PERCIVAL'S PICTURE GALLERY.

BY

A. L. O. E.

Authoress of "Pearls of Wisdom from the Parables," "The Young Pilgrim," "The Shepherd of Bethlehem," &c., &c.

LONDON: MORGAN AND SCOTT (OFFICE OF "The Christian")

12, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E.C. And may be ordered of any Bookseller.

PREFACE.

THIS little volume may, I hope, awaken in some minds thoughts of a devotional character. Some of the ideas contained in it came to me in a chamber of sickness, which was at one time expected to be my chamber of death. The thoughts were pleasant and soothing to myself. May they, by God's blessing, be so also to some of my fellow-pilgrims. A. L. O. E.

Contents.

CHAPTER

I. INTRODUCTORY

II. THE PASSAGE THROUGH THE RED SEA

III. KING DAVID'S VISION

IV. THE CARPENTER'S DEATH

V. HOMELESS

VI. LEGEND OF THE SELF-MADE GRAVE

VII. THE THREE "BIHISTIS"

VIII. LEGEND OF THE SHEKEL

IX. THE NIGHT AFTER THE CRUCIFIXION

X. THE LEGEND OF THE ROMAN SOLDIER

XI. ASLEEP!

PERCIVAL'S PICTURE GALLERY.

CHAPTER I.

Introductory.

"NO, Sir, no; the doctor gives no hope that the poor young gentleman will ever walk again; and as for life, the doctor says that it may be a matter of months, or perhaps of years. But Mr. Percival is going down to the grave sure and certain; and he knows that himself."

Such was the sad reply given by his landlady, to my enquiries regarding my old schoolfellow, when I called at his lodging in London. I had been absent on the Continent for six weeks in the long vacation. A painful malady in his knee had prevented Percival's being, as we had both hoped, my travelling companion; and it was no small disappointment to us both when he had to be left behind.

How we had looked forward to a visit to Italy, to luxuriate amongst the treasures of art; which Percival's cultivated taste and knowledge of painting, would enable him so thoroughly to appreciate! I had however felt no serious anxiety regarding my friend; his letters had been cheerful, and contained little allusion to the state of his health. It was therefore with a shock of surprise that I heard that Percival was now a hopeless invalid, unable to rise from the couch on which he had suffered so long.

I held no long parley with the landlady, but hurried up the long narrow staircase to the attic-room, in which Percival expected to pass the remainder of his days under constant medical care. A lonely life his must be, for he had lost every near relative in the world; and, at the season when London is comparatively empty, few acquaintances were likely to find their way to a dull lodging in the neighbourhood of Russell Square.

Slender means; solitude and sickness; confinement to one small room, when others were enjoying fresh breezes on the ocean or the heathery moor—what a combination of trials for one still in the flower of his youth! I had known Percival as the cleverest, handsomest boy in our school; the hero of the cricket-ground; the first in the race; the winner of numerous prizes: I could hardly realize the possibility of such a deep shadow falling on a life so bright.

From early childhood, Percival had had a remarkable talent for drawing, which had occasionally led him into trouble. Before the boy's small fingers could write one word, they had begun to use a pencil; and quaint grotesque figures were scrawled on the nursery door.

At school Percival fell into many a scrape from scribbling faces over the margins of books—not always his own; and from making curious illustrations in dictionaries and grammars. We saw our own likenesses, unmistakable ones, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed walls. Every Panel of the door served as a canvas: and the young artist was sometimes rewarded for his skill by long impositions of Latin verses, which he learned with the book in one hand and the pencil in the other.

On reaching the landing-place, I did not stop to knock at the door before me; but at once entered the attic-room where Percival lay on his couch, an easel beside him, and a palette bedaubed with many colours, a box of oil-paints, and brushes, on a small table placed within easy reach of his arm. Unframed paintings hanging on the dingy wall somewhat relieved the dull effect of scanty third-rate furniture, and of an old carpet with the pattern well-nigh worn-out of it, which looked as if it had never been new.

Percival's pale face flushed with sudden pleasure as he caught sight of mine. He dropped the brush with which he had been painting, and holding out his thin hand, grasped mine with the joyous exclamation, "Seyton, old boy! who thought of seeing you here!"

Then he added, smiling, "Take a chair—no, not that with the broken back—sit down, and tell me about your travels. I want to see all that you have seen, hear all that you have heard, and enjoy a trip to Italy by proxy."

I seated myself by my suffering friend, and did what I could to divert his mind from his affliction, by describing whatever I thought most likely to interest him. Percival showed keen pleasure in hearing about the works of art which I had seen in foreign galleries: of the principal ones he had already gathered a fair knowledge from books.

When I paused at last, Percival remarked, "Will you think me a Goth or a Vandal, Seyton, if I own to you that there seems to me a good deal of sameness in these subjects chosen by Italian artists: so many 'Madonnas' clad as Mary of Nazareth never was dressed; so many 'Saints' with haloes round their heads; so many 'Holy Families' and pictures of the 'Last Supper,' where none of the accessories convey to the mind a true idea of the actual scene. If I were an artist—"

"You are one," I interrupted; "if artists, like poets, are born—not made. With a little study of the Old Masters you would, I am certain, have made your mark amongst English painters."

"I doubt whether I should ever have earned butter to my bread," observed Percival. "I am too fond of striking out a line of my own. But I do intensely love the art; and am heartily glad that I have lost the use of my knee instead of that of my hand."

"I see that you paint still," said I, glancing at the palette. "Have you no difficulty in procuring models?"

"You think that my good old landlady, Mrs. Bond, in her black lace cap and false front, would hardly serve as one," laughed Percival. "She is the only specimen of the fair sex that I ever see; except, indeed, the red-haired maid of all work, who is only remarkable for the number of cups and glasses which she breaks. I have to do without models, Seyton; or rather to content myself with the forms which I see in my dreams."

"In your dreams?" I repeated enquiringly.

"I mean waking dreams," said my friend. "I often cannot get rest at night; or at least, till—

"'Yon dull steeple's drowsy chime—'

"has struck one or more of the small hours. So, making a virtue of necessity, I lie still, and amuse myself with my thoughts."

"I am so grieved—" I began; but Percival cut me short.

"Grieve not for me, dear friend. Some of the happiest moments which I have ever spent, have been in those still night hours. I have sometimes felt as if admitted to a private interview with the King. He giveth 'songs in the night.' I have thrown that idea into the form of rhyme. Would you care to hear the lines? They are of no value but as the transcript of the experience of a sick man."

On my expressing a wish to hear the little poem, Percival repeated it with a good deal of feeling; warming into joyousness as he recited the concluding verse.

Song in the Night. O thou, on thy sick-bed kept watchful and waking By pain, all the weary night through! It seems as if God were His servant forsaking, His servant—so trustful and true. Oh no! For He giveth me songs in the darkness That never were heard in the day: "Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty, The land that is far, far away." Poor sufferer! The noises of earth must oppress thee, That rise through the sullen night air; The sound of the world's mirth must surely distress thee, That mirth which thou never may'st share. Oh no! For an angel is sitting beside me, And warbling so low—yet so clear, "Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty:" And this is the song which I hear. The Angel's Song. "I come down to cheer thee, O happy immortal! From sin's condemnation set free; Whilst yet thou art ling'ring beside the high portal, Whose door soon will open for thee. "I bring thee a promise, the sweetest—the surest— 'Tis sent by the God who is Love, 'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,' When thou art with angels above.

"I saw Him when in His own world, as a stranger, Appeared the Omnipotent Lord; I hovered in ecstasy over His manger With worshipping shepherds adored: I the first faint infant cry from the Monarch Whose voice bade the universe be; Mine eyes then beheld the King in His weakness, I saw Him, and marvelled to see. "I saw Him in manhood, despised and neglected, A mourner, 'acquainted with grief,' I longed—how I longed!—that when mortals rejected The angels might bring Him relief! I heard the fierce blasphemies scornfully uttered By Scribe and by proud Pharisee; Mine eyes then beheld the King in His trials, I saw—much perplexed to see. "I saw—but the tongue of a seraph must falter Such myst'ry of love to declare!— I saw upon Calvary raised the high Altar, A Cross—and the Victim was there! There was silence in Heaven—strange wonder in Heaven— All gazing on that awful tree; Mine eyes then beheld the King in His anguish, I saw Him—and trembled to see! "And thou too shalt see Him—such bliss is before thee— But not in His weakness and pain;

When girded with power, and mantled in glory The Victim returneth—to reign: Shalt see Him, no stranger, but One whom thou lovest, Thy Saviour, Redeemer, and Friend; 'Thine eyes shall behold the King in His beauty,' Through ages that never shall end!"

CHAPTER II.

The Passage through the Red Sea.

A PAUSE followed the recital: Percival's deep blue eyes seemed to be full of the light of another world.

After awhile I observed, "Poetry soothes your wakeful hours; but you have not at night the resource of painting."

"It is at night that I form my designs," he replied, "and draw in imagination scenes that look meagre enough when transferred to canvas. My execution falls sadly short of what I see in my waking dreams."

"I suppose that you choose subjects from Scripture," said I.

"Not exactly," answered my friend; "I take subjects rather from what Scripture suggests, than follow in the beaten track of innumerable artists by actually illustrating Scripture."

"I do not quite understand you," said I.

"Well, take for example the subject of the Children of Israel crossing the Red Sea. You must have seen pictures of that. What impression have they left on your mind?"

"That of a vast multitude of men, women and children, with large flocks and herds, passing through something like a deep valley, with a pillar of light above to guide them on their way."

"Amongst multitudes we are apt to forget the units," Percival observed. "Have you never thought how many episodes of deep interest must have occurred during that hasty flight—incidents which would draw out the characters of individuals? Has your fancy never imagined some single family group separate from the mass of fugitives flying from their oppressors?"

"My fancy is not so lively as yours," I replied.

"You have never pictured to yourself what the Israelites may have seen of the wonders of the deep, hitherto as a locked casket, in—

"'Those profound abysses where Was never voice from upper air'?"

"What could the people have seen but sand; and perchance, sea-weed?" said I.

"Would it trouble you, Seyton, to lift yon picture from the nail, and bring it here? MY pictures are guiltless of frames, so they are more easily moved. You will see on the canvas my idea of an episode which may have occurred during the passage through the Red Sea."

I did as desired, and brought the picture to the side of my friend.

Poor Percival! His paintings are framed now; and the one which I am about to describe hangs opposite to the table at which I am writing. He bequeathed to me the sketches which were the children of his brain, his hand, his heart.

To avoid needless repetition of the objectionable "I" in my brief descriptions of Percival's picture gallery, I shall make my recollections take the form of dialogue: except where what my friend called "A Legend" comes in, which I will copy from the MS * left by the author.

* Manuscript

It is impossible, however, to give on paper the charm of Percival's voice; the lighting up of his countenance; his soul-absorption in his subjects. My description looks to me like the colourless photograph of a window of fine stained glass; the beauty lost; the bare outline of the pattern depicted.

But it may be that friendship for the departed "casts a halo" over works on which he so lovingly wrought. Percival did not himself set a high value on his pictures; though their subjects had a fascination for his mind. He often lamented his want of finish, and said that he could not delineate as an artist what he might dream as a poet.

The Passage through the Red Sea.

Seyton. Why, Percival, this strange, weird production of yours must have been the outcome of a nightmare!

Percival. The idea of it came to my mind during a night somewhat more painful and restless than usual.

Seyton. Let me see what I can make out of it. Here, in the centre, the first object to catch the eye is the skeleton of some huge leviathan; some monster unknown to modern science, who might have taken his pastime in the deep waters, or lashed the surface of the sea into foam in the days of Noah. Half of the picture is in light, and half in shadow, for in upper air hangs the pillar of cloud and fire; thus one half of the skeleton reflects the ruddy glare, which gilds the bare ribs, and partly reveals the vast proportions of the sea monster; while darkness on the other hand conceals the length of the leviathan, as he lies on his bed of sea-weed, green and brown, with the glimmering glassy wall of water as a background behind him.

Percival. Is the skeleton the only object seen in the sketch?

Seyton. No, no; let me examine more closely. Here, to the left, I dimly trace the heads and fore-parts of two horses; the animals, with distended nostrils and ears turned back, evidently starting in fear at suddenly coming on such an object of grisly horror lying right in their path.

The horses appear to belong to some Egyptian of rank: they wear the cumbrous trappings with which the antiquities at the Museum make us familiar. Had there been space on your canvas, we should doubtless have traced on it the outline of some gorgeous chariot, perhaps that of Pharaoh himself.

Percival. I have tried, by the tightly-drawn reins, to show that the driver of the chariot has suddenly perceived the ghastly obstacle in his path. By that skeleton, I intended to convey to the mind an image of death—that sudden death which was so close to Pharaoh and his godless hosts, even while they were pressing forward in eager pursuit of spoil and revenge.

Seyton. Now let us turn to the right hand of the picture which your pencil has bathed in mysterious light. I see an Israelite mother. Her mantle, falling back, shows a face of Oriental beauty, full of anxiety and fear.

Percival. Yes, she has heard the tramp and the snorting of the war-horses of Pharaoh; and she knows that she is the last of all the fugitives, the one nearest to the enemy. She has been left behind the rest: for in the confusion she had been separated from her child; and she has wildly sought him, and found him at last almost close to the fierce pursuers.

Seyton. And evidently utterly unconscious of danger. That bare-footed, beautiful little boy, whose face beams with delight, presents an expressive contrast to the anxious mother, who, grasping one of his small hands, is trying to draw him hastily away.

Percival. The child is exulting; for he has found a prize in the leviathan's fleshless jaws. His hand holds a beautiful coral.

Seyton. Percival! is this a picture or a parable?

Percival. Perhaps both. Do you grasp the meaning of the latter?

Seyton. You have given the clue by telling me that the huge skeleton represents death. On the one side, we see it an object of natural horror to those who, unprepared and unforgiven, find it suddenly close at hand, dimly beheld in darkness: while to the children of light, it is no object of terror; and even little ones can pluck the treasure of joy from that which the worldling dreads and shrinks from.

CHAPTER III.

King David's Vision.

SEYTON. The subject of this picture of yours is simple enough. The harp at his feet; the crown by his side; the scroll before him—mark David, the poet-king. He appears to be under the immediate influence of inspiration, there is such intense earnestness in his upward gaze. The reed-pen has dropped from his hand; and one would think that Heaven was opening before his eyes, save for the pained—almost terrified—expression on his countenance, an expression which could come from no vision of bliss. Why have you represented the prophet thus?

Percival. A legend of King David formed itself out of some thoughts which came into my mind, while meditating over the Twenty-second Psalm. To us, with the scene on Calvary as its key, the meaning of the prophecy contained in that Psalm is clear. But what a mystery it must have been to him who wrote it under the inspiration of the Spirit!

Seyton. Had its meaning been clear to the prophet's understanding, his faith could hardly have borne the strain. To us—looking back upon the mystery of the Cross—it appears marvellous indeed; but to one looking forward to it as a future event, such a sacrifice as that of Christ would have appeared impossible.

Percival. You have struck on my vein of thought. I considered what would be the natural emotions raised in the heart of one so impulsive and enthusiastic as David, had the death of his Lord been revealed to him clearly, and not as through a glass, very darkly. My short piece, "King David's Vision," is beside me, if you would care to hear it.

I copy the following from the paper which Percival, at my request, drew from the drawer of his table.

King David's Vision.

The prophet-king sat alone. When the spirit of inspiration came upon him, no human presence was suffered to disturb his solitude. He was left in solemn communion with his God.

Often had glowing words of thanksgiving and praise burst from his lips as he struck his harp of ten strings, and then been noted down on a scroll to be handed down as a precious legacy to the people of Israel, or rather to the whole Church of God. On this day, the harp had had a strange, solemn, and wailing sound; and involuntary tears had started to the poet's eyes as he sang that mysterious ode which we call the Twenty-second Psalm. The hand of King David trembled as he wrote down the words.

"What hath the Spirit dictated to God's slave?" cried the wondering monarch. "This is no transcript of mine own experience. I have known what it is to pass through deep waters of trouble; to struggle for life with the lion; to grapple and wrestle with the foe. I have known what it is to hide in the cave, and to be hunted like the partridge on the mountains. But my God never forsook me. He was never far from me in the time of my trouble. There is nothing in the past which answers to these mysterious words:

"'They pierced My hands and My feet, They parted My garments amongst them; And on My vesture they cast lots.'

"Is this some awful trial looming before me? Or is it revealed regarding another? Oh that I could penetrate the depth of meaning conveyed in this Psalm! Lord, draw aside the thick curtain, if but for a moment! Let me know who is to be tortured, mocked at, and pierced; who is to be deserted by his friends, and forsaken even by his God."