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Show AN ENGLISH PAINTER. If Mr. Millais in his youth ever dreamed that he dwelt in marble halls, his dream has been fully realized while he is yet in the prime of manhood. The home which he has built and made beautiful is the fitting reward of the genius which had done so much to adorn the homes of the nation at large and to shed honor on English art. It is the reward, too, of hard work; for among his many amiable and admirable qualities, none is more characteristic of the man than his indomitable industry, his tenacious persistence. During the working months of the year, Mr. Millais applies himself to his professional business with single-hearted devotion. Until the completion of his pictures makes him a free man, the door of his studio is sealed against all comers. Even to his intimate friends he reveals not the secret of his sanctum until the early days of April. Meanwhile, his sympathies with his fellowmen are still active. If he prefers keeping his head cool, his hand steady, and his mind concentrated by spending his evenings quietly by his own fireside, instead of dissipating time and energy on general society, he still finds moments to give to affectionate councils over the easels of fellow-workers, and, however severe his own work, has never been known to refuse the aid of advice and sympathy to those who seek and need it. Some people say that Millais is getting careless in his work, and that he paints too much to paint always well; but what can exceed in either pathos or finish his Princes in the Tower or ????? which was exhibited privately that the proceeds might go to the Artists Benevolent Fund, an institution in which he takes special interest and to which he devotes no little care and labor. When the doors of Burlington House have closed on the labors of the fore-going year, the doors of his house at Palace-gate are thrown open. Let us enter with a ticket of leave, which announces that Mrs. Millais is at home. Some eight hundred guests pass through the brilliantly-lighted marble hall, between its rows of stately pillars, and tile slowly up and down the broad staircase, along which runs a dado of marble, and on which lies a rich Indian carpet. On the first landing Mrs. Millais and her daughter welcome the coming and speed the parting guests, making a foreground worthy of the scenery beyond. Against the wall of the wide landing a marble basin - which has a special water supply of its own - is surrounded by ferns and moss. A sea-lion, with a fish in its mouth, and water issuing from its nostrils, has apparently just risen from its depths. This curiosity of natural history, designed by the possessor, and executed in highly-polished black marble, is so life-like that one can imagine Frank Buckland claiming it as a long-lost member of his own peculiar family. Marble busts by Burns of Mrs. Millais and two of her daughters preside over all. Passing onwards we turn to the left, and enter the lofty studio, forty feet long, which seems to vanish into the green woods of the tapestry beyond. Any curious stranger, finding himself along in this chamber of art might be startled, not so much by the weirdness of the lay figures as by the various devices of the artist, were they suddenly to reveal themselves. At the end of the room a long trap door opens, by which pictures descend into regions below. Close at hand there is a winding iron staircase for the artist and his assistants. To the right a heavy curtain can be withdrawn, showing an immense folding-door, through which the art treasures are carted away to the Royal Academy on receiving day. In other parts of the wall mysterious and invisible little doors open serving the purpose of bolt-holes for the artist when flying from a sitter or a retreat for the father when making a sudden descent on his family. Meanwhile, the easel is superseded by the piano, round which a group of distinguished musicians are gathered, and near them many members of the upper ten are airing their charms and their diamonds in the ???? light of Royalty. <br><br> The host makes his genial presence felt everywhere. But the crowd increases fast and the pressure becomes a little difficult to bear. We pass through the folding doors into a scene of greater tranquility, where we find quiet nooks and undiscovered corners under the shadows of spreading palms and in the midst of flowers. The chairs and couches, sofas and settees, are covered with exquisite brocade, and are so grouped and fashioned that friends may unite in council, or couples enjoy an uninterrupted tete-a-tete at will. The fireplaces are filled with plants, through the leaves and flowers of which glitter the sides of repousse brass. There cabinets, quaintly outlined, stand sharply defined against the still undecorated pale gray walls. All are beautiful, but the one with silver images in niches is also historic, having belonged to Charles I. In the middle drawing room a large square bay-window overlooks the broad walk of Kensington Gardens in the daytime, and shows the living panorama as it passes to and for; at night the tableau vivant becomes a picture of still life, when the rich crimson velvet drapery is drawn behind Michael Angelos group of Leda and the Swan, artistically bringing out the noble features of the composition. En suite with the drawing-rooms a dining room harmonizes with the rest, the floors of all being parqueierie, and the carpets, like that of the staircase, Indian. From a door behind a large screen the mysteries of service are silently performed by the aid of a lift. Having gone the round of the home circuit, we emerge once more on the lovely spot where the sea lion is yet in the act of swallowing his fish, and the water is still flowing from his nostrils; where Mrs. Millais and her daughter are still welcoming their guests, and where groups of well-known faces, hailing from the world of politics, literature, fashion, and the arts, discuss the questions of the day. At the end of the London season a general mobilization of the family Millais takes place; boys and girls from school and lads from Cambridge assembling in Perthshire, the usual scene of their summer joys. At St. Mary's Towers, for instance, Millais, in the bosom of his family and surrounded by friends, is a thoroughly happy man. Before the rich autumnal tints come to lure him (over the hills and far away), he spends his days in fishing, or playing golf on a miniature scale in the garden round the house. St. Mary's is a family mansion built by Lord John Manners, and situated on an eminence above Dunkeld. From the tower the view extends over many countries, whence the artist has taken the scene of some of his finest landscapes, and which abound in those lovely bits so well known. The stately hospitality of Palace gate now gives place to the simple hospitality of domestic life; and those friends who visit the master at St. Mary's are less guests than members of his family, while the sweet mountain air and the genial kindness of his host make ever one happy, from the youngest little elf to the stranger who may be visiting for the first time. One characteristic of the menage Millais is the rational dress of the womenkind. Unlike the ladies of other artistic households, they do not savor of the studio and the lay figure, nor, forgetting that they live in the reign of Queen Victoria, A.D. 1879, dress themselves after the fashions of 121 B.C., posing as mothers of Gracchi, Athenian maidens, or Pompeian nymphs in impossible staffs. About the 12 of August Millais generally breaks forth from the peaceful pleasures of domestic life, and hurrying further northward appears on the moors in the complete garb of a sportsman. Full of vitality and enthusiams, he strides across the heather with the air of a general brigand. To those awaiting the arrival of the sportsmen in the shady hollow where the luncheon is prepared, the sight is interesting. The dogs ranging wide make a sudden point; the party halts, a puff of smoke, and the black dot against the sky drops to the gun of John Everett Millais. While most London men would be exhausted with the day's unwonted toil, the artist keeps the ball going until midnight, and is as fresh when he takes his candlestick and bids them all a cheery good night as he was when he appeared on the scene of action with the last echo of the breakfast bell. The morning after the 12th, while life's pleasures are for the moment in abeyance, Millais betakes himself to a neighboring orchard, where, with newspapers and cigars, he seeks such repose as may be granted him under a cherry-tree. Somehow repose is just the one thing denied our friend; for although he may succeed in getting away from the busy haunts of men and women, children are sure toe find him out, especially in an orchard. While deep in ????'s last acrostic, piteous cries from the branches above him bring him to his feet to rescue the adventurous young lady who, with more courage than discretion, is now struggling with fate and many twigs, and is presenting him, unconsciously and gratuitously, with a very remarkable study from Nature. Essentially a child-loving man, he is not only the friend, but the lover and comrade of all others, whom he captivates by his kindness. The public honor and admire the artist in his work; his brother artists respect and believe in his genius,; but within the sacred circle of private life he reaps the rich harvest of unbounded love - that harvest which he has sown by his kindness, his manly tenderness, and his own faithfulness of heart. <br><br> - London World. |