It is with a delightful response that one comes

upon Morland's well-known picture of " The

Stable " in the National Gallery. I was actually

searching for it when my admiration was arrested

by a vision of harmonious, tranquil life. A

peaceful gleam rather than a picture met my

gaze, and as I looked I realised that this was

what I was seeking. All in it is natural, in-

evitable, as the greatest and best must always

seem.

The day is ending ; the horses and the pony

are led home, contentedly returning from their

toil. The stableman stoops to collect the pro-

vender ; the light flows in, shaded from without

by the piece of irradiated sacking, and as it

illumines the homely things — the wheelbarrow,

the spade, the old lantern — these very imple-

ments seem also at rest. Toil is over ; the hour

of peace has come.

There are other fine pictures by Morland, but

nothing seems quite so good as this one, which,

so I have been told, was bought and presented

to the nation by a generous benefactor. But

though nothing is perhaps quite equal to " The

Stable," one is dazzled by the wealth of the

stream which comes flowing from the easel of

this ardent workman. Sometimes one is dis-

appointed in his work, which seems to have been

alternately a torrent of realisation, of vitality,

and a drifting waste of fine material.

In his early youth horses were his delight ; he

rode in steeplechases. He was a fine musician as

well as a painter ; he was a gay and generous

companion, a happy vagrant all through life,

spending recklessly, giving out bountifully to

the end. He might have claimed a baronetcy, but

he refused, and said, " Better be a fine painter

than a fine gentleman."

George Morland was born in 1764. He was

the son of Henry Morland, also an artist, from

whom he received whatever tuition he had in

drawing and painting. We read how, as a boy,

he was made to work so hard that when he

reached manhood he went to the opposite

extreme, and his life was wild, amusing, and

agreeable. He married the sister of William

Ward, the mezzotint engraver (who reproduced

so many of his pictures). Morland loved his

wife, but after a short time of married life,

grew tired of domestic monotony, quarrelled

with his brother-in-law, and once more returned

to Bohemian ways. His health broke down ;

he owed money, and was imprisoned for debt.

One of his pictures is a scene representing a

half-naked prisoner being relieved by two kind

benefactors.

Morland fled from debts and bailiffs — per-

haps he rather enjoyed flying from his creditors

— and finally came to the Isle of Wight and

painted many of its aspects.

There is that wonderful episode related in his

life when, being at breakfast at six o'clock in the

morning at Yarmouth in the island, preparing for

his day's work, a corporal and a file of soldiers

marched in and took him off to Newport as a

spy, wearily trudging him through the blazing

sun. Happily one of the magistrates set him

free, and from Yarmouth and Newport he seems

to have found his way to Freshwater Bay.

Coming out of Farrlngford Lane, where the

thrushes still sing as they did in the laureate's

time, and the downs shine beyond the fragrant

hedges, you pass between them, still following

the road to the foot of the hill, where one or two

patient loiterers stand watching the passers-by ;

finally, you come to a little sea-terrace marked

by a few posts and chains. Perhaps as you look

about a gull sails by on tranquil extended pinions,

you see a few bathing-machines huddled among

the waste and lumber of the shore, and on the

opposite cliff a long low inn of only two stories

marked by a flagstaff. It is now called the

Albion. A hundred years ago a little public-

house, the Mermaid, stood on the self-same spot ;

it was a very humble Mermaid and a place of

meeting, so we are told, for smugglers and

fishermen. It is in full range of the broad sea-

breezes ; on stormy days the waves still come

from a great distance, sending sudden fountains

of spray against the low windows. The Stag

rocks are opposite ; on the other side, the fort

half-way up the cliff leads to High Down and

to its beacon wrapped in changing lights. Gulls

fly across the line of the cliff, countless rabbits

scamper along the turf. The ancient wooden

beacon has been replaced by Tennyson's cross,

but nothing else is very different from the time

— a hundred years ago — when George Morland

looked out with his flashing dark eyes and saw

it all. Here in little Freshwater he lived for a

time and worked and joined the wild revellers

who then frequented the humble tavern. There

is the story of the friend who reproached him

for keeping such humble company and dragged

him reluctantly away from the bar. But once

outside, Morland produced his sketch-book.

" Look at this," said he ; " where else could I

find such models?" and there were the admir-

able drawings of the men drinking within.

"George Morland," says Mr. Richardson, "the

successor of Reynolds and Romney, of Hogarth,

of Gainsborough, was, like Burns, absolutely

original, averse to seeking knowledge in any

academy but that of nature."

In Mr. Wedmore's Studies in English Art,

writing of landscape, he says: "Gainsborough

had discovered a mine which others would

more profitably work. He had set an example,

and others would follow it, though the result

of their following would vary with their in-

dividual gifts. Two men who worked in part

during his later life, and in chief after its close,

I connect especially with Gainsborough. The

art of each had a new element, but the art of

both was the child of Gainsborough. One of

these men was George Morland ; the other,

Francis Wheatley."

To go on quoting from Mr. Wed more : "To

high dramatic expression Morland did not seek

to attain ; to subtle and fine feeling he hardly

pretended ; but unconcerned with the modern

landscapist's philosophy, or any wider vision

than that which lay before his own peasant as

he trudged home from his work, or his own

fisherman as he mended the nets on the beach,

or his own shepherd as he paused at midday

to take from his wallet his meal, while the good

dogs barked around him — unconcerned with any

wider vision than that of these, Morland did

slowly build up for us a picture of the rougher

England of that day."

Many of Morland's prints and drawings are

still to be found in the island. From the

cottages they have gradually drifted to the halls

and homes of the well-to-do. Mrs. Orchard at

the Freshwater Post Office has a charming col-

lection of Morland's sketches as well as some of

those of his colleagues and imitators.

Among her prints is one called " The Fern

Gatherers," a print after Morland, published in

1799, 17| by 23f. It is curious as being the

original of a charming duplicate in water colour

by Ward. The water colour has also been

engraved, and is called " The Fern Burners."

In it only a part of the first picture is repeated.

The figure of a gipsy is altogether omitted, and

the position of another slightly altered. The

plate of this " Fern Burners " has been de-

stroyed.

It is a long way from Freshwater Gate to

Queen Anne's Gate at the Westminster end

of St. James's Park, where in a stately old

mansion traces of Morland's life-work are also

to be found — early and fanciful studies in his

finished early style, so unlike his broader later

manner : " Idleness," the tranquil lady in white

attire with her Httle dog to keep her company ;

" Industry," the most charming and leisurely of

industries, with her broad black hat so deftly

poised upon her elaborate locks and with pretty

red slippers resting on a footstool. She delicately

stitches at arm's length while the light falls upon

her sampler. In the hall of the same old house

the well-known children playing at soldiers are

to be seen, with that dear little girl in the fore-

ground looking on. Still more delightful are

those infants of the past robbing the orchard of

long-stolen apples. They are dressed in ancient

little knee-breeches and shoe-buckles. For a

century past the little scapegrace has come

scrambling from the branches, while another

clutches at the fallen fruit. It is all delicate,

natural ; at the same time we may realise

Morland's great advance as time went on. At

the Victoria and Albert Museum I found one

picture which appealed to me, that of the fisher-

men hauling in a boat from the sea. I thought

I could recognise the very place in Freshwater

Bay. The waves of the sea are alive, the clouds

are alive, the dog is alive, even the cliffs are

alive in their own fashion ; only the fishermen

are not alive as they haul in the boat, though

the craft is yielding to their pull and the wind

blows their hair and their clothing.

His anatomy may have failed somewhat, but

he could paint time, he could paint rest, he could

paint the essence of life, and his wayward

attraction, strange being that he was, adds

something not to be ignored to its realisation.

With so many selves to enjoy, with so many

qualities to squander, his music, his riding, his

love of animals, his love of children, his jovial

charity, his prodigal companionship, he should

have been a greater man. Morland as he grew

older took a wider view of life and nature than

in his youth. He must have been a lovable

person. His wife died of grief when she learnt

his death. She owed him love ; we owe to him

a new delight in natural things.

How often it is the thought of the others who

have passed before us that gives a personal soul

and meaning to nature itself.

Freshwater, where Morland once came, has

its own beloved traditions, traditions greater

than Morland's, and coming after him, and it

echoes with the footsteps which still seem to

be crossing the downs and treading the lanes

and the meadows all around.

Author: Anne Isabella Thackeray Ritchie, From the porch