KIDD'S OWN JOURNAL 



49 



THE UNFINISHED PICTUKE. 



The spider's most attenuated thread 



Is eoi d, is cable, when compared with that 



On which at times Man's destiny depends. 



HAS BEEN SAID BY A SHREWD, 

 OBSERVANT, AND TENDER-HEARTED 



author, that " the loveliest thing 

 in life is the mind of a young child." 



I jw ^ e most sensitive thing, he might 

 '■ y vS have added, is the heart of a young- 

 artist. Hiding in his bosom a veiled 

 and unspeakable beauty, the in- 

 spired neophyte shrinks from contact with 

 the actual, to lose himself in delicious reveries 

 of an ideal world. In those enchanted re- 

 gions, the great and powerful of the earth ; 

 the warrior statesmen of the Elizabethan era ; 

 the steel-clad warriors of the mediaeval ; gor- 

 geous 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 — all 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 mys- 

 tery which called the Universe itself into 

 being; that sole attribute of genius — cre- 

 ation. 



Few artists escape those minor evils which 

 are almost a necessary consequence in an 

 exquisitely sympathetic organisation. For- 

 tunately these are but transient, — often 

 requisite ; bringing forth hidden faculties and 

 deeper feelings, which else might have laid 

 dormant. But iterated disappointments will 

 wear even into a soul of iron ; sadly I write 

 it, — there have been such instances. 



True and touching is the tale 1 have to tell ; 

 although it relates to an early period : — 



" its only charm, in sooth, 



If any, will be sad and simple truth." 



In one of those little villages in the north 

 of England which still preserve the antiquated 

 pastimes of bygone times, there lived, about a 

 century ago, a young artist by the name of 

 Sfanfield. A small freehold estate barely 

 sufficed to support himself and his aged grand- 

 mother. 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 on 

 long winter nights, had been as eloquent to 

 him as a mythology ; and many a " Douglas 

 and Percie," — many ah exploit of "Johnnie 

 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 admira- 

 tion 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 were the rude 

 praises bestowed upon them by her rustic 

 neighbors. 



At last the squire called upon him. The 

 meeting was delightful to both. The enthu- 

 siasm and innate refinement of the young 

 man — the delicate taste, simplicity, and 

 manly benevolence of the squire, were mutu- 

 ally attractive. A commission to paint a 

 picture was given to Stanfield ; and a large 

 apartment in the manor hall was 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 so happened that 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, tiiat picture. But youth, 

 with all its misgivings, is full of hope; and 

 the young artist, in spite of the wise admo 

 nitions 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 



Vol. V.— 4. 



