Curiosities of Impecuniosity Part 12

Amongst Hogarth's foreign predecessors John Mabuse, or Mabegius, an historical and portrait painter, born in 1499, may be mentioned, for the sake of telling a story about an ingenious way in which he contrived to avoid what might have been the very serious consequences of his impecuniosity. While he was in the service of the Emperor Charles V. (many of his finest works were painted in this country, he was employed by Henry VIII. to paint some of the royal children, and he had among his admirers no less a judge of art than Albert Durer), a lord of the court making special preparations to receive the Emperor, commanded the whole of the royal household to be dressed in rich damask brocade. When the painter was measured for his suit he persuaded the tailor to let him have the material, and wanting money for a drinking-bout sold it to a tavern-keeper, having first made a suit of white paper, which he painted in imitation of the damask, and appeared in it before the Emperor, who afterwards said the painter's costume was of all he saw the handsomest and richest. The trick was discovered, but as the Emperor enjoyed the joke and laughed heartily, no ill came of it. Some similar freak, however, soon after threw him into prison, where he continued to paint.

The mention of art work done in a prison recalls the name of William Ryland, an English artist, who was born in London in 1732, studied under Francis Boucher in Paris, and soon after his return was appointed engraver to the King. He was the first who engraved in the dotted style, and his works won him more fame than money. Angelo, the fencing-master, who knew Ryland from his boyhood, says he lived in a house in which John Gwynn, the painter, whose 'Essay on Design,' published in 1749, is still known amongst students, also occupied apartments. Ryland had a wife and children to support, and in the year 1783, to relieve the pressure of his creditors (he was then in receipt of a small pension from the King), he forged a bond for three thousand pounds, to escape probably by its aid from his pecuniary difficulties and his country. The doc.u.ment forged was a most extraordinary specimen of imitative art, having thirty or more distinctive signatures in every variety of handwriting; some bold and large, some cramped, some small, written in various kinds of inks. When it was presented for payment at the India House, the cas.h.i.+er after carefully examining it and referring to the ledger said, "Here is a mistake, sir; the bond as entered does not become due until to-morrow." Ryland begged permission to look at the book, and after leisurely and coolly inspecting it, said, "There must be an error in your entry of one day," and quietly offered to leave the bond. The cas.h.i.+er, however, believing the entry to be an erroneous one, paid the money, with which Ryland departed. On the following day the true bond was presented, and the crime detected; large placards were soon posted all over London, offering a reward of 500 for his apprehension.

Ryland's first hiding-place was in the Minories, where he remained concealed for some days. One evening after dusk he stole out for a walk, disguised in a seaman's dreadnaught. On Little Tower Hill, one of the officers in search of him eyed him very earnestly, pa.s.sed, repa.s.sed him, and then advancing said abruptly and confidentially, "So you are the very man I am seeking." The artist said so calmly, "I think you are mistaken, I don't remember you," that the "runner" apologised and wished him "good night."

He was taken, however, tried and condemned to death, amidst universal expressions of sorrow and regret. Interest was made to obtain mercy on the ground of his previous excellent character, and his extraordinary talent as an artist and engraver. The King's reply was: "No! a man with such talent could not have been unable to provide amply for all his wants."

Angelo said, "Had a Shakespeare or a Milton committed a similar act of fraud in those iron days of jurisprudence, their fate had doubtless been the same." Ryland pet.i.tioned for a respite, on the ground that he was then engraving the last of a series of plates from the paintings of Signora Angelica Kauffman, and was anxious to complete it to enable his wife after his execution to support herself and his children. His request was granted, and it is stated, "he laboured incessantly at this his last work, and when he received from his printer, Haddril, who was the first in his line, the finished proof impression, he calmly said, 'Mr. Haddril, I thank you; my task is now accomplished.'"

Having just mentioned Angelica Kauffman, I may pause to note that the greatest misfortune of her life has been traced to the poverty of her father, Johann Kauffman, for though the story, which is as follows, is discredited by some, it has many believers. She was travelling with him in her early girlhood through Switzerland, and being very poor they went on foot, sleeping at night after each long day's journey in some humble wayside tavern. On one occasion they were refused admission on the ground that two grand English seigneurs had bespoken all the accommodation. The poor artist, anxious not to overtax his young daughter's failing strength, pleaded and protested in vain; and the dispute between him and the landlord waxing loud and warm, the attention of one of the Englishmen was attracted, and coming forward he politely invited them to become the guests of himself and friend. Not quite concealed by the polished courtesy of his manner lurked that which secretly alarmed and offended the pale-faced, weary girl, and while her unsuspecting father was full of grateful thanks, and glad to avail himself of the stranger's apparent kindness, she whisperingly entreated him to come away. Too anxious on her account to risk the chance of a night in the open air, her father accepted the invitation, and at table the n.o.bleman, forgetting the respect due to her innocence and youth, attempted some liberty, which being repeated, caused her to rise suddenly and leave the room. Her father followed, and was induced to go with her out of the house. Some years after, when Angelica Kauffman had become famous, and was living in England, welcomed with pride and enthusiasm in the highest society, and sought after by the n.o.blest and most gifted, she met this peer in one of the most brilliant circles of the fas.h.i.+onable world, who with great amazement recognised in the elegant woman and famous artist the humble pedestrian of the Swiss mountains. Seeking an opportunity he pa.s.sionately entreated her to forgive him, pleaded that he had never forgotten her, and never could, and begged that she would at least accept his most respectful friends.h.i.+p. She believed him, trusted him, was again insulted, and refused thenceforth to admit him to her society. To induce her to restore him to her favour, he offered her marriage, and was calmly and resolutely refused; and on his rejection forced himself into her presence, and strove even to win by violence that which no other means could give him, but was again baffled.

To humble and disgrace her he devised a plan, which most probably suggested to Lord Lytton the story of his play, _The Lady of Lyons_. He secured the aid of a low-born adventurer, who a.s.sumed the name of Count Frederic de Horn, introduced him in some way to fas.h.i.+onable society, where, approaching Angelica Kauffman, then twenty-six, and in the full bloom of womanhood, he rendered the most flattering homage to her genius, with an air of the most profound respect and admiration, and gradually became familiar and dear to her; and at last told some strange romantic story of a terrible misfortune from which she could save him by at once, and secretly, becoming his wife. The snare caught her; the marriage was performed by a Catholic priest without writings or witnesses. One day while painting a portrait of the Queen at Buckingham Palace, in the course of conversation the young artist confided to her royal friend the secret of her recent mysterious wedding, which resulted in the Count de Horn being invited to court. This invitation was, however, not accepted, the impostor fearing detection. Her father's suspicions being aroused, and the facts of the marriage explained to him, he made inquiries and induced others to pursue them, which ended in the appearance of the real Count de Horn, and the unmasking of the impostor, who only laughed at his dupe, and commanded her to follow him, claiming that entire control over her person and property to which the poor woman believed he was ent.i.tled, until further inquiries brought to light the fact that the man had been previously married, when the false marriage was formally declared null and void.

For my next anecdote I turn to Elizabeth le Brun, the favourite court painter of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, who, when her husband's reckless and heartless extravagance had reduced her to comparative poverty, found herself unable to terminate the once grand receptions at which she had received the _creme de la creme_ of her contemporaries.

They crowded her smaller house as they had crowded her larger one, and for lack of chairs seated themselves upon the floor, and she herself tells the embarra.s.sment of the Duc de Noailles, who was so old and so excessively fat, that as he could neither get down so low, nor rise without a.s.sistance, was therefore obliged to endure the terrible fatigue of standing.

The early years of a more modern, but equally famous, lady-artist, Rosa Bonheur, were embittered by her father's want of money. As a school-girl she felt severely the contrast between the silk dresses, silver mugs, spoons, and forks, with a plentiful supply of pocket-money, which her companions possessed, and her calico frocks, iron spoon, tin mug, coa.r.s.e shoes, and empty pockets; and her earliest ideas of art, as a means of escaping such humiliating conditions, were thereby developed, strengthened, and intensified into a restless craving and feverish anxiety. Hence she soon began to draw and model in imitation of her father, with a pa.s.sionate eagerness that kept her constantly at work from early morning until late at night, and at last startling her father (who had long and despairingly considered her too indolent, self-willed, and stupid, ever to be in any way useful) by the progress she made, he took her through a serious course of preparatory study, and so made her an artist. The director of the Louvre, M. Jousselin, declared that while she was there forming her judgment, and training eye and hand, he had never before witnessed such untiring eagerness and ardour. In her case, the impecuniosity which Ruskin regards as so often fatal to the aspirations of young and ambitious artists, appears to have been the strongest incentive.

Surrounded and stimulated by the glorious creations of great artists, the first to enter the gallery, and the last to leave it, her strongest desire was to aid her artist father in his weary struggle for the support of his family; to which she soon began to contribute by the sale of her copies, making up for the extreme smallness of the sums they commanded by the rapidity with which she produced them. In her seventeenth year she achieved such success in making a study from a goat, that she determined to turn her attention to the painting of animals from life. Too poor to pay for models, she went out daily into the country to study them in the fields and lanes. Laden with clay, or canvas, brushes, and colours, she would set out in the grey dawn, with nothing but a piece of bread in her pocket for the day's food, and finding a subject, work on it until the light had faded, and then, soaked by rain, or struggling in the rude wind, she would make her way, sometimes ten or a dozen miles, through the darkness, a sun-browned, hardy, peasant-looking girl, to reach home cheerful, and contented with the day's work, although hungry and exhausted by fatigue. Another way in which she contrived to get models cheaply was by pa.s.sing days amongst the lowing and bleating victims of one of the great Parisian slaughter-houses, the _Abattoir du Roule_, where, seated on a bundle of hay, with her colour-box beside her, she painted on from morning until dusk, frequently so absorbed that she forgot to eat the piece of bread in her pocket. She also studied from the animals when they were under the influence of terror and agony, just before they received the death-stroke; forcing herself to endure a woman's natural repugnance to such scenes of blood and torture, rendered doubly painful to her by the loving sympathy with which she regarded all the brute creation. In the evening she would return home from such studies with her face and clothes thickly marked by the flies which in such places congregate so thickly.

With equal perseverance she also studied in the stables of the Veterinary School of Alfort, in the _Jardin des Plantes_, and in all the horse and cattle fairs held in the neighbourhood of Paris; always in the latter case wearing male attire, to avoid certain dangers and annoyances to which a woman would be subjected if dressed in the clothing of her s.e.x. She was regarded as a good-natured, merry boy, and a clever little fellow, by the rough characters who visited the fairs, and sympathising with her apparent poverty, the graziers and horse-dealers whose animals she drew constantly insisted upon standing treat. Occasionally, too, a village dairy-maid would make amorous overtures to the handsome "lad." So she gallantly wrought, and fought, and paved her upward way to fame and prosperity, her father and nature her only teachers, the former's impecuniosity her constant incentive.

I am reminded here of Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A., for whom also the first stimulants to activity in the pursuit of art were the poverty and necessities of his father, an exciseman, actor, and innkeeper, who had achieved no lasting success in either calling. At one time despairing of pecuniary success in the profession he began to excel in when but five years old, he resolved to take to the stage, despite the anxious opposition of his father, who was then looking forward to his son's artistic efforts for support, having failed as an actor, failed in business at Devizes, where he kept "The Black Bear," and having previously failed as landlord of "The White Lion," at Bath. Bernard in his 'Retrospections,' speaks of "Young Lawrence the painter," then about seventeen, as "receiving professional instructions from Mr. h.o.a.re of Bath," and some little time after, with a view to his adopting the stage as a profession, Tom Lawrence recited before Bernard and John Palmer the actor, when the latter strove to enforce his father's opinion, and convince him that his prospects as a painter were superior to those he would have as an actor. It was some time before he could realize this, and when he did he said with a sigh, "If I could go upon the stage, I thought I might be able to help my family much sooner than I can in my present employment." The earnestness and the regret he expressed in the tone of these words deeply affected all who were present. It was many years before Thomas Lawrence escaped from the fangs of impecuniosity, so absorbing were the drafts made upon his purse by the wants of his parents. His father used to hawk his son's crayon drawings about London at half a guinea each.

One of his contemporary biographers, says, "Sir Thomas, though he sometimes confidentially accounted for his straitened circ.u.mstances through life by referring to his early burdens, never regretted them, nor murmured at their reminiscence."

But the early practice of a painter is seldom profitable, and Nicholas Poussin a.s.serts that at the commencement of _his_ career his landscapes sold for less than the cost of canvas, oil, and pigments.

Still more remarkable as an instance of artistic success s.n.a.t.c.hed from the depths of impecuniosity, is that furnished by the early history of Isaac Ware, the famous architect. One day while sitting to Roubillac for his bust, he told him the story of himself as a thin, sickly child, who had been apprenticed to a chimney-sweep, enduring a life of pain and hards.h.i.+p at an age when happier children were in the nursery, and winter or summer, in storm or darkness, out in the streets, wailing forth his pitiful "s-w-eee-p," before the day broke; chalking on the walls wherever he went drawings of the buildings he met with in his travels through the streets.

One day a gentleman pa.s.sing Whitehall on horseback saw the feeble-looking, sooty child tip-toeing to draw the outlines of the street front of that building upon its own bas.e.m.e.nt wall; now running into the middle of the street to look up at the building, now back to continue his drawing. After watching him some little time the gentleman rode up and called to him, when the startled boy dropped his chalk in terror, and came forward with downcast eyes full of fear. To restore confidence the equestrian threw him a s.h.i.+lling, and after inquiring his name, and that of his master, &c., he went instantly to the latter, who said the little fellow was of very little use to him, being so weak, and, complaining of his chalking propensity, showed his visitor what a state his walls were in through the young sweep's having drawn upon them various views of St. Martin's Church.

The gentleman concluded his visit by purchasing the remainder of the boy's time, and taking him away. It was to this n.o.ble benefactor that Ware owed not only his education, which was an excellent one, but the means which enabled him afterwards to pursue his art studies in Italy, and upon his return his introduction to commissions as an architect. It is said that Ware retained the stain of soot in his skin to the day of his death.

This story of Ware's boyhood we owe to Nathaniel Smith, the engraver, who heard the architect tell it; and speaking of Smith reminds me of a story told by his son, who was called in his time "Rainy-day Smith." It is a tale of Alderman Boydell, who at twenty-one years of age walked to London, because he had no money to come by the waggon, and apprenticed himself to Mr. Thorns, an engraver and artist, attending whenever possible, an academy opened in St. Martin's Lane for poor art students by a group of well-known artists, whose subscriptions paid for its support, and to which Hogarth contributed his father-in-law's casts and models, learning perspective at the same time in his own humble lodging after his return at night. Boydell being out of his time, and unable to obtain regular employment, used to engrave small plates--views of London and landscapes--print them himself, make them up into little books, and sell them to keepers of toyshops to re-sell at sixpence a set of six, or a penny each. These shops he visited regularly every Sat.u.r.day to see if any had been sold, and leave others to replace those that had happily been disposed of. His best customer was found at the sign of "The Cricket Bat"

(all shops then had signs) in Duke's Court, St. Martin's Lane. On one occasion his delight was so excessive on finding so many had been sold there as realized five-and-sixpence, that in an outburst of grat.i.tude to the shopkeeper he laid out the entire amount with him in the purchase of a silver pencil case, which he preserved as a memento of the great event all through the rest of his life.

Of a kindred nature to Boydell's vicissitudes were the earliest experiences of John Opie. As a lad in Cornwall he was so wretchedly poor that Dr. Walcot, then practising as a physician at Foy, out of compa.s.sion employed him to clean knives and forks, and to save him from the ill-usage of his father took him into his own house. John going to the slaughter-house for paunches to feed the doctor's dog with, made a portrait of the butcher, which so delighted his employer that he also sat for a portrait to the errand boy, which production was equally astonis.h.i.+ng. The portraits being shown amongst the doctor's friends and neighbours, one named Phillips sent to London for a complete set of artist's materials, which he presented to Opie, who painted with them the portrait of a parrot so naturally that it spread his fame far and near, and started him fairly in art as a portrait painter, his fee for a likeness being seven-and-sixpence. The doctor once asked the lad how he liked painting, to which question Opie replied enthusiastically, "Better than my bread and meat." He was soon afterwards in London, where Sir Joshua Reynolds befriended him, and he became known and popular as "the wonderful Cornish genius."

George Morland must have found impecuniosity a sharp spur, when his father, hopelessly weary of his indolence and bad conduct, turned him from home, saying, "I am determined to no longer encourage your idleness; there is a guinea, take it and go about your business." George succeeded in supporting himself, and lived a life of the most degrading dissipation, his favourite companions being jockeys, ostlers, carters, money-lenders, gipsies, and women of abandoned character. He so cruelly ill-used his wife--a sister of James Ward, R.A.--that although strongly attached to him, she dared not live with him. "He died," as Smith says, "drunk, in a sponging-house in Eyre Street Hill, near Hatton Garden." Such a career could not but be fruitful of the troubles, cares, dangers, and difficulties arising from impecuniosity. At one time, when on an excursion to the coast of Kent with one of his favourite companions, a brother artist, probably to escape duns, they spent their money so freely on the road, that long before they reached their destination they were penniless and hungry. When nearing Canterbury they espied a homely roadside alehouse called "The Black Bull," and hailing it with delight they entered, and soon made alarming havoc amongst the lowly edibles and potables set before them; smuggled full-proof spirits being ordered and disposed of in the most astonis.h.i.+ng manner. When the bill was produced Morland frankly confessed they were a couple of poor itinerant artists in search of employment, and without a penny in the world. "But," said he, "your sign is in a most shameful condition for so respectable a house; let me repaint it in settlement of the bill"--which amounted to twelve s.h.i.+llings and sixpence. The landlord had long wanted a new sign; he agreed to the proposition. Morland began the work, and as it could not be finished on that day, the host supplied him and his friend with lodging for the night. On the following day the new sign was so much to the satisfaction of the innkeeper that he furnished the friends with gin to the amount of two guineas, together with some food, and when it was finished added a few s.h.i.+llings to help them on their way. Many similar stories are extant of this celebrated painter. "The Goat and Boots" in the Fulham Road received a new sign from him in the same way; and to pay another tavern score he did a like service for "The Cricketers" near Chelsea.

Mr. E. V. Rippingale, the painter, used to tell with what despondency, when he was a tall, thin, pale, self-taught youth eagerly studying art, he was taken one bright morning to see Sir David Wilkie, then residing in Kensington. He had just previously been introduced to a Scotch landscape painter of some eminence, who, when he asked him what materials were used in landscape painting, had eyed him with grim suspicion, and grunted--

"Sur, there are sacreets in the art, whuch whun a mon hae foound oot, he mun keep to himsel."

Consequently Sir David's kindly reception made a deep impression upon him.

After inquiring what subject the youth was painting, and what branch of art his inclinations led him to adopt? if he had studied from the antique and from life? whether he was instructed or self-taught? &c., the talented Scotchman, then a tall, bony young man, with reddish hair, grey eyes, high cheek bones, and a broad Scotch accent, said,--

"I shall be very happy to tell you anything I know. You need not fear to ask me; the art of a painter is unlike that of a juggler, it does not depend upon a trick. In art we have no secrets, and all painters are always glad to tell what they know to young fellow-students."

The rest of the interview was devoted to the giving of sound practical advice, the inspection of Wilkie's paintings and studies, and in the end the lanky lad from the country was pressed to come again and bring his drawings with him.

Rippingale's first visit to Wilkie was paid in 1815, and Haydon has told how, after the closing of the Royal Academy Exhibition in 1805, he went to breakfast with Wilkie, and reaching his apartment--he then had but one--a little before the appointed time, found him stark naked on that chilly autumnal morning, making a study from himself by the aid of a looking-gla.s.s. On another occasion the enthusiastic young Scotchman was found in a fireless room, s.h.i.+vering with cold, drawing from his own naked leg. Wilkie's employment was of a very humble and precarious kind at that time, and he was then copying the pictures of Barry, in the great room of the Society of Arts, for an engraver.

When the painter of those world-famous productions was no more, and his body lay in state in the very room which contained them, Wilkie was anxious to be present at the funeral, but alas! he had not a black coat, and could not afford to buy one. However Haydon had two, and was quite willing to lend one, and did so; but unfortunately he was short and slight, and Wilkie was tall and big-boned. The effect of the former's coat upon the latter's figure was consequently intensely ludicrous; the sleeves terminated far above his wrists, his broad shoulders stretched the seams to the very verge of cracking, and the waist b.u.t.tons had "gone aloft"

half-way up his back. When Haydon met him thus oddly attired, not even the solemnity of the occasion could quite suppress his merriment, and the piteous entreaty of the young Scotchman's looks, and significantly upheld finger, increased rather than decreased the tendency, so that the English painter afterwards said he once thought the desperate effort he made to suppress his laughter would have killed him.

When Wilkie was hawking his pictures from one shop to another, and returning home heart-sick, weary, and hungry, evening after evening, he received in nearly every case but one reply, "We don't purchase modern pictures." Happily this is altered now to some extent, though the reception awarded a novice in the present day is not very encouraging if all aspirants are treated in a like manner to an extremely clever young friend of mine, who, I doubt not, will be heard of some day. When he presented his canvas, or sketch, he was told, "We don't buy the paintings of unknown men." One of Wilkie's pictures thus rejected was a little one of a subject afterwards re-painted on a larger scale, "The Blind Fiddler."

Haydon tells how he first saw a notice of Wilkie in a newspaper, and hurried to him with huge delight. "Wilkie," he says, "was breakfasting.

'Wilkie,' said I, 'here's your name in the paper.' 'Where, where?' said Wilkie, ceasing to drink his tea. I then read it aloud to him. Wilkie stood up and huzzaed, in which we joined. We then took hands, and danced round the table, and sallying forth, spent the day in wandering about in a sort of ecstasy in the fields. We supped with Wilkie on red herrings, and he took down his little kit, and played us Scotch airs till the dreary hour of separation--these were delightful feelings! The novelty of a thing first felt, the freshness of youth, all contributed to render them intense and exciting."

It was said by some one that Wilkie never painted better than when he used to take his penny roll and moisten it at the pump. But this statement was indignantly contradicted by his friend Haydon in his lectures, and he certainly was an authority on the difficulty of painting under difficulties.

Another ill.u.s.tration of success preceded by disappointment is to be found in the case of Sontagg, who, according to Mr. Robert Kemp, before he found his true vocation in landscape painting, aspired to the glory of historical and high art. Environed by the bitter poverty of an art student, he painted his ideal. It was a Madonna, and as he afterwards said, "one of the worst ever painted." When it was finished, he p.a.w.ned his only decent coat to raise $7.50 for a frame in which it was sent to an art mart. "Then he spent the day walking around, and calculating what he would do with the thousand the great work would bring him in. Then he called at the auction room to collect. 'Had the picture been sold?' 'It had,' said the clerk. 'How much?' 'Five dollars and a half.'" Sontagg dined on a "free lunch," and went to bed in the dark. I may remark for the benefit of those uninitiated in Colonial and American drinking customs, the "free lunch" here spoken of means a meal which is provided gratis by many tavern-keepers in America, Australia, and elsewhere. It consists of bread and meat, or bread and cheese, placed on the counter, and to which all patronising the establishment are welcome. It is said that years after this occurrence, when Sontagg became famous, he found this painting over the chimney-piece of a little wayside inn in the Wabash County where it was a standing jest, and valued as a source of the laughter which kept a quarrelsome man and wife from desperate extremes. When their violence was at its worst a glance at Sontagg's Madonna was sure to provoke such merriment that after it they invariably became friendly.

The early life of John Philip, whose glorious pictures of Spanish life won him such wide-spread fame, presents an instance of greatness won despite extreme poverty, with its attendant drawbacks, and the friendlessness of utter obscurity. He began his career as a painter when a mere boy; though not upon canvas, millboard nor panel, but upon watering-cans. When seventeen years of age he worked his pa.s.sage from Scotland to London on board a coasting-vessel, for the purpose of seeing the exhibition of the Royal Academy, and on his return, with a mind richly stored by close investigation of the pictures he saw there and in the National Galleries--of which those by Wilkie were the most fascinating and instructive--he painted a picture which attracted the attention of Lord Panmure, who generously sent him to study in London, and supplied him with the means of support while so engaged. Philip died, as so many sadly remember, on Feb. 27th, 1867. One of his earliest attempts was long visible outside an old tavern, in the village of Dyce, near his native town Aberdeen, where he was born in 1817. At Dyce he was employed as herd-boy, and a story is told of his having at that time but two s.h.i.+rts, and when one of these was stolen, Johnny said cheerfully to his relative, Mrs. Allardyce, "Never min, ye can mak a s.h.i.+ft, wash the ane I hae on, and I'll gang to my bed till it's dry. My puir mither hae often to do that."

Inconvenient as such circ.u.mstances must have been, John Philip in the days of his prosperity often spoke of the happy days he knew when he was a poor little herd-laddie in the pretty little village of Dyce.

Somewhat similar in its start was the life of Henry Dawson, who died in 1878. Born at Hull in 1811, he commenced the world as a factory-lad at Nottingham, in which position he began to paint pictures, which he sold at prices ranging from two to twenty s.h.i.+llings; but it was long before he achieved the grand success the latter price implied, not indeed before 1835, and the munificent patron to whose liberality he owed the advance was a hairdresser, who for many years remained his best customer. So slowly came the fame and prosperity he sought so laboriously and patiently, and at last so honourably won, that when he was in his fortieth year he actually contemplated opening a small-ware shop to aid him in bringing up and educating his family. Indeed had it not been for John Ruskin, to whom he applied for advice as to whether he should reluctantly abandon his beloved art or persevere in its practice, the profession would have lost one of the most powerful of our modern masters in landscape.

He was for many years known only to dealers, who made a glorious harvest by reaping where he sowed amidst the cares, anxieties, and inconveniences of impecuniosity.

A further proof of what genius and industry can accomplish, be the difficulties never so great, is shown by the ultimate success of G. M.

Kemp, the architect who designed the Scott monument at Edinburgh. He was originally a journeyman millwright, and while working at his trade contrived, not only to teach himself to draw, but to visit and make studies from all the princ.i.p.al ecclesiastical edifices in Scotland, and afterwards in England. His plan was to find work in the different places he desired to visit; and by this means he acquired such a knowledge of architecture that when a prize was offered in open compet.i.tion for the Scott monument, his design was the one unanimously selected, notwithstanding the fact that amongst his rivals were many of the leading professional architects.

Success unfortunately does not always attend those who work hard and deserve substantial recognition; for when some one congratulated William Behnes, the sculptor, on his triumphs, and the prosperity that was presumed to have followed in their wake, he replied, "When I die, be that event when it may, there will not be two penny pieces left to close my eyes." He died in the Middles.e.x Hospital, in January, 1864, realising his prediction to the very letter, so few were his sitters, so small the sums they paid.

While Behnes began life as a pianoforte-maker, the great sculptor Chantrey commenced his career as a journeyman carpenter, in connection with which fact there is an odd story told. One day while inspecting a costly vase in the house of the wealthy poet Rogers, he asked with a smile who made the table on which the curio stood. "Curiously enough," said Rogers, "it was not made by a cabinet-maker, but by a common carpenter." Chantrey asked, "Did you see it made?" and Rogers, supposing the query to be one of incredulity, replied positively, "Certainly! I was in the room while the man finished it with the chisel, and I gave him instructions in placing it." Chantrey laughed, and said, "You did. I remember that, and all the circ.u.mstances perfectly well." "You!" exclaimed the poet. "Yes," said Chantrey quietly. "I was the carpenter."

When speaking of signs I omitted to mention George Henry Harlow, an artist of considerable eminence, who, like Morland and others, was glad on occasions to paint signs to liquidate liquor scores. Harlow, who was born in 1787, and died in 1819, quarrelled in the plenitude of his conceit with his master, Sir Thomas Lawrence, left his house, and went to live at "The Queen's Head," in Epsom, where, living extravagantly, his expenses outran his means, and he was glad to escape the penalty of his folly by repainting the landlord's sign. In doing so, with a view to the annoyance of Sir Thomas, who had found in Queen Caroline a kind friend and patron, he very cleverly caricatured at once Her Majesty, and his late master's style of portraiture, even putting underneath it his initials and address--T. L., Greek St., Soho. One of the funny ideas of this sign was that of painting on one side the face of the Queen, and on the other Her Majesty's royal back.

There was a sign long displayed at Mole, in North Wales, which was painted in the same way by Richard Wilson, "The English Claude." It belonged to a tavern called "The Three Loggerheads;" only two appeared on the sign, the third was to be he who read the sign, as many did, aloud.

This same Richard Wilson, R.A., was a Welshman, the son of the Rector of Pineges, where he was born in 1714; and after unsuccessfully working for a long time as a painter of portraits, landscapes, and historical subjects, he at last achieved eminence, and forthwith enjoyed, with so many of his talented _confreres_, glory and--poverty. The incident of his first commission from the King will ill.u.s.trate the kind of remuneration even royalty gave for the works of men who had attained the highest rank in their arduous profession.

Dalton, the artist, having been appointed keeper of the King's pictures, suggested that a landscape by Richard Wilson should be included in His Majesty's collection; and the monarch reposing great faith in his judgment, sent poor d.i.c.k a commission for a landscape of a given size to fit a vacant s.p.a.ce in the gallery. In due time the work was finished and placed before the King, who exclaimed indignantly,--

"Hey! what! Do _you_ call this painting, Dalton? Take it away! I call it daubing, hey! What! It's a mere daub."

Poor Dalton, who was one of Wilson's friends and admirers, bowed, looked sheepish, and was silent.

Presently his, on this occasion, not over gracious Majesty peevishly inquired, "What does he ask for this daub?" And when Dalton replied "One hundred guineas," the King's astonishment was immense.

"One hundred guineas! Hey! What, Dalton! Then you may tell Mr. Wilson it's the dearest picture I ever saw. Too much--too much--tell him I say so."

A few days after, the artist, being as usual in need of cash, called upon Dalton, and in his bluff manner said,--

"Well, d.i.c.ky Dalton, what says his Majesty?"

Dalton replied hesitatingly, and with confusion, "Why--a--with--a--regard to the picture--a--As for my--a--own opinion--why--a--you know, Mr.

Wilson, that--a--indeed----"

Wilson interrupted him with an oath. He saw his friend's perplexity, and said at once, "His Majesty don't approve--but I know your friendly zeal--go on."

"Why in truth, my dear friend, I venture to think the a--the finis.h.i.+ng is--not altogether answerable to His Majesty's antic.i.p.ations."