In the world of pictorial recollection there are many territories, the natives of which you may recognise by their characteristics as surely as Ophelia recognises her true-love by his c.o.c.kle-hat and sandal shoon.

There is the land of grave gestures and courteous inclinations, of dignified leave-takings and decorous greetings; where the ladies (like Richardson's Pamela) don the most charming round-eared caps and frilled _negliges_; where the gentlemen sport ruffles and bag-wigs and spotless silk stockings, and invariably exhibit shapely calves above their silver shoe-buckles; where you may come in St. James's Park upon a portly personage with a star, taking an alfresco pinch of snuff after that leisurely style in which a pinch of snuff should be taken, so as not to endanger a lace cravat or a canary-coloured vest; where you may seat yourself on a bench by Rosamond's Pond in company with a tremulous mask who is evidently expecting the arrival of a "pretty fellow"; or happen suddenly, in a secluded side-walk, upon a damsel in muslin and a dark hat, who is hurriedly scrawling a _poulet_, not without obvious signs of perturbation. But whatever the denizens of this country are doing, they are always elegant and always graceful, always appropriately grouped against their fitting background of high-ceiled rooms and striped hangings, or among the urns and fish-tanks of their sombre-shrubbed gardens. This is the land of STOTHARD.

In the adjoining country there is a larger sense of colour--a fuller pulse of life. This is the region of delightful dogs and horses and domestic animals of all sorts; of crimson-faced hosts and buxom ale-wives; of the most winsome and black-eyed milkmaids and the most devoted lovers and their la.s.ses; of the most headlong and horn-blowing huntsmen--a land where Madam Blaize forgathers with the impeccable worthy who caused the death of the Mad Dog; where John Gilpin takes the Babes in the Wood _en croupe_; and the bewitchingest Queen of Hearts coquets the Great Panjandrum himself "with the little round b.u.t.ton at top"--a land, in short, of the most kindly and light-hearted fancies, of the freshest and breeziest and healthiest types--which is the land of CALDECOTT.

Finally, there is a third country, a country inhabited almost exclusively by the sweetest little child-figures that have ever been invented, in the quaintest and prettiest costumes, always happy, always gravely playful,--and nearly always playing; always set in the most attractive framework of flower-knots, or blossoming orchards, or red-roofed cottages with dormer windows. Everywhere there are green fields, and daisies, and daffodils, and pearly skies of spring, in which a kite is often flying. No children are quite like the dwellers in this land; they are so gentle, so unaffected in their affectation, so easily pleased, so trustful and so confiding. And this is GREENAWAY-land.

It is sixty years since Thomas Stothard died, and only fifteen since Randolph Caldecott closed his too brief career.[26] And now Kate Greenaway, who loved the art of both, and in her own gentle way possessed something of the qualities of each, has herself pa.s.sed away.

It will rest with other pens to record her personal characteristics, and to relate the story of her life. I who write this was privileged to know her a little, and to receive from her frequent presents of her books; but I should shrink from anything approaching a description of the quiet, unpretentious, almost homely little lady, whom it was always a pleasure to meet and to talk with. If I here permit myself to recall one or two incidents of our intercourse, it is solely because they bear either upon her amiable disposition or her art. I remember that once, during a country walk in Suss.e.x, she gave me a long account of her childhood, which I wish I could repeat in detail. But I know that she told me that she had been brought up in just such a neighbourhood of thatched roofs and "grey old gardens" as she depicts in her drawings; and that in some of the houses, it was her particular and unfailing delight to turn over ancient chests and wardrobes filled with the flowered frocks and capes of the Jane Austen period. As is well known, she corresponded frequently with Ruskin, and possessed numbers of his letters. In his latter years, it had been her practice to write to him periodically--I believe she said once a week. He had long ceased, probably from ill-health, to answer her letters; but she continued to write punctually lest he should miss the little budget of chit-chat to which he had grown accustomed. At another time--in a pleasant country-house which contained many examples of her art--and where she was putting the last touches to a delicately tinted child-angel in the margin of a Bible--I ventured to say, "Why do your children always ...?"

But it is needless to complete the query; the answer alone is important.

She looked at me reflectively, and said, after a pause, "Because I see it so."

Note:

[26] This was written in 1902.

Answers not dissimilar have been given before by other artists in like case. But it was this rigid fidelity to her individual vision and personal conviction which const.i.tuted her strength. There are always stupid, well-meaning busybodies in the world, who go about making question of the sonneteer why he does not attempt something epic and homicidal, or worrying the carver of cherry-stones to try his hand at a Colossus; but though they disturb and discompose, they luckily do no material harm. They did no material harm to Kate Greenaway. She yielded, no doubt, to pressure put upon her to try figures on a larger scale; to ill.u.s.trate books, which was not her strong point, as it only put fetters upon her fancy; but, in the main, she courageously preserved the even tenor of her way, which was to people the artistic demesne she administered with the tiny figures which no one else could make more captivating, or clothe more adroitly. It may be doubted whether the collector will set much store by Bret Harte's _Queen of the Pirate Isle_ or the _Pied Piper of Hamelin_, suitable at first sight as is the latter, with its child-element, to her inventive idiosyncrasy. But he will revel in the dainty scenes of "Almanacks" (1883 to 1895, and 1897); in the charming Birthday Book of 1880; in _Mother Goose, A Day in a Child's Life, Little Ann, Marigold Garden_ and the rest, of which the grace is perennial, though the popularity for the moment may have waned.

I have an idea that _Mother Goose; or, the Old Nursery Rhymes_, 1881, was one of Miss Greenaway's favourites, although it may have been displaced in her own mind by subsequent successes. Nothing can certainly be more deftly-tinted than the design of the "old woman who lived under a hill," and peeled apples; nothing more seductive, in infantile att.i.tude, than the little boy and girl, who, with their arms around each other, stand watching the black-cat in the plum-tree. Then there is Daffy-down-dilly, who has come up to town, with "a yellow petticoat and a green gown," in which attire, aided by a straw hat tied under her chin, she manages to look exceedingly attractive, as she pa.s.ses in front of the white house with the pink roof and the red shutters and the green palings. One of the most beautiful pictures in this gallery is the dear little "Ten-o'-clock Scholar" in his worked smock, as, trailing his blue-and-white school-bag behind him, he creeps unwillingly to his lessons at the most picturesque timbered cottage you can imagine.

Another absolutely delightful portrait is that of "Little Tom Tucker,"

in sky-blue suit and frilled collar, singing, with his hands behind him, as if he never could grow old. And there is not one of these little compositions that is without its charm of colour and accessory--blue plates on the dresser in the background, the parterres of a formal garden with old-fashioned flowers, quaint dwellings with their gates and gra.s.s-work, odd corners of countryside and village street, and all, generally, in the clear air or sunlight. For in this favoured Greenaway-realm, as in the island-valley of Avilion there

falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns.

To _Mother Goose_ followed _A Day in a Child's Life_, also 1881, and _Little Ann_, 1883. The former of these contained various songs set to music by Mr. Myles B. Foster, the organist of the Foundling Hospital, and accompanied by designs on rather a larger scale than those in _Mother Goose_. It also included a larger proportion of the floral decorations which were among the artist's chief gifts. Foxgloves and b.u.t.tercups, tulips and roses, are flung about the pages of the book; and there are many pictures, notably one of a little green-coated figure perched upon a five-barred gate, which repeat the triumphs of its predecessor. In _Little Ann and other Poems_, which is dedicated to the four children of the artist's friend, the late Frederick Locker-Lampson, she ill.u.s.trated a selection from the verses for "Infant Minds" of Jane and Ann Taylor, daughters of that Isaac Taylor of Ongar, who was first a line engraver and afterwards an Independent Minister.[27] The dedication contains a charming row of tiny portraits of the Locker-Lampson family. These ill.u.s.trations may seem to contradict what has been said as to Miss Greenaway's ability to interpret the conceptions of others. But this particular task left her perfectly free to "go her own gait," and to embroider the text which, in this case, was little more than a pretext for her pencil.

Note:

[27] Since this paper was written, the _Original Poems and Others_, of Ann and Jane Taylor, with ill.u.s.trations by F.D. Bedford, and a most interesting "Introduction" by Mr. E.V. Lucas, have been issued by Messrs. Wells, Gardner, Darton and Co.

In _Marigold Garden_, 1885, Miss Greenaway became her own poet; and next to _Mother Goose_, this is probably her most important effort. The flowers are as entrancing as ever; and the verse makes one wish that the writer had written more. The "Genteel Family" and "Little Phillis" are excellent nursery pieces; and there is almost a Blake-like note about "The Sun Door."

They saw it rise in the morning, They saw it set at night, And they longed to go and see it, Ah! if they only might.

The little soft white clouds heard them, And stepped from out of the blue; And each laid a little child softly Upon its bosom of dew.

And they carried them higher and higher, And they nothing knew any more, Until they were standing waiting, In front of the round gold door.

And they knocked, and called, and entreated Whoever should be within; But all to no purpose, for no one Would hearken to let them in.

"_La rime n'est pas riche_" nor is the technique thoroughly a.s.sured; but the thought is poetical. Here is another, "In an Apple-Tree," which reads like a child variation of that haunting "Mimnermus in Church" of the author of Ionica:--

In September, when the apples are red, To Belinda I said, "Would you like to go away To Heaven, or stay Here in this orchard full of trees All your life? "And she said," If you please I'll stay here--where I know, And the flowers grow."

In another vein is the bright little "Child's Song":--

The King and the Queen were riding Upon a Summer's day, And a Blackbird flew above them, To hear what they did say.

The King said he liked apples, The Queen said she liked pears; And what shall we do to the Blackbird Who listens unawares?

But, as a rule, it must be admitted of her poetry that, while nearly always poetic in its impulse, it is often halting and inarticulate in its expression. A few words may be added in regard to the mere facts of Miss Greenaway's career. She was born at 1 Cavendish Street, Hoxton, on the 17th March, 1846, her father being Mr. John Greenaway, a draughtsman on wood, who contributed much to the earlier issues of the _Ill.u.s.trated London News_ and _Punch_. Annual visits to a farm-house at Rolleston in Nottinghamshire--the country residence already referred to--nourished and confirmed her love of nature. Very early she showed a distinct bias towards colour and design of an original kind. She studied at different places, and at South Kensington. Here both she and Lady Butler "would bribe the porter to lock them in when the day's work was done, so that they might labour on for some while more." Her master at Kensington was Richard Burchett, who, forty years ago, was a prominent figure in the art-schools, a well instructed painter, and a teacher exceptionally equipped with all the learning of his craft. Mr. Burchett thought highly of Miss Greenaway's abilities; and she worked under him for several years with exemplary perseverance and industry. She subsequently studied in the Slade School under Professor Legros.

Her first essays in the way of design took the form of Christmas cards, then beginning their now somewhat flagging career, and she exhibited pictures at the Dudley Gallery for some years in succession, beginning with 1868. In 1877 she contributed to the Royal Academy a water colour ent.i.tled "Musing," and in 1889 was elected a member of the Royal Inst.i.tute of Painters in Water Colours.

By this date, as will be gathered from what has preceded, Miss Greenaway had made her mark as a producer of children's books, since, in addition to the volumes already specially mentioned, she had issued _Under the Window_ (her earliest success), _The Language of Flowers, Kate Greenaway's Painting Book, The Book of Games, King Pepito_ and other works. Her last "Almanack," which was published by Messrs Dent and Co., appeared in 1897. In 1891, the Fine Arts Society exhibited some 150 of her original drawings--an exhibition which was deservedly successful, and was followed by others.[28] As Slade Professor at Oxford, Ruskin, always her fervent admirer, gave her unstinted eulogium; and in France her designs aroused the greatest admiration. The _Debats_ had a leading article on her death; and the clever author of _L'Art du Rire_, M.

a.r.s.ene Alexandre, who had already written appreciatively of her gifts as a "_paysagiste_," and as a "_maitresse en l'art du sourire, du jolt sourire_ _d'enfant inginu et gaiement candide_" devoted a column in the _Figaro_ to her merits.

Note:

[28] Among other things these exhibitions revealed the great superiority of the original designs to the reproductions with which the public are familiar--excellent as these are in their way. Probably, if Miss Greenaway's work were now repeated by the latest form of three-colour process, she would be less an "inheritor"--in this respect--"of unfulfilled renown."

It has been noted that, in her later years, Miss Greenaway's popularity was scarcely maintained. It would perhaps be more exact to say that it somewhat fell off with the fickle crowd who follow a reigning fashion, and who unfortunately help to swell the units of a paying community. To the last she gave of her best; but it is the misfortune of distinctive and original work, that, while the public resents versatility in its favourites, it wearies unreasonably of what had pleased it at first--especially if the note be made tedious by imitation. Miss Greenaway's old vogue was in some measure revived by her too-early death on the 6th November 1901; but, in any case, she is sure of attention from the connoisseur of the future. Those who collect Stothard and Caldecott (and they are many!) cannot afford to neglect either _Marigold Garden_ or _Mother Goose_.[29]

Note:

[29] Since the above article appeared in the _Art Journal_, from which it is here substantially reproduced, Messrs. M.H, Spieimann and G.S. Layard have (1905) devoted a sumptuous and exhaustive volume to Miss Greenaway and her art. To this truly beautiful and sympathetic book I can but refer those of her admirers who are not yet acquainted with it.

A SONG OF THE GREENAWAY CHILD

As I went a-walking on _Lavender Hill_, O, I met a Darling in frock and frill; And she looked at me shyly, with eyes of blue, "Are you going a-walking? Then take me too!"

So we strolled to the field where the cowslips grow, And we played--and we played, for an hour or so; Then we climbed to the top of the old park wall, And the Darling she threaded a cowslip ball.

Then we played again, till I said--"My Dear, This pain in my side, it has grown severe; I ought to have mentioned I'm past three-score, And I fear that I scarcely can play any more!"

But the Darling she answered,-"O no! O no!

You must play--you must play.--I sha'n't let you go!"

--And I woke with a start and a sigh of despair, And I found myself safe in my Grandfather's-chair!

TWO MODERN BOOK ILl.u.s.tRATORS

II. MR HUGH THOMSON

In virtue of certain gentle and caressing qualities of style, Douglas Jerrold conferred on one of his contributors--Miss Eliza Meteyard--the pseudonym of "Silverpen." It is in the silver-pensive key that one would wish to write of Mr. HUGH THOMSON. There is nothing in his work of elemental strife,--of social problem,--of pa.s.sion torn to tatters. He leads you by no _terribile via_,--over no "burning Marle." You cannot conceive him as the ill.u.s.trator of _Paradise Lost_, of Dante's _Inferno_--even of Dore's _Wandering Jew_. But when, after turning over some dozens of his designs, you take stock of your impressions, you discover that your memory is packed with pleasant fancies. You have been among "blown fields" and "flowerful closes"; you have pa.s.sed quaint roadside-inns and picturesque cottages; you are familiar with the cheery, ever-changing idyll of the highway and the bustle of animal life; with horses that really gallop, and dogs that really bark; with charming male and female figures in the most attractive old-world attire; with happy laughter and artless waggeries; with a hundred intimate details of English domesticity that are pushed just far enough back to lose the hardness of their outline in a softening haze of retrospect. There has been nothing more tragic in your travels than a sprained ankle or an interrupted affair of honour; nothing more blood-curdling than a dream of a dragoon officer knocked out of his saddle by a brickbat. Your flesh has never been made to creep: but the c.o.c.kles of your heart have been warmed. Mechanically, you raise your hand to lift away your optimistic spectacles. But they are not there.

The optimism is in the pictures.

It must be more than a quarter of a century since Mr. Hugh Thomson, arriving from Coleraine in all the ardour of one-and-twenty, invaded the strongholds of English ill.u.s.tration. He came at a fortunate moment.