Still more remarkable as an instance of artistic success snatched 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 hardship 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 passing 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 basement 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 shilling, 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 noble 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 Saturday 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 gratitude 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 compassion 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 astonishing. 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 astonishing 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 shillings 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 shillings 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-glass. On another occasion the enthusiastic young Scotchman was found in a fireless room, shivering 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.