Beautiful young women, who had been taught how to paint pretty little landscapes (with an ivy-mantled ruin in the middle distance), talked technically of painting to him, de pair à pair, as though they were quite on the same artistic level, and didn’t mind admitting it, in spite of the social gulf between.
Hideous old frumps (osseous or obese, yet with unduly bared neck, and shoulders that made him sick) patronized him and gave him good advice, and told him to emulate Mr. Buckner both in his genius and his manners—since Mr. Buckner was the only “gentleman” who ever painted for hire; and they promised him, in time, an equal success!
Here and there some sweet old darling specially enslaved him by her kindness, grace, knowledge of life, and tender womanly sympathy, like the dowager Lady Chiselhurst—or some sweet young one, like the lovely Duchess of Towers, by her beauty, wit, good-humor, and sisterly interest in all he did, and who in some vague, distant manner constantly reminded him of Trilby, although she was such a great and fashionable lady!
But just such darlings, old or young, were to be found, with still higher ideals, in less exalted spheres; and were easier of access, with no impassable gulf between—spheres where there was no patronizing, nothing but deference and warm appreciation and delicate flattery, from men and women alike—and where the aged Venuses, whose prime was of the days of Waterloo, went with their historical remains duly shrouded, like ivy-mantled ruins (and in the middle distance!).
So he actually grew tired of the great before they had time to tire of him—incredible as it may seem, and against nature; and this saved him many a heartburning; and he ceased to be seen at fashionable drums or gatherings of any kind, except in one or two houses where he was especially liked and made welcome for his own sake; such as Lord Chiselhurst’s in Piccadilly, where the Moon-Dial found a home for a few years, before going to its last home and final resting-place in the National Gallery (R.I.P.); or Baron Stoppenheim’s in Cavendish Square, where many lovely little watercolors signed W. B. occupied places of honor on gorgeously gilded walls; or the gorgeously gilded bachelor rooms of Mr. Moses Lyon, the picture-dealer in Upper Conduit Street—for Little Billee (I much grieve to say it of a hero of romance) was an excellent man of business. That infinitesimal dose of the good old Oriental blood kept him straight, and not only made him stick to his last through thick and thin, but also to those whose foot his last was found to match (for he couldn’t or wouldn’t alter his last).
He loved to make as much money as he could, that he might spend it royally in pretty gifts to his mother and sister, whom it was his pleasure to load in this way, and whose circumstances had been very much altered by his quick success. There was never a more generous son or brother than Little Billee of the clouded heart, that couldn’t love any longer!
As a set-off to all these splendors, it was also his pleasure now and again to study London life at its lower end—the eastest end of all. Whitechapel, the Minories, the Docks, Ratcliffe Highway, Rotherhithe, soon got to know him well, and he found much to interest him and much to like among their denizens, and made as many friends there among ship-carpenters, excisemen, longshoremen, jack-tars, and whatnot, as in Bayswater and Belgravia (or Bloomsbury).
He was especially fond of frequenting singsongs, or “free-and-easys,” where good, hardworking fellows met of an evening to relax and smoke and drink and sing—round a table well loaded with steaming tumblers and pewter pots, at one end of which sits Mr. Chairman in all his glory, and at the other “Mr. Vice.” They are open to anyone who can afford a pipe, a screw of tobacco, and a pint of beer, and who is willing to do his best and sing a song.
No introduction is needed; as soon as anyone has seated himself and made himself comfortable, Mr. Chairman taps the table with his long clay pipe, begs for silence, and says to his vis-à-vis: “Mr. Vice, it strikes me as the gen’l’man as is just come in ’as got a singing face. Per’aps, Mr. Vice, you’ll be so very kind as juster harsk the aforesaid gen’l’man to oblige us with a ’armony.”
Mr. Vice then puts it to the newcomer, who, thus appealed to, simulates a modest surprise, and finally professes his willingness, like Mr. Barkis; then, clearing his throat a good many times, looks up to the ceiling, and after one or two unsuccessful starts in different keys, bravely sings “Kathleen Mavourneen,” let us say—perhaps in a touchingly sweet tenor voice:
“Kathleen Mavourneen, the gry dawn is brykin’,
The ’orn of the ’unter is ’eard on the ’ill.” …
And Little Billee didn’t mind the dropping of all these aitches if the voice was sympathetic and well in tune, and the sentiment simple, tender, and sincere.
Or else, with a good rolling jingo bass, it was,
“ ’Earts o’ hoak are our ships; ’earts o’ hoak are our men;
And we’ll fight and we’ll conkwer agen and agen!”
And no imperfection of accent, in Little Billee’s estimation, subtracted one jot from the manly British pluck that found expression in these noble sentiments—nor added one tittle to their swaggering, blatant, and idiotically aggressive vulgarity!
Well, the song finishes with general applause all round. Then the chairman says, “Your ’ealth and song, sir!” And drinks, and all do the same.
Then Mr. Vice asks, “What shall we ’ave the pleasure of saying, sir, after that very nice ’armony?”
And the blushing vocalist, if he knows the ropes, replies, “A roast leg o’ mutton in Newgate, and nobody to eat it!” Or else, “May ’im as is going up the ’ill o’ prosperity never meet a friend coming down!” Or else, “ ’Ere’s to ’er as shares our sorrers
