fallen asleep ; while the other creeps up to the table, and with a half afraid, half-deprecating air, looks wistfully at the porridge. The picture is worthy of Wilkie, with- out being in the least degree an imitation of him. Especially admirable is the rendition of the glee of the father, and the innocent, thoughtless heedlessness of the child on his lap. r s J a&jjp^&sga ‘^2- ■■ 1 . W^ -^' V ' *■*$; drtlfiBF fajS^ K t t-cT.- w* mmiimml ii^iL .- 'W? Si rr- J ,-\7 / ' L ( v< ft™ m Bi ;; | 4$ ; i: , ■/;•■' '.jj^fcA gflUg xjs *8^ rt i if if IMP 1 •" '■,* ?•■,«>.:* -jir^ ■ ■ * ,' , | fy*,™ 1W y - ... -- fc:'“-'. ■,. . ■„ .»". ■ i:'®# jws^vi^- gspas^ THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. HOUGH the artist takes his theme from the well-known poem of. William Thom, he has worked it up with wonderful power, giving to the lines a reading as forcible as it is pathetic. The wandering orphan-boy has come in at an open cottage-door, and stands with mutely-imploring looks before its inmates. In strong contrast to the sad-faced, weary child, with his air of utter friend- lessness and destitution, is the ruddy, vigorous health of the children of the family, and the rude comfort with which they are surrounded. The sturdy boy, his hands thrust in his pockets, surveys the poor little stranger with good-natured wonderment ; while his pretty sister would at once answer the orphan’s appeal by offering him the bread she holds in her hand, if the grandmother, a canny and careful old dame, did not hold her back till she has had some talk with the little suppliant. The mother looks on tenderly and compassionately. Indeed, the story is admirably told throughout ; and there is little difficulty in reading the thoughts of the family group as their attention is arrested by the poor little intruder. When a’ ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty or cousin or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last an’ lanely, an’ sairly forfairn? ’Tis the puir dowie laddie, — the mitherless bairn ! The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed ; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head : His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An’ lithless the lair o’ the mitherless bairn ! Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there O’ hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair ! 17 J The Mitherless Bairn . l 9 But mornin’ brings clutches, a’ reckless an’ stern, That lo’e na the locks o’ the mitherless bairn ! The sister wha sang o’er his saftly-rocked bed Now rests in the mools whare their mammie is laid ; While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn, An’ kens na the wrangs o’ his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that passed in yon hour of his birth Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi’ the mitherless bairn ! Oh ! speak him na harshly : he trembles the while ; He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile. In the dark hour o’ anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn ! FROM DAWN TO SUNSET. HIS picture, considered by many Mr. Faed’s masterpiece, belongs to the very highest order of works in what may be called the naturalistic school of con- temporary British art. It is a pictorial embodiment of the Seven Ages of Man ; and out of the most commonplace materials, wrought with marvellous skill, the artist tells a tale as deeply pathetic as any worthy rendition of his theme must of necessity be. The scene is a cottage interior, depicted with the most absolute fidelity. On the left is the recessed bed-place, containing the box-becl, common in the houses of the Scottish peasantry. Lying on the coverlet we see the shrunken, withered hand of the dying grandmother, a hand which seems stiffening in death. Her daughter, convulsed with grief, kneels by the bedside, her head buried in the clothes. The son, himself a gray-haired man, sits near, a much-worn Bible in his hand, in which his finger mechanic- ally keeps the place, though he has ceased to read, and is lost in sorrowful thought. His wife is seated by the cradle, from which she has just taken her infant child. Other children are playing about her with unwonted quietness ; while one gazes at the bed awe- struck, but uncomprehending. She earnestly hushes the noisy entrance of her eldest boy, fresh from school with slate and satchel in his hand, who bursts into the room, followed by a still older sister bringing the medicine for which she has been sent. Thus all the ages are gathered in the crowded cottage ; and as the artist expresses it in the motto he has taken from Tennyson, “ So runs the round of life from hour to hour.” The expres- sion throughout is most forcible. The school-boy, overflowing with life, his chin buried in an enormous comforter, is almost comically truthful, and gives a gleam of humor to the work, which but deepens its pathos. The comparative unconcern of the mother, so much more occupied with the young lives around her than with the one that is slowly ebbing away, is as true as it is touching. The interest, however, culminates in the man, so wonderfully is he ennobled and elevated by a great sorrow. The artist’s triumph is the greater in that he has given dignity to the sordid actualities of the lowliest life by no factitious prettiness or affectation, but merely by the power of deep human feeling. 21 THE LAST OF THE CLAN. TOUCHING story is here told of the last small remnant of a once great and powerful clan. An emigrant vessel has just carried away to the Far West the strong men yet able to make a fortune ; and on the jetty are assembled, with many outlying kith and kin, a feeble old man and his grand-daughter, the last of the clan, who possess not a single blade of grass in the glen that was once all their own. They are before us as they might be seen from the deck of a ship that has just left the land. A man casts off the mooring-rope : thus the last link between those who go and those who stay is broken. In the centre is the tine and pathetic figure of the old man, mounted on a gray pony. He is wrapped in a shepherd’s plaid ; and his bonnet droops above his mournfully expressive lace, full of the hopeless sorrow of the aged. By his side is his grand-daughter, who, with her face buried in her hands, weeps bitterly. Near them are the more distant kinsfolk of those who go, who, though they show in different degrees real concern and sadness for their departure, have no part in the grief, akin to despair, which is felt by the two who are left alone, the last of a ruined race. Though the changes which were wrought in the last century in the whole system of life in the Scottish Highlands were brought about by force, this only hastened what was inevitable, — the passing-away of the old order which had lingered so long amongst those misty hills, and the coming-in of the new. But they could not fail to be disastrous to the fortunes of many, making a scene like this the only too possible ending of some sad family history. 2 3 *1 WAR NEWS TO AN OLD SOLDIER. VETERAN who first fought under Wellington in the Mahratta war, who did his part on many a hard-won field in the Peninsula, and was amongst the victors at Waterloo, sits in his arm-chair, old and worn, listening while his daughter reads to him from “ The Times ” the story of the Indian mutiny and the deeds of the regiment to which he belonged in the long-past days of his youth and strength. The reader leans over the table by which the old man sits, her face lighted by the reflections from the paper she holds. Her expression, as well as that of her father, is excellently rendered, and full of character. The young woman’s deep interest contrasts strongly with the weary, listless air of the old soldier. Her husband is probably engaged in this very war, exposed to a thousand dangers ; and the announcement of his fate may even be contained in the intelligence she has just begun to read. Her pretty little child is seated on the old man’s knee, and amuses himself by making a soldier of his grandfather’s thumb, dressing it up in a scarlet handkerchief. A good effect of daylight is given in the picture, and all the accessories are finished with the artist’s never- failing care ; as, for examples, the trophies of Oriental war on the chimney-piece, — an Indian dagger in its gay velvet sheath, and beside it a bayonet ; the carefully-preserved India china bowl and jar ; and the tea-caddy of delicate Eastern workmanship. As the old soldier is decorated with the Waterloo medal, it need not be said that in the place of honor hangs a picture of “ the Duke.” 2 S I THE POOR, THE POOR MAN’S FRIEND. IE picture shows the exterior of a fisherman’s cottage, and its owner seated near the open door engaged in mending a net, a length of which is laid across his knees. He is about to give alms to a blind beggar, who stands at a little distance, but for whom help is very timidly entreated by his “ leader,” a pretty little fair-haired girl, who has ventured nearer, and waits bashfully expectant. One of the fisherman’s children, a sturdy little urchin, with his hands clasped about his father’s arm, gazes with a child’s serious inquisitiveness at the forlorn little lassie. A younger boy, half frightened by the strange faces, runs to his mother, a comely young woman who is watching the group from the doorway. Very fine is the fisherman’s expression, in which a touch of true Scottish caution is mingled with a gen- erous kindliness that goes far beyond his means to give. Face, figure, and action here are equally admirable. The garden is one of those slovenly enclosures, in which debris of every sort abounds, such as are usually found before the cottages of the Scotch fisher- folk. The story is told very simply and naturally ; and the artist shows his accustomed facility in seizing momentary motions and flitting shades of expression, and transferring them with wonderful success to his canvas. The execution throughout is vigorous and powerful, and the picture ranks amongst the finest of the artist’s works. 27 MY AIN FIRESIDE. HE artist has taken picture, one of the Mrs. Hamilton’s well-known verses most pleasing and characteristic of as the theme his works. of this I ha’e seen great anes, and sat in great ha’s, Mang lords and fine ladies a’ cover’d vvi’ braws ; At feasts made for princes, wi’ princes I’ve been, Whare the grand shine o’ splendor has dazzled my een : But a sight sae delightfu’, I trow, I ne’er spied, As the bonnie blythe blink o’ mine ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside : Oh ! cheery’s the blink o’ mine ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside : Oh ! there’s nought to compare wi’ ane’s ain fireside. Ance mair, Gude be thanket, round my ain heartsome ingle Wi’ the friends o’ my youth I cordially mingle : Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad; I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad ; Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer. Of a’ roads to happiness ever were tried, There’s nane half so sure as ane’s ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside : Oh ! there’s nought to compare wi’ ane’s ain fireside. When I draw in my stool on my cosey hearthstane, My heart loups sae light, I scarce ken’t for my ain : 29 / My Ain Fireside . Care’s down on the wind, it is clean out o’ sight ; Past troubles they seem but as dreams of the night ; I hear but kend voices, kend faces I see, And mark saft affection glent fond frae ilk e’e ; Nae fleetchings o’ flattery, nae boastings of pride ; ’Tis heart speaks to heart at ane’s ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside : Oh ! there’s nought to compare wi’ ane’s ain fireside. ERIN, FAREWELL! AMPBELL’S well-known verses suggested to Mr. Faed his theme, and he has given us a picture whose beauty and pathos are fully in harmony with the spirit of the poem. The artist’s “ Poor Exile of Erin ” is a young peas- ant-girl of the better class, who stands waiting for the vessel that is to bear her away from her native land. She carries a little bundle, probably containing her most precious possessions, in one hand ; while in the other she holds a sprig of shamrock. The figure is graceful, and the face very charming, though now saddened by the anguish of a last parting from every thing that she has heretofore held dear. “ Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! “Where is my cabin-door fast by the wildwood? Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend dearer than all? Oh my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure ; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. “ Yet, all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! Land of my forefathers ! — Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, * Erin mavournin ! — Erin go bragh ! ’ ” 33 Wm&ESm THE FIRST BREAK IN THE FAMILY. “ Oho ! drear dawned the morning, and dark lowered the sky, When our moorland cottage the mail-coach cam’ by ; And grief at our couthy hame made his first ca’ When that coach bore our bonnie young Willie awa’. We gazed till the coach faded far ower the moor, When a rainbow streamed down ower our old cottage-door ; And we hailed the blest omen, as Hope’s happy daw’, That Heaven would shed blessings on Willie awa’.” HE story of the departure is graphically and circumstantially told in the pic- ture, illustrating very vividly the verses quoted above. The whole family — from the grandmother to the youngest child — have come out of the moorland cottage to watch the departing coach, which is rapidly disappear- ing in the distance. The expressions of the different members of the group, showing their varying sense of the loss they have sustained, are admirably rendered. Of this work Mr. Palgrave says, “ It is an art of small, pleasant surprises that Faed gives us ; a little point of wit and a little touch of sentiment, perhaps set off as in the 1 First Break in the Family ’ by the contrasted indifference of the children to their brother’s removal, whilst the father bears the boy’s departure with shrewd hopefulness. Even the weather sympathizes in its way, and repeats by clever signs the varied feelings of the family, — here a gleam, and there a shadow ; the rainbow on one hand, and the shower on the other.” 35 ( THE REAPER. EW of Mr. Faed’s smaller works are more charming than this, and it most fittingly illustrates one of the sweetest of Wordsworth’s lyric poems. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass, Reaping and singing by herself! Stop here, or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain. Oh, listen ! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands ; A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago. Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? 37 39 The Reaper. Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending. I saw her singing at her work, And o’er the sickle bending : I listened motionless and still ; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. SUNDAY AFTERNOON. COTTAGE exterior such as Mr. Faed has so often painted, but with the difference that here the quietness and peace of the day of rest seem brood- ing over every thing animate and inanimate. The influence of the time is even felt by the little restless child that stands so quietly by the young sits lost in thought, the Bible she has been reading lying in her lap. The artist selected lines from his countryman Grahame’s poem, “ The Sabbath,” as the motto of this picture ; and most admirably do the works of the painter and the poet here harmonize. Mute is the voice of rural labor ; hushed The ploughboy’s whistle and the milkmaid’s song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o’er the upland leas The black-bird’s note comes mellower from the dale, And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen. With dove-like wings Peace o’er yon village broods : The dizzying mill-wheel rests ; the anvil’s din Hath ceased : all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man’s day. mother, who 41 I Sunday Afternoon. 43 On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter’s cold And summer’s heat by neighboring hedge or tree : But on this day, imbosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. O Scotland ! much I love thy tranquil dales ; But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Slants through the upland copse, ’tis my delight, Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs. My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun Emblaze with upward-slanting ray the breast And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark, Descending vocal from her latest flight ; While, disregardful of yon lonely star, — The harbinger of chill night’s glittering host, — Sweet redbreast, Scotia’s Philomela, chants In desultory strains his evening-hymn. Oft, musing, I prolong . TRAIN UP A CHILD. E are here again shown one of those cottage interiors, which all who are familiar with Faed’s works learn to know so '(veil. The father sits by the window, and the little girl who is being trained in the way she should go is learning to sew on a button to the wrist of his shirt. With tightly-com- pressed lips, and a face full of the consciousness of the immense responsibility and im- portance of the task she has undertaken, she goes to work. The father watches the progress made by the little seamstress with a tenderness of manner that contrasts pleas- antly with his rough exterior and coarse laboring garb ; while the mother, for a moment, stays her own busy needle to see that all goes well. The baby boy, thus left to his own devices, of course takes possession of the work-box, and very quietly, but most effectually, is making havoc of its contents. The picture is a pleasantly realistic one, and tells its own story plainly, but effectively. In the class of artists who deal with domestic scenes like this, Mr. Faed is unequalled. The careful study given to all the accessories of this work adds greatly to its value. The most striking of these, perhaps, to an un- accustomed eye, is the box-bed, not unlike a ship’s berth in appearance, which is partially concealed by curtains: in the Flighlands it would be shut in by wooden doors. The heavy, rough-hewn chair, standing near, looks as though it might have been used by generations of cottagers. Everywhere is the picturesque disorder so characteristic of a Scotch cottage, and which is undeniably effective for artistic uses. 45 BAITH FAITHER AND MITHER. LINE taken from one of James Ballantine’s genuinely Scottish lyrics, — “ He was faither and mither and all things to me,” — gives the artist his subject. He introduces us to the work-room of the village cobbler, who, seated on his bench by the window, holds his motherless darling, a pretty, fair-hairecl lassie, between his knees, while he puts on her gloves, and makes her ready for school. A group of neighbors’ children are waiting for their little playmate; and, pleasing as are all Faed’s children’s faces, we doubt if he has ever given us any more charmingly natural and winning than these. Admirably rendered, too, is the expres- sion of the cobbler in its mingled kindliness and shrewdness. We feel sure that he is somewhat of a village oracle, with a true Scotchman’s resolute and well-defined opinions on most matters in Church and State ; and that the few volumes composing the small library on the hanging book-shelf have been often read, and well thought over afterward. The picture is full of interest, and, in vigor of execution and masterly delineation of character, takes high rank among the artist’s works. 47 T , ilMifi ffl% nsmmh InigHi »pi : sw agwro gg Mtf| 0 ,-' ' *1 MUSIC HATH CHARMS. UCH is the happily-chosen title given by the artist to one of the most pleasing and universally popular of his works. As usual, he deals with cottage life ; and he shows us a lovely young peasant-girl standing at an open door, and listening while her little brother brings “ music ” out of a reed-pipe, — a melody which, however rude it may be, is very pleasant to her ear, as it is to that of the household dog who looks up approvingly into the boy’s face. The com- plete absorption of the young musician in his own performance shows a true love ot his art ; and he will scarcely content himself long with the simple instrument on which he is now playing, but will soon aspire to the bagpipe, dear to Highland hearts, and in time, perhaps, his fame may be known in all the country round. So at least the laddie dreams ; and his admiring sister has, we may be sure, no doubt whatever on the subject, but pictures him in the distant future as clad in the “ garb of old Gaul,” and playing a pibroch at the head of some Highland regiment ; or (who knows ?) he may even achieve the glorious distinction of being my lord’s own piper. Every thing seems possible as she listens to the music in the pleasant summer-weather 49 THE OFFER. Where is another sweet as my sweet, Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy? Fine little hands, fine little feet, Dewy blue eye. Shall I write to her? shall I go? Ask her to marry me by and by? Somebody said that she’d say no ; Somebody knows that she’ll say ay ! Ay or no, if asked to her face? Ay or no, from shy of the shy? Go little letter, apace, apace ! Fly ! — Fly to the light in the valley below ; Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye. Somebody said that she’d say no ; Somebody knows that she’ll say ay ! YOUNG girl — of a different class from those usually painted by Mr. Faecl, evidently the daughter of a thriving tradesman in some country town — stands alone by the fire in her little parlor, reading the momentous letter which gives the title to the picture. She has a thoughtful, sensitive face ; and the serious intentness with which she reads the words, which she evidently finds far from unpleasing, is admirably rendered by the artist. ✓' 1 ACCEPTED. there have been feelings of doubt or hesitation as to the answer to be sent to a certain letter, no traces of them are now visible in the happy face of the young girl who stands in a room opening from her father’s shop, leaning upon her improvised writing-desk, — a tea-chest placed upon an empty packing-case. She is secure from interruption for a time, as her father is occu- pied in attending to the wants of an important customer, — probably the great lady of the neighborhood, — who has just come into the shop, followed by a black footman, and whose carriage we see waiting outside the open door. The lovely letter-writer has pro- ceeded as far in her all-important task as “ I take this opportunity',' — the conventional beginning, possibly, of every one of the not very numerous epistles she has ever written. She pauses for a moment, feeling, for the first time, somewhat dissatisfied with her usual formula ; and we can feel sure that lonor before the letter is ended all stiffness and con- straint will have disappeared from it, and it will have become as charmingly unaffected and natural as the writer herself. 53 HAPPY AS THE DAY IS LONG. “Ne’er trow ye wealth is happy aye, or poverty aye wae ; Ne’er hope to find the brichtest flowers aye on the highest brae : In humble hames are happy hearts, in dells are flow’rets fair; Around the muirland lammie plays the balmy summer air. And He wha tends the lammie keeps us a’ aneath his ee ; The balance aye is fairly poised atween the low and hie.” E know of no work of the artist of this class that is more thoroughly charm- ing, or, despite its realism, fuller of simple poetry, than this. Mr. Faed is always peculiarly fortunate in his choice of titles ; and “ Happy as the Day is Long” forms no exception to the rule. In the pleasant warmth and sunlight of one of the long clays of a Scottish midsummer, a young mother — one of the brightest and bonniest of the whole series of comely cottagers he has given us — sits sewing on a bench outside her door. In the grass at her feet her little child is playing with a kitten, and through the open door we see the baby asleep in its cradle. The picture is full of genuine sentiment without being in the least sentimentalized, and will at once win its way to all hearts. 55 A WEE BIT FRACTIOUS. HE artist tells his story here so plainly and sympathetically, that little com- ment is needed. The young mother has taken the child, who is “ a wee bit fractious,” into her lap, and, with infinite patience and tenderness, strives to hush his complaining cries, soothe his fretfulness, and bring back his good-humor. The much-used picture-book has been tried in vain, and lies neglected on the floor. A dog, sorely puzzled by his little playfellow’s ill-temper, sits patiently by. The background is a cottage interior ; and all the details show the careful study which is never wanting in Mr. Faed’s works. The picture is a thoroughly pleasing one ; and it is so simply naturalistic in style, and appeals so directly to the heart, that it is sure of win- ning a high place in the popular favor. 57 THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. j|HE artist takes the heroine of Tennyson’s charming poem as the subject of this picture, — one of the earliest, we believe, of his works, — and shows us a graceful, rustic beauty, of a type altogether different from those he has since given us. The head is very much after the manner of Sir Thomas Lawrence, and might easily be mistaken for one of his portraits. The pleasing pastoral character of the picture harmonizes well with the poet’s verses : — But, Alice, what an hour was that, When, after roving in the woods, (’Twas April then,) I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue ! And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain : It haunted me the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes, — The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times. Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watched the little circles die : 5 > The Miller s Daughter, They passed into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye, — The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement-edge, A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge ; And, when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright ! — Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved the brimming wave that swam Through quiet meadows round the mill ; The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still ; The meal-sacks on the whitened floor ; The dark round of the dripping wheel; The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. But when at last I dared to speak — The lanes, you know, were white with May Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day. And so it was : half sly, half shy, You would, and would not, little one ! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And, now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart. So sing that other song I made, Half angered with my happy lot, The day when in the chestnut shade I found the blue forget-me-not. ( THE ORANGE-GIRL. HIS picture of a London street-seller is both pleasing and full of character. The artist shows us a blooming young Irish girl, with much beauty of a distinctively national type, standing at a corner with her basket of fruit on her head. Her cry of “ Sweet Chany Or-r-ranges ” has, with slight varia- tion, been heard in London streets for nearly three hundred years. Beginning in the latter part of Elizabeth’s reign, the street sale of the fruit increased so rapidly, that, as early as the year 1607, Ben Jonson declares that the “orange-wives” have become as noisy as the “ fish-wives.” Orange-girls abounded in the city in the time of Charles II. ; and “Mistress Nelly’s” beauty first attracted all eyes as she sold her fruit in the theatres. To disguise themselves as orange-girls was the first expedient that occurred to the lovely Frances Jennings and her friend, when they wished to visit secretly an astrologer in the city. With what humor Grammont relates the story of their escapade, their discovery, and the agony of fright and mortification they suffered thereby ! “ What mad freaks the Maids of Honor at Court have,” writes Bepys, whom such a delightful bit of gossip could not escape : “ that Mrs. Jennings, one of the Duchess’s maids, the other day, dressed herself like an orange-wench, and went up and down and cried ‘ Oranges,’ till, by some accident, her fine shoes were discovered, and she put to a great deal of shame.” Very hard and prosaic is the life of the London orange-girl of to-day. The street trade is almost entirely in the hands of the Irish ; and the business is looked down upon by the London costermonger, who calls the orange season “ the Irishman’s harvest.” At that time of the year there are thousands of these itinerant venders in the great city, from among whom the artist has found his comely model. 65 / ( WORN OUT. POOR carpenter, already wearied with the hard toil of the day, has been watching all night beside the bed of his sick child. At length, after hours of restless wakefulness, the little sufferer has fallen asleep ; and, as the light of early morning begins to come in through the small window, it shows that the father, too, is sleeping in his chair by the bedside, utterly “worn out.” The artist tells the story circumstantially, and with a pathetic truthfulness. The poor appointments of the garret, which is the home of father and child, are faithfully rendered ; and very touching are the evidences shown of the father’s tender, self-forgetful care of his sick boy, — as in the carefully-shaded candle-light, the rug laid to keep out the chill draught of air from under the loose, ill-fitting door, and the coat added to the scanty bed- coverings. It is in works like these, depicting the joys and sorrows of the humblest life, that Mr. Faed stands pre-eminent. No living artist has more sympathetically, more tenderly, or with truer pathos, treated themes drawn from “The short and simple annals of the poor.” 67 'l •# 'I ) %