The Argosy — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

46 Lights and Shadows of Sketching. sly peepings and short retreats, they return to keep the sketcher company. And so, working leisurely and watching the inner-woodland life, the autumn day slips joyfully away. Should the sketch turn out, on in- spection, to be a complete failure, it is soon torn into fragments and thrown under the grate. No bad sketch ever interfered with the night’s sleep. The ‘‘ fiasco” of to-day makes one all the more eager for the success of to-morrow. But you will say, ‘‘Are there no drawbacks to that happy sketch- ing time? No shadows to that idyllic picture?” Well, you see— y—y—yes ! there are some shadows, no doubt. In chalk counties the “harvest bug” is most decidedly a shadow; a shadow that will crawl up one’s legs at any hour of the day, and of always stop at the knee. In heathy counties, the midge is certainly a shadow; a shadow that creeps around the most delicate curves of the ear, and loves tender eyelids above all things. Again, in a// counties the tramp is a shadow ; a dirty, skulking and highly-flavoured shadow. Time is of no object to him; he would as lief stand or sit behind you for two hours as one. Asarule he does not speak—merely stands there. His presence so irritates the nerves, and the faint, sickly smell of his clothes so taints the air, that smoking soon becomes a necessity. He at once sees an opening, and begs a pipeful of tobacco. Glad to get rid of him at any price, one gives him a supply, and he starts on his idle tramp again. These are material annoyances ; they come, they go! The tramp goes first, the “‘ midge” second, the ‘‘ harvest bug” last of all; and they are all soon forgotten. One annoyance of another kind always remains, however, and rankles in the sketcher’s breast. Men of culture and taste often seek our society and our friendship; gallant soldiers have been known to speak to us; ladies of quite respectable connection (I have heard) have occasionally adored some fortunate members of our craft ; but the horrible truth cannot be concealed that the artist is zo? looked up to by the agricultural population. He does of stand high in their esteem. Nay! I have sometimes thought that he stands very, very low! In the rustic’s eye, a travelling horse-dealer has a recognised and honourable profession ; a cat’s-meat man follows a tangible trade ; a master chimney-sweep is a householder, who may some day rise to be a churchwarden. But a creature who fritters away his time sketching dilapidated barns and tumble-down cottages is a ‘dé- classé;” a ‘‘loafer;” a poor feckless fool! And, mind you, courteous behaviour and quiet, friendly speech in no way improve our position with the natives. Our talk is not their talk ; our jokes are not their jokes; our “indoor” voices are too low and gentle for rustic encounters. The late E. M. Ward (the painter of the Last Sleep of Argyle) used ECOPMICMOOKS ECO