Chapter III: In Which I Play the Spy (2)

It would be a misappropriation of these artistic treasures to accumulate them all in one gallery, fatiguing the visitor with acres of painted canvas. As national possessions, it would be out of all reason that the metropolis alone should monopolize the enjoyment of them. Since the formation of the National Gallery, the State has aided in the erection of picture-galleries in Dublin and Edinburgh. Even if the principle of centralization were admitted, it would be impossible to find any centre of London equally accessible to its three millions of inhabitants. In the abstract, _the_ central spot would be Smithfield; but no one would be bold enough to say that the public would frequent that spot in greater numbers than they do Trafalgar Square.

The wise and liberal course of dealing with the national pictures would be to render them as useful as possible _to the whole of the United Kingdom_; to retain in the metropolis a selection, and to circulate the others wherever localities shall provide suitable accommodation for the reception and exhibition of pictures. It would be more useful and interesting that there should be a change of pictures in the provincial localities than fixed collections.[25] The idea of circulation is not new. The public, of its own accord, brings together exhibitions of modern pictures every year in the large towns; and choice works of the old masters, lent by their possessors, and sent from mansions in all parts of the kingdom, are every year entrusted to the managers of the British Institution in Pall Mall. There could be no real administrative difficulties in the State’s dealing with the national pictures in the same way. Of course, legislative powers to remove antiquated obstructions must be obtained, and a proper authority, directly responsible to Parliament, instead of being screened through different Boards of Trustees, would have to be created.

In the metropolis, the head-quarters for the old masters should be at the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The British School might remain where it is now well displayed, at South Kensington. On the South of London, there is already the Dulwich Gallery; whilst on the north side in Finsbury or Islington, and on the east in Victoria Park, suitable suburban galleries, with accommodation for schools of Art, might be erected at a cost not exceeding 3,000_l._ each. Besides the two metropolitan galleries of Dublin and Edinburgh, excellent accommodation for exhibiting and receiving pictures is provided in connection with the Schools of Art at Manchester, Sheffield, Liverpool, Bristol, Wolverhampton, &c. And in all future buildings for schools of Art, towards the cost of which the State is asked to contribute, such aid will only be given upon the condition that provision is made for a suitable exhibiting room.

With these views, the first practical point is to decide what shall be done to supply the present deficiencies of the building in Trafalgar Square. Although Parliament and various administrations have often changed their minds about the locality of the National Gallery, it may be assumed that the present decision is to retain it in Trafalgar Square. Proposals have been discussed for gaining more space by turning out the Royal Academy;[26] which, from its creation, has been housed at the public expense:—not a very large contribution towards its gratuitous teaching of young artists. Last year Mr. Disraeli invited the Royal Academy to transport itself to Burlington House; but it is said that the present government have not renewed the offer of that site. If it can be shown that much better as well as increased accommodation, can be found for the National Pictures, without displacing the Royal Academy, and without necessitating the expenditure of 200,000_l._ for the purchase of ground and St. Martin’s workhouse, or incurring the cost of removing the barracks, it would seem to be a waste of public money to adopt such measures. Besides, it would not be very convenient for art-students to attend the schools of the Royal Academy in Piccadilly, nor for the public to visit its exhibitions there. Nor should the advantage to the students of their contiguity to the pictures of the old masters be overlooked.

Our proposal, therefore, is to keep both National Gallery and Royal Academy where they now are, and to demonstrate, with the aid of the ingenious constructor of the new Gallery at South Kensington—which for its lighting both by day and night may fairly challenge any other gallery in Europe—how this may be done. The reader, if sufficiently curious, may find on the votes of the House of Commons of last year, in the month of March, a notice as follows:—“22º die Martis 1859:—9. Mr. Adderley. National Gallery. Address for copies of plans and estimates for the alteration of the National Gallery, prepared by Captain Fowke, R.E., and submitted to the Lords of the Committee of Council on Education.”

Owing to a change of Ministry, or some other cause, these plans were not published, but only talked about. The _Cornhill Magazine_, in laying them before the public, invites discussion and consideration of their merits.

The defects of the present building are many, and are thus summed up by Captain Fowke: “The first object of the building ought to be the proper exhibition of pictures, but by its present arrangements the valuable top-lighted space (_the_ picture space _par excellence_) to the extent of 8,000 square feet, out of the entire area of 22,000 square feet, is thrown away upon the central hall and passages. The tinted portion on the plan (Fig. 2) shows at a glance the wasted space. The interior of the building is not worthy of the purposes to which it is applied, the entrance-hall being large and unimposing, whilst the approach to the galleries, up a dark stair enclosed between two walls, is singularly wanting in dignity. The communications from room to room are small, and unfitted for the reception of great crowds. There is no space of sufficient dimensions for the proper exhibition of the largest class of pictures. Another point, which must strike every one who has visited continental galleries, is the want of any _tribune_, or great central point for the reception of the choicest works. The absence of this gives the National Gallery the air of a mere set of rooms, which seem to require to be in some way connected with one another, and with one grand focussing point to give them the unity of a great gallery.”

PROPOSED PLAN OF THE FIRST OR PRINCIPAL FLOOR OF THE GALLERY. Fig. 1.

PRESENT PLAN OF GALLERY. Fig. 2]

The two accompanying plans of the first-floors show how the existing building may, at a comparatively small cost, be altered so as to remove the objections stated, while at the same time its accommodation will be largely increased (Figs. 1 and 2). To begin with the entrance. It will be seen from the section (Fig. 3), that the floor of the present picture galleries is 23 feet 6 inches above the foot pavement of the street. If the floor of the central hall then be _raised_ to this level, there will be sufficient height for an entrance-hall under the additional gallery; that is, keeping the floor of the entrance-hall three inches above the pavement, and allowing one foot for the thickness of the floor of the gallery above, there will be a clear height of 22 feet 3 inches for a noble entrance-hall. By removing the present external steps, the entrance from the street will be at each side under the present portico floor, the flagging of which will be replaced by a light glass and iron ceiling, so constructed as not to be seen from the square in front; the space under the portico will then form a well-lighted vestibule to the hall. The hall will be carried back into the present Royal Academy sculpture-room, from the enlarged skylight of which, and from a series of windows over the floor of the portico in front, it would be amply lighted. The apsidal end under the skylight would afford a good position for the few pieces of sculpture belonging to the National Collection. By this arrangement the visitor may at once step from a carriage across the pavement into a warm hall, instead of having to ascend a flight of steps, and in rainy weather get wet _before_ he reaches even the portico.

Four staircases, each stair eight feet wide, will lead from either side of this hall to the galleries above; of which the central one would consist of a tribune, or _salon carré_, of nobler proportions than that at the Louvre. From a deep recess at the sides of this tribune, openings would lead each way into an uninterrupted series of rooms, and by bringing the doorways of these rooms into one line, and increasing them to twelve feet in width, an effective vista the entire length of the building (450 feet) would be obtained, which might be decorated with columns and arches, as in similar openings in the galleries of the Vatican. (See Fig. 5.)

By bringing the retired portion of the wings forward to the line of their projecting front, and throwing each wing into two good rooms in line with those above named, it will then be seen that the entire top-lighted area of the building is made available, with the exception of the small spaces actually occupied by the stairs. The saving in space, in square feet, will be apparent from the following table of the floor areas of the top-lighted part of the building as it is at present, and as now proposed:—

Total Picture space Space
area. top-lighted. lost.

As at present (including Royal Academy) 22,540 14,090 8,450
As proposed 23,560 22,488 1,071

From which it appears that while at present the lost space is three-fifths of that reserved for exhibition, in the proposed plan the loss would be reduced to one twenty-second part of the available space; the exhibition area being increased by more than one-half its present quantity.

In measuring the superficial contents of wall space for hanging pictures in the present and proposed galleries, the same proportion holds good. The hanging space in the present National Gallery is 10,000 square feet, which would be increased to 20,000 square feet, whilst the 10,000 square feet of the Royal Academy would be increased 10,194 square feet.

On the lower floor, the only room now available for exhibition is that in which the Turner drawings are stored away—a room containing 900 square feet of floor area; and from the unfortunate circumstance, not to say absurd arrangement of the entrance _being down a descending_ and dark stair, the public impression has been that the lower rooms were merely a superior kind of cellars. The public will recollect the dismal impression which the Vernon pictures made in these rooms.

LONGITUDINAL SECTION THROUGH CENTRAL HALL. Fig. 3.

*PRESENT LEVEL OF FLOOR OF CENTRAL HALL.

REVISED ELEVATION. Fig. 4.]

By the arrangement proposed, a space of 3,300 square feet will be available for exhibiting drawings of the old masters; and these rooms will be entered at once from the entrance-hall, by an _ascending_ staircase, by which the disagreeable impression above alluded to would be avoided.

The proposed changes would also greatly benefit both the exhibitions and the schools of the Royal Academy. They would increase and improve the exhibiting space; giving five large rooms, instead of seven small ones, as at present: two large rooms being obtained by the suppression of four small ones. (See Figs. 1 and 2.) The Royal Academy, at present, has a room appropriated to sculpture, which has long been designated “the Cellar,” and in which works are deposited, rather than exhibited: the loss of such a room is almost a gain. Next, it would lose the dark little octagon room; which, after many efforts to make it a room for exhibition, has lapsed into the condition of an ante-room, containing a few prints. The other two rooms suppressed by the new plan are the two small side rooms at present appropriated to the architectural drawings and the miniatures; though they are confessedly far too small for their purpose.

The distribution of the increased space available for the exhibitions of the Royal Academy might be as follows:—The first great room at the top of the new staircase might be devoted to the sculptors; visitors would then pass through it, and examine the works of sculpture, instead of having to diverge to a “cellar,” as at present, or quitting the Exhibition without seeing the sculpture, as many do. As the entrance would be in the centre of the building, and lighted from the top, the sculpture might be arranged in two noble semicircles, forming a grand art entrance into the collections, and giving that importance to the sculpture which it deserves. The sculptors would thus at least double the number of their visitors. From this room the visitors would proceed into the next, where the space on the left might be devoted to architectural drawings, and that on the right to miniatures and water-colour paintings. These works, especially the architectural, would be appropriately placed, and the miniatures and pictures in water-colours would gain in richness by being viewed after the colourless marbles, and before the eye had become accustomed to the fuller richness of the paintings in oil. After thus greatly improving the exhibitions of sculpture, architecture, and water-colour paintings, there would still remain the same amount of exhibiting space as at present for oil pictures. Thus far the change is clearly a great gain to all the exhibitors.

The advantages that would accrue to the students of the Royal Academy have now to be considered, and are, perhaps, even still more important. It is hardly known to the world outside that in the schools of the Royal Academy almost all the rising artists of the country receive a _free_ education in art. At present, however, the schools are subject to the disadvantage of being closed during the months when the exhibition is open. This has long been deplored, equally by the students and academicians, but it was unavoidable, since the rooms used for exhibition are those also used as schools of art. By the new arrangements of the plan of the lower story, three excellent rooms may be provided which could be used _throughout the year_ without interruption: the first as an antique school, the second as a life school, the third as a painting school; and thus there would be no necessity to close these schools during nearly five months in the year. In order to give the schools the advantage of an uninterrupted north light, it would be desirable that the Royal Academy should occupy the west end of the building, and the National Gallery the east. The National Gallery would not be prejudiced in the least by this change, as all the galleries are lighted from the top. The rooms below, if used for the exhibition of the drawings of the old masters, as proposed, would be lighted quite sufficiently from windows at the side, as the best authorities prescribe a light not too glaring, since drawings are liable to fade, if exposed to too much light.

As will be seen from the elevation (Fig. 4), the alterations of the exterior of the building are of no great extent, the principal being (in addition to that already described in the wings) the removal of the central and two secondary domes, and the substitution of an attic story, carried over the central portion of the building; the general effect of which would be improved by the removal of the small secondary four-column porticos. If any one will stand in the front of the building, which is only 450 feet in length, he will be able to count no less than thirteen different fronts, none of them differing much in extent; the composition is thus broken up, the unity and mass of the building are lost, and the repose and dignity which should characterize an important public edifice are entirely wanting. By the proposed arrangement, the whole façade would be thrown into an imposing centre, with two massive wings connected with it by unbroken curtains. That impression of meanness and want of height, produced by the puny and meagre dome and insignificant cupolas, would be removed by the substitution of the attic, which would have the effect of elevating the entire mass of the building.

In the proposed alterations it is presumed that there would be no difficulty in closing up the two passages which lead from the square to Duke’s Court and to the barracks; though if it were thought desirable, one or both of these could be retained. The entrance to these passages is now effected by an ascending flight of ten steps; by simply reversing this arrangement and substituting a descending flight, the passages could be carried through the building below the floor of the present lower rooms.

The estimated cost of the entire alteration is under 34,000_l._, which has been verified by a responsible builder; but to provide for additional decorations and contingencies a sum of (say) 50,000_l._ might be allowed; and even this, to accomplish the objects proposed, would be a moderate and justifiable outlay, which the public would scarcely grudge for such results; and the Royal Academy might not object to share the expense, as they would participate in the advantages of the improvements.

These alterations and improvements, moreover, could be effected without closing the Gallery for a day.

By using the entrance under the western side portico as a temporary entrance for the public, the centre part could be finished without interfering with the National Gallery, and by moving the pictures into the portion completed (a work of a few hours) the wing might be in like manner finished, the public being then admitted through the new entrance-hall.

* * * * *

Briefly to sum up, the advantages to be gained are—

1. The whole of the top-lighted space will be utilized.

2. The lower floors will also be made available for exhibition and schools.

3. The means of access and of internal communication will be improved.

4. The picture space for the National Gallery will be doubled, without disturbing the Royal Academy.

5. The space available for exhibiting drawings, &c. will be increased about fourfold.

6. The appearance of the building both externally and internally will be improved.

7. The whole alteration can be completed within six months, and without moving a single picture out of the building, or closing the National Gallery to the public for a single day.

8. The cost of the entire work would not exceed 50,000_l._

* * * * *

Any other plan than the above will delay the settlement of this vexed question interminably, and will lead to an expenditure of hundreds of thousands of pounds; whereas the adoption of the present proposal, coupled with the principle of local circulation rather than metropolitan centralization, will promote a taste for art throughout the United Kingdom, and enlist the sympathies and assistance of all in the conservation and extension of a National Collection of Pictures, thus rendered accessible to the population of the most remote districts.

FOOTNOTES

[25] Mr. T. Fairbairn is usefully striving to establish a public Gallery of Art at Manchester; but however rich it may become in local resources, specimens of Beato Angelicos, Raffaelles, and the like, successively introduced, for a season, from time to time, would have a very beneficial influence on the tastes of the visitors.

[26] So much doubt and ignorance exists on the subject of the tenure by which the Royal Academy holds its premises, that the official answer of Henry Howard, the Keeper, has been exhumed from parliamentary records to remove them. Mr. Howard says:—

“There are no expressed conditions on which the apartments at Somerset House were originally bestowed on the Royal Academy. The Royal Academy of Arts took possession of the apartments which they occupy in Somerset House, in April 1780, by virtue of a letter from the Lords Commissioners of the Treasury to the Surveyor General, directing him to deliver over to the Treasurer of the Royal Academy, all the apartments allotted to his Majesty’s said Academy in the new buildings at Somerset House, which are to be appropriated to the uses specified in the several plans of the same heretofore settled.”

“The Royal Academy received these apartments as a gift from their munificent founder, George the Third; and it has always been understood by the members that his Majesty, when he gave up to the government his palace of old Somerset House (where the Royal Academy was originally established), stipulated that apartments should be erected for that establishment in the new building. The Royal Academy remained in the old palace till those rooms were completed which had been destined for their occupation; plans of which had been submitted to their approval, and signed by the president, council, and officers.”

A Winter Wedding-Party in the Wilds.

“I’m sorry for the lasses’ disappointment, wife, but they _can’t_ go. It would be madness to think of it. The phaeton would be broken to bits, if the grey mare could do the distance, in such weather, which she couldn’t; and if we were to send into Winton to ask, there’s not one of the inns would let a chaise go out of the yard after last night’s fall of snow.”

For two or three minutes there was a blank silence round the breakfast table; Anne’s eyes grew tearfully bright, Sophy looked rebellious, and I began to experience a painful difficulty in swallowing as I stared out of the window at the hopeless prospect of a great drift, which levelled the garden hedge with the fields beyond, and went sloping up in a snowy undulation to the brow of the Langhill.

“If a phaeton can’t pull through the snow, how will Cousin Mary get to church to be married?” proposed Sophy.

“She’ll ride as your father and mother did on the same occasion, Miss.”

“I wore a plum-coloured cloth habit, faced with velvet, and sugar-loaf buttons, and a hat with a gold band on it,” said Mrs. Preston. “I believe, father, it was a morning to the full as bad as this, was our wedding; and yet didn’t all the folks come over from Appley Moor? To be sure they did, every one of them!”

“And the road from Appley Moor to Rookwood Grange is worse than the road we should have to go, isn’t it, mother?” insinuated Sophy.

“Couldn’t be worse than Binks’ Wold,” replied her father; and to spare himself any further aggravation from our faces of reproach and mortification, he marched away, after his ample breakfast, out of the room, and out of the house. Mrs. Preston disappeared also, and we three young ones were left alone to bewail our disappointment.

And a cruel disappointment it was; perhaps more cruel to me than to my school-friends, for I was a town-bred girl, only staying my Christmas holidays at Ripstone Farm, and never in my life had I been to any entertainment more exciting than a breaking-up dance all of girls. The wedding at the Grange was known of before I came, and so I had been sent from home provided with crisp white muslin, tucked ever so high, with rose-coloured bows and sash; and only the Saturday previous, Anne’s and Sophy’s new frocks had come from the dressmaker’s, by the Winton carrier, and had been pronounced, with their sky-blue trimmings, so pretty, so _sweetly_ pretty! When Mr. Preston had said we could not go to the wedding-party, my first thought had been of my frock, and when we came to compare notes, Anne’s and Sophy’s regrets proved to have taken the same direction. With one consent we adjourned up-stairs, to indulge the luxury of woe over our sacrificed finery, but that mournful exercise palling upon us fast, Sophy and I found our way, by a swept foot-path, into the garden, where the two boys of the family were constructing a snow-man of grand proportions. Shovels were proposed to us to help, and we were cavalierly dismissed to find them in the tool-house for ourselves, when we unexpectedly met the foreman at the door. Sophia told him how that, on account of the snow, we could not go to the wedding-party at the Grange, and appealed to him if it were really and truly out of the question to attempt it.

“Unpossible, Miss Sophy, quite unpossible for the pheyton an’ grey mear, but _I_ could get yo there,” replied foreman, with a confidential wag of his head.

“How, John, how?”

“Why, Miss, I’ll tell ’ee. I’ th’ broad-wheeled wagon wi’ fower hosses, an’ a tilt ower-head. Put a mattruss an’ plenty o’ rugs iv’ th’ insoide, an’ yo’d goa as cosy as cosy could be. Long Tom to lead, an’ me to foller.”

“I’ll ask father if we mayn’t?” cried Sophy, and away she flew in search of him.

In a few minutes she came speeding back, clapping her hands, and announcing that he would see about it; so in we ran to tell Anne.

“When father says he’ll see about anything he means it shall be done,” replied Anne; “let us go and begin packing our frocks!”

And so it was decided that we should go to the wedding-party after all! We were in exuberant spirits at our early dinner, for at two o’clock we were to start. John and Tom were fixing the tilt upon the wagon then, and the horses were eating double feeds of corn in preparation for the work that was before them. We had full ten miles to go, and Mr. Preston thought it might be done by six o’clock, when we should have plenty of time to get warmed, and make ourselves grand before tea, at seven.

“And I expect you’ll bring us word you’ve each found a beau; you too, Miss Poppy,” said the farmer, addressing me.

“I think Cousin Joseph will just suit her,” cried Sophy.

“As you lasses always go by the rule of contraries, perhaps he will. He’s as tall as a house-end, and as thin as a whipping-post, Miss Poppy. Do you think you’ll match?”

I did not like the allusion to my own brevity of stature, and determined to hate the lanky Joseph on the spot.

Dinner was a mere fiction for us that day, and when we were free to quit the table, away we scampered to be swathed up. About Sophy and Anne I cannot undertake to speak; but for myself, I know I could not stir a limb for weight of cloaks, skirts, boots, and comforters, when I was finished off in the hall, and yet I was in a breathless state of eagerness to be in the wagon, and experiencing the delicious sensations of actually setting off. There were, of course, twenty little things to be done at the last—the lanterns to be fitted with fresh candles, the great wooden mallets to be found, to stop the wheels from slipping down hill when the horses had to rest going up, and a bottle of rum-and-water, to be mixed for the refreshment of John and Long Tom on the way.

The wagon looked quite pictorial, as I remember it, standing in the slanting, winterly sunshine, with the team of ponderous black horses which no other farmer in the district could match, and the water-proof tilt used to cover the loads of corn when they were carried to the miller at Winton, set upon an arched framework, and closed like curtains, back and front. Inside, the wagon was made comfortable with a mattress and a supply of pillows and blankets, amongst which we were charged to go to sleep as we were returning home in the morning. Sophy was the first to set foot on the step, but her father stopt her.

“Let’s have you in dry-shod, at all events—lift them in at the back, John;” and accordingly, like three bundles of hay, we were hoisted under the tilt, received our final messages, cautions, and counsels; after which all was made secure in the rear, to shut out the wind, only a peep-hole being allowed us in front, over the horses’ broad backs. Then wagoner cracked his long whip, uttered a hoarse gee-whoa, and the heavy procession moved slowly off across the home-pastures.

What a merry trio we were under the tilt; how we laughed, and chattered, and sang! and only a dozen years ago! Lord! what a change a dozen years can make amongst the liveliest of us!

It was, I cannot deny it, a cold and tedious journey. Before one-half of it was accomplished the pale sunshine had faded from the snow, and the gray twilight was coming down upon the hills under a leaden vault of sky which promised another storm before the morning. Long Tom plodded patiently on at the leader’s head, now cracking his whip, now cheering his horses forward with a gruff encouragement, but never vouchsafing a word to anybody else. Foreman was more sociably disposed; he took brief rides on the shafts and the front of the wagon, and from time to time put his broad brown face in at the opening of the tilt, and inquired how we were getting on. Before it grew dark, there was a pretty long stoppage for a consultation, and Anne and Sophy were taken into council. John was spokesman, and addressed himself to Sophy, who was the imperative mood of the Preston family, and ruled many things both in-doors and out at Ripstone Farm, though she was only the younger daughter.

“We’ve split, Long Tom and me, Miss Sophy, and I want to know what you says, and Miss Anne. There’s two ways to Rookwood, and Tom’s for going by t’ Scaur, but I votes for Binks’ Wold:—it’s a stiffish pull, but it’s safest. Now, if we goes by t’ Scaur, an’ we finds a drift across t’ hollow, as most likelings we should, turn back we must; we couldn’t haul through it nohow—an’ there’s Dimple Quarries—I never likes passing them quarries after dark.”

“Binks’ Wold, John,” pronounced Sophy, imperially; “we’ll have nothing to say to the Scaur or the Quarries after daylight. We should not be worth picking up, Tom, if you drove us over the cliff.”

Long Tom did not attempt to argue the point, but cracked his whip sharply, and again the horses moved on; more slowly now than before, for the road, such as it was, wound circuitously up-hill for nearly half a mile. Four times during the ascent we stopped to breathe the horses, but at last John, looking in on us, announced in mysterious terms that “we had brokken t’ neck o’ t’ journey, an’ should be at the Grange i’ no time.” I could not resist the temptation to crawl to the opening, and look out; Anne and Sophy joining me. There we were on the crest of Binks’ Wold: far as eye could see, one undulation of snow; the black horses, with their heads a little turned from the road, smoking in the frosty air, like four masked furnaces. Long Tom, with his lantern, stood at the leader’s head, throwing a grotesque shadow across the whitened road, and John clumped up and down, with his pipe in his mouth, to warm his nose, as he said.

Foreman’s “no time” proved to be full an hour and a half; and in that dusky interval, spite of our excited anticipations, we all began to feel drowsy. At last, Sophy declared, yawning, that we must be nearly there; and, looking out, she announced the tower of Rookwood Church, where Cousin Mary was married in the morning; upon which, we all brisked up, and became excessively wide-awake. The Grange was only a mile and a quarter further, and as Sophy held the tilt open, by-and-by we could see it; three long ruddy shining windows on the ground floor, and two in the chamber story, peeping out from amongst the great white trees. Another ten minutes, and we stopped at the gate; but before we stopped, we saw the house door opened, and, against the bright glow within, half a dozen or more dark figures appeared coming out to meet us.

“Capital, lasses! we were beginning to think Uncle Preston wouldn’t let you come!” cried a jolly voice.

“He would have had hard work to keep some of us, Cousin David,” responded Sophy, and, having extricated her limbs from some of her most cumbrous swathements, she proffered herself to be lifted out first.

I thought I was going to be forgotten, and carted away to the stables, for when Sophy and Anne were gone, the noisy group marched back to the house in double quick time, and the door was just being shut when Sophy shrieked out, “Cousin David, you’ve not brought in Poppy!” and the young giant tore down the path, pulled me out of the wagon, much bedazed and on the verge of tears, carried me roughly off, and plumped me down on my feet in the midst of the sonorous gathering, crying, in a voice enough to blow a house-roof off, “Who’s this little body?”

The Babel that ensued for the next ten minutes, when everybody spoke at once to everybody else, each in a voice big enough for ten, united to the pricking sensation which I now began to experience in coming out of the frost into a thoroughly heated house, finished the prostration of my faculties, and I remember nothing more until I found myself with Anne, Sophy, and two strangers in a large bedroom, where a fire of logs blazed in the grate, and a wide-mouthed damsel was unpacking our white frocks. “Well, Cousin Mary, good luck to you!” cried Sophy, kissing the taller of the two strangers very heartily; “and you got all safely married this morning, I suppose?”

I looked, and beheld the bride. Never, to my recollection, had I seen a bride before, and I romantically anticipated a glorified vision, quite distinct in appearance from all other womankind; but I only beheld a large young person, plump, fair, and ruddy, with eyes of a soft expression as she stood on the hearth with the light shining up into them, and a quantity of very wavy dark hair, which the wind in the hall had blown all off her face: an uncommonly pretty, attractive, loveable face it was; but it was only a woman’s after all, and she talked something about tea-cakes! I believe I was disappointed.

The bride’s sister was Kate; younger and livelier, at present, than Mary, though not so handsome. She was Sophy’s peculiar friend amongst the cousins, and the pair now betook themselves for private conversation and the decorative process to Kate’s room. Mary and Anne had some low-voiced chat apart, to which I was carefully deaf; but, when their secrets were told, Mary, chancing to look round, saw me fumbling, with benumbed fingers, at buttons and hooks and eyes, and took me under hand immediately, hugging me up in her warm arms, with the exclamation, that the little mite was half frozen. I found her very nice and comfortable then; better by far than anything more angelic and exalted.

We were not long in arranging ourselves, and then Sophy and Kate being routed out from their retreat, we formed a procession downstairs; Mary and Anne arm-in-arm, and I under Mary’s other wing, and Sophy and Kate in an affectionate feminine entanglement behind. All the cousins got up and roared at us again, in those big voices of theirs, chorussed by various guests, and put us into the warmest seats; mine being a footstool by Mary at one side of the fire-place, where I felt most cosily arranged for getting toasted, and seeing everybody. And there were plenty of people to see. It was a very long room in which we were, having on one side the three windows which we had seen shining from the road, and seats in them where the girls had stowed themselves in knots, the red curtains making a background for their figures, which was as pictorial as need be. The men folk were mostly young, and mostly sons of Anak, like the cousins, but there were a few elders, contemporaries of Mary’s father, who was a white-haired, handsome old man; and there were also several matronly women, mothers of the occupants of the window-seats, and of the young men their brothers. Everybody called everybody else by his or her Christian name in the most friendly way, and it was not until the evening was half over that I began to find out who was who, for such a ceremony as introduction seemed quite unheard of. To be sure, Sophy brought up a long rail of a boy to me who seemed to have a difficulty with his arms, and said significantly, “Poppy, this is Cousin Joseph; now, Joseph, you are to be polite to Miss Poppy;” but no civilities ensued, and my attention was called away by hearing Mary say in a soft, half-laughing tone, “George, look at your boots.” She must have meant something else, for glancing at the person whom she addressed, I saw that he had turned his trousers up to come out into the snow when we arrived, and that he was now sitting with them stretched out before him in that inappropriate arrangement. He coolly stooped and put them right, and then looked at Mary, and smiled.

“Who is it?” whispered I.

“It’s George!” said she, and blushed a little, from which I guessed George must be the bridegroom—George Standish, whose name and description Sophy had given me before we came; and given very accurately. He was tall, but not so tall as the cousins, and broad-shouldered, but he would never carry anything like their weight. Then he had blue-black hair, beard, and brows, and a clever-looking face; very broad and white as to the forehead, and very brown as to all below it. I had heard him praised as a most kind and skilful country surgeon, and the best rider ’cross country in that or any ten parishes of the Wolds, and he looked as if both encomiums must be true. It was quite a love-match, everybody said. Mary might have married more money, but she preferred George, like a wise woman. Two of her ancient aspirants were present and pointed out to me by Sophy: old Mr. Jewson, of Harghill Farm, who was rich enough to have kept her a carriage if she would have taken him for that; and young Philip Murgatroyd, a man with a fierce face, who might have been a melodramatic villain, but was not—only a young farmer with innovating ideas.

The unsuppressed noise did not cease for a moment, and I saw the wide-mouthed damsel at the door thrice announce tea as ready before she made herself heard by her mistress; but once heard, a simultaneous hungry movement took place, and Cousin David came and roared at me, “Now, little Miss Poppy, we will go in together, and you shall sit by me.” So I rose up, proposing to stiffen my back and lay my hand lightly on the young giant’s arm, as we had been laboriously taught to do at dancing-school, when I felt that powerful masculine member encircling me behind, and I saw the biggest boots that had ever met my eyes break into an uncouth step to which I was perforce compelled to keep a measure with my own toes in the air; they only alighted once, and that was on one of the boots aforesaid, which they would have delighted to crush into mummy if they had been able.

Finally I was landed breathless and shaken, like a kitten that a terrier has had in its mouth for frolic rather than mischief, in a chair very broad in the beam, which I was expected to share in part with my big cavalier, for, long as was the table, each individual of the company took up so much room that hardly was there found accommodation for all. But at last everybody was shaken into place, and the business of the hour began. And a most weighty business it was. My eyes have never since beheld such a tea; a cold sirloin of beef, ham boiled and ham frizzled, game pie and game roast, and every kind of tart and cake that the ingenuity of cook with unlimited materials could devise. Cousin David swiftly supplied me with provisions for a week, and then Cousin Joseph, who happened to be on the other side of me, hospitably wished to add more, on which Cousin David leant across and said, “No poaching on my manor, Master Joseph; attend you to your left-hand neighbour. Now, Miss Poppy, I am going to give you a pretty little wing of this partridge,”—which he did, and then took the rest of the bird to his own share.

It vanished quickly, as did an extensive miscellaneous collection of the other good things, and notwithstanding continuous relays from the kitchen, the table presently showed signs of devastation. The bride and bridegroom, Anne, and Sophy, were out of my sight, but directly opposite, with Cousin Kate dividing them, were two young men, one fair, florid, and with curly pate, called Dick, the other dark, with long, straight, black hair, and a most lugubrious countenance, called Bob Link. Yet if that lugubrious countenance had not much signs of mirth in itself, it was the cause of mirth in others, for he never opened his lips but all those within hearing of him laughed. Bob Link was a medical student with Mr. Standish, and, as Cousin David explained, a regular wag.

Tea was a prolonged ceremony, and was only ended by the shrill sound of a violin, when somebody cried, “Come!” and again Cousin David executed his _pas de terrier_, with me in his hand, down the broad stone passage until we came to the Grange kitchen, which was a vast place with an open raftered roof, now hidden under garlands of Christmas green, and a white flagged floor which was cleared for a dance. It looked so bright and gay! Such a mighty fire of logs roared in the chimney, wide as an ordinary room, with cushioned settles in its arched recess; the great dresser glittered with metal trenchers and tankards, glinting back sparkles of light from the little oil lamps which had been ingeniously mixed amongst the evergreens where they shone like glowworms.

My young toes tingled to begin, and when the fiddles and other instruments of music tuned up in a frolicsome country dance, the swains began to pick out favourite partners. The bride and bridegroom stood top couple, and I don’t know who came next, for while I was hoping and fearing whether anybody would ask me, Cousin David arrived and spun me up to the end of a long rank of girls. The fiddles started, and Sophy shrieked out franticly, “Now, Poppy, Poppy, be ready! It’s hands across and back again, down the middle and up again—Cousin Mary and David, and you and George Standish!” and then away we went!

We shall never dance a country dance like that again! Cousin David emulated his royal Hebrew namesake, and I should have thought him a delightful partner if he would not quite so often have made me do my steps on nothing. That was glorious exercise for a frosty winter’s evening, and made all our cheeks rosy and all our eyes bright.

When that set was finished, curly Mr. Dick came and asked me to dance the next with him, which I did, and then to the tune of “Merrily danced the Quaker’s wife, and merrily danced the Quaker,” Bob Link was my partner. That medical youth had missed his vocation in not going as clown to a circus, for the grotesquerie of his actions, and the inimitable solemnity of his visage, kept everybody in roars of laughter all through his performance, and we never had to meet and take hold of hands that he did not address me with some absurd speech that made me peal out just like the rest. I never sat out once. It was great fun. We had the “Lancers,” in which everybody was perfect, and common quadrilles, and sarabandes, and one or two tried a waltz, but country dances were the favourites, and there the elders joined in. Uncle and Aunt Preston danced, and old Mr. Jewson, who chose me for his partner, and took snuff at intervals, through the set, and nodded his wig at me, but never spoke.

Just before supper somebody called out for a game of forfeits, and “My Lady’s Toilet” was fixed upon. Do you know how to play “Lady’s Toilet?” It is an old-fashioned game that all our revered grandmothers played at, though exploded in polite society now, but I daresay it still survives at wold weddings. And this is the way of it. Each person in the company chooses the name of some article of a lady’s dress, and all sit round the room in order except one, who stands in the middle with a trencher which he begins to spin on the floor, singing out monotonously—

“My lady went to her toilet,
In her chamber so pretty and neat,
And said to her damsel Oyclet,
‘Bring me my _bracelet_, sweet.’”

And then the person called Bracelet must dash in and catch the trencher before it ceases to spin, on the penalty of a forfeit, which may be glove, handkerchief or what not. All the forfeits are kept until the close of the game, and then the penalties are exacted.

This part of the game is generally considered the most amusing, for the penalties, as at Rookwood Grange, are generally the most whimsical and ridiculous that can be devised. Bob Link was elected to the office of sentencer on this occasion, and when I saw what he inflicted, I began to quake for myself, as I remembered the one white glove of mine that lay in the confiscated heap before him. He took up a silk handkerchief and began—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know, is this pretty thing?” Curly Mr. Dick acknowledged it, whereupon he was ordered to lie flat on the floor and repeat the following absurd lines:—

“Here lies the length of a long, lazy lubber,
And here must he lie
Till the lass he loves best comes and kisses him.”

There seemed every chance of his continuing to decorate the floor all night, for in spite of his touching and laughable appeals, of course no one went near him; so, at last, up he sprang, and catching Cousin Kate, he kissed her; Kate not testifying any reliable signs of wrath, but only knitting her brows, while her eyes and lips laughed. Then lanky Cousin Joseph was ordered to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the lass _he_ loved best,” all of which ceremonies he performed before one and the same person—namely, Cousin Sophy, who was unfeignedly indignant thereat—Cousin Joseph always testified for her a loutish but most sincere and humble admiration. Another young man had to sing a song, which he did in the dolefulest manner, ending each verse with an unsupported chorus of “If we fall, we’ll get up again, we always did yet!” which was every word of the ditty that I could distinguish. Then I saw my own poor little glove drawn out, and Mr. Bob Link repeated his incantation—“Here is a thing, and a very pretty thing, whose, let me know, is this pretty thing?” and when I quivered out that it was mine, he said, “Oh! little Miss Poppy, it is yours, is it? Well, then, you must stand in the middle of the kitchen, under that green bush you see hanging down, and spell _opportunity_ with Mr. David——” I thought I could do _that_, being well up in dictation-class at school, so when Cousin David laughing took me off to the public station, where the penalty was to be performed, I began breathlessly—“O-p op, p-o-r por;” when he cried, “No, no, that’s wrong; I must teach you,” and bending down his face, he was actually proposing to kiss me between each syllable, when I flung up one of my little paws and clutched his hair, ducked my own head down, finished the word, broke loose, and scurried back to my place in much less time than it has taken me to record the feat, while Cousin David, in the midst of a shout of laughter, cried out: “You little vixen!” while I asseverated vehemently, “I spelt it, I spelt it, I spelt it!” in answer to an outcry, that it would not do, and I must go back again. I would not do that, however, and Cousin David came and sat down by me feeling his nose reproachfully, and saying, “She _scratches_!” and I had scratched him, and I was glad of it; but Curly Dick said it was all for love, and that he had seen me hide the handful of hair I had torn off David’s pate, that I might carry it off home to have it made into a locket.

Before the forfeits were well paid, supper was ready, and in spite of my ill-usage, Cousin David would be my cavalier again; he was a good-humoured young giant, very like his sister Mary, and I began to feel a little triumphant over him, in spite of his size, after my recent exploit, and when he talked, I talked again in my little way, except when I was listening to the healths being drunk, and thanks returned, after the country fashion at marriage festivities. Cousin Mary was in her place, with George Standish beside her, and I saw her give a little start and blush when “Mr. and Mrs. George Standish” were coupled together, but of all the fun to me old Mr. Jewson was now the greatest. He never raised his glass to his lips, which he did pretty frequently, without giving utterance to a _sentiment_: “May the man never grow fat who wears two faces under one hat!” or something of a similar character, and on the name of an individual, who was not popular in the district, being mentioned, he drunk again, prefacing it with, “Here’s a porcupine saddle and a high trotting horse to that fellow!” to which several responded with gruff “Amens!”

Supper did not last so long as tea, and when it was over, some one said Cousin Mary and George Standish were going home, and when most of us returned to the kitchen and parlour, they disappeared; Mary going upstairs with her mother, sister, and cousins to make ready. But we watched the start from one of the windows, where we had drawn the curtains back. The moon was up, and the wind had broken and scattered the clouds, so we saw them mount their horses, for they had three miles to ride, and David and Joseph were to set them part of the way. In the midst of a chorus of “good-byes,” and “God bless you, Marys,” they rode away, Mary never looking up, that I could see, from the moment her husband had lifted her into the saddle; but I don’t think she was crying. Her mother cried, though, but not long; the duties of hostess soon dried her tears, and she was busy trying to set us all dancing again, while Curly Dick marched up and down the room, trolling out a love-song in the mellowest voice I ever remember to have heard.

There were more dances, and more games, and then the cousins returned frosty-faced and livelier than ever to join us, and so we went on and on, the hours slipping by uncounted, until a message came from Long Tom that our time was up, and he was wanting to take his horses home.

So there was the re-swathing against the cold to be done, and then our grand team came creaking to the gate, and the dark figures poured out into the snow again; our hands were shaken, and the cousins all kissed in a cousinly way, as good-nights were said. Then Cousin Joseph lifted Sophy into the wagon, and somebody else, who had been very constant all night at Anne’s elbow, did the same kindness for her, and Cousin David, before I was aware, had hold of me.

“Now, Miss Poppy, you’re going to give me a kiss, I know,” said he persuasively, to which I responded, “No, I was not.” “Then I shan’t let you go without;” and immediately he took unfair advantage of his strength to the extortion of half-a-dozen, and then put me carefully into the wagon.

“Are you cross, Poppy? If you don’t like to keep Cousin David’s kisses, give him them back again,” said Sophy, and then foreman looked to see that all was right, Long Tom cracked his whip, and away we went through the dark and frosty morning. Three struck by Rookwood church clock just as we passed it.