Читать книгу The Life of Sir William Quiller Orchardson - Hilda Orchardson Gray - Страница 12

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It seems to have been a custom in those days to write illustrated letters, often in verse. I am, unfortunately, unable to find any finished letters, but my Father had a habit of composing his letters on scraps of paper, in pencil, and consequently illegible in parts, and, of course, not illustrated. They mostly show the lively side of his character, but as liveliness was a great characteristic of his all his life, that will not matter. He was the life and soul of any party, and needed no spur of drink or smoke; Chalmers used to say: “Orchardson, you are the most unsociable of fellows—you won’t make yourself ill for anybody.” The incongruity of making himself ill and thereby pleasing a friend amused W. Q. O. to the end of his life, and he often told the tale and laughed at it. Of Chalmers, by the way, he had a very great opinion and always said he would have been one of the greatest of modern painters had he lived.

From Orchardson in Dollar, Clackmannan, between 1850 and 1860, to John Pettie:

My Dear Pettie,

Weep for me! The skies that look on Dollar are at it day and night; the hills are impassable and sketching impossible. Yesterday I made a bold advance with my umbrella at the charge into the hills. A track leading through a valley, and fondly described in Dollar as a road, I found to be in reality a watercourse, defended on either side by a marsh relentless and sticky, with arms that seemed to reach the hilltops, and outlying bits placed exactly where most inconvenient. Advancing against a heavy wind and struggling through these pleasing slopes I reconnoitred from under my parapluie. The clouds soaked down on the hills sponging out the “scenery.” But reaching a spot at last, a Pisgah, I fancied that, supposing a clear sky over all, the way to be passable and the torrents quieted, here might be the dreamed-of happy valley. I am still sublimely trusting in to-morrow, though the to-morrows have hitherto scarcely justified my faith.

Dollar is not amusing in the evening. I tried it last night, but the only excitement I found was the cleaning of the dishes; this, though not great, is continuous. True, I met one young Lady, but she was evidently much startled or exceedingly shy, for on looking round and finding that I had obeyed the same natural law, she fled like a deer, though I would rather she had stayed like one.

Dollar I should say is favourable to sheep, for judging from the exceeding toughness of the chops, they attain a longevity unknown elsewhere. Another fact in the natural history of Dollar has come within my observation; the servant maids are constructed after the manner of the ancient elephant, destitute of knee joints. The specimen kept on this establishment washes the floor in a standing position, resting on her left hand and taking a wide sweep with her right and keeping her knees quite straight—the total absence of crinoline enabling one to establish the latter point beyond doubt; moreover, she was performing this feat with apparent ease.

Capt. Andrew’s society at the Hold is good; there is a drunken [some words illegible] whom I take to be a butcher [illegible phrase], he appeals to me for his interlocutors’ meaning after every drink; he sinks them quite ... [Unfinished.]

My Father often stayed with the Cranstouns in Perth, and always retained his friendship for “Old Cranstoun.” The following letter must have been written after one of these visits. Miss Fisher, of course, was only one of his many “flames.”

26 Royal Crescent,

Edinburgh.