Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2120 page)

“Here, there is nothing connected with Art, and few to talk to, — particularly for one whose occupations do not admit of mixing with society. I saw a brother of Sir Robert Peel a few days ago, who was at Drayton Manor before we came, and regretted he could not stay till our arrival. Offer my best and kindest regards to Mrs. Collins, and to Willie and Charlie, and to Francis when you see him. With esteem and regard,

“I am, yours most truly,

“DAVID WILKIE.”

The feelings of despondency on the subject of his own efforts, expressed by Wilkie in the preceding letter, soon departed on his return to London; for his friend on again entering his studio, found in the new works that it displayed, the strongest arguments to convince him of the groundlessness of his temporary doubts. Both the painters therefore now recurred to their accustomed interchange of visits and advice, and both worked with their usual industry and care for the approaching Exhibition of 1833 — my father, succeeding in spite of many interruptions from illness, in completing the three pictures, which in the preceding autumn he had originally designed to produce.

Of these works, the first in size as in importance was that entitled, “Returning from the Haunts of the Sea-fowl.” From the top to the bottom of the left-hand side of the picture, which was of an upright shape, run the precipitous extremities of a range of rocky cliffs, ending in a rugged ledge, extending across the whole foreground of the composition. Far beneath, and beyond this, lies the beach, dotted with a few figures reduced almost to specks by distance, and leading out hundreds on hundreds of yards onwards, to a rich luminous strip of sea. On the highest visible brow of the cliff, within a few feet of the sloping edge, and under an overhanging mass of rock, stands one of the sea-fowlers, relieved through the whole height of his figure against the sky, and looking attentively at his companion, who is descending the jagged face of the precipice before him. The position of this figure is most critical. Seated within a few inches of the perpendicular edge of the cliff, with one foot on a protuberance of rock, and steadying himself with a staff, he is attempting to find a safe place for his other foot on a point of crumbling stone and grass overhanging the outermost precipice; a sudden gust of wind would be enough, at such a moment, to whirl him over the giddy height. Below him is a deep recess in the rock, turning inwards, out of which some startled sea-gulls are flying. On a patch of ground, sloping outwards and downwards from this, stands the fowler’s dog, his fore feet firmly fixed on the earth, to prevent his falling over the rocks immediately beneath. To his left rise two masses of stone, between which a boy is making his way, descending by his hands and knees; while still further below are two other fowlers, already disappearing from the eye as they proceed in another direction, down a lower range of cliffs. At the right hand extremity of the rocky ledge, running across the foreground of the picture, stands a girl, pointing out their securest footing to the lads above her, who have been attempting “to make a short cut,” while she has herself descended by another and a safer way down the rocks. The bright windy clouds, rolling downwards from the upper sky, and obscuring the sun on the distant horizon, — the sea-gulls disturbed, whirling confusedly and wildly over the heads of the fowlers, — the soft shadowy painting and fine aerial perspective of the beach and distant ocean, contrasted with the sharp, vigorous modelling of the great cliff, — the elabourate finish of every patch of grass and morsel of stone that finds a resting-place on its sloping surface, and the firm drawing and brilliant colouring of the living agents on the scene, give to the whole composition the vast, precipitous, striking character, that it requires, and make the perilous position of the principal figures doubly apparent and exciting. Throughput the picture, the power of the “handling” aids at every point the originality of the design, and dispels the obstacles to expressing height, depth, and distance at once, on the flat surface of a canvas, with extraordinary felicity. Equal to “The Skittle-players” in general popularity, this work shared its fate in returning from the Exhibition unsold. Although the political and commercial agitation of the times was now subsiding, it was by no means yet calmed, and the general saleableness of costly and important works of Art still laboured under the depression of the former year. In 1837, however, during the painter’s residence on the Continent, the picture was purchased by Mr. Bryant, of St. James’-street, passing afterwards into the collection of the late Sir Thomas Baring, Bart., and again changing its possessor at the sale of the modern portion of that gentleman’s gallery, after his death. The two small repetitions of the upper part of it, referred to in a former page, were painted for the Rev. E. Coleridge and Mr. Alaric Watts; the work belonging to the latter gentleman being engraved as an illustration to his “Literary Souvenir” for 1835.

The widely circulated print of “The Stray Kitten,” (the second picture of the year,) has rendered the general features of the work familiar to most of the lovers of nature and simplicity in Art. The swarthy, mischievous, merry-looking boy, and the pretty cottage girl and children, watching their chances of inveigling within their reach a plump, shy, little kitten, who has strayed, by the temptation of a dish of milk, — the sunny, fertile, woodland and mountain background, in the distant view, — and the rich soft glow of colour pervading the whole composition, were characteristics of this picture, not soon forgotten by any one who beheld them. Of the painter’s two repetitions of this delightful cottage scene, (which was painted for Mr. Holden,) the first was purchased by Sir Francis Shuckburgh, Bart., and the second, commissioned by Mr. Sheepshanks.

The third and last picture of the year’s Exhibition was called, “A Scene on the Coast of France.” The view was on the shore, near Boulogne; the figures were small, and the treatment was as fresh, natural, and brilliant, as in all the painter’s works of this description. The purchaser of this picture was Mr. Fairlie.

Soon after the close of the Exhibition, an invitation from Mr. Collins’s valued friend and patron, the late Sir Thomas Baring, to his country seat at Stratton Park, not only enabled the painter to recruit his health by rest and change of air, but procured him the advantage of enjoying the most agreeable social intercourse, in a house made doubly attractive to the lover of historical associations of the past, as the favourite sojourn of Lady Rachel Russell, after her husband’s death. From this place, the beautiful scenery of which produced some of his finest landscape sketches, Mr. Collins thus writes:

“To MRS. W. COLLINS.

“Stratton Park, Aug. 14th, 1833.

“You will be glad to hear that I find myself much better; my nerves are stronger, and the pain in my face is fast decreasing, my nights being almost as good as usual. I had, however, no idea how much 1 required quiet and change of air. Yesterday I rode out on horseback for many hours, with Sir Thomas, and visited the ‘Grange;’ a perfect palace, belonging to his brother, Mr. Alexander Baring. I am now snatching a few minutes to write to you, previous to a repetition of this delightful exercise. I cannot tell you how much consolation and improvement I derive from my host’s conversation. He is a genuine Christian; we agree perfectly. Lady Baring, Miss Baring, and Miss Maitland are our present party, and I could not be happier anywhere —
from home.

“This is the only time that I can possibly spare to write; and I regret I can devote no more to you, for I have now to finish a letter to your aunt. I wish Frank to send here some of my prints, in a tin case. I think there is one at Bayswater; and I can bring back in it some Sir Thomas has given me. Adieu.”

“August 23rd, 1833.

“I should have written two or three days since, for I am longing for a letter from you; but as yet I have been uncertain when I should leave this place. I have gone on mending pretty regularly, have taken a good deal of care of myself, and although I have many indications that I am no longer a young man, I am much happier than I used to be, and, praised be God, I am by his grace ‘content with such things as I have.’ Wretched and ungrateful beyond the common measure of unthankfulness should I be, were I otherwise! I am writing this the instant I have risen, for somehow my whole day is much occupied. I seldom miss riding on a beautiful and safe horse belonging to Miss Baring. Yesterday, however, to Lady Baring’s distress, I did; for she is determined I shall get all the benefit I can to my health, from the delightful air of this place. It is now striking eight. I must tear myself from you, and before post time snatch a moment to finish my scrawl.

“Since writing the above, I have received what I so much wanted, — your letter, — and am thankful that all is well. I have only time to add, that I know nothing but want of room in the coaches to prevent my starting for town on Monday.

“Yours affectionately,

“WILLIAM COLLINS.”

On his return from Stratton Park, Mr. Collins sent his wife and children to make a short stay at Ramsgate, under the care of his brother; whom he intended to relieve of his charge by proceeding to that watering-place himself, as soon as he should have settled some necessary business in London. This little excursion, designed to promote the health and happiness of his family, proved the innocent source of death to one of their number, and of the bitterest affliction that had ever befallen them, to the rest.

On the arrival of the painter at Ramsgate, his brother, after a fortnight’s sojourn there, went back to his London duties and engagements. In returning up the river he caught a severe cold, which almost immediately assumed so alarming a character, that his medical attendant wrote to Mr. Collins, to warn him that symptoms of typhus fever were already giving a serious importance to Mr. Francis Collins’s disorder. Leaving his family at Ramsgate, the painter immediately repaired to his brother’s bedside. Some days of anxious watching ensued; more medical attendance was called in; it was thought that ultimately the patient might recover. Mr. Collins then wrote to his wife to return — the chances of infection from the dreaded disorder having been declared to have diminished. She lost no time in obeying him; but, on entering the house, found her husband plunged in the deepest grief, and trying to console his aged and infirm mother. In the interval, the disease of the sufferer had suddenly and fatally increased; and on the day before, his brother Francis had breathed his last!

From the shock of this bereavement, Mr. Collins’s moral system never entirely recovered. To the merest acquaintances, his brother had possessed the happy faculty of endearing himself in no common manner; to the painter, the void left by his death no other domestic tie was of a nature ever thoroughly to replace. His brother was associated with him, in his memory, as having painted by his side when as boys they amused’ themselves with “drawing pictures” in the little parlour of their father’s abode, — as having year by year, by his advice and approval, continued in the same position of encouragement and participation, which in those early days he so merrily and gladly held, — as having followed his father with him to the grave, and having laboured cheerfully with him, for the credit of his father’s name, — as having partaken the bitterest adversities of his student life, and the happiest triumphs of his maturity in Art. It was to
him
one of those life-long afflictions which darken a bright trace of our connection with the past, and destroy a cherished source of our earthly anticipations for the future.

But it is in Mr. Collins’s own words, as contained in some written reflections on the affliction that had befallen him, which have been found among his papers, that the best record is presented of his affection for his brother, and of his bitter grief at his loss. The following extracts from this document will, it is hoped, be found well fitted for perusal, as showing on what sources of consolation he depended under the bereavement which it had now become his duty to endure:

“1833. Saturday, November 2nd. — My beloved brother has this day been dead one month. During this period he has seldom, if ever, been out of my thoughts. God knows how much more unhappy I feel now, even since I awoke this morning, than I have felt since the day of his death! Why am I so cast down? How 1 loved him, and how good and humble in the sight of God he was I know well; that he sleeps in Jesus I fully believe; that Christ will bring him with him in the great day, I pray: ‘They who sleep in Jesus will God bring with him;’ and ought I therefore to sorrow as one who has no hope?

“November 12th. — This day seven weeks I returned from Ramsgate, to see my poor Frank. He was the most disinterested person I ever knew — how little did I then think he was so near the end of his pilgrimage! He seems to have had some indicatory symptoms even before he went to Ramsgate with my wife and children; but his extremely robust appearance (for
him
) after his return, gave us reason to believe that all was well. When I received a letter from Dr. Thompson, stating that he was labouring under fever, but that no symptoms indicating danger had yet shown themselves, I wrote directly, giving instructions for additional medical advice, as well as desiring further accounts. The next letter brought me to Bayswater, where he was staying when taken ill. I found that he had been wandering in mind and very restless; that he had endeavoured to leave his room, and that he had broken the window of the dressing-room, as it was supposed with a view of making his escape that way, crying, ‘Murder!’ and requiring the assistance of two or three men to restrain him. When I saw him, he was looking dreadfully ill, but was quite collected — occasionally however wandering upon the subject of being in a strange house, and under an impression that a vast time had elapsed, and that all things had undergone great revolutions during that period. He talked very sensibly at intervals on religious subjects, telling me he had always said his prayers since his strange views had taken possession of his mind. As he became worse, I remained in constant attendance on him. Never was I in such misery. My wife and children were sent from home, to avoid infection; I was not without fears that I myself might be in danger (reduced as I then was by bodily suffering and mental anxiety); and I knew not what to do for the best, or what comfort to find, but in casting my care upon Him who careth for us all. Dr. Thompson kindly slept in the house; and we were both of us continually in my brother’s room, until it pleased Almighty God that he should die! This heavy blow — the heaviest I ever experienced — took place at about a quarter before nine o’clock in the morning, on the 5th of October. My wife returned a few hours afterwards. She was spared much suffering, where she could have rendered no service; and I had alone to witness a scene, which none but a merciful God could have enabled me to support.