In the quaint old town of Bergen, Norway, so strange with its narrow streets, peculiar costumes, and open-hearted people, that no traveller can ever forget it, was born, Feb. 5, 1810, Ole Bull, the oldest in a family of ten children. His father was an able chemist, and his mother a woman of fine manners and much intelligence. All the relatives were musical, and at the little gatherings for the purpose of cultivating this talent, the child Ole would creep under table or sofa, and listen enraptured for hours, often receiving a whipping when discovered.
He loved music intensely, fancying when he played alone in the meadows, that he heard nature sing, as the bluebells were moved among the grasses by the wind. When he was four years old, his uncle gave him a yellow violin, which he kissed with great delight, learning the notes at the same time as his primer. Although forbidden to play till study-hours were over, he sometimes disobeyed, and was punished both at home and at school.
(From his Memoirs, bySara C. Bull.)
Finally, at eight, through the good sense of hismother, a music-teacher was provided, and his father bought him a new red violin. The child could not sleep for thinking of it; so the first night after its purchase he stole into the room where it lay, in his night-clothes, to take one peep at the precious thing. He said years after, with tears in his eyes at the painful remembrance, "The violin was so red, and the pretty pearl screws did smile at me so! I pinched the strings just a little with my fingers. It smiled at me ever more and more. I took up the bow and looked at it. It said to me it would be pleasant to try it across the strings. So I did try it, just a very, very little, and it did sing to me so sweetly. At first, I did play very soft. But presently I did begin a capriccio, which I like very much, and it do go ever louder and louder; and I forgot that it was midnight and that everybody was asleep. Presently I hear something crack! and the next minute I feel my father's whip across my shoulders. My little red violin dropped on the floor, and was broken. I weep much for it, but it did no good. They did have a doctor to it next day, but it never recovered its health."
Pitiful it is that sometimes parents are so lacking in judgment as to stifle the best things in a child's nature! Guiding is wise; forcing usually ends in disaster. In two years, Ole could play pieces which his teacher found it impossible to perform. He began to compose melodies, imitating nature in the song of birds, brooks, and the roar of waterfalls;and would hide in caves or in clumps of bushes, where he could play his own weird improvisations. When he could not make his violin do as he wished, he would fling it away impetuously, and not touch it again for a long time. Then he would perhaps get up in the middle of the night, and play at his open window, forgetting that anybody might be awakened by it. Sometimes he played incessantly for days, scarcely eating or sleeping. He had no pleasure in fishing or shooting, on account of the pain inflicted,—a feeling seemingly common to noble and refined natures,—though he greatly enjoyed anything athletic.
At fourteen, having heard of Paganini, he went to his grandparent, of whom he was very fond, and said, "Dear grandmother, can't I have some of Paganini's music?"
"Don't tell any one," was the reply; "but I will try to buy a piece of his for you if you are a good child."
Shortly after this an old miser, of whom the Bergen boys were afraid, called Ole into his house one day as he was passing, and said, "Are you the boy that plays the fiddle?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then come with me. I have a fiddle I bought in England, that I want to show you."
The fiddle needed a bridge and sounding-post, and these the boy gladly whittled out, and then played for the old man his favorite air, "God save theKing." He was treated to cakes and milk, and promised to come again. The next afternoon, what was his surprise to receive four pairs of doves, with a blue ribbon around the neck of one, and a card attached bearing the name of "Ole Bull." This present was more precious than the diamonds he received in later years from the hands of royalty.
Ole's father, with a practical turn of mind, urged his being a clergyman, as he honored that profession, and well knew that music and art usually furnish a small bank account. A private tutor, Musæus by name, was therefore engaged. This man had the unique habit of kneeling down to pray before he whipped a boy, and asking that the punishment might redound to the good of the lad. He soon made up his mind that Ole's violin and theology were incompatible, and forbade his playing it. Ole and his brothers bore his harsh methods as long as possible, when one morning at half past four, as the teacher was dragging the youngest boy out of bed, Ole sprang upon him and gave him a vigorous beating. The smaller boys put their heads out from under the bed-clothes and cried out, "Don't give up, Ole! Don't give up! Give it to him with all your might!" The whole household soon appeared upon the scene, and though little was said, the private feeling seemed to be that a salutary lesson had been imparted.
At eighteen, Ole was sent to the University of Christiana, his father beseeching him that he wouldnot yield to his passion for music. On his arrival, some Bergen students asked him to play for a charitable association.
"But," said Ole, "my father has forbidden me to play."
"Would your father prevent your doing an act of charity?"
"Well, this alters the case a little, and I can write to him, and claim his pardon."
After this he played nearly all night at the home of one of the professors, saying to himself that his father would be pleased if the Faculty liked him, and the next morning failed in his Latin examinations! In despair, he stated the case to the professor, who replied, "My good fellow, this is the very best thing that could have happened to you! Do you believe yourself fitted for a curacy in Finmark or a mission among the Laps? Certainly not! It is the opinion of your friends that you should travel abroad. Meanwhile, old Thrane having been taken ill, you are appointedad interimMusical Director of the Philharmonic and Dramatic Societies." A month later, by the death of Thrane, he came into this position, having gained the pardon of his disappointed father.
But he was restless at Christiana. He desired to know whether he really had genius or not, and determined to go to Cassell, to see Louis Spohr, who was considered a master. The great man was not sufficiently great to be interested in an unknownlad, and coolly said, when Ole remarked politely, "I have come more than five hundred miles to hear you," "Very well, you can now go to Nordhausen; I am to attend a musical festival there."
Ole went to the festival, and was so disappointed because the methods and interpretation were different from his own, that he resolved to go back to classic studies, feeling that he had no genius for music. Still he was not satisfied. He would go to Paris, and hear Berlioz and other great men. Giving three concerts at Trondhjeim and Bergen, by which he made five hundred dollars, he found himself in possession of the needed funds. When he arrived in this great city, everybody was eagerly looking out for himself. Some were in pursuit of pleasure; but most, as is the case everywhere, were in pursuit of bread and shelter. Nobody cared to hear his violin. Nobody cared about his recommendations from far-off Norway. In vain he tried to make engagements. He had no one to speak for him, and the applicants were numberless.
Madam Malibran was singing nightly to crowded houses, and the poor violinist would now and then purchase one of the topmost seats, and listen to that marvellous voice. His money was gradually melting away. Finally, an elderly gentleman who boarded at the same house, having begged him to take what little money he possessed out of the bank, as it was not a safe place, stole every cent, together with Ole's clothes, and left him entirely destitute.
An acquaintance now told him of a boarding-place where there were several music-teachers, and gave security for his board for one month,—twelve dollars. Soon the friend and the boarding-mistress grew cold and suspicious. Nothing tries friendship like asking the loan of money. At last his condition becoming known to a person, whom he afterward learned was Vidocq, the noted Chief of Police, he was shown by him to a gaming-table, where he made one hundred and sixty dollars. "What a hideous joy I felt," he said afterward; "what a horrid pleasure to hold in the hand one's own soul saved by the spoil of others!" He could not gamble again, though starvation actually stared him in the face.
Cholera was sweeping through the city, and had taken two persons from the house where he lodged. He was again penniless and wellnigh despairing. But he would not go back to Christiana. The river Seine looked inviting, and he thought death would be a relief. He was nervous and his brain throbbed. Finally he saw a placard in a window, "Furnished rooms to let." He was exhausted, but would make one more effort.
An elderly lady answered his query by saying that they had no vacant rooms, when her pretty granddaughter, Alexandrine Félicie, called out, "Look at him, grandmamma!" Putting on her glasses, the tears filled her eyes, as she saw a striking resemblance to her son who had died. Thenext day found him at Madam Villeminot's house, very ill of brain fever. When he regained consciousness, she assured him that he need not worry about the means for payment. When, however, the Musical Lyceum of Christiana learned of his struggles, they sent him eight hundred dollars.
Becoming acquainted about this time with Monsieur Lacour, a dealer in violins, who thought he had discovered that a certain kind of varnish would increase sweetness of tone, Ole Bull was requested to play on one of his instruments at a soirée, given by a Duke of the Italian Legation. An elegant company were present. The intense heat soon brought out the odor of assafœtida in the varnish. The young man became embarrassed and then excited, and played as though beside himself. The player was advertised, whether Monsieur Lacour's instruments were or not; for Marshal Ney's son, the Duke of Montebello, at once invited him to breakfast, and presided over a concert for him, whereby the violinist made three hundred dollars. The tide had turned at last, and little Félicie Villeminot had done it with her "Look at him, grandmamma!"
As the Grand Opera was still closed to him, he made a concert tour through Switzerland and Italy. In Milan, one of the musical journals said, "He is not master of himself; he has no style; he is an untrained musician. If he be a diamond, he is certainly in the rough and unpolished."
Ole Bull went at once to the publisher and asked who had written the article. "If you want the responsible person," said the editor, "I am he."
"No," said the artist, "I have not come to call the writer to account, but to thank him. The man who wrote that article understands music; but it is not enough to tell me my faults; he must tell me how to rid myself of them."
"You have the spirit of the true artist," replied the journalist.
The same evening he took Ole Bull to the critic, a man over seventy, from whom he learned much that was valuable. He at once gave six months to study under able masters, before again appearing in public. He was, however, an earnest student all through life, never being satisfied with his attainments.
At Venice he was highly praised, but at Bologna he won the celebrity which continued through life. Malibran was to sing in two concerts, but feigned illness when she learned that the man she loved, De Beriot, was to receive a smaller sum than herself, and would not appear. The manager of the theatre was in despair. Meantime, in a poor hotel, in an upper room, Ole Bull was composing his concerto in the daytime, and playing on his violin at night by his open window. Rossini's first wife heard the music, and said, "It must be a violin, but a divine one. That will be a substitute for De Beriot and Malibran. I must go and tell Zampieri" (the manager).
On the night of the concert, after Ole Bull hadbeen two hours in bed from weariness, Zampieri appeared, and asked him to improvise. He was delighted, and exclaiming, "Malibran may now have her headaches," hurried the young artist off to the theatre. The audience was of course cold and disappointed till Ole Bull began to play. Then the people seemed to hold their breath. When the curtain fell, he almost swooned with exhaustion, but the house shook with applause. Flowers were showered upon him. He was immediately engaged for the next concert; a large theatre was offered him free of expense, one man buying one hundred tickets, and the admiring throng drew his carriage to the hotel, while a procession with torchlights acted as guard of honor.
Ole Bull had stepped into the glory of fame in a single night. Henceforth, while there was to be much of trial and disappointment, as come to all, he was to be forever the idol of two continents, drawing crowded houses, honored by the great, and universally mourned at his death. He had come to fame as by accident, but he had made himself worthy of fame.
Malibran at first seemed hurt at his wonderful success in her stead, but she soon became one of his warmest friends, saying, "It is your own fault that I did not treat you as you deserved. A man like you should step forth with head erect in the full light of day, that we may recognize his noble blood."
From here he played with great success at Florence and Rome, at the latter city composing his celebrated "Polacca Guerriera" in a single night, writing till four o'clock in the morning. It was first conceived while he stood alone at Naples, at midnight, watching Mount Vesuvius aflame.
Returning to Paris, he found the Grand Opera open to him. Here, at his first performance, his a-string snapped; he turned deathly pale, but he transposed the remainder of the piece, and finished it on three strings. Meyerbeer, who was present, could not believe it possible that the string had really broken.
He was now twenty-six, famous and above want. What more fitting than that he should marry pretty Félicie Villeminot, and share with her the precious life she had saved? They were married in the summer of 1836, and their love was a beautiful and enduring one until her death twenty-six years afterward. Though absent from her much of the time necessarily, his letters breathe a pure and ardent affection. Going to England soon after, and being at the house of the Duke of Devonshire at Chatsworth, he writes, "How long does the time seem that deprives me of seeing you! I embrace you very tenderly. The wordhomehas above all others the greatest charm for me."
In London, from three to seven thousand persons crowded to hear him. The "Times" said, "His command of the instrument, from the top to the bottom of the scale—and he has a scale of his own of three complete octaves on each string—is absolutely perfect." At Liverpool he received four thousand dollars for a single night, taking the place of Malibran, who had brought on a hemorrhage resulting in death, by forcing a tone, and holding it so long that the audience were astonished. Ole Bull came near sharing her fate. In playing "Polacca," the hall being large and the orchestra too strong, he ruptured a blood vessel, and his coat had to be cut from him.
In sixteen months he gave two hundred and seventy-four concerts in the United Kingdom. Afterwards, at St. Petersburg, he played to five thousand persons, the Emperor sending him an autograph letter of affection, and the Empress an emerald ring set with one hundred and forty diamonds. Shortly after this his father died, speaking with pride of Ole, and thinking he heard divine music.
On his return to Norway, at the request of the King, he gave five concerts at Stockholm, the last netting him five thousand dollars. So moved was the King when Ole Bull played before him at the palace, that he rose and stood till the "Polacca" was finished. He presented the artist with the Order of Vasa, set in brilliants.
In Christiana, the students gave him a public dinner, and crowned him with laurel. He often played for the peasants here and in Bergen, and was beloved by the poor as by the rich. At Copenhagen he was presented at Court, the King giving him a snuff-box set in diamonds. Hans Andersen became his devoted friend, as did Thorwaldsen while he was in Rome. He now went to Cassell, and Spohr hastened to show him every attention, as though to make amends for the coldness when Ole Bull was poor and unknown. At Salzburg he invited the wife of Mozart to his concerts. For her husband he had surpassing admiration. He used to say that no mortal could write Mozart's "Requiem" and live.
While in Hungary, his first child, Ole, died. He wrote his wife, "God knows how much I have suffered! I still hope and work, not for myself,—for you, my family, my country, my Norway, of which I am proud."
All this time he was working very hard. He said, "I must correspond with the directors of the theatres; must obtain information regarding the people with whom I am to deal; I must make my appointments for concerts and rehearsals; have my music copied, correct the scores, compose, play, travel nights. I am always cheated, and in everlasting trouble. I reproach myself when everything does not turn out for the best, and am consumed with grief. I really believe I should succumb to all these demands and fatigues if it were not for my drinking cold water, and bathing in it every morning and evening."
In November, 1843, urged by Fanny Elssler, hevisited America. At first, in New York, some of the prominent violinists opposed him; but he steadily made his way. When Mr. James Gordon Bennett offered him the columns of the "Herald," that he might reply to those who were assailing him, he said in his broken English, "I tink, Mr. Bennett, it is best tey writes against me, and I plays against tem." Of his playing in New York, Mrs. Lydia Maria Child wrote, "His bow touched the strings as if in sport, and brought forth light leaps of sound, with electric rapidity, yet clear in their distinctness. He played on four strings at once, and produced the rich harmony of four instruments. While he was playing, the rustling of a leaf might have been heard; and when he closed, the tremendous bursts of applause told how the hearts of thousands leaped like one. His first audience were beside themselves with delight, and the orchestra threw down their instruments in ecstatic wonder."
From New York he took a successful trip South. That he was not effeminate while deeply poetic, a single incident will show. After a concert, a man came to him and said he wished the diamond in his violin bow, given him by the Duke of Devonshire. Ole Bull replied that as it was a gift, he could neither sell it nor give it away.
"But I am going to have that stone!" said the man as he drew a bowie knife from his coat. In an instant Ole Bull had felled the man to the floor with the edge of his hand across his throat. "Thenext time I would kill you," said the musician, with his foot on the man's chest; "but you may go now." So much did the ruffian admire the muscle and skill of the artist, that he begged him to accept the knife which he had intended to use upon him.
During this visit to America he gave two hundred concerts, netting him, said the "New York Herald," fully eighty thousand dollars, besides twenty thousand given to charitable associations, and fifteen thousand paid to assistant artists. "No artist has ever visited our country and received so many honors. Poems by the hundreds have been written to him; gold vases, pencils, medals, have been presented to him by various corporations. His whole remarkable appearance in this country is really unexampled in glory and fame," said the same newspaper. Ole Bull was kindness itself to the sick or afflicted. Now he played for Alice and Phœbe Carey, when unable to leave their home, and now for insane and blind asylums and at hospitals. He loved America, and called himself "her adopted son."
On his return to Norway, after great success in Spain, the Queen bestowing upon him the order of Charles III. and the Portuguese order of Christus, he determined to build a National Theatre in Bergen, his birthplace, for the advancement of his nation in the drama and in music. By great energy, and the bestowal of a large sum of money, the place was opened in 1850, Ole Bull leading theorchestra. But the Storthing, or Parliament, declined to give it a yearly appropriation,—perhaps the development of home talent tended too strongly toward republicanism. The burden was too great for one man to carry, and the project did not prove a success.
The next plan of the philanthropist-musician was to buy one hundred and twenty-five thousand acres of land on the Susquehanna River, in Pennsylvania, and "found a New Norway, consecrated to liberty, baptized with independence, and protected by the Union's mighty flag." Soon three hundred houses were built, a country inn, store, and church, erected by the founder. To pay the thousands needed for this enterprise he worked constantly at concert-giving, taking scarcely time to eat his meals. He laid out five new villages, made arrangements with the government to cast cannon for her fortresses, and took out patents for a new smelting-furnace.
While in California, where he was ill with yellow fever, a crushing blow fell upon him. He learned that he had purchased the land through a swindling company, his title was invalid, and his fortune was lost. He could only buy enough land to protect those who had already come from Norway, and had settled there, and soon became deeply involved in lawsuits. Hon. E. W. Stoughton of New York, who had never met Ole Bull personally, volunteered to assist him, and a few thousands were wrested from the defrauding agent.
On his return to Norway he was accused of speculating with the funds of his countrymen, which cut him to the heart. A little later, in 1862, his wife died, worn with ill health, and with her husband's misfortunes, and his son Thorvald fell from the mast of a sailing-vessel in the Mediterranean, and was killed.
In the autumn of 1868 he returned to America, and nearly lost his life in a steamboat collision on the Ohio. He swam to land, saving also his precious violin. Two years afterward he was married to Miss Thorp of Madison, Wis., an accomplished lady much his junior in years, who has lived to write an admirable life of her illustrious husband. A daughter, Olea, came to gladden his home two years later. When he was sixty-six years old, he celebrated his birthday by playing his violin on the top of the great pyramid, Cheops, at the suggestion of King Oscar of Norway and Sweden.
In the Centennial year he returned to America, and made his home at Cambridge, in the house of James Russell Lowell, while he was Minister to England. Here he enjoyed the friendship of such as Longfellow, who says of him in his "Tales of a Wayside Inn":—
"The angel with the violin,Painted by Raphael, he seemed,And when he played, the atmosphereWas filled with magic, and the earCaught echoes of that Harp of Gold,Whose music had so weird a sound,The hunted stag forgot to bound,The leaping rivulet backward rolled,The birds came down from bush and tree,The dead came from beneath the sea,The maiden to the harper's knee!"
"The angel with the violin,Painted by Raphael, he seemed,
And when he played, the atmosphereWas filled with magic, and the earCaught echoes of that Harp of Gold,Whose music had so weird a sound,The hunted stag forgot to bound,The leaping rivulet backward rolled,The birds came down from bush and tree,The dead came from beneath the sea,The maiden to the harper's knee!"
The friend of the highest, he never forgot the lowest. When a colored barber in Hartford, a lad who was himself a good fiddler, heard Ole Bull play, the latter having sent him a ticket to his concert, he said, "Mister, can't you come down to the shop to-morrow to get shaved, and show me those tricks? I feel powerful bad."
And Ole Bull went to the shop, and showed him how the wonderful playing was accomplished.
In 1880 Ole Bull sailed, for the last time, to Europe, to his lovely home at Lysö, an island in the sea, eighteen miles from Bergen. Ill on the voyage, he was thankful to reach the cherished place. Here, planned by his own hand, was his elegant home overlooking the ocean; here his choice music-room upheld by delicate columns and curiously wrought arches; here the shell-roads he had built; and here the flower-beds he had planted. The end came soon, on a beautiful day full of sunshine.
The body lay in state in the great music-room till a larger steamer came to bear it to Bergen. This was met by a convoy of sixteen steamers ranged on either side; and as the fleet approached the city, allflags were at half-mast, and guns were fired, which re-echoed through the mountains. The quay was covered with juniper, and the whole front festooned with green. As the boat touched the shore, one of Ole Bull's inimitable melodies was played. Young girls dressed in black bore the trophies of his success, and distinguished men carried his gold crown and order, in the procession. The streets were strewn with flowers, and showered upon the coffin. When the service had been read at the grave by the pastor, Björnson, the famous author, gave an address. After the coffin had been lowered and the mourners had departed, hundreds of peasants came, bringing a green bough, a sprig of fern, or a flower, and quite filled the grave. Beautiful tribute to a beautiful life!
MEISSONIER.
The old maxim, that "the gods reward all things to labor," has had fit illustration in Meissonier. His has been a life of constant, unvaried toil. He came to Paris a poor, unknown boy, and has worked over fifty years, till he stands a master in French art.
Jean Louis Ernest Meissonier was born at Lyons, in 1811. His early life was passed in poverty so grinding that the great artist never speaks of it, and in such obscurity that scarcely anything is known of his boyhood. At nineteen he came to Paris to try his fate in one of the great centres of the world. He, of course, found no open doors, nobody standing ready to assist genius. Genius must ever open doors for itself.
The lad was a close observer, and had learned to draw accurately. He could give every variety of costume, and express almost any emotion in the face of his subject. But he was unknown. He might do good work, but nobody wanted it. He used to paint by the side of Daubigny in the Louvre, it is said, for one dollar a yard. Now his "Amateursin Painting," a chef-d'œuvre of six inches in size, is bought by Leon Say for six thousand dollars. Such is fame.
Time was so necessary in this struggle for bread, that he could sleep only every other night; and for six months his finances were so low, it is stated, that he existed on ten cents a week! No wonder that the sorrows of those days are never mentioned.
His earliest work was painting the tops of bon-bon boxes, and fans. Once he grew brave enough to take four little sepia drawings to an editor to illustrate a fairy tale in a magazine for children. The editor said the drawings were charming, but he could not afford to have them engraved, and so "returned them with thanks."
His first illustrations in some unknown journal were scenes from the life of "The Old Bachelor." In the first picture he is represented making his toilet before the mirror, his wig spread out on the table; in the second, dining with two friends; in the third, being abused by his housekeeper; in the fourth, on his death-bed, surrounded by greedy relations; and in the fifth, the servants ransacking the death-chamber for the property.
For a universal history he drew figures of Isaiah, St. Paul, and Charlemagne, besides almost numberless ornamental letters and headings of chapters. Of course he longed for more remunerative work, for fame; but he must plod on for months yet. He worked conscientiously, taking the greatest pains with every detail.
His first picture, exhibited in 1833, when he was twenty-two, called "The Visitors," an interior view of a house, with an old gentleman receiving two visitors, all dressed in the costume of James I., admirable for its light and shade, was bought by the Society of the Friends of Art, for twenty dollars. Two years later he made illustrations for the Bible of the Sieur Raymond, of Holofernes invading Judea, and Judith appearing before Holofernes. For "Paul and Virginia" he made forty-three beautiful landscapes. "They contain evidence of long and careful work in the hot-houses of the 'Jardin des Plantes,' and in front of the old bric-a-brac dealer's stalls, which used to stand about the entrance to the Louvre. And how admirably, with the help of these slowly and scrupulously finished studies, he could reproduce, in an ornamental letter or floral ornament, a lily broken by the storm, or a sheaf of Indian arms and musical instruments."
In 1836, his "Chess Players," two men watching intently the moves of chess, and "The Little Messenger," attracted a crowd of admirers. Each sold for twenty dollars. He had now struggled for six years in Paris. It was high time that his unremitting and patient work should find approval. The people were amazed at so vast an amount of labor in so small a space. They looked with their magnifying glasses, and found the work exquisite in detail. They had been accustomed to great canvases, glowing colors, and heroic or romantic sentiments; but here there was wonderful workmanship.
When the people began to admire, critics began to criticize. They said "Meissonier can depict homelike or ordinary scenes, but not historic." He said nothing, but soon brought out "Diderot" among the philosophers, Grimm, D'Alembert, Baron Holbach, and others in the seventeenth century. Then they said he can draw interiors only, and "on a canvas not much larger than his thumb-nail." He soon produced the "Portrait of the Sergeant," "one of the most daring experiments in the painting of light, in modern art. The man stands out there in the open by himself, literally bathed in light, and he makes a perfect picture." Then they were sure that he could not paint movement. He replied by painting "Rixe," two ruffians who are striving to fight, but are withheld by friends. This was given by Louis Napoleon to the Prince Consort.
Meissonier also showed that he could depict grand scenes, by "Moreau and Dessoles on the eve of the battle of Hohenlinden," the "Retreat from Russia," and the "Emperor at Solferino." Into these he put his admiration for Napoleon the Great, and his adoration for his defeated country. In the former picture, the two generals are standing on a precipice, surveying the snow-covered battle-field with a glass; the trees are bending under a strong wind, and the cloaks of the generals are fluttering behind them. One feels the power of this picture.
In painting the "Retreat from Russia," the artist borrowed the identical coat worn by Napoleon, and had it copied, crease for crease, and button for button. "When I painted that picture," he said, "I executed a great portion of it out of doors. It was midwinter, and the ground was covered with snow. Sometimes I sat at my easel for five or six hours together, endeavoring to seize the exact aspect of the winter atmosphere. My servant placed a hot foot-stove under my feet, which he renewed from time to time, but I used to get half-frozen and terribly tired."
He had a wooden horse made in imitation of the white charger of the Emperor; and seating himself on this, he studied his own figure in a mirror. His studies for this picture were almost numberless,—a horse's head, an uplifted leg, cuirasses, helmets, models of horses in red wax, etc. He also prepared a miniature landscape, strewn with white powder resembling snow, with models of heavy wheels running through it, that he might study the furrow made in that terrible march home from burning Moscow. All this was work,—hard, patient, exacting work.
It had now become evident to the world, and to the critics as well, that Meissonier was a master; that he was not confined to small canvases nor home scenes.
In 1855 he received the grand medal; in 1856 he was made an officer of the Legion of Honor; in1861, a member of the Institute; and in 1867, at the International Exhibition, he received the grand medal again. When the prizes were given by the Emperor, the "Battle of Solferino" was placed in the centre of the space cleared for the ceremony, with the works of Reimers, the Russian painter, Knaus of Prussia, Rousseau, the French landscape-painter, and others. This painting represents Napoleon III. in front of his staff, looking upon the battle "as a cool player studies a chess-board. On the right, in the foreground, some artillery-men are manœuvring their guns. The corpses of a French soldier and two white Austrians, torn to rags by some explosion, show where the battle had passed by."
Meissonier's paintings now brought enormous prices. His "Marshal Saxe and his Staff" brought eight thousand six hundred dollars in New York; the "Soldiers at Cards," in 1876, in the same city, eleven thousand five hundred dollars; in 1867, his "Cavalry Charge" was sold to Mr. Probasco of Cincinnati, for thirty thousand dollars; and the "Battle of Friedland," upon which he is said to have worked fifteen years, to A. T. Stewart, of New York, for sixty thousand dollars. Every figure in this was drawn from life, and the horses moulded in wax. It represents Napoleon on horseback, on a slight elevation, his marshals grouped around him, holding aloft his cocked hat in salutation, as the soldiers pass hurriedly before him.
Edmund About once wrote, "To cover M. Meissonier's pictures with gold pieces simply would be to buy them for nothing; and the practice has now been established of covering them with bank notes."
"The Blacksmith," shoeing a patient old cart-horse, perfect in anatomy; "La Halte," some soldiers at an inn, now in Hertford House gallery; and "La Barricade," a souvenir of the civil war, are among the favorite pictures of this famous man. And yet as one looks at some of the exquisite work about a convivial scene, the words of the great Boston painter, William Hunt, come to mind. Being shown a picture, very fine in technique, by a Munich artist, of a drunken man, holding a half-filled glass of wine, he said, "It's skilfully done, butwhat istheuseofdoingit! The subject isn't worthy of the painter."
Rarely does a woman appear in Meissonier's pictures. He has done nothing to deprave morals, which is more than can be said of some French art. His portrait of Madame Henri Thénard was greatly admired, while that of Mrs. Mackay was not satisfactory, and was said to have been destroyed by her. Few persons, however, can afford to destroy a Meissonier. When told once that "he was a fortunate man, as he could possess as many Meissoniers as he pleased," he replied, "No, no, I cannot; that would ruin me. They are a great deal too dear."
He lives in the Boulevard Malesherbes, near thelovely Parc Monceau, in the heart of the artists' quarter in Paris. His handsome home, designed by himself in every detail, is in the Italian Renaissance style. He has two studies,—one a quiet nook, where he can escape interruptions; and one very large, where are gathered masterpieces from every part of the world. Here is "a courtyard of the time of Louis XIII., brilliantly crowded with figures in gala dress; a bride of the same period, stepping into an elegant carriage of a crimson color, for which Meissonier had a miniature model built by a coach-maker, to study from; a superb work of Titian,—a figure of an Italian woman in a robe of green velvet, the classic outline of her head shown against a crimson velvet curtain in the background; a sketch of Bonaparte on horseback, at the head of his picturesquely dressed staff, reviewing the young conscripts of the army of Italy, who are cheering as he passes;" and many more valuable pictures. Here, too, are bridles of black leather, with silver ornaments, once the property of Murat.
One picture here, of especial interest, was painted at his summer home at Poissy, when his house was crowded with German soldiers in the war of 1871. "To escape their company," says M. Claretie, "in the rage that he experienced at the national defeat, he shut himself up in his studio, and threw upon the canvas the most striking, the most vivid, the most avenging of allegories: he painted Paris, enveloped in a veil of mourning, defending herself against theenemy, with her soldiers and her dying grouped round a tattered flag; sailors, officers, and fusiliers, soldiers, national guards, suffering women, and dying children; and, hovering in the air above them, with the Prussian eagle by her side, was Famine, wan and haggard Famine, accomplishing the work that the bombardment had failed to achieve."
His summer home, like the one in Paris, is fitted up luxuriously. He designed most of the furniture and the silver service for his table. Flowers, especially geraniums and tea roses, blossom in profusion about the grounds, while great trees and fountains make it a restful and inviting place. The walls of the dining-room are hung with crimson and gold satin damask, against which are several of his own pictures. An engraver at work, clad in a red dressing-gown, and seated in a room hung with ancient tapestry, has the face of his son Charles, also an artist, looking out from the frame. One of Madame Meissonier also adorns this room.
Near by are his well-filled stables, his favorite horse, Rivoli, being often used for his model. He is equally fond of dogs, and has several expensive hounds. How strange all this, compared with those early days of pinching poverty! He is rarely seen in public, because he has learned—what, alas! some people learn too late in life—that there is no success without one commands his or her time. It must be frittered away neither by calls nor parties; neither by idle talk nor useless visits. Painting orwriting for an hour a day never made greatness. Art and literature will give no masterships except to devotees. The young lady, sauntering down town to look at ribbons, never makes a George Eliot. The young man, sauntering down town to look at the buyers of ribbons, never makes a Meissonier. Nature is rigid in her laws. Her gifts only grow to fruitage in the hands of workers.
Meissonier is now seventy-four, with long gray beard and hair, round, full face, and bright hazel eyes. His friend, Claretie, says of him, "This man, who lives in a palace, is as moderate as a soldier on the march. This artist, whose canvases are valued by the half-million, is as generous as a nabob. He will give to a charity sale a picture worth the price of a house. Praised as he is by all, he has less conceit in his nature than a wholesale painter."
January 31, 1891, at his home in Paris, the great artist passed away. His illness was very brief. The funeral services took place at the Church of the Madeleine, which was thronged with the leaders of art and letters. An imposing military cortege accompanied the body to its last resting-place at Poissy, the summer home of the artist, on the Seine, ten miles from Versailles.
GEORGE WILLIAM CHILDS.
The "Public Ledger" of Philadelphia, and its owner, are known the world over. Would we see the large-hearted, hospitable millionaire, who has come to honor through his own industry, let us enter the elegant building occupied by his newspaper.
Every portion is interesting. The rooms where editors and assistants work are large, light, and airy, and as tasteful as parlors. Alas! how unhomelike and barren are some of the newspaper offices, where gifted men toil from morning till night, with little time for sleep, and still less for recreation. Mr. Childs has thought of the comfort and health of his workmen, for he, too, was a poor boy, and knows what it is to labor.
He has also been generous with his men in the matter of wages. "He refused to reduce the rate of payment of his compositors, notwithstanding that the Typographical Union had formerly sanctioned a reduction, and notwithstanding that the reduced scale was operative in every printing-office in Philadelphia except his own. He said, 'Mybusiness is prosperous; why should not my men share in my prosperity?' This act of graciousness, while it endeared him to the hearts of his beneficiaries, was commented on most favorably at home and abroad. That his employés, in a formal interview with him, expressed their willingness to accept the reduced rates, simply augments the generosity of his act." Strikes among laborers would be few and far between if employers were like George W. Childs.
Each person in his employ has a summer vacation of two or more weeks, his wages being continued meantime, and paid in advance, with a liberal sum besides. On Christmas every man, woman, and boy receives a present, amounting, of course, to many thousands of dollars annually. Mr. Childs has taken care of many who have become old or disabled in his service. The foreman of his composing-room had worked for him less than twelve months before he failed in health. For years this man has drawn his weekly pay, though never going to the establishment. This is indeed practical Christianity.
Besides caring for the living, in 1868 this wise employer of labor purchased two thousand feet in Woodlands for a printers' cemetery, and gave it to the Philadelphia Typographical Society, with a sum of money to keep the grounds in good order yearly. The first person buried beyond the handsome marble gothic gateway was a destitute and aged printerwho had died at the almshouse and whose dying message to Mr. Childs was that he could not bear to fill a pauper's grave. His wish was cordially granted.
But after seeing the admirable provision made for his workmen, we must enter the private office of Mr. Childs. He is most accessible to all, with no airs of superior position, welcoming persons from every clime daily, between the hours of eleven and one. He listens courteously to any requests, and then bids you make yourself at home in this elegant office, that certainly has no superior in the world, perhaps no rival.
The room itself in the Queen Anne style, with exquisite wood-carving, marble tiles, brass ornaments, and painted glass, is a gem. Here is his motto, a noble one, and thoroughly American, "Nihil sine labore," and well his life has illustrated it. All honor to every man or woman who helps to make labor honored in this country. The design of the ceiling was suggested by a room in Coombe Abbey, Warwickshire, the seat of the Earls Craven, fitted up by one of its lords for the reception of Queen Elizabeth. Over a dozen valuable clocks are seen, one made in Amsterdam over two hundred years ago, which, besides the time of day, gives the phases of the moon, the days of the week, and the month; another, a clock constructed by David Rittenhouse, the astronomer of the Revolution, in the old colonial days, which plays a great variety ofmusic, has a little planetarium attached, and nearly six thousand teeth in wheels. It was made for Joseph Potts, who paid six hundred and forty dollars for it. The Spanish Minister in 1778 offered eight hundred for it, that he might present it to his sovereign. Mr. Childs has about fifty rare clocks in his various homes, one of these costing six thousand dollars.
Here is a marble statuette of Savonarola, the Florentine preacher of the fifteenth century; the little green harp which belonged to Tom Moore, and on which he used to play in the homes of the great; a colossal suit of antique French armor, one hundred and fifty years old; a miniature likeness of George Washington, handsomely encased in gold, bequeathed by him to a relative, a lock of his hair in the back of the picture; a miniature ship, made from the wood of theAlliance Frigate, the only one of our first navy, of the class of frigates, which escaped capture or destruction during the Revolutionary war. This boat, and a silver waiter, presented after the famous battle of New Orleans, were both the property of President Jackson, and were taken by him to the Hermitage. Here, also, is a photograph of "Old Ironsides" Stewart, in a frame made from the frigateConstitution, in which great victories were achieved, besides many portraits given by famous people, with their autographs.
After a delightful hour spent in looking at thesechoice things, Mr. Childs bids us take our choice of some rare china cups and saucers. We choose one dainty with red birds, and carry it away as a pleasant remembrance of a princely giver, in a princely apartment.
Mr. Childs has had a most interesting history. Born in Baltimore, he entered the United States navy at thirteen, where he remained for fifteen months. At fourteen he came to Philadelphia, poor, but with courage and a quick mind, and found a place to work in a bookstore. Here he remained for four years, doing his work faithfully, and to the best of his ability. At the end of these years he had saved a few hundred dollars, and opened a little store for himself in the Ledger Building, where the well-known newspaper, the "Public Ledger," was published.
He was ambitious, as who is not, that comes to prominence; and one day he made the resolution that he would sometime be the owner of this great paper and its building! Probably had this resolution been known, his acquaintances would have regarded the youth as little less than crazy. But the boy who willed this had a definite aim. Besides, he was never idle, he was economical, his habits were the best, and why should not such a boy succeed?
In three years, when he was twenty-one, he had become the head of a publishing house,—Childs & Peterson. He had a keen sense of what thepublic needed. He brought out Kane's "Arctic Expedition," from which the author, Dr. Kane, realized seventy thousand dollars. Two hundred thousand copies of Peterson's "Familiar Science" were sold. Allibone dedicated his great work, "Dictionary of English and American Authors," to the energetic and appreciative young publisher.
He had now acquired wealth, sooner almost than he could have hoped. Before him were bright prospects as a publisher; but the prize that he had set out to win was to own the "Public Ledger."
The opportunity came in December, 1864. But his paper was losing money. His friends advised against taking such a burden; he would surely fail. But Mr. Childs had faith in himself. He expected to win where others lost. He bought the property, doubled the subscription rates, lowered the advertising, excluded everything questionable from the columns of his paper, made his editorials brief, yet comprehensive, until under his judicious management the journal reached the large circulation of ninety thousand daily. For ten years he has given the "Ledger Almanac" to every subscriber, costing five thousand dollars annually. The yearly profits, it is stated, have been four hundred thousand dollars. All this has not been accomplished without thought and labor.
Fortune, of course, had come, and fame. He built homes, elegant ones, in Philadelphia and at Newport, but these are not simply places in which to spend money, but centres of hospitality and culture.
His library is one of the most charming places in this country. The wood-work is carved ebony with gold, the bookshelves six feet high on every side, and the ceiling built in sunken panels, blue and gold. In the centre is a table made from ebony, brought from Africa by Paul du Chaillu. One looks with interest upon the handsome volumes of the standard authors, but other things are of deeper interest.
Here is an original sermon of Rev. Cotton Mather; the poems of Leigh Hunt, which he presented to Charles Dickens; the original manuscript of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Consular Experiences"; the first edition of the "Scarlet Letter," with a note to Mr. Childs from the great novelist; Bryant's manuscript of the "First Book of the Iliad"; James Russell Lowell's "June Idyl," begun in 1850 and finished eighteen years afterward; the manuscript of James Fenimore Cooper's "Life of Captain Richard Somers"; and Edgar Allan Poe's "Murders in the Rue Morgue," seventeen pages of large paper written small and close.
Here is an autograph letter from Poe, in which he offers to his publishers thirty-three short stories, enough to fill two large volumes, "On the terms which you allowed me before; that is, you receive all profits and allow me twenty copies for distribution to friends." From this it seems that Poe had theusualstruggles of literary people.
One of the most unique things of the library isthe manuscript of "Our Mutual Friend," bound in fine brown morocco. The skeleton of the novel is written through several pages, showing how carefully Dickens thought out his plan and his characters; the paper is light blue, written over with dark blue ink, with many erasures and changes. Here are also fifty-six volumes of Dickens' works, with an autograph letter in each, from the author to Mr. Childs. Here is Lord Byron's desk on which he wrote "Don Juan." Now we look upon the smallest book ever printed, Dante's "Divina Commedia," bound in Turkey gilt, less than two and one-fourth inches long by one and one-half inches wide.
The collection of Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, now the property of Mr. Childs, letters and manuscripts from Lamb, Hawthorne, Mary Somerville, Harriet Martineau, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Browning, and hundreds of others, is of almost priceless value. In 1879 Mrs. Hall gave the Bible of Tom Moore to Mr. Childs, "an honored and much loved citizen of the United States, as the best and most valuable offering she could make to him, as a grateful tribute of respect, regard, and esteem."
Another valuable book is made up of the portraits of the presidents, with an autograph letter from each. Dom Pedro of Brazil sent, in 1876, a work on his empire, with his picture and his autograph. George Peabody sat for a full-length portrait for Mr. Childs. The album of Mrs. Childs contains theautographs of a great number of the leading men and women of the world.
One could linger here for days, but we must see the lovely country-seat called "Wootton," some distance out from the city. The house is in Queen Anne style, surrounded by velvety lawns, a wealth of evergreen and exquisite plants, brought over from South America and Africa. The farm adjoining is a delight to see. Here is the dairy built of white flintstone, while the milkroom has stained glass windows, as though it were a chapel. The beautiful grounds are open every Thursday to visitors.
Here have been entertained the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, the Duke of Sutherland, Lord Rosse, Lord Dufferin, Sir Stafford Northcote, Herbert Spencer, John Waller, M.P., of the "London Times," Dean Stanley, Thomas Hughes, Dickens, Grant, Evarts; indeed, the famous of two hemispheres.
With all this elegance, befitting royalty, Mr. Childs has been a constant and generous giver. For his own city he was one of the foremost to secure Fairmount Park, and helped originate the Zoölogical Gardens, the Pennsylvania Museum, and the School of Industrial Arts. He gave ten thousand dollars for a Centennial Exposition. He has been one of General Grant's most generous helpers; yet while doing for the great, he does not forget the unknown. He gives free excursions to poor children, a dinner annually to the newsboys, and aids hundreds who are in need of an education.
He has placed a stained glass window in Westminster Abbey, in commemoration of George Herbert and William Cowper; given largely to a memorial window for Thomas Moore at Bronham, England; for a stone to mark Leigh Hunt's resting-place in Kensal Green; and toward a monument for Poe.
Mr. Childs has come to eminence by energy, integrity, and true faith in himself. He has had a noble ambition, and has worked towards it. He has proved to all other American boys that worth and honest dealing will win success, in a greater or less degree. That well-known scientist, Prof. Joseph Henry, of the Smithsonian Institute, said, "Mr. Childs is a wonderful man. His ability to apply the power of money in advancing the well-being of his fellow-men is unrivalled. He is naturally kind and sympathetic, and these generous feelings are exalted, not depressed, by his success in accumulating a fortune.... Like man in the classification of animals, he forms a genus in himself. He stands alone; there is not another in the wide world like him."
Mr. Childs died at 3.01A.M.February 3, 1894 from the effects of a stroke of paralysis sustained at the Ledger office on January 18. He was nearly sixty-five years of age. He was buried on February 6, in the Drexel Mausoleum in Woodland Cemetery beside his life long friend.