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 circumstances 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 confrères, glory and—poverty. The incident of his first commission from the King will illustrate 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 Dick a commission for a landscape of a given size to fit a vacant space 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,—