Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/346

 October 22,  18M.]  THE  SWINEHERD  PAINTER. 335

existing housewives  cannot  teach  their  daughters, somebody else  must. And why  not? In certain factories in  large  towns,  a room  or  two,  and  plenty of water,  is  granted  by  the  employer,  to  enable  the women to  learn,  in  the  evenings,  to  cook  and  to sew,  as  well  as  to  read  and  write. Wherever the education (not  the  mere  teaching  to  read  and write)  of  girls  of  the  labouring  class  is  under- taken, there should  be  instruction  in  the  ordinary arts of  life. Why are  not  our  National  Schools in the  country  like  that  of  Sandbach  in  Cheshire, where the  girls  cook  for  the  sick,  and  thereby learn the  economy  of  the  table? By a report of that  school  published  in  the  “Times ” a year ago, it  appears  that  upwards  of  two  thousand meat dinners,  well-cooked,  hot,  and  savoury, were supplied  in  the  year  1857,  besides  pud- dings, broths, arrow-root,  and  vegetables,  at  a cost  of  less  than  701,  including  a Christmas  dinner of roast  beef  and  plum  pudding  to  a large  party of old  folks. The money  was  supplied  mainly from the  Offertory: the  girls  of  the  parish  were qualified for  service,  and,  what  is  of  more  conse- quence, to be  good  wives; and  the  surgeons  of the  parish  found  a wonderful  power  of  recovery in their  patients.

As the  vicar  says: — “While  a return  to  a gene- rous diet after  sickness,  in  the  case  of  those  who have been  habituated  to  it,  naturally  renews  the strength, with  the  poor,  unaccustomed  to  animal food, the  improvement  is  so  marked  as  to  be almost  like  life  from  the  dead. ”

Here is  a hint  as  to  lessening  the  unnecessary mortality of  the  kingdom, — a kind  of  mortality which, we  fear,  hardly  enters  into  the  recognised 100,000 of  the  Registrar’s  Reports. If the  admi- nistration of animal  food,  in  a wholesome  and agreeable form,  is  like  life  from  the  dead,  how  long shall any  of  the  homes  of  England  be  without  it? There will  be  good  meals  in  every  house  when there is  a good  cook  there. If we  cannot  put  good dinners upon  all  tables,  we  may  proceed  a long way towards  putting  a cook  into  every  home  in England. Let us  have  a kitchen  attached  to  every girls* school,  and  schools  for  cookery  in  every  town, and the  nation  will  be  nearer  than  it  has  ever  been yet to  being  well  fed,  which  is  the  same  thing  as saying  that  the  children  will  grow  up  well,  the men and  women  will  wear  well,  and  the  aged  will go down  to  their  graves  in  comfort. This will  not be disputed  by  doctor  or  nurse,  gentle  or  simple: and if  it  be  true,  almost  everybody  may  save  and fortify life  by  teaching,  or  getting  taught  to  one or more  future  wife,  mistress,  or  maid,  the  simple, pleasant, and  inestimable  art  of  spreading  the household table. Harriet Martineau.

THE SWINEHERD  PAINTER.

One autumn  day,  about  two  or  three  and  thirty years ago,  a travelling  carriage  was  slowly  ascend- ing a steep and  sandy  hill  on  the  high  road, about ten  miles  from  Antwerp. It was  one  of those  days  of  alternate  cloud  and  sunshine,  when the landscape  shows  to  the  greatest  advantage; great shadows  of  clouds  driven  by  the  fresh,  plea- sant west wind,  rested  here  and  there  upon  woods and valleys,  making  their  shades  deeper,  while

capricious gleams  of  light  gilded  upland  fields,  from whence the  corn  was  not  yet  carried,  or  played on the  foam  of  the  water-wheel,  and  brought  out in full  relief  the  peaked  red  gables  of  the  miller’s house, backed  by  fruit-trees  heavily  laden.

The owner  of  the  carriage  seemed  to  enjoy  this beautiful scene  and  weather,  for  he  alighted  from his carriage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill; and  slowly  as the  horses  climbed  up  its  sandy  ascent,  his  pro- gress was still  slower,  for  he  turned  round  every three yards  to  note  the  different  changes  in  the scene as  the  driving  clouds  cast  fresh  shadows,  or the  objects  of  the  landscape  assumed  fresh  com- binations as he  advanced; so  that  the  carriage was almost  out  of  sight  by  the  time  he  came up to  a boy,  who,  leaning  against  a rail,  was drawing figures  in  the  sand  with  so  much  atten- tion and interest,  that  he  did  not  perceive  the stranger’s approach.

“What are  you  doing,  my  little  man?”  said the gentleman.

The boy  looked  up,  and  without  answering,  ran to him  and  tried  to  pull  him  backwards  by  the tails of  his  coat. “Oh, you  are  walking  over  St. Peter,”  he  cried,  in  such  a tone  of  tragic  despair, that the  gentleman  laughed  and  retreated  a few steps.

“What do  you  mean?”

“Why my  beautiful  head  that  I have  been  all the morning  drawing,”  said  the  boy,  endeavouring to efface  the  footmarks  in  the  loose  sand  which covered the  spot  where  they  stood;  “it  was  so exactly  like!”

“Lake what?”

“The image  of  St. Peter in  the  church. I have done  it  a great  many  times,  but  never  got  it so  like  before,  and  I meant  to  have  drawn  the whole figure,  with  the  keys  and  all,  but  the  sand is so  trampled  now,  I shall  not  be  able  to  do  it. I had just  left  it  for  a moment,  to  draw  that  carriage that passed  just  now; the  postilion  had  such  a comical  face,  and  the  valet,  perched  up  behind, looked so  hungry  and  cross,  and  never  once  turned round to  look  at  the  view,  though  there  is  nothing half so  pretty  between  this  and  Antwerp.”

While he  spoke  the  stranger  was  examining  a drawing  traced  on  the  sand  with  the  point  of  a stick,  of  his  own  carriage  and  servants,  and although, from  the  nature  of  the  implements  used, roughly done,  yet  a spirited  likeness  of  the  some- what remarkable features  of  the  men  had  been produced, while  the  attitude  of  the  horses  labour- ing to draw  the  heavy  vehicle  up  the  hill,  was very well  done. He made  no  observation,  how- ever, but simply  asked  the  child  if  he  had  ever been at  Antwerp.

“Yes, once.”  Then  folding  his  hands  with  an expression  of  reverential  admiration,  he  added, “And in  the  great  church  there  I saw  Rubens’s pictures!”

“Ah, indeed; and  what  did  you  think  of them?”

“Oh, sir,  if  I could  only  see  them  always,  I should  be  happy. I dream of  them  almost  every night, and  I try  to  draw  bits  of  them  on  the  sand, but I can  do  so  little,”  he  went  on,  with  a sigh.

“Would you  not  like  to  have  pencil  and  paper to draw  with?” said  the  gentleman.