[SIR FRANCIS CHANTREY.]
The artistic genius of England, however potent and exuberant it may be, has never been so freely or prominently displayed in sculpture as in poetry or painting; nor has it had equal encouragement. The creations of the sculptor’s fancy and the emanations of his skill, unquestionable as may be their merits and real their beauties, have never ranked very high in the favor of the multitude. Many, whose sympathy might otherwise be followed by more substantial tokens, understand full well that a portrait costs less, and is more readily appreciated by their neighbors, than a marble bust; and even with those few who pride themselves in rivaling the Medici in their patronage of art, and lay the flattering unction to their souls that they know something about it, the popularity of sculpture is by no means excessive. But the name of Chantrey is one which his countrymen have reason to regard with patriotic pride and satisfaction. He formed his style on the beauty and manliness of his native land; he was thoroughly her own. His taste in this respect was created when the inhabitant—while a boy—of a quiet and secluded village; and it was adhered to with splendid results when he was depicting statesmen, warriors, orators, and poets—our Pitts, Wellingtons, Grattans, and Scotts. Instead of struggling in vain to recall cold shapes and uncongenial visions from remote antiquity and distant realms, he embodied in simple but fascinating works, for the instruction and gratification of native talent and taste, the life, manners, and costume which came around him in his daily existence. Thus his works are not only more popular than those of the sculptors who had preceded him, but they are fitted to excite no small portion of that sympathy which one feels when gazing on the canvas, whereon the features of some distinguished man or beautiful woman have been gloriously portrayed by the pencil of Reynolds or Raeburn. His success in this line first secured him general notice; and they are not inferior to any that ever were produced; while his statues executed for public places, with those singularly plain and unadorned pedestals, wisely calculated not to detract from the effect of the more important part of the composition, exhibit surpassing grace and vigor of outline. The story of a great sculptor’s life can, with rare exceptions, be soon told; his existence being unmarked except by the works which he sends into the busy world from his solitary, secluded, and laborious studio.
Francis Chantrey was born on the 7th of April, 1782, at Norton, a little village in the county of Derby. His father, a stout and sagacious yeoman, cultivated with frugal industry the small estate he was fortunate enough to possess; and the future sculptor doubtless delighted, when a sportive child, to lend a helping hand in the operations of the season. The worthy farmer died when his son was in boyhood, little anticipating that the latter was destined to touch the hearts of men by a process and after a fashion which were hardly dreamt of in the philosophy of the tillers of Derbyshire soil. Indeed, hardly any thing could have been more improbable; for unless it were the statues in the quaint, curious, and terraced old garden of some “large-acred” aristocrat, he had no opportunity of gazing on any specimens of art likely to excite his imagination or guide his aspirations. Nevertheless, at an almost infantine period of existence he gave indications of his natural bent; and ere long, in communion with nature and all its beauties, he was inspired by the fine feelings and ambitious desires which afterward animated his spirit to splendid efforts, and nerved his hand to resolute toil in completing the conceptions of his ardent brain. The contemplation of natural objects in all their simplicity filled his young heart and memory with lovely and charming images, which in other days contributed to his success, established his reputation, and laid the foundation of his lasting fame.
Chantrey was about eight years old when he lost his father, and was thus early deprived of the paternal influence and direction. His mother soon after yielded herself, and such charms as she could boast of, for a second time, into matrimonial bonds; and though she reared her fanciful boy with great care and tenderness, and survived to witness his artistic achievements, perhaps his exhibitions of talent and inclination were less attended to than they might otherwise have been. However, he was educated with the ordinary solicitude, though to what precise extent does not appear.
On leaving school, he was occupied with agricultural operations. Like the Scottish poet, Burns, he could hold the plow to some purpose, as in after life he used to relate. Besides, he accomplished feats in mowing; in the barn wielded his flail with signal prowess, and, doubtless, found favor in the eyes of those laughing rustic beauties, who look so enchanting and leap joyously at hay-makings and harvest-homes. But whether his friends and acquaintances regarded him as one gaudentem patrios findere sarculo agros, or the reverse, he had long since began to develop a turn for art, by making various models in clay for amusement, though without any idea that it would ever create for him a splendid reputation, and conduct him to a position of dignity and honor. At this period, no doubt, he caught among those steep Derby Hills, celebrated in verse, that love of field-sports which ever actuated him. He liked the exercise and delighted in the recreation. He became a keen fisher, an excellent shot, and had a fancy for dogs. In after life, and on fitting occasions, he was almost as indefatigable in rural sports as in his professional exertions; and in the indulgence of his humor in this respect he was not daunted or deterred by unpropitious weather.
When Chantrey had arrived in his seventeenth year, his relations deemed it proper to take his prospects into their serious consideration; and they came to the conclusion of placing him in an attorney’s office at Sheffield. Thither, therefore, he was conducted with that object; and had it been realized, his artistic predilections might speedily have altogether vanished; but
“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them as we may.”
