Year: 1879




When Dick Naseby was in Paris he


made some odd acquaintance; for he


was one of those who have ears to


hear, and can use their eyes no less


than their intelligence. He made as


many thoughts as Stuart Mill; but his


philosophy concernedE flesh and blood,


and was experimental as toits method.


He was type-hunter among man


kind. He despised small game and


insignificant personalities, whether in


the shape Of dukes or bagmen, letting


them go by like seaweed; but show


him refined or powerful face, let him


hear a plangent or penetrating voice,


fish for him with a living look in some


ones eye, a passionate gesture, mean
ing and ambiguous smile, and his
mind was instantaneously awakened.


There was man, there was a wo-
man" he seemed to say, and he stood
up to the task of comprehension with
the delight of an artist in his art.


And indeed, rightly considered, this
interest of his was an artistic interest.


There is no science in the personal
study Of human nature. All compre-
hension is creation; the woman l love
is somewhat Of my handiwork; and
the great lover, like the great painter,
is he that can so embellish his subject
as to make her more than human,
whilst yet by a cunning art he has so
based his apotheosis on the nature Of
the case that the woman can go on
being a true woman, and give her
character free play, and show little
ness, or cherish spite, or be greedy of
common pleasures, and he continue to
worship without a thought Of incon-
gruity. To love character is only
the heroic way of understanding it.
When we love, by some noble method
of our own or some nobility of mein
or nature in the other, we apprehend
the loved one by what is noblest in
ourselves: When we are merely study
ing an eccentricity, the method Of our
study is but a series of allowances. To
begin to understand is to begin to
sympathize; for comprehension comes
only when we have stated another's
faults and virtues in terms Of our own.
Hence the proyerbial liberation of
artists for their own evil creations.
Hence, too, it came about that Dick
Naseby, a high-minded creature, and
as scrupulous and brave gentleman
as you would want to meet, held in a
sort of affection the various human
creeping things whom he had met and
studied.


One of these was Mr.. Peter Van
Tromp, an English-speaking, two
legged animal Of the international
genus, and by profession Of general
and more than equivocal utility.
Years before he had been painter of
some standing in a colony, and por-
traits signed ivan Tromp'' had cele-
brated the greatness of colonial gov
ernors and judges. In those days he
had been married, and driven his wife
and infant daughter in pony trap.
What were the steps of his declension?
No one exactly knew. Here he was
at least, and had been any time these
past ten years, a sort of dismal para
site upon the foreigner in Paris.


It would be hazardous to specify
his exact industry. Coarsely followed,
it would have merited a name grown
somewhat unfamiliar to our ears.
Followed as he followed it, with a
skilful reticence, in a kind of social
chiaroscuro, it was still possible for
the polite to call him a professional
painter. His lair was in the Grand
Hotel and the gaudiest cafes. There
he might be seen jotting off a sketch
with an air Of some inspiration; and
he was always affable, and one of the
easiest Of men to fall in talk withal.
A conversation usually ripened into a
peculiae sort of intimacy, and it was
extraordinary how many little services
Van Tromp contriyed to render IN the
course of six and thirty hours. He
occupied position between a friend |
and a courier, which made him worse
than embarrassing to repay. But |
those whom he obliged could always
buy one of his villanous little pictures,
or, where the favors had been pro-
longed and more than usually deli
cate, might order and pay for large
canvas, with perfect certainty that
they would hear no more of the trans
action.


Among resident artists he enjoyed
celebrity of a nou-professional sort.
He had spent more money-no less
than three Individual fortunes. it was
whispered-than any Of his associates
could ever hope to gain. Apart from
his colonial career, he had been to
Greece in brigantine with four brass
he had travelled Europe
in q chaise and four, drawing bride
at the palace doors of German princes;
queens of song and dance had follow
ed him like sheep and paid his tailor's
bills. And to behold him now, seek
ing small loans with plaintive conde-
scension. sponging for breakfast on
IN art-student Of nineteen, a fallen
Don Juan who had neglected to die
at the propitious hour, had a color of
romance for young imaginations. His
name and his bright past, seen through
the prism of whispered gossip, had
gained him the nickname of ''the Ad-
niral."


Dick found him one day at the re-
;eipt Of custom, rapidly painting
pair Of hens and cock in a little
water color sketching-box, and now
md then glancing at the ceiling like
nan who should seek inspiration from
5he muse. Dick thought it remarl1a-
ole that the painter should choose to
work over an absinthe in public cafe,
and looked the man over. The aged
-akishness of his appearance was set
off by a youthful costume; he had
lisreputable grey hair and disreput,,
able, sore, red, nose; but the coat and
5he gesture, the outworks of the man,
we're still designed to show. Dick
came up to his table and inquired if
ne might look at what the gentleman
was doing. No one was so delighted
~ The Admiral.