University of Virginia Library

THE LAST PICTURE.

“The loveliest thing in life,” says a gifted author, “is
the mind of a young child.” The most sensitive
thing, he might have added, is the heart of a young
artist. Hiding in his bosom a veiled and unspeakable
beauty, the inspired Neophyte shrinks from contact with
the actual, to lose himself in delicious reveries of an ideal
world. In those enchanted regions, the great and powerful
of the earth; the warrior-statesmen of the Elizabethan
era; the steel-clad warriors of the mediæval ages; gorgeous
cathedrals, and the luxuriant pomp of prelates, who had
princes for their vassals; courts of fabled and forgotten
kings; and in the deepening gloom of antiquity, the nude

Briton and the painted Pict pass before his enraptured
eyes. Women, beautiful creations! warm with breathing
life, yet spiritual as angels, hover around him; Elysian
landscapes are in the distance; but ever arresting his
steps,—cold and spectral in his path,—stretches forth the
rude hand of Reality. Is it surprising that the petty
miseries of life weigh down his spirit? Yet the trembling
magnet does not seek the north with more unerring fidelity
than that “soft sentient thing,” the artist's heart, still
directs itself amid every calamity, and in every situation, towards
its cynosure—perfection of the beautiful. The law
which guides the planets attracts the one; the other is
influenced by the Divine mystery which called the universe
itself into being; that sole attribute of genius—creation.

Few artists escape those minor evils which are almost
a necessary consequence in an exquisitely sympathetic organization.
Fortunately, these are but transient, often
requisite, bringing forth hidden faculties and deeper feelings,
which else might have lain dormant. But iterated
disappointments will wear even into a soul of iron; sadly
I write it, there have been such instances; but a few years
have elapsed since the death of the lamented Haydon;
and later, one nearer and dearer, this side the Atlantic,
was called to an untimely grave.

Not less true and touching is the tale I have to tell,
although it relates to an earlier period;—

In one of those little villages in the north of England
which still preserve the antiquated customs and pastimes
of past times, there lived, about a century ago, a young
artist by the name of Stanfield. A small freehold estate
barely sufficed to support himself and his aged grandmother.
They resided in a cottage entirely by themselves,
and as he was an orphan and an only child, I need not say
how dear he was to that poor old heart. The border ballads
she would sit crooning to him long winter nights had
been as eloquent to him as a mythology, and many a
“Douglass and Percie,”—many an exploit of “Jonnie Armstrong,”
“Laidlaw,” and “Elliott,” adorned the walls of the
cottage, depicted, it is true, with rude materials and implements,
but sufficiently striking to excite the admiration
of the villagers, who wondered, not so much at the manner
in which the sketches were executed, as at the fact
that such things could be done at all. A beautiful rural
landscape surrounded their home; and a view of the
Solway, the Irish sea, and the distant coast of Scotland,

doubtless had its effect upon the mind of the young painter.
Many were the gossipings, during his absence from the
cottage, over these early productions of his pencil, and dear
to his aged grandmother the rude praises bestowed upon
them by her rustic neighbors.

At last the Squire called upon him. The meeting was
delightful to both. The enthusiasm and innate refinement
of the young man—the delicate taste, simplicity, and manly
benevolence of the Squire, were mutually attractive. A
commission to paint a picture was given to Stanfield, and
a large apartment in the Manor Hall appropriated to his
use. You may be sure he was untiring in his efforts now.
Room to paint—materials to use—studies on every side—
patronage to reward—happy artist! Nor was the want
of sweet companionship felt by him. At times, a lovely
face startled him at his doorway. Sometimes music,
“both of instrument and singing,” floated up the broad
staircase. Sometimes he found a chance handful of flowers
resting upon his palette. A golden-haired, blue-eyed
vision haunted his dreams, waking or sleeping. Happy,
happy artist! The Squire had an only daughter. Her
name was Blanche. The picture was at last completed.

It happened the great Sir Joshua Reynolds at this time
paid the Squire a visit. Ah! that young heart throbbed

then, not less with dread than joy. No doubt it was a
crude production, that picture, but youth, with all its
misgivings, is full of hope, and the young artist, in spite
of the wise admonitions of his patron, insisted upon concealing
himself behind the canvas, that he might hear the
candid opinion of the great painter. It is scarcely necessary
to refer to the fact, that Sir Joshua was deaf, and his
voice in consequence, had that sharpness usual in persons
so affected. The expected day arrived. The Squire and
his guests stood before the picture. A sweet voice, like a
thread of gold, sometimes mingled with the praises of the
rest. At last, Sir Joshua spoke. Stanfield listened intently.
He heard his picture condemned. Still he listened,
his heart beating against his side almost audibly; there
might be some redeeming points? Like an inexorable
judge, the old painter heaped objection upon objection,
and that too, in tones, it seemed, of peculiar asperity.
Poor Stanfield felt as if the icy hand of death were laid
upon his heart, and then, with a sickening shudder, fell
senseless upon the floor.

They raised him,—he recovered—was restored to life;
but what was life to him?

From that time, he drooped daily. At last his kind
patron sent him to Rome. There, amid the eternal monuments

of art, avoiding all companions, immured in his
little studio, he busied himself steadily, but feebly, with a
work which proved to be his last.

It represented a precipitous cliff to the brink of which
a little child had crept. One tiny hand stretched out over
the abyss, and its baby face was turned, with a smile,
towards its mother, from whose arms it had evidently just
escaped. That playful look was a challenge for her to
advance, and she, poor mother, with that deep, dumb
despair in her face, saw the heedless innocent just poised
upon the brink, beyond her reach, and knew that if she
moved towards it a single step, it too would move, to certain
death. But with heaven-taught instinct, she had
torn the drapery from her breast, and exposed the sweet
fountain of life to her infant. Spite of its peril, you felt
it would be saved.

Such was the picture. Day after day, when the artists,
his friends, gathered at their customary meals, his poor,
pale face was seen among them, listless, without a smile,
and seemingly wistful of the end, when he might retire
again to his secluded studio. One day he was missing.
The second came, but he came not. The third arrived—
still absent. A presentiment of his fate seemed to have
infused itself in every mind. They went to his room.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 527EAF. Page 019. Image of the artist, seated before his picture, deceased. Peering into the room in the background are a man and woman clinging to each other, as the man holds back the drapery with one hand. Crouched behind them is another woman. There is a glowing light cast over the artist, with the rest of the room being dark and gloomy. On the far wall is a suit of armor and a shield. At his side is a paint palette and various brushes, obviously dropped upon his death.]

There, seated in a chair before his unfinished picture, they
found him—dead—his pencil in his hand.