THE HAWKING PARTY ALL gaily riding o'er the heather- They all come back-the hot hill-side, The words we said, the dreams we dream'd, Upon the hill's dark ridge you stood, The August sunshine on your face— My horse's hoofs tread down the heather, But O that you and I together, Once more upon this blooming heather Your figure on the hill's brown brow, Is with me ever-with me now; Your deep dark eyes, the hill's brown brow, And never, riding o'er the heather— In days that cannot come again. M. E. BRADDON. MANCHESTER MEN "MANCHESTER men and Liverpool gentlemen," says the proverb; though why the invidious distinction should be made is one of those things which, as Lord Dundreary says, "no fellah can understand." We of the former town are accustomed to quote the saying with an air of spite, as much as to say that one man is worth at least ten gentlemen— of the Liverpool type. Nor, perhaps, are we altogether wrong. Manhood is a more sober, more dignified thing than gentlemanhood. Your Manchester "man" is a man of business; he makes plenty of money by his trade, but he is not ashamed to say how he has gained it. In Liverpool, on the contrary, there is a good deal of this false shame. The Manchester capitalist, poor fellow, gets up at half-past six every morning, and goes "down town" by the omnibus, dines in the city, and returns to the bosom of his family to tea; while he of Liverpool gets up at a Christian hour, breakfasts leisurely, and after driving down to his office in his neatly-appointed brougham or mail-phaeton, spends his day in a little mental excitement over the cotton-market, and returns to the bosom of his family to a cheerful little dinner at seven or half-past. There is, however, one thing in which "Manchester men and Liverpool gentlemen" are very much alike: both are liberal patrons of art; both haunt the studios about the months of March and April; both give splendid commissions to young painters, especially when they are becoming the rage; both build themselves gorgeous houses, and line their walls with works of real excellence; and both occasionally appear in the market as sellers. There is, however, a serious difference. with regard to this last feature. The "Manchester man" is apt to sell for small reasons. Perhaps he wants to buy that splendid thing of Robinson's; therefore all his Browns, Joneses, and Smiths return to the dealers from whom they came. Perhaps, even, he is newly furnishing his drawing-room; therefore all those gorgeous Turners, which you have so often admired, must go back to the sale-room. Their tone does not harmonise with the new silver-gray damask hangings, or they are not quite the latest mode in art; and whatever we may be, let us be genteel. So, although the old drawings pleased us, we must get rid of them, and hang our walls with the works of the latest and most fashionable master. It is not quite so with the "Liverpool gentleman." He buys pictures, it is true, and appears in the market as a seller rather more frequently than is at all pleasant to him. In this last matter there is, however, a difference. He does not sell because he likes ap pearing in that capacity. Whether his hangings are blue or graywhether his house is large or small-whether Jones be in the fashion, or Robinson-he likes to stick to his pictures. But fate is stronger than his will or his inclinations sometimes. Cotton is an obstinate thing to deal with, and it sometimes happens that a fall of a halfpenny will reduce almost to beggary the millionaire of yesterday. Then the pictures of the "Liverpool gentleman" must go. Christie's put forth their bill, and "the unrivalled collection" of So-and-so, Esq., of Liverpool, comes to the hammer. It is very sad thus to part with the arttreasures which have made life so pleasant, but the "Liverpool gentleman" bears up bravely. He does not "go into the Gazette," but he nobly compounds with his creditors. His two or three shillings in the pound are paid, and his career recommences. Instead of driving down to town in his mail-phaeton, he goes modestly in his wife's barouche; the twelve horses in his stable are reduced to six (all the doubtful steeds being disposed of), and for the next few months quietude is the order of the day. At the end of that time a restoration is effected. The "Liverpool gentleman" is as splendid as ever: buys as many and as costly pictures as ever, and generally maintains his reputation for enlightened liberality. All this forms a phase through which the "Manchester man" finds it very difficult to pass. If he break, he breaks utterly. Carriages, horses, fine house, servants, pictures, luxuries of every kind-all go, and the quondam owner goes back with a sad but honest heart to win his place once more by sheer hard work and unremitting pluck. Fortes fortuna juvat. Three or four years go by, and the stroke of misfortune is repaired; the old house is bought back, or a new and more splendid one is built; and the "Manchester man," having paid all his debts in full, returns to his ancient place, becomes once more a buyer of pictures, and drops into the grave in due course, leaving behind him a monument to his industry in the shape of a miraculous fortune, and another to his good taste in that of a houseful of pictures, the finest and the best-selected that money can buy. Generalities are, however, apt to get dull. Let us turn to one or two portraits from life of the typical "Manchester man." Enter first, the millionaire Mr. John Brown. Forty years ago John Brown was a poor little lad in a cotton-mill. His father and mother were-nobody knows who. All that he can tell about his birth, parentage, and education, may be summed up in two or three lines. He was found lying on a door-step on a winter's night, wrapped in a flannel petticoat marked "J. B." Picked up by a watchman, he was carried to the workhouse, pronounced a "wonderfully fine child," and nursed with much care and gin. As soon as he was old enough to do so, he began to earn his living at a mill. There he was diligent, and in time rose to the proud position of foreman. Long before, however, he had married pretty Mary Smith, who was captivated with his noble whiskers, and who fancied, knowing his story, that he must be of gentle blood. A few years went by, and he was able to set up a loom of his own in his master's mill. From that moment his progress was rapid. He lived on in his old quiet way, never spending much more than the pound or thirty shillings a week which had sufficed for his simple wants when he was first married. At last the great change came. Wealth began to pour in upon him after an almost miraculous fashion. Instead of a loom in somebody else's mill, John Brown has a mill of his own, and employs his thousands of hands. His income is multiplied by a hundred, nay by a thousand, and he is already, as his admirers and toadies say, "one of the merchant-princes of England." The little house that has served him for so long is abandoned at last; in its stead he inhabits a magnificent villa at Higher Broughton, or at some other half-rural place. He knows nothing of architecture, so he trusts himself to a builder, who puts together for him a gorgeous Italian palace, in which he is miserable. He knows as little of art; but it is the correct thing to buy pictures, so he goes to Agnew and explains his desires. The picture-dealer happens to be an honest man-rather a rare thing in his profession, perhaps-and treats him well. Mr. Brown's dining-room is accordingly furnished with some of the choicest specimens of modern art, at a corresponding price. His drawing-room is even more luxurious. The picture-dealer has received a drawing from the decorator, with certain places marked upon it thus: "Here a drawing-evening effect; say thirty-six inches by twenty-four." No further direction is needed. The dealer knows what is wanted, and the best works of the last fashionable painters glitter in splendid frames round the rich man's room. For himself, Mr. Brown does not care much about these things, except as symbols of his wealth and position. He still gets up at six o'clock, and is in his mill before eight. He goes on Change at noon, and half-an-hour afterwards retreats to dinner. Perhaps he is a member of the Union Club. There he finds all that he can desire-rich meats, strong wines, and unexceptionable beer. He is, moreover, shut out from the profane world, which might scoff at the rich man's midday dinner and post-prandial fuddle. For him the ingenious architect has devised a room lighted wholly from the top, where he can sit and gossip over his bottle of port-good sound wine, sir, three years in bottle, as strong as brandy, and as fiery as a red-hot poker-without interruption from the vulgar herd. At last four o'clock strikes; our millionaire rises, stretches himself, retires to his counting-house, dictates a letter or two, and at five steps into his carriage to go home to tea. Once at home, observe the transformation that takes place in his outward appearance: he changes his clothes, not for the dress-coat and white tie of civilisation, but for a rusty old velveteen jacket and a "bird's-eye belcher." The beautiful drawing-room is left untenanted, and the millionaire sits down to tea with his "owd woman" in the back-kitchen. For a while they chat in the broadest Lancashire Doric, and at nine o'clock the house is quiet. But the door is left "on the latch" for the eldest hope of the family-Mr. John Brown jun.-who represents "young Manchester”and is not altogether satisfactory. He seems, indeed, to have too much. money and too little brains. His education has, of course, been of the narrowest, seeing that he was born during the period when his father was amassing wealth instead of spending it. Now, our hero is devoting himself to the latter business with the most amusing energy. He plays billiards very badly, but he plays them constantly, and loses a moderate income over them. He plays at cards also, much to the profit of about six of his choicest cronies. He knows nothing about horses, and rides like a tailor; but is in all ways one of the "horsiest" of created beings. His opinions on such subjects are not worth uttering, but they are always backed with a heavy bet. Of his morals one cannot say much. The outsider regards him as a cockney Don Juan, and half his stories of his own exploits as mere rhodomontade. At present his connection with business is merely nominal. Two-thirds of every day are spent in the invigorating pursuit of billiards, and the rest in drink, smoke, and his shabby little amours. Before long, however, all this will pass away. The young man will marry-probably a plain cousin. with some money; he will take to business assiduously, and if he is very fortunate indeed he will lose every shilling which his venerable father has left him. Then, indeed, there is a chance for him. He may contrive to make a fortune for himself; and having learned something by the way, may be able to spend his income profitably, not merely to his own world, but to that of others. His children may receive a better education than himself, and in time may grow up to make the name of Brown a little more famous than its two first possessors have left it. Number three in our little portfolio is a personage of a very different metal. Mr. Sebastian Smith is a cadet of a tolerably good Lancashire family, well educated, and gentlemanlike in manner. He has entered early in life upon trade, but money-making has not been his sole object. Had it been, he would have been far richer than he is. Not, indeed, that he is poor. Far from that, he has an income much in excess of that of ninety-nine professional men out of a hundred; but yet his position, when measured by that of his contemporaries, is rather low in the social scale. And yet this man is the chosen friend of scores of London artists and men of letters. He buys pictures-not through a dealer, or to fit into certain corners of his rooms, or into certain panels which would otherwise be blank, but because he has a taste exquisitely refined by long contact with the best artistic minds of his day. Dine with him and he is the most hospitable of men-and you shall sit in a room crowded with shapes of beauty, and glowing with colour and light. On your left-hand gleams a Millais of priceless value; before you are some ten or a dozen of the choicest works of the modern school - Leightons, Poynters, McCallums, Solomons, and the rest. |