Lives of Poor Boys Who Became Famous

by Sarah Knowles Bolton

He set to work to make his own brushes, obtaining his colors from a chair-maker. His easel and palette were of his own crude manufacture. The father had serious misgivings for his son; but his mother encouraged him to persevere in whatever his genius seemed to lie. As a rule, women discover genius sooner than men, and good Mary Cole had seen that there was something uncommon in her boy. His brushes ready, putting his scanty wearing apparel and his flute in a green baize bag, hung over his shoulder, the youth of twenty-one started for St. Clairsville, thirty miles distant, to begin life as a painter. He broke through the ice in crossing a stream, and, wet to his breast, arrived at the town, only to find that a German had just been there, and had painted all the portraits which were desired.

However, a saddler was found who was willing to be painted, and after five days of work from morning till night, the young artist received a new saddle as pay. A military officer gave him an old silver watch for a portrait, and a dapper tradesman a chain and key, which proved to be copper instead of gold. For some other work he received a pair of shoes and a dollar. All these, except the dollar, he was obliged to give to his landlord for board, the man being dissatisfied even with this bargain.

From here Thomas walked one hundred miles to Zanesville, and to his great sorrow, found that the German had preceded him here also, and painted the tavern-keeper and his family. The landlord intimated that a historical picture would be taken in payment for the young stranger's board. Accordingly an impromptu studio was arranged. A few patrons came at long intervals; but it was soon evident that another field must be chosen. What, however, was young Cole's astonishment to find that the historical painting would not be received for board, and that if thirty-five dollars were not at once paid, he would be thrust into jail! Two or three acquaintances became surety for the debt to the unprincipled landlord, and the pale, slender artist hastened toward Chillicothe with but a sixpence in his pocket.

After walking for three days, seventy-five miles, he sat down under a tree by the roadside, wellnigh discouraged, in the hot August day; but when the tears gathered in his eyes, he took out his flute, and playing a lively air, his courage returned. He had two letters of introduction in his pocket, given him at Zanesville, and these he would present, whispering to himself that he must "hold up his head like Michael Angelo" as he offered them. The men who received them had little time or wish to aid the young man. A few persons sat for their portraits, and a few took lessons in drawing; but after a time he had no money to pay for washing his linen, and at last no linen even to be washed. Still enthusiastic over art, and with visions of Italy floating in his mind, yet penniless and footsore, he returned to Steubenville to tell his sorrows to his sympathetic mother. How her heart must have been moved as she looked upon her boy's pale face, and great blue eyes, and felt his eager desire for a place of honor in the world, but knew, alas! that she was powerless to aid him.

He took a plain room for a studio, painted some scenes for a society of amateur actors, and commenced two pictures,—Ruth gleaning in the field of Boaz, and the feast of Belshazzar. One Sunday, some vicious boys broke into the studio, mixed the paints, broke the brushes, and cut the paintings in pieces. Learning that the boys were poor, Cole could not bear to prosecute them; and the matter was dropped. He soon departed to Pittsburgh, whither his parents had moved, and began to assist his father in making floor-cloths. Every moment of leisure he was down by the banks of the Monongahela, carefully drawing tree, or cloud, or hill-top.

Finally the old longing became irresistible. He packed his little trunk, his mother threw over his shoulders the table cover, with her blessing and her tears; and with six dollars in his purse, he said good-bye to the family and started for Philadelphia. Then followed, as he used to say in after years, the "winter of his discontent." In a poor quarter of the city, in an upper room, without a bed or fire or furniture, struggled poor Thomas Cole. Timid, friendless, his only food a baker's roll and a pitcher of water, his only bedding at night the table cover, he worked day by day, now copying in the Academy, and now ornamenting bellows, brushes, or Japan ware, with figures of birds or with flowers. Sometimes he ran down a neighboring alley, whipping his hands about him to keep his blood in circulation, lest he be benumbed. He soon became the victim of inflammatory rheumatism, and was a great sufferer. He still saw before him, someway, somehow, renown. Meantime his pure, noble soul found solace in writing poetry and an occasional story for the "Saturday Evening Post." After a year and a half he put his goods on a wheelbarrow, had them carried to the station, and started for New York, whither his family had moved.

He was now twenty-four. Life had been one continuous struggle. Still he loved each beauty in nature, and hoped for the good time to come. In his father's garret in Greenwich Street, in a room so narrow that he could scarcely work, and so poorly lighted that he was "perpetually fighting a kind of twilight," he labored for two years. Obstacles seemed but to increase his determination to persevere. Of such grand material are heroes made!

His first five pictures were placed for exhibition in the shop of an acquaintance, and were sold at eight dollars apiece. Through the courtesy of a gentleman who purchased three of these, he was enabled to go up the Hudson and sketch from nature among the Catskills. This was indeed a great blessing. On his return, he painted "A View of Fort Putnam," "Lake with dead trees," and "The Falls of the Caterskills." These were purchased at twenty-five dollars apiece by three artists,—Trumbull, Dunlap, and Durand.

Trumbull first discovered the merits of the pictures, buying the "Falls" for his studio, and invited Cole to meet Durand at his rooms. At the hour appointed the sensitive artist made his appearance, so timid that at first he could only reply to their cordial questioning by monosyllables. Colonel Trumbull said, "You surprise me, at your age, to paint like this. You have already done what I, with all my years and experience, am yet unable to do." Through the new friends, attention was called to his work, and he soon had abundant commissions. How his hungry heart must have fed on this appreciation! "From that time," said his friend, William Cullen Bryant, "he had a fixed reputation, and was numbered among the men of whom our country had reason to be proud. I well remember what an enthusiasm was awakened by these early works of his,—the delight which was expressed at the opportunity of contemplating pictures which carried the eye over scenes of wild grandeur peculiar to our country, over our arid mountain-tops with their mighty growth of forest never touched by the axe, along the banks of streams never deformed by culture, and into the depth of skies bright with the hues of our own climate; such skies as few but Cole could ever paint, and through the transparent abysses of which it seemed that you might send an arrow out of sight."

The struggles were not all over, but the "renown" of which the calico-designer had dreamed had actually come. Down in the heart of Mary Cole there must have been deep thanksgiving that she had urged him on.