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 acorn with
which it is incidentally remarked by our great no-
velist—" It is superfluous to record that the painter
of"--many noble historical paintings, the names of
someamongwhich arethereupon enumerated by Mr.
Dic
in his seventy-fourth year, Mr.
St ti n fien
e ls -11-ln died
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 His 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. Ile was an Englishman.
Those grand pictures will proclaim his powers
,vhile 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, " but
not here," the thoughts of the latter turned, for the
time, so little to his noble genius, and so much to
his noble nature! He• was the soul of frankness,
generosity, and simplicity. The most genial, the
most affectionate, the most loving, and the most
lovable of men. Success had never for an
instant spoiled him. llis interest in
the theatre as an institution, 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 he 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
lay after day, and night after night, there
sere the same unquenchable freshness, • enthu-
siasts, and impressibility in him, though broken
,n 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
toady, or to do underserved horn ige to any one,
was an absolute impossibility with him. And yet
nis character was so nicely balanced that he was the
last man in the world to be suspected of self-asser-
ion, and his modesty was one of his most
special qualities. lie was a charitable, xsligious,
;aide, truly good man. A genuine man, inca-
dabla of pretence or concealment. Ile had been
sailor once ; and all the best characteristics
Jtat are popularly attributed to sailors, being
ais, and being in him refined by the in-
duences of his art, fcrinel a whole not likely to be
often seen. There is no smile that the writer can
;coal like his ; no • manner so naturally confiding
and so cheerfully engaging. When the writer saw
dm for the last time ou earth, the smile and the
manner shone out once through the weakness, still
the bright unchanging soul within the alterel face
and form. No man was ever hold in higher respect
his friends, and yet his intimate friends invariably
iddressed him and spoke of him by a pet nuns.
It may nee 1, perhaps, the writer's memory and
issociations to find in this touching expression of
~is winning character, his playful smile, and
plea-
eant ways. (c You know Mrs, Inohbald's story,

••••••••..
Nature and Art ?" wrote Thomas Hood, once, in
letter—" What a fine edition of Nature and Art
Stanfield !" Gone! And many and many A dear
old day gone with him ! But their memories re•
main. And his memory will not soon fade out, for
he has set his mark upon the restless waters, and big
fame will long be sounded in the roar of the sea.--
From the current number of Dickens's 6' All the
Year Round."

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