580 The Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. [June, 



The parlour — oh, how incomparably inferior to the kitchen 1 — was a 

 little, low, square, dark box, into which we were shut by a door, painted 

 black, dimly lighted by a small casement window, that was overhung 

 by a dingy-looking laurastinus, still frost-bitten, and rendered even 

 more gloomy by a dark paper of reds and greens with an orange border. 

 A piece of furniture called a beaufet stood open, and displayed a col- 

 lection of glass-ware, almost equal to the pewter for age and bi'ightness, 

 to the mugs for variety, and to the china for joinery ; this, together 

 with a shining round mahogany table, and half a dozen hai^bottomed 

 chairs, really seemed to crowd the little apartment. On the wall, to 

 which I looked for the specimens of Seppy's art, I saw only — first, a 

 map of England, worked, sampler-fashion in marking stitch, on so large 

 a scale that it almost reached from the ceiling to the floor, with the 

 name of Susan Plot in great letters, and the date 1793. Secondly, 

 a piece of embroidery, in coloured silks, on satin once white, now que- 

 rulously yellow, representing Queen Dido about to ascend the funer^ 

 pyre, and signed, in a dark corner, Susanna Martin, 1817. N.B. Dido's 

 robe rather the worse foe wear — woefully faded. Thirdly, a print of 

 Louis XVI. in a full-dress court suit, the night before his execution. 

 Fourthly, a portrait of Dr. Doddridge, apparently cut out of some cheap 

 religious book, and framed in black, to match the French monarcli. 

 Fifthly, a dish of fruit in cloth-M'ork, anonymous. 



As these were the sole decorations of the walls, I was rather puzzled 

 to conceive which could be the chef-d'oeuvre of Seppy, and had begun 

 to suspect the cloth cherries and strawberries, when his mother called 

 my attention to the mantle-piece, on which I descried two flaming match 

 figures, a Highlander and a gipsey, rather worse executed than common, 

 which, as all the world knows, need not be. Never did boarding-school 

 miss put out of hand more hopeless daubs. There was not an idea of 

 form, or colour, or proportion. The gipsey woman was half as tall again 

 as the Highlandman, who, indeed, by the help of his tartan petticoat, 

 might have passed for a woman himself. Poor Mrs. Martin hung over 

 them in extacy, and, not content with extorting all she could of com- 

 mendation, seriously requested my advice and opinion as to which of 

 the two arts Seppy should follow as a profession. 



I was so much struck with the harmlessness of the lad, who followed 

 us like a spaniel, and with the delightful frankness and simplicity of the 

 mother, that I could not resist the impulse of bestowing that most un- 

 profitable of all things to the giver and receiver — good advice ; and con- 

 cluded a vehement tirade against the fine arts with the following ex- 

 hortation. " Make Septimus a farmer, Mrs. Martin, a good, honest, 

 thriving farmer, like his father ! treat him as if he were your sixth son 

 or your eighth ! forget his genius, make a farmer of him !" and she said 

 she would ; and the next day, painting having been the rock against 

 which I particularly cautioned lier, Seppy was articled to a drawing- 

 master, and is to this hour, perpetrating such caricatures of the " human 

 face divine," as would set at defiance the efforts of any genius, except 

 that of the seventh son of a seventh son. 



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