Part 6

"I wish I could paint. I'd like to do them tex's what they gives yer at Sunday school."

"Oh, that's the line you'd like to take up, Julia, is it?"

Another pause.

"D'yer like them paintin's what they gives yer at the tea grocers? My brother says 'e's going to paint them sort when 'e gets them colours what you squeezes out of tubes; you know, like them ladies' tormenters, same as you gets on Bank 'olidays on 'Ampstead 'Eath."

I wanted to go on with my picture, so I suggested to Julia (I had no reason to suppose that her name was not Julia) that it was getting near tea-time.

[Illustration: "MY BROTHER PAINTS."]

"Oh, is it," she said; "come along, Halbert." Then, turning to me, she added--"Are yer comin' to-morrer? I'd like yer to see my brother's paintin's."

"That depends upon how much I make to-day, Julia," I answered--"whether the 'pitch' is a good one or not."

"Oh," said Julia, thoughtfully; "I'd like yer to come to-morrer," and then as she passed she dropped a halfpenny into my box.

[Illustration: "BANK 'OLIDAYS ON 'AMPSTEAD 'EATH."]

On other occasions, when out painting in poor neighbourhoods, my easel, camp-stool, and self have been used as "home" in games like "Hi-spi-hoy" and "Hoop," and I have, during the progress of my sketch, been more than once in imminent danger of being carried away, and my kit sent flying, during a sudden rush of the excited players. But even such an indignity as this does not touch bottom. Boys have before now made me a "Harbour of Refuge," with the poetry left out, and bricks and various missiles substituted. They have dodged behind me to escape the consequences of "cheekiness" to bigger boys, and have used my canvas as a screen to shield off stones.

And what are you to do? Just at that moment, in all likelihood, you are putting in a crisp, telling touch that will "do the trick," and if the news were brought to you that your favourite aunt had fallen downstairs, it would not be sufficient to make you rise from off your camp-stool.

[Illustration: "Hi-spi-Hoy"]

I was sketching once near a row of those cheap one-storied cottages, generally called Villa This and Villa That, inhabited by a tribe the mothers of which seem always to have a baby on hand, and several others in various stages of development. These children spend most of their time, so far as I can judge, in hanging about, just outside the front garden, waiting for something to turn up to amuse them, and I had been much bothered by their creeping round behind me, or edging closer and closer to my side, and occasionally shoving each other so as to shake me or my sketch. I tried to forget them, and maintained a chilling silence. The numbers, however, kept on increasing, and presently games were projected in my immediate vicinity, as though I were the centre of gravity, or the hub of the universe. The climax was reached when a young nurse, aged seven or thereabouts, with a child just on the brink of independence in her arms, came up and said--

"D'yer mind me leaving my baby here, while I have a game with the Tubbses? She'll be all right if I sit her on your jacket."

Nice thing when seeking material for a masterpiece for next year's Academy to be asked to look after baby!

The remarks made by street loafers and errand-boys, too, who stand at your elbow for half-an-hour at a stretch, are not encouraging, as a rule. One boy, in what he considers a tone of confidence, will say to another--

"S'elp me, Bob, aint 'e a doin' it a fair treat."

"Carry me out" (it is impossible to write "out" as _they_ pronounce it), "'Arree, ain't it fine" (rising intonation on the "I")--"I wish I wos a bloomin' hartist."

"Don't 'e fancy 'isself, just."

It is difficult to keep quietly on at work with every appearance of indifference under such circumstances. It is also exasperating to be called "Matey," as though you were a pal of theirs, and lived on the same landing. Yet these are only a few of the indignities with which a poor artist has to put up.

[Illustration: "D'YER MIND ME LEAVING MY BABY HERE."]

Who has not, when on a sketching tour, felt the contempt that the bucolic mind has for a man who, day after day, and week after week, sits out of doors on his camp-stool, doing his best to catch some of Nature's mystery and fleeting beauty, and give it an abiding place on his canvas.

[Illustration: "AINT 'E A DOIN' IT A FAIR TREAT."]

My friend S---- is a big, healthy, bearded fellow, who looks as though he could pick half-hundred weights up in each hand with the ease that I pick up my palette. The following dialogue took place on one occasion between him and an elderly rustic who had been standing watching him for some time, as he sat by the roadside, painting.

"No offence, sir," said the agriculturist, "but is anything the matter wi' yer?"

"No," answered S---- "What makes you ask?"

"Yer hain't lame, are yer?"

"Lame! Good gracious, no!"

"You hain't 'ad a misfortune in any way? The sciatics or lumbager, that's kind o' laid yer by?"

"No, I'm as well as I have always been."

"An' yer call yerself a man and can sit theer a doin' o' that. Well, I'm d----d!"

I never go out sketching without feeling this silent contempt, for it is only rarely that it finds expression. The remarks made by villagers show how utterly unable they are to grasp the idea of anyone valuing an artist's efforts. The old story of the painter who was asked by the farmer whose cow he had been drawing, what the said picture might be worth when finished, is typical.

[Illustration: "YER HAIN'T LAME, ARE YER?"]

"Oh, I hope to get thirty pounds for it if it is well hung," explained the artist.

"Thutty pound for the mere picture!" cried the old fellow in astonishment. "Why, I'd sell you the old cow itself for ten."

[Illustration: WHOSE COW HE HAD BEEN DRAWING.]

A spirit of commiseration underlies a good many of the remarks made by the bucolic. I went down on one occasion to see a couple of painters who had taken a small cottage at one and sixpence a week in order to paint some orchard pictures. When their neighbours, who were farm hands, got to know them a bit, they were very friendly disposed, and made them presents of vegetables, and one old fellow who was reputed to have "saved a smart bit o' money," said to one of the "painter chaps," as they were called--

"There don't seem much of a living in your business, sir. I s'pose trade's a bit dull with ye, now folks is a spring cleaning. What do yer say now to paintin' my cart in yer dinner hour? I shall want it done afore long, and I'd like to gie ye the job, for a shilling or two down't come amiss to any of us. Do it now?"

[Illustration: "WHAT DO YOU SAY TO PAINTIN' MY CART?"]

Another job refused by these same artists was to clean and touch up an old picture that had been bought for a few shillings at a sale. The old chap who had purchased it went so far as to offer them a shilling to do the work, and that offer being declined, he threw in a pint of stout as an additional inducement.

A friend who had painted a 50 x 40 canvas outside during one summer, spending some five or six weeks upon it, told me that one old chap, who looked like a jobbing gardener, used to pass by every day, and invariably stayed to stare at the work, but always at a respectful distance, and it was not until the picture was nearly completed that he broke the silence.

"D'yer moind me 'aving a look at it, sir?"

[Illustration: STAYED TO STARE AT THE WORK.]

"Oh, certainly not," and my friend got off his camp-stool to let the critic have an uninterrupted view. The subject was a careful study of wild flowers and herbage, growing in the corner of an orchard. The old fellow seemed to take the picture in very carefully, and at length said:

"Is it a view in Ireland, sir?"

"View in Ireland! What made you think of that? Don't you see it's the corner of the orchard there, with all the thistles and docks and wild flowers?"

"Well, to be sure! Fancy anyone a paintin' them weeds and trumpery!" and with that cheerless remark the old fellow sheered off.

[Illustration: MODELLING A MILKMAID.]

Sculptors, unlike painters, rarely venture out of their studios, but it happened that a sculptor came down to spend a few days with us when in a Norfolk village, and so liked the place that he hired a barn, had a lot of clay and a turntable sent down, and started modelling a milkmaid. As the work progressed, it became the talk of the place, and, in due course, numbers came to see the clay image that my friend was setting up in the barn. This work _did_ appeal to them. They could see at a glance what it was meant to represent, and the chorus of approval was loud and general, except on the part of the village constable. He was a taciturn man, and used to come and smoke his pipe and preserve a contemptuous silence. One day he said--

"Are you making that image for a church?"

"No. Why did you think I was?"

"Oh, nothing. Only when I was in London, and that's a smart while ago, I worked on a church as was a buildin', and we had to fix some figures; only they were made in what we calls Portland cement."

[Illustration: NUMBERS CAME TO SEE THE CLAY IMAGE.]

"Oh, then, you have seen sculpture before?"

"Yes, sir, 'tain't the first time as I've seed a graven image, as the Bible calls 'em. D'yer ever make them figures they puts over doors and winders of houses?"

"No; I can't say I do."

"Did you ever see them two figures in the Lord Mayor's palace in the City? You _ought_ to see them, sir. I reckon they're the best things in that line you can see anywhere?"

"I'm afraid I don't remember which figures you refer to."

"Oh, they ain't like your work, not a little bit. They're picked out in all kinds of colours, and are ever so big. I was thinking they must represent two of them heathen gods what the Children of Israel fell down and worshipped. You know the figures I mean?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Can't you remember their names?"

"Why, Gog and Magog, aren't they, sir?"

[Illustration: THE VILLAGE CONSTABLE.]

_The Brothers' Agency._

BY DO BAHIN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE MISSES HAMMOND.

-----

"She won't see you, my boy," said Grigsby, as I stood on the steps of the Scandalmongers' Club waiting for the next West Kensington 'bus; "she's doing a roaring trade, and don't want any more advertisements; and if she does she'll put up her own notices, and not use you for billsticker."

"Grigsby may not be right this time," I reflected, as I scaled the 'bus. "He seldom is! And haven't I triumphantly interviewed all the most unmanageable celebrities of the last ten years, from Lord Tennyson to the Royal baby? I suppose it's my bland appearance. It lulls suspicion and excites curiosity. People want to see whether it is possible for any man to _be_ such a fool as I _look_. Anyhow, I must go through with it now, as I've let it out to Grigsby."

[Illustration: "SHE WON'T SEE YOU."]

The fact is, I was about to try to interview Miss Jenny T. Buller, the inventress and manager of the "Brothers' Agency," perhaps the most important social factor of the present century. In due course I found myself opposite a smart-looking house, on whose door-plate was engraved "The Brothers' Agency."

Being taken no doubt for a postulant Brother, I was shown upstairs into a severe but elegant room, in the middle of which, at a huge desk loaded with papers, sat a fashionable young lady of the frailest type of Transatlantic beauty.

"Miss Buller, I believe."

"You will not suit," she said, after one short but decisive stare. "You are not up to our mark."

"I don't wish to be a Brother," I replied.

"Then what do you want?" she answered.

"Miss Buller," I inquired, as if my life depended on the response, "how did you ever think of this wonderful scheme?"

She laid down her pen, and turned in her chair; and I saw that I had won.

"I'm tired of writing just now," she began, "and I don't mind if I tell you.

[Illustration: "'I DON'T MIND IF I TELL YOU.'"]

"I found myself obliged to increase my income by some means. I first thought of starting a servants' agency; but the inconvenience I experienced from having no brothers to take me about suggested a novel idea to me. I was wondering if other girls felt as I did, when it flashed upon me that young men who, from any reasons, are in want of money, might let themselves out as brothers to well-to-do damsels possessing no fraternal relations. I immediately settled to start an agency for this object--somewhat on the principle of 'Lady Guides'--the full title being 'The agency for supplying Brothers to brotherless girls, or those with unobliging brothers.' I resolved to call it shortly 'The Brothers' Agency.' It is a good name, and gives to the undertaking a kind of monastic flavour that I find is very taking.

"Of course I only began in a small way amongst the men and girls I knew personally; but my business spread so rapidly that I soon started a regular office, and issued printed rules.

"I decided that the Brothers should go to their work during the day (as such relations do), and only be engaged for the evening to escort my clients, as their sisters, to balls, theatres, etc. I knew that young men in London society were supposed to let themselves out for dances; so why not as Brothers?"

"Why not, indeed?" I murmured sympathetically.

"We do not find," she continued vivaciously, "that it leads to matrimonial complications, as the men who seek employment as Brothers are usually so very impecunious that they understand that marriage is out of the question for them. I was told by my friends, by which I mean all those who felt themselves privileged to say nasty things to me, that we should degenerate into a matrimonial agency, but I have not found it so. On the contrary, every man entering his name on our books, and every girl engaging a Brother, signs a paper agreeing to pay a large prohibitive fine should they get engaged to each other during the period of fraternity. Any man known to be engaged is obliged to take his name off the books _at once_, as we find _fiancées_ very prejudiced, and several unpleasant visits were paid to me at the office. Any man becoming engaged while fulfilling a contract is liable to instant dismissal at the employer's pleasure, it having been found that he almost invariably becomes remiss and inattentive in his discharge of duties.

[Illustration: "ONE SISTER WAS SEEN AT THE THEATRE BY AN OLD MAIDEN AUNT."]

"Of course, till the significance of the title of 'Brother' became generally known in London society, there arose a good deal of scandal and confusion.

"One sister was seen at the theatre by an old maiden aunt, who had never heard of the Agency. The young lady offered as an explanation that the man with her was 'only engaged for the time,' which so shocked the poor old lady that she made a codicil next day to her will reciting her niece's misbehaviour and disinheriting her."

"That kind of misunderstanding," I said, "can hardly occur any longer."

"I should think not," she retorted. "And meantime, thank goodness, the term 'Brother' has put an end to that hackneyed form of refusal, 'I love you as a brother.' The sisters are only allowed to require the attention of the Brothers for a stated number of nights a week, and the work is well paid. On the other hand, the sisters escape all the duties they generally have to perform for their real brothers, such as practising accompaniments, mending, shopping, or running messages.

[Illustration: "MENDING."]

"Brothers are engaged by the week; but I always recommend that the same Brother should not be retained for more than a month, as too long a service makes them--like old family servants--presume, and fancy themselves invaluable."

"And how do you manage about characters?" I here enquired.

"I never," she said, "consent to act as agent for any man I have not seen, or to procure a Brother for any girl I have not talked to; and I study their characters so as to know how any arrangement is likely to answer. We often have photographs of Brothers ready for engagement--in fact, those who keep their names permanently on the books usually supply us with cabinet pictures for reference, and I arrange for interviews as between mistresses and servants."

"And what terms are generally asked by the Brothers?" I said.

"These, of course," she replied, "depend largely on the nature of the situation, and the qualifications of the Brother. Vulgar or disagreeable girls have to pay very heavily. Families with several girls are charged more in proportion, as many men object to go where other Brothers are kept. Some men are willing to go as joint Brother to a family of girls, but this rarely works well.

"They are paid so much a week, and their theatre money if they have to escort the lady to the play (like beer money, you know). One man required his buttonhole bouquets, but I said he was clearly above his place. We do not arrange any engagements for the summer vacation, as we have found it too dangerous. I really think," she added thoughtfully, "that the best way of explaining our methods to you would be to show some entries in our books."

"I should be deeply interested," I answered, stifling my eagerness, "and it would be very kind of you."

She drew a great ledger towards her, and showed me one or two entries. The first ran as follows:

"'A Brother, six feet high; dresses well; aristocratic manners; a good dancer, and knows all the newest steps, including the Pas de Quatre; obliging, and good-tempered; a teetotaller, and only smokes the best tobacco. Has the highest credentials from his last place. Available for "Church Parade" on Sunday, but prefers not to attend church previously, as he cannot get up so early.'"

[Illustration: "KNOWS ALL THE NEWEST STEPS."]

"What a paragon!" I exclaimed.

"Ah! but he asks a very large salary," she rejoined; "he is so much sought after. This is a less expensive one--

"'A Brother, aged 27, something in the City; bad figure, but pleasant smile, and amusing to talk to; slightly provincial, but very highly educated; _most_ respectable and steady; musical, and a good tennis player. Very few private engagements, and therefore available most days of the week. Charges strictly moderate.'"

"We have one man on the books who owns a dogcart," resumed Miss Buller. "He is in the Guards, and preferred to earn a little money to being obliged to leave his regiment. I need hardly say that his charges are very high."

"Naturally," I murmured.

"Here is an advertisement addressed to young ladies of a religious turn of mind:

"'A young curate, who has a conscientious objection to bazaars, would be glad to augment his income (the money to be devoted to charitable objects) by obtaining employment as a Brother. He does not dance himself, but would give the sanction of his presence to such entertainments any day except Friday. He is fond of tennis and a good oar. He will give assistance to any lady district-visiting, or taking a Sunday-school class in his own parish. He prefers, as the object is a charitable one, leaving the question of salary to the sister's own good feeling.'

[Illustration: "A YOUNG CURATE."]

"You wouldn't believe," said Miss Buller, "what a run there is on him; but I find I can easily supply every kind of variety now. A barrister, on this next page, suggests that, as he has influential legal connections, he can generally procure for his sister an excellent place at the sensational trials that have become so fashionable for ladies to attend! He commands a huge salary, especially being a gifted conversationalist, and taking the charge of a dinner table brilliantly; he has credentials from his last place for being 'witty without vulgarity.'"

"And now," I said, "I should like to see the sort of advertisement used by ladies needing Brothers, if you would be kind enough to show me one."

"They are not so interesting," she replied, "but here is one I received to-day:

"'A Brother is required during the hunting season by two sisters. He must be a good rider, capable of giving a lead, but very obliging, as two Brothers have been parted with lately, owing to over-excitement in the field causing them to neglect their sisters. The Brother will be mounted by the ladies' parents.'"

"Don't you find that disputes arise," I asked, "between Brothers and their employers? I should have thought the position might become irksome to a young man, if the sister was unpleasant."

"Of course," she answered pensively, "an ill-tempered girl can make matters very unpleasant; but such people pay very highly, as I pointed out only yesterday to one of our most promising Brothers. 'She is rather a common girl,' I said, 'but you know you were very unlucky at Newmarket lately; and you sit up incessantly playing poker; and if you take my advice you will make your losses good by sticking to your place. I dare say the theatres are rather trying, but, on the other hand, as you don't go into at all the same society that she does, you are not likely to meet anyone you know at the parties she takes you to; and, of course, as her Brother, you need not dance incessantly with her!' He finally took my advice."

"Now that," I said, in my very stupidest manner, "is one of the difficulties which has occurred to me. A man who has been engaged as a Brother finds himself saddled with an undesirable acquaintance after the engagement is over."

[Illustration: "AN ILL-TEMPERED GIRL CAN MAKE MATTERS VERY UNPLEASANT."]

"I should have thought," she replied, indignantly, "that you would have understood that neither the lady nor the Brother are expected to recognise each other when they meet after the termination of the engagement."

"It must be anxious work sometimes," I remarked, "settling the disputes that arise."