The Sun.
London, England, 1867-05-30 00:00:00

CLARKSON STANFIELD.

[Charles Dickens, and no other than Charles
Dickens, can by possibility have been the author of
the following beautiful tribute to the memory, to the
genius, and to the character of his dear friend de-
parted— Clarkson Stanfield. The eloquence of these
earnest words is that born from the fullness of the
heart. It is the tribute of a true and tender friend-
ship, and a touching evidence of the profound ap-
preciation of one great artist by another. Nothing
—it may be observed—could be more calm, yet at
the same time more scathing than the scorn v.,;ft.
ineidentallv remarkpii b our great no-
velist—" It is superfluous to record that the painter
of"—many noble historical paintings, the names of
someatnon&hich arethereupon enumerated by Mr.
Dickens—" died in his seventy-fourth year, Mr.
Stanfield.—He was an Englishman."]
Every artist, be he writer, painter, musician, or
actor, must bear his private sorrows as he best can,
and must separate them from the exercise of his
public pursuit. But it sometimes happens, in com-
pensation, that his private loss of a dear friend re-
presents a loss on the part of the whole community.
Then he may, without individuality, step forth to
lay his little wreath upon that dear friend's grave.
On Saturday, the eighteenth of this present month,
Clarkson Stanfield died. On the afternoon of that
day, England lost the great marinepainter of whom
she will be boastful ages hence ; the National Historian
of her speciality, the Sea ; the man famous in all
countries for his marvellous rendering of the waves
that break upon her shores, of her ships and seamen,
of her coasts and skies, of her storms and sunshine,
of the many marvels of the deep. Ile who holds
the oceans in the hollow of llis hand had given,
associated with them, wonderful gifts into his keep-
ing; he had used them well through threes ore and
fourteen years ; and, on the afternoon of that spring
day, relinquished them for ever. It is superfluous
to record that the painter of ' The Battle of Tra-
falgar,' of the Victory being Towed into Gibraltar
with the Body of Nelson on Board,' of 'The
Morning After the Wreck,' of The Abandoned,'
of fifty more such works, died in his seventy-fourth
year, Mr.' Stanfield. He was au Englishman.
Those grand pictures will proclaim his powers
while paint and canvas last. But the writer of
these words had been his friend for thirty years ;
and when, a short week or two before his death, he
laid that once so skilful hand upon the writer's
breast, and told him they would meet again, "hut
not here," the thoughts of the latter turned, for the
time, so little to his noble genius, and so much to
his noble nature ! Ile was the soul of frankness,
generosity, and simplicity. The most genial, tho
most affectionate, the most loving, and the most
lovable of men. Success had never for an
instant spoiled him. His interest in
the theatre as an inditution, the best
picturesqueness of which may be said to be wholly
due to him—was faithful to the last. His belief in
a play, his delight in one, the ease with which it
moved him to tears or to laughter, were most re-
markable evidences of the heart ho must have put
into his old theatrical work, and of the thorough
purpose and sincerity with which it must have
been done. The writer was very intimately as-
sociated with him in some amateur plays ; and
day after day, and night after night, there
were the same unquenchable freshness, enthu-
siasm, and impressibility in him, though broken
in health even then. No artist can ever have
stood by his art with a quieter dignity than he al-
ways did. Nothing would have induced him to lay
it at the feet of any human creature. To fawn, or
to toady, or to do underserved homage to any one,
was an absolute impossibility with him. And yet
his character was 81 nicely balanced that ho was the
last man in the world to be suspected of self-ssser-
dun, and his modesty was one of his most
special qualities. He was a charitable, religious,
gentle, truly good man. A genuine man, inca-
pable of pretence or concealment. He had been
a sailor once ; and all the best characteristics
that are popularly attributed to sailors, being
his, and being in him refined by the in-
fluences of his art, fcrmed a whole not likely to be
often seen. There is no smile that the writer can
recal like his ; no manner so naturally confiding
and so cheerfully engaging. 'When the writer saw
him for the last time on earth, the smile and the
manner shone out once through the weakness, still
the bright unchanging soul within the altered face
and form. No man was ever held in higher respect
by his friends, and yet his intimate friends invariably
addressed him and spoke of him by a pet name.
It may need, perhaps, the writer's memory and
associations to find in this touching expression of
his winning character, his playful smile, and plea-
sant ways, " You know Mrs. Inohbald's story,