William Edgerton, had he been forced by necessity to have made
the art of painting his profession would have made for himself a
reputation of no inferior kind. But amateur art, like amateur
literature, rarely produces any admirable fruits. Complete success
only attends the devotee to the muse. The worship must be exclusive
at her altar; the attendance constant and unremitting. There must
be no partial, no divided homage. She is a jealous mistress, like
all the rest. The lover of her charms, if he would secure her
smiles, must be a professor at her shrine. He can not come and go
at pleasure. She resents such impertinence by neglect. In plain
terms, the fine arts must be made a business by those who desire
their favor. Like law, divinity, physic, they constitute a profession
of their own; require the same diligent endeavor, close study,
fond pursuit! William Edgerton loved painting, but his business
was the law. He loved painting too much to love his profession. He
gave too much of his time to the law to be a successful painter--too
much time to painting to be a lawyer. He was nothing! At the bar he
never rose a step after the first day, when, together, we appeared
in our mutual maiden case; and contenting himself with the occasional
execution of a landscape, sketchy and bold, but without finish,
he remained in that nether-land of public consideration, unable to
grasp the certainties of either pursuit at which he nevertheless
was constantly striving; striving, however, with that qualified
degree of effort, which, if it never could secure the prize, never
could fatigue him much with the endeavor to do so.
He was perfectly delighted when he first saw some of the sketches
of my wife. He had none of that little jealousy which so frequently
impairs the temper and the worth of amateurs. He could admire
without prejudice, and praise without reserve. He praised them. He
evidently admired them. He sought every occasion to see them, and
omitted none in which to declare his opinion of their merits. This,
in the first pleasant season of my marriage--when the leaves were
yet green and fresh upon the tree of love--was grateful to my
feelings. I felt happy to discover that my judgment had not erred
in the selection of my wife. I stimulated her industry that I might
listen to my friend's eulogy. I suggested subjects for her pencil.
I fitted up an apartment especially as a studio for her use. I
bought her some fine studies, lay figures, heads in marble and
plaster; and lavished, in this way, the small surplus fund which
had heretofore accrued from my professional industry, and that
personal frugality with which it was accompanied.
William Edgerton was now for ever at our house. He brought his own
pictures for the inspection of my wife. He sometimes painted in her
studio. He devised rural and aquatic parties with sole reference
to landscape scenery and delineation; and indifferent to the law
always, he now abandoned himself almost entirely to those tastes
which seemed to have acquired of a sudden, the strangest and the
strongest impulse.