" ART"IN THE VILLAGE.
TRUTHFULNESS compels us to confess that in the ordinary village, art—writ large—differs from mercy in that not only its quality but its quantity likewise are so finely strained as to leave the inquirer doubtful at times of its very existence. It presents a striking contrast to its distant relative "artfulness," the study and practice of which are carried to a high pitch of perfection among the "simple" rustics.
The average English peasant displays slight perception of what is termed taste—Nature appealing more surely to him than does her handmaiden—and the modicum he possesses is usually expended upon his flower garden. Even here neatness is too often made to play the part of beauty. Indoors, his attempts to satisfy his aesthetic instincts result as a rule in wall-papers of vulgar colouring and unlovely design, and cheap prints that produce on cultivated nerves the same kind of effect as the squeak of a pencil drawn across a slate. The people are "dearly fond of picture," and a self- respecting young couple seldom set up housekeeping without including one or more among their effects. So long as they confine themselves to portraits—crude, wooden, unflattering though these may be—their wall decoration does not inflict any excessive amount of suffering. When, more ambitious, they soar to fancy or Biblical subjects, treated in the blatant style of cheap German pictorial effort, the result is frequently startling. The old masters who depicted personages of Holy Writ clad in the Western fashions of the day painted what they saw, and they saw deep into the sacred heart of life and art. The modern " artist " who sits down to produce a representation of Jonah ejected by the whale, and clothes the prophet in a check suit of "dittos" and a bowler hat none the worse for its late unusual experiences, is not only profane and ignorant ; he lacks the saving grace of humour. His sole excuse is to be found in the fact that his wares find purchasers who are willing to pay fifteen shillings for the privilege of calling them their own, and who exhibit them with as unquestioning a satisfaction as the art patron exhibits the Turner which has cost him six thousand guineas. Picture-buying is not a pleasure confined exclusively to the rich. Sometimes one meets with a reproduction of a good picture in a cottage home. The admiration which a coloured print of the " Angelus " evoked—that surely, if any, should be certain of a sympathetic welcome among the rural poor—was genuine, albeit lacking in discrimination. "That they' was done by a Frenchman, they tells me," said the owner ; "'tis a pretty anuff picture, an' is called the
Hangelus; or summat Bich; though whether that means the wheelbarrer or the baskut, I dwunno."
: The artist who chooses to ply his brush amid the publicity of the village street has not always a happy time. He quickly becomes the centre of a circle of critics who proffer advice and exchange remarks which are generally more frank than flattering. The country folk, it is to be feared, do not take art seriously. A story is told in the village of a well- known painter, who was engaged upon a subject in bumble life which he intended for exhibition. He had occasion to introduce into the picture the local tavern, and was painting in the flight of stone steps leading to the door, when an old woman who had been intently watching him exclaimed : "What d'ee want to do them old things fur F You'd much . better come an' paint the inside o' my house,"—apply his pigments, that is, to its walls.
• Another artist—a lady this time—was advised, if she "wanted something to do," to "paint our garden seat, which as how it's got rather shabby." She suffered many things at the hands of local critics, who took great umbrage at her representation of the sunset flush on the yellow-washed walls of a wattle and daub cottage. "Lor', fancy making whitewash that colour ! " cried these precisians,
• unlike the old clerk who announced that "next Wednesday a meetin' will be held to con-sider what colour the church shall be whitewashed." As will be seen, the villagers are sticklers for rigorous adherence to truthfulness in art, if not in speech. The more photographically accurate the detail, the higher the picture ranks in their estimation. The writer once came upon a humble artist engaged in painting the portrait in oils of a smart "villa residence" in the village which was a triumph of fidelity to fact. The house was built of bricks ; their colour, however, being too subdued to please the owner's taste, he had had the end wall stained a brilliant crimson. The plot of grass which constituted the garden was intersected by a gravel path and flanked by a shed, the green tint of which could not be said to harmonise with that of Nature. The subject was sufficiently offensive to the eye even amid the softening influences of its surroundings ; when transferred to canvas it was pathetic in its ugliness. The red of the bricks, the sunset hue of the gable-end, the vivid shades of lawn and lean-to, had been faithfully. reproduced without the faintest touch of shadow to mitigate their harshness, and with a correctness that would have been invaluable in a pattern-copyist. But Wisdom is justified of her children. The picture had a succes fou, being pronounced "that nat'ral you med think 'twas the house itself," and was the forerunner of numerous other similar portrait studies.
Towards the sister-arts of music and architecture the villagers maintain a less uncompromising attitude. In music they prefer melody to harmony ; and whereas rustic singers in the main favour sentimental, not to say pathetic, ballads (which they deliver with unvarying expression of voice and countenance), the rustic audiences reserve their chief applause for the intentionally comic man. Instrumental " fireworks " enjoy a kind of breathless popularity, and though the shepherd no longer tunes his reed to love, or to any other theme, the little lad who drives the turkeys orit to grass may be heard droning "The Bluebells of Scotland" on his concertina, and the penny whistle and "mouth orgin" enliven the streets when work is done for the day.
A square-roomed "nice new" brick cottage fulfils the farm labourer's ideal of domestic architecture. Occasionally he reveals on this subject glimpses of familiarity with things high and rare, flashes of knowledge as bewildering as they are unexpected. Not long ago a working woman was showing a party of visitors over an Elizabeth manor house to which a Queen Anne wing had been added. Panelled rooms, deep-bayed windows, bolt-hole, and powder closet had been duly admired ; but—" Wait a minnit," said the caretaker, who had kept the best till last, "there's a fine old Roman staircase for you!" throwing open a door and revealing a very ordinary flight of steps leading to the attics. This woman had married into the family that at one time had owned the manor, and to-day are labourers earning twelve shillings a week. On being asked whether she were aware that the property had formerly belonged to her husband's people, she replied : "That a never did then, for my 'usband's father never bad nothen' save what he earned an' his pension" —he was an old soldier—" an' he mos'n gen'ly drank he as soon as he droved it." It was .explained' that not her father-in-law but his ancestors were meant,'whereupon after a few momenta' reflection she remarked, like Little Lord Fauntleroy's friend Mr. Hobbs : " His aunt's sisters ? I never knawed as he had any." Another instance of sur- prising acquaintance with antiquity may be quoted in eon. nexion with a chapel which in pre-Reformation times belonged to the Carthusian monks of Sheen, and latterly had been put to such profane uses as the storing of apples and potatoes. A few years ago it was sold by auction, and a would-be purchaser, perceiving an old countryman who stood leaning on his stick watching the proceedings with placid, bovine interest, inquired whether he could give him any information about the building. "Well, no," was the answer, "I dwunno as I can tell 'ee much, 'ceptin' as bow I've a-yeard as a did use to b'long to the Grakea." Side by ,side with this is worthy to be placed a note which was indited by a farmer living in the same hamlet to a resident who happened to be away from home. "Dear Sir," it ran, "I called to see you last evening, but finding you were (Non eat) and minus for the night, I knew it was of no use to wait," &c. The reflection forced upon one in reading this surprising statement is whether, having once been a minus, one can ever hope to attain a plug quantity again. The present writer is personally interested in the question. A stranger came to settle in this erudite agriculturist's neighbourhood, and local curiosity burned respecting his past, present, and future. " What has he been ?" the gossips asked, "and what is he now? Is he an artist P" . "Oh, no," replied the farmer, 4' he's quite reipectable; he's a gentleman."
Previous page
