Charles Rogers Esqr.
At last the regal portrait is finished, hanging in state upon the walls of the ‘Great Room’ belonging to the excellent Incorporated Society, when it opens its exhibition on the 22nd of April 1767. The artist is now a resident in Stafford Row, close to the Green Park, or, rather, as he prefers to particularise his address, ‘near the Queen’s Palace,’ upon whose picture, with the slumbering baby Princess in her arms, he is engaged. His portrait by Pierre Falconet, drawn during the next year, shows him a man in the prime of life, with clean-cut, delicate profile and a neat bob-wig tied by black ribbon, published by a dutiful pupil who trades as Bryer & Co. in Cornhill. This kind of trade, unhappily, has much allurement for Wynne Ryland, who, with his splendid monopoly of plates—the royal George, her maternal Majesty, the Modern Mæcenas with his shapely legs—seems to scent appetising profits. So Bryer & Co. becomes Ryland & Co., and any of the royal public who desire these regal portraits must purchase them from the proprietors at No. 27 Cornhill, near the Royal Exchange. Unhappily for this same No. 27, the public—enamoured of the Wilkes squint and disdaining the regal stare—do not treat these prints in the manner of hot cakes, and upon a fateful day in December 1771, No. 27 is in the hands of the broker’s men.
Early in the same year a strange thing happens in Ryland’s studio. A proud father brings along his fourteen-year-old son, a boy of splendid and weird genius, as the sequel shows—a sequel prolific in pictures of the immortal sheik struggling against his environment of sands and storms and improvidence, which, like his interpreter Blake, sheik Job, overwhelmed by tree-trunk legs and half a gale of beard, regards as the judgment of his God. But this weird boy with the large head and amazing eyes objects to the parental scheme of making him a pupil of the great engraver. “Father, I do not like the man’s face,” murmurs boy Blake, when the pair have left Ryland’s studio. “It looks as if he will live to be hanged!” “Prescience, intuition—all the things not dreamt of in thy philosophy,” babble his legatee mystics, bowing the knee to jaundiced mind as rapturously as to portraits of human abortions, aping verbal harmony of empty sound, plastering deformities with giraffe necks and swollen limbs in a wealth of muddy hair and a saffron skin—good and sedulous disciples. Boy Blake can have heard nothing of the brother Richard hanging-escape! Such a small affair has never been breathed by fond parents who go to entrust a weird son to brother Wynne! Prescience, intuition, are more potent physical instincts than the throb of suggestion or empiric thought. Thus clamour legatee mystics, spurning the simple mental machinery put into motion by the association of ideas.
It has been reserved for a lady of our own times, whose graceful pen has been devoted to the radiant prints of fair women of olden days, to tell the romantic story of poor, crushed, bankrupt Ryland and sweet feminine charity in the person of dove-eyed ‘Miss Angel’ A scene, alluring as any of the glowing old-world engravings, is this dainty-coloured picture painted by Mrs Frankau. Within the oak-panelled studio, through which the winter twilight is stealing in flickering shadows, the two ardent souls are wrapt in the communion of art. And while coy, diaphanous Angelica listens to the fascinating tongue of the virile, dark-skinned Welshman, her quick southern fancy whispers that this man is the knight-errant who shall write her fame amidst the stars. Ryland has come with a heart of lead; he goes away with a heart of gold. For one of the most famous of unions in the annals of painting has been sealed, and in a little while the prints after Kauffman will have captured the imagination of the whole world.
In a house in Queen’s Row, Knightsbridge, the great engraver commences one of those life-and-death struggles that genius alone can wage successfully against malicious fate. Gradually—for he is young and strong and brave, while the trust of a sweet woman warms his courage—he emerges from the choking atmosphere of debt. One by one his creditors are paid, and at last, free from his bankrupt chains, he is his own master. It is a fine work, this proud, independent cancelling of obligations—merely moral claims—a fair tribute to the lady who has been his tutelar divinity. For it is through his engravings of Miss Angel’s pictures, to which he applies the ‘stipple method’ which he learnt in France, that he wins his way back to fame and fortune. Soon he is a contributor to the newly-formed Royal Academy exhibition, sending very properly as his first works a couple of drawings copied from the canvas of the sylph Kauffman. Thus pass three sober years, while he perfects his new art, living with his young wife far from the delights of town and the old seductive companionship, first at Knightsbridge, and then moving a couple of miles further out into rural Hammersmith.
At last he resolves to tempt the grimy god of trade once more. Better assets are in his store than a salmon-profile king or maternal majesty, and he knows that the marketing bourgeois will not be hindered by squint of Wilkes from clamouring for his many pictures of Venus, beaming with the soft, dove-like eyes of pretty Miss Angel. So, in the third year after his bankruptcy, he hangs out his sign once more as an honest print-seller at No. 159 in the Strand, near Somerset House, by the corner of Strand Lane, trading as William Wynne Ryland, engraver to his Majesty. From the first the enterprise flourishes. Angelica’s plump little Cupids, drawn in rosy chalk, appeal in their suggestive resemblance to the heart of the British matron; the dainty Angelica Venus, with her large haunting eyes, becomes a pattern of female loveliness; Angelica’s mild and chaste interpretations of classic romance push aside all previous readings. More than all, the Kauffman pinks and yellows, transformed by the deft fingers of the wonderful Welshman into soft, rainbow-tinged impressions—like a delicate painting in water-colours—capture the public fancy. Such engravings never have been seen before, and never will be seen again. It is not strange that No. 159 in the Strand becomes one of the most popular print-shops in London.
During those nine years, from 1774 until the spring of 1783, the trade venture of the engraver to his Majesty continues to enjoy great prosperity. Profits reach the sum of two thousand a year, while stock and plant swell to a total of five figures. Few well-fobbed merchants, no chair-sporting City dame, can resist the temptations of that seductive window. A pleasant sight for Miss Angel, that little knot of open-mouthed shop-gazers with burning pockets, as she passes in hackney coach, a vision of clinging drapery in her white Irish polonese. While, if at that moment the happy proprietor steps out, bound for the counting-house of Sir Charles Asgill and his friend Mr Nightingale, with whom he is having some considerable bill of exchange transactions—a glimpse of those large eyes and crest of feathers at the coach window will bring down his laced hat in a sweep of obeisance, as he bows to the knees. Then, after the bankers have discounted all he wants, he will hurry off to Golden Square to show his Miss Angel the last impressions of some of her pictures, glowing in colours, or copied in the popular shade of red. Perhaps, one of these days, as he comes near the studio, a chair may stop as he passes, from which glides a beautiful lady, wearing a crown of glorious hair, brushed from her forehead, who rests her starry eyes upon him for a moment with a slight motion of her tiny rosebud lips. And his heart will beat more quickly as he recognises the woman whose radiant face has brought poor Daniel Perreau and his brother to a shameful death.
In Memory of General Stanwix’s Daughter who was Lost in her passage from Ireland.
Sold at No 159 near Somerset House, Strand May 10th, 1774.