The Boyhood of Great Inventors

by A. Fraser Robertson

Now he worked harder than ever. He studied, he exhibited, he moulded, he designed the figure for a statue of Alexander the Great, which brought him some fame. But his father could not keep him, and he was driven to look about and bethink himself how he could keep himself. At this time—the most needy, perhaps, of his life—a door seemed to open to him. He fell in with the great Staffordshire potter, Josiah Wedgwood, and Wedgwood, with that keen eye of his ever on the outlook to discover talent, instantly recognised it in the boy.

A great time was beginning for pottery. For ages hideous things had adorned people’s houses and tables till Wedgwood arose, and there entered his great mind the idea of making common things beautiful, of giving people something to look at, even at their meals, that would raise their tastes and be a sort of education. After Wedgwood discovered young Flaxman he gave him some orders. The boy threw his whole soul into the work. Not that it was such work as always showed the artist at his best. The sculptor had first to make the model in wax. Then a mould was taken of this, and into this the potter’s stuff, soft as dough, was carefully pressed. The thing was not finished yet. It remained for it still to be fired and polished, and so it is not wonderful if some of the delicacy and finish of the first design may have been occasionally lost.

But with Flaxman’s work Wedgwood was satisfied, and while he worked hard for him he paid him handsomely. It was not the sort of thing to bring him name and fame, but there was always the need to live to be faced, and he bravely took what offered and was thankful. And by living simply and saving where he could, he managed to keep himself by what he made. He faced this time of drudgery quietly and patiently, bringing to bear upon its hardships something of that serene spirit that belonged to him all through life.

He gave to Wedgwood, as far as in him lay, of his best. Models of the four seasons, models of the ancient gods and goddesses—those deities whose stories were familiar to him from his childhood, Juno, Jupiter, Minerva, Apollo—models of vases. And besides these, chimney-pieces, plaques, candlesticks, inkstands, anything and everything, for Wedgwood held that a common teapot or a jug might be still a thing of beauty. For the models of the ancient gods he would get perhaps 10s. each, and for a pair of vases as much as £3 3s.

Some of these were so exquisitely done that Wedgwood said more than once, “It really hurts me to think of parting with these gems.”

Long years afterwards, when he had reached the top of the tree, Flaxman used to find endless pleasure in talking of these humble labours.

And all this time he was leading a very quiet life. That strong thirst for knowledge that had always been his, spurred him on to learn all he could. So during the day he worked at casts and models, and in the evenings he sketched or turned to his beloved poets. Either he preferred the old Greek poets’ company to that of living friends, or it might be that the slight deformity that was his through life—the high shoulders, the sidling gait—left him shy and sensitive, and in a measure inclined to creep into his shell.

Looking over the huge portfolio of Flaxman’s drawings that one can still see to-day, it is easy to discover where he went for most of his subjects. The poets came in for their share, and also history and portraits, but his great delight was to produce scenes from the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress, “The Marys at the Sepulchre,” “The Flight into Egypt,” “The Angels round the Cradle of Christ.”

But although he was getting to be known among men of talent he was still poor and struggling. It is proof enough of this for us to read how at this time he made his busts half life-size and of clay, whereas had he been rich they would surely have been full-size and of marble. About this time he began to talk of what had been with him till now a secret longing. It was to see Rome. The desire had been long growing in his heart. To Rome sculptors and painters flock, for it is the great city of sculpture and painting, and to a sculptor it is as if his education were unfinished, so long as his eyes have not feasted on those beautiful examples of art.

“If I remain here,” he said sadly, “I shall be accused of ignorance concerning those noble works of art which are to the sculptor what learning is to a man of genius.”