From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry.
"That," he said, after it had been securely placed on the easel, "is to be the picture of my life! The subject is 'The High Hills, or the Refuge for the Wild Goats,' from the 104th Psalm. It is not finished yet. The notion occurred to me when last in Switzerland. I had to go up the mountain some four hours' journey before I reached the spot from which the idea is partly composed. We went as high as the goats would go in order to get the moss, heather, and different grasses on which they feed. As far as the goats are concerned, I obtained the principal ones when in North Wales."
NANCY MACINTOSH.
From an early Drawing by T.S. Cooper, R.A.
A flood of renewed light came in at the studio window—for the afternoon was still young—and Mr. Cooper stood for a moment by the side of the picture and was thus photographed. The light lit up the canvas—so I left Mr. Cooper at work, and spent the afternoon in wandering about the Brotherhood Farm, where some of his sheep and cows are to be found. It is a farm possessing a distinct interest, for on a grassy slope by the side of one of its meadows is situated the well of the Black Prince—a well roofed in by modern brick, over which the ivy is growing, a sublimely picturesque corner, where the first bearer of the motto "Ich Dien" was wont to come and bathe his eyes.
"Why, sir," said the old Sub-Prior with pardonable pride when showing me the well, "people send from all over the world for that water, and the last gentleman that had it was Mr. Sidney Cooper, the painter."
Mr. Cooper told me that he obtained the water for a young lady in his family.
It was nearing dusk when I returned to Vernon Holme, and once again I saw the great artist through the window of his studio, packing up his things and taking a last look for the day at his work on the easel. We met in the hall.
Then I learnt something of his eventful life. He looked back on his career very quietly—never striving to make "points," never yearning for effect, though every incident was in reality a picture in itself. Imagine the little fellow—deserted by his father at the age of five—with the tiniest of prospects before him of ever cultivating the gift which was born with him when he first opened his eyes in a little room in St. Peter's Street, Canterbury, on September 26th, 1803.