THE LIFE OF CONRAD MARTENS 



of March, 1844, but lived only six weeks. He was buried in 

 the garden, but afterwards properly bestowed in the cemetery. 



Martens dwelt at St. Leonards for the remainder of his life, 

 retaining his studio in Mort's Buildings for purposes of business 

 as late as '56. He taught his daughter Rebecca to paint ; 

 but her work is a weak imitation of his own, lacking touch and 

 insight. Both his girls had grown up, but neither married. 

 Elizabeth died in 1 870 ; Rebecca survived both parents, and died 

 in 1909. I fancy that, as in most mid- Victorian homes where 

 respectability leaned upon a straitened income, life at St. 

 Leonards must have been quiet, sad and a little depressed. 



In 1863, on the recommendation of his friend Alexander Berry, 

 he was appointed Assistant Parliamentary Librarian. Doubtless 

 he felt that, though his working days were nearly over, he was 

 well fitted for the position by reason of his love and knowledge of 

 books. Writing in '67 to an English friend, he says of it : " My 

 present occupation, I am happy to say, suits me well, as it enforces 

 a certain amount of exercise. I have now but little time for 

 painting. The few hours which I spend at home in the day are 

 frequently employed in little domestic matters, and I must own 

 that now, after the journey to Sydney and back, I feel a positive 

 pleasure in sitting still I mean quite still, doing nothing, especi- 

 ally during the present hot weather, which is sometimes very 

 relaxing. Mrs. Martens takes a regular siesta, and I can do that 

 too, sometimes, with the help of a book." It is a pleasure to 

 think that the old man enjoyed his quiet work in the Library. 

 He asked for a retiring pension in June, 1878, having suffered 

 long from angina pectoris. There is something pathetic in this 

 appeal less than three months before his death, but it was not 

 granted, and he died on the 21st August, 1878. 



His long and honourable life had been uneventful as the lives 

 of most artists preoccupied, as they must needs be, with but two 

 problems, their bread and their art. It was his destiny to be the 

 first artist to make here a tradition in landscape, and Sydney 

 must ever esteem his memory, for he was her first painter- 

 lover. Never did lover pay to the beauty of his mistress a 

 more untiring homage. 



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