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Our Street
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I think he is; and have never disguised my opinion about the “Transfiguration.”. And all the time we talked, there were Clara’s eyes looking lucidly out from the dark corner in which she was sitting, working away at the stockings. The lucky fellow! They were in a dreadful state of bad repair when she came out to him at Rome, after the death of their father, the Reverend Miles Rumbold.
George, while at Rome, painted “Caractacus;” a picture of “Non Angli sed Angeli” of course; a picture of “Alfred in the Neatherd’s Cottage,” seventy-two feet by forty-eight–(an idea of the gigantic size and Michel-Angelesque proportions of this picture may be formed, when I state that the mere muffin, of which the outcast king is spoiling the baking, is two feet three in diameter) and the deaths of Socrates, of Remus, and of the Christians under Nero respectively. I shall never forget how lovely Clara looked in white muslin, with her hair down, in this latter picture, giving herself up to a ferocious Carnifex (for which Bob Gaunter the architect sat), and refusing to listen to the mild suggestions of an insinuating Flamen: which character was a gross caricature of myself.
None of George’s pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar Square. He has painted, since he came back to England, “The Flaying of Marsyas,” “The Smothering of the Little Boys in the Tower,” “A Plague Scene during the Great Pestilence,” “Ugolino on the Seventh Day after he was deprived of Victuals,” etc. For although these pictures have great merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, etc. are quite true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if he hadn’t a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.
Fondness for art leads me a great deal to his studio. George is a gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were at Rome, there was a great row between him and young Heeltap, Lord Boxmoor’s son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young scoundrel–had I been a fighting man, I should like to have shot him myself!). Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara; and Tom Bulbul, who took George’s message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio. At least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day, bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty’s love to her dear Clara–a young rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business has HE to be dangling about George Rumbold’s premises, and sticking up his ugly pug-face as a model for all George’s pictures?
Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What! would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a man of intellect and taste who–but I won’t believe it. It is all the jealousy of women.
SOME OF THE SERVANTS IN OUR STREET.
These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter–for the butlers at the “Indiaman,” and for the gents in livery at the “Pocklington Arms”–of either of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they could not be so dull as our club at the “Poluphloisboio,” where one meets the same neat, clean, respectable old fogies every day.
But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to join either the “Plate Club” or the “Uniform Club” (as these reunions are designated); for one could not shake hands with a friend who was standing behind your chair, or nod a How-d’ye-do? to the butler who was pouring you out a glass of wine;–so that what I know about the gents in our neighborhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have a slight acquaintance with (1) Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears an air of injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our Street. “I tell why the brougham ‘oss is out of condition, and why Desperation broke out all in a lather! ‘Osses will, this ‘eavy weather; and Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.–I take him out with Mr. Anderson’s ‘ounds–I’m above it. I allis was too timid to ride to ‘ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs’ groom as says he saw me, is a liar,” etc. etc.