LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1297, 16 May 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE ARTIST’S CHILD. [BY a. R. OISSING.] [Tinsley.] Without holding for the slightest pretensio i to connoisaeurship, I yet fluster myself that I know a good picture when I see it There is, indeed, a wide distinction between myself and the connoisseurs; for whereas the latter are the veriest slaves to a great name, I, for my part, care little to know the painter so long as the picture pleases me; a statement which will, of course, at once condemn me in the eyes of all cultured persons. For some years T have been engaged, as far as my means would allow, in making a collection of pictures ; and if ever man merited the title of patron of the illustrious obscure, surely it is myself. In my whole collection there is hardly a name with which you, reader, are sequainted; and by far the greater part remains and ever will remain anonymous. Of course I have reasons for my faith ; nay, I have often thought that out r.f the dreams, ideas, and theories which form the stuffing of my hobby-horse < could, on occasion, weave a not insubstantial philosophical treatise. But fear not; my views yet require much digestion. This by way of paeface, and of excuse for my venturing to call your attention to my latest acquisition. I have hung it in the best light my gallery afforded. You see there is no name. But is it not a g’oriona picture ? Hid not genious guide the painter’s hand here, if ever ?

It is the head of one who is more than child and less than woman ; more nearly it is impossible to guess her age. Conceive a rose bud which has thrust aside its green enclosures, and just breathed its first free sigh from t h e depth of its helf bared bosom; conceive it fixed perennially thus by magic, to be for ever more than bad and less than bloom. Such is the face before us. It is young, hut with the youth of an angel over whose head have passed cycles since the close of mortality. It is impossible to tell the colour of the eyes, absorbed as it is in the intensity of meaning which their depths reveal. The lips, which are rather pale and thin, seem to tremble with the utterance of ravishing myster es ; the whole face is that of one wh >se mighty spirit strove with her frail body, and conquered. The picture might well bear the title of Genius. Yet it is no mere allegorical fancy, but a portrait; and 1 am assured a good one. Unlike most of my pictures, I can say of this one, ‘Tfterebv hangs a tale.’ I will relate it.

Some years ago, whenever the weather happened to be tine, there issued iu the morning, from one of the small streets leading off Tottenham Court h’oad, a middleagon man of feeble appearance leading by the hand a little girl of live or fix years old. The man’s attire was extremely shabby, and that of the child, though newer and of moderately go d material, displayed that i congruity of arrangement which is peculiar to the appearance cf little ores who have no mother to care for them. The man’s face wasp-le and worn, and his eyrs glanced from side to side with an anxious look, which, however, he studiously endeavoured toconc-al from the child whenever she looked up at him, and which, before their walk had continued for very 1 mg, passed away, giving place by degrees to a dreamy benevolent expression. They seemed to have no definite end in view, but sauntered slowly along, constantly talking, and very frequently pausing to examine the display in a shoo window. These pauses chiefly occurred before shops where painting, prints, or photographs were sold; and it even happened at times that they entered one of these, and after spending half an hour in looking in the cases and round the wall", resumed their walk This was usually some what citcuifcons, so that at the end they had come round again to the point whence they started. They entered together the house a tall dmgy edifice, evidently affording a home to several families—and were not seen again till the next fine morning. On one side of this house door was a brass plate, whereon was ■ engraved ‘ Pemlle, Photographer ;’ and had you rung the bell attached, it would have been replied to by the little girl I have just mentioned, who would have led you up three of dark and rather dirty stairs, till you found your self at length iu a spacious roof lighted room fitted up as a studio, A few pictures hung around the walls, and more were pib din the corners iu indiscriminate heaps, mouldering away ben ath substantial layers of dust, besides the photographic apparatus, the studio contained an easel and other materials indicative of painter's work. tor Mr Nathaniel Pendle did not confine himself to photography. Nob very long ago ho had designated himself portrait painter ; and no very long before he had been known to designate himself hist rical painter. Let us look for a moment at his career.

The greatest injury which Nathaniel ever r ceiveci from any man was inflicted byjftjj who imagined he was bestowing Nathaniel An uncle of his had diecj c ’£^ e sumo f seven was yet a hoy and ,at the age hundred P 9( The inheritance had been ourVe of the young man’s life. Nathaniel was always of a dreamy and indolent disposition, fond of dabbling a little in all pursuits, but not posses ing perseverance enough to become proficient in any. At the age of ten he announced himself a poet, and conceiving at the same moment that every occupation but ver.-e-maki g was derogatory to*the poet’s dignity, gave in consequence not a little rouble to his pastor" and maste's. Then he would be a painter, and relinquished everything {t the crayon and the drawingfa ard. lie had no father even at that age, and his mother spoiled him, humouring all his whims, and being quite as ready to te-tify to his great abilities as Master Nathaniel himself was This good mother died, and the boy passed to the care of friends ; whereupon the sorrows of his life commenced. Ho could n> t be brought to fix upon any profession He owned property, he asserted, and lucrative pursuits were needless to him When he was made to perceive at length that the interest derivable from seven hundred pounds was somewhat short of a fortune, he fell back upon his native vanity ; talents such as his could not but be productive sooner or later. Ulti mately he decided to be au artist, and his J-gacy was spent on several years of study. Then came a battle with the world. Nathaniel was rather vain, but that rapid y passed away when lie found himself face to face with life ; he was dreadfully unpractical, and that seemed to increase instead of to diminish. Never was man more the creature of circumst-nces In the midst of comfort he was radimtwith hope and ambition ; the gmius which was within him whispered to him that he had but to stretch forth his hand and there was nothing he oould not attain. So he nodded his head beneath its fancied crown and dreamt on ; the day of execution was to be to morrow. When discomfort came, he at once yielded to its numbing influence 5 he was incapable of the very smallest achieve ment ; he grew petulant and .juerulous H- 1 soon learned, however that necessity is a stern taskmaster. Ambitious efforts were essayed and failed. He la ked the technical skill to embody his brightest conceptions ; he must enter, he found, humhl r walks. He obtained employm nt in making designs for au illustrated paper, and, the fear of starvation removed, at all events for a time, soon relapsed into his day dreams. By the follies usual to youth Nathaniel hod never been tempted; his nature was incap aide of gross enjoyments, and the conscious ness of an excessively tender heart h-ld him from scenes where Ifie r flcctive mind sees qmte as much sv,de ing as pleasure. In his visions he niton pleased himself with projects of princely munificence ; in the stre-ts he had not seldom halved hjalast penny with a i eggar. He led a U§q <d alternating ec asy and pain, the latter certainly predominating, but possibly only in duration. Men, in pecuniary difficulties tre oftm d iven to strange measure f ir r lief; one of the resources e< ayed by Pen die was no le s characteristic than strange. He fell in love With { warmd, & girl itill poorer than

himself. He had grown weary of his op. pressively lonely life, and felt a hungering for companionship which even exceeded hiij occasional hungering for food. Moreover, improvident as this step might appear, is proved in rea'ity a step in the right direction To starve by himself was one thing; to sit by and see one he loved starving was a far other thing x athaniel for the first time in his lif i aroused himself and pat out all hia energies. Ha painted several portraits which acquire him a certain reputation, and reputation’s concomitant. He had a picture hung at the Academy Exhibition, and felt proportionately elated and encouraged. He worked for a while with desperate energy, and next year had three pictures at the Exhibition, one of them a poetical work displaying all the pecn iar characteristics of his genius. He was on the high-road to fame ; but instead of keeping hia eyes closely fixed upon the mountains afar off, he nnf >rinnately turned to view the country around him. The result was that he progressed no farther; the fields were so pleasant, the flowers so bright, the sun so warm and gl irions, the shadows of the trees so fragrant and cool, that he sank down to rest, and once more became a dreamer. Had he but laboured on, what would he not have accomplished ! For never had his visions been so divine as now; never had his mind’s eye so nearly fathomed the mystery of eternal beauty. He awoke, and with a rude shock. Hia wife, though he knew it not, was consumptive. She had given birth to a little girl—a frail life which they hardly hoped would survive its first year—and her h alth had ever since been gr >wing worse. Nathaniel was not living in the commonplace world of sickness and death. He saw nothing; and the poor girl, who loved him better than life, would never permit herself to disturb him with a complaint. But the knowledge at length came to him, and almost shook his reason. Now, if ever, exertion was needed, and he was incapable of it. He had known that, day by day, they were becoming poorer ; but his former success had mads him over-confident. Now he found it almost impossible to shake off his lethargy, urgent as was the need. Another climate was recommended for his wife, but he had not the necessary means ; and had he been ever so wealthy it would not have availed. Scarcely more than two years after the birth of her child the mother died. Months later Pendle arose from a bed of sickness, a stricken, feeble, nuprosperons man. He was yet young; but grief and anxiety had seamed his forehead and made his cheeks haggard. He had beautiful eyes ; and these alone retained their old expression of mystic joy, the only change being that at times they seemed to have to search and look afar and strain after their visions It was clear that, in future, dreams would be hia sole resource ; the budding promise of past years was nipped b yond hope. But he had his j| child to care for, and henceforth the man’s whole life centred in this frail offshoot of itself. To gain a living he became a photographer, falling back upon portrait painting whenever an opportu .ifcy presented itself. As time went on he ventured once or twice to pursue tee b dder paths of his art; but his imagination seemed enfeebled, and his hand had lost much of its skill. Painful associations, too, arose in his mind as he began to ve touch old pieces which had long lain unfinished. o'tea he laid down his brush with a shudder, and h s disinclination to resume it continually grew. {To he continued.)