p. 154Chapter VI — Workers in Art

“If what shone afar so grand,
Turn to nothing in thy hand,
On again; the virtue lies
In struggle, not the prize.”—R. M. Milnes.

“Excelle, et tu vivras.”—Joubert.

Excellence in art, as in everything
else, can only be achieved by dint of painstaking labour.

There is nothing less accidental than the painting of a fine
picture or the chiselling of a noble statue. Every skilled
touch of the artist’s brush or chisel, though guided by
genius, is the product of unremitting study.

Sir Joshua Reynolds was such a believer in the force of
industry, that he held that artistic excellence, “however
expressed by genius, taste, or the gift of heaven, may be
acquired.” Writing to Barry he said, “Whoever
is resolved to excel in painting, or indeed any other art, must
bring all his mind to bear upon that one object from the moment
that he rises till he goes to bed.” And on another
occasion he said, “Those who are resolved to excel must go
to their work, willing or unwilling, morning, noon, and night:
they will find it no play, but very hard labour.” But
although diligent application is no doubt absolutely necessary
for the achievement of the highest distinction in art, it is
equally true that without the inborn genius, no amount of mere
industry, however well applied, will make an artist. The
gift comes by nature, but is perfected by self-culture, which is
of more avail than all the imparted education of the schools.

Some of the greatest artists have had to force their way
upward in the face of poverty and manifold obstructions.
Illustrious instances will at once flash upon the reader’s
mind. Claude Lorraine, the pastrycook; Tintoretto, the
dyer; the two Caravaggios, the one a colour-grinder, the other a
mortar-carrier at the Vatican; Salvator Rosa, the associate of
bandits; Giotto, the peasant boy; Zingaro, the gipsy; Cavedone,
turned out of doors to beg by his father; Canova, the
stone-cutter; these, and many other well-known artists, succeeded
in achieving distinction by severe study and labour, under
circumstances the most adverse.

Nor have the most distinguished artists of our own country
been born in a position of life more than ordinarily favourable
to the culture of artistic genius. Gainsborough and Bacon
were the sons of cloth-workers; Barry was an Irish sailor boy,
and Maclise a banker’s apprentice at Cork; Opie and Romney,
like Inigo Jones, were carpenters; West was the son of a small
Quaker farmer in Pennsylvania; Northcote was a watchmaker,
Jackson a tailor, and Etty a printer; Reynolds, Wilson, and
Wilkie, were the sons of clergymen; Lawrence was the son of a
publican, and Turner of a barber. Several of our painters,
it is true, originally had some connection with art, though in a
very humble way,—such as Flaxman, whose father sold plaster
casts; Bird, who ornamented tea-trays; Martin, who was a
coach-painter; Wright and Gilpin, who were ship-painters;
Chantrey, who was a carver and gilder; and David Cox, Stanfield,
and Roberts, who were scene-painters.

It was not by luck or accident that these men achieved
distinction, but by sheer industry and hard work. Though
some achieved wealth, yet this was rarely, if ever, the ruling
motive. Indeed, no mere love of money could sustain the
efforts of the artist in his early career of self-denial and
application. The pleasure of the pursuit has always been
its best reward; the wealth which followed but an accident.
Many noble-minded artists have preferred following the bent of
their genius, to chaffering with the public for terms.
Spagnoletto verified in his life the beautiful fiction of
Xenophon, and after he had acquired the means of luxury,
preferred withdrawing himself from their influence, and
voluntarily returned to poverty and labour. When Michael
Angelo was asked his opinion respecting a work which a painter
had taken great pains to exhibit for profit, he said, “I
think that he will be a poor fellow so long as he shows such an
extreme eagerness to become rich.”

Like Sir Joshua Reynolds, Michael Angelo was a great believer
in the force of labour; and he held that there was nothing which
the imagination conceived, that could not be embodied in marble,
if the hand were made vigorously to obey the mind. He was
himself one of the most indefatigable of workers; and he
attributed his power of studying for a greater number of hours
than most of his contemporaries, to his spare habits of
living. A little bread and wine was all he required for the
chief part of the day when employed at his work; and very
frequently he rose in the middle of the night to resume his
labours. On these occasions, it was his practice to fix the
candle, by the light of which he chiselled, on the summit of a
paste-board cap which he wore. Sometimes he was too wearied
to undress, and he slept in his clothes, ready to spring to his
work so soon as refreshed by sleep. He had a favourite
device of an old man in a go-cart, with an hour-glass upon it
bearing the inscription, Ancora imparo! Still I am
learning.

Titian, also, was an indefatigable worker. His
celebrated “Pietro Martire” was eight years in hand,
and his “Last Supper” seven. In his letter to
Charles V. he said, “I send your Majesty the ‘Last
Supper’ after working at it almost daily for seven
years—dopo sette anni lavorandovi quasi
continuamente.” Few think of the patient labour
and long training involved in the greatest works of the
artist. They seem easy and quickly accomplished, yet with
how great difficulty has this ease been acquired.
“You charge me fifty sequins,” said the Venetian
nobleman to the sculptor, “for a bust that cost you only
ten days’ labour.” “You forget,”
said the artist, “that I have been thirty years learning to
make that bust in ten days.” Once when Domenichino
was blamed for his slowness in finishing a picture which was
bespoken, he made answer, “I am continually painting it
within myself.” It was eminently characteristic of
the industry of the late Sir Augustus Callcott, that he made not
fewer than forty separate sketches in the composition of his
famous picture of “Rochester.” This constant
repetition is one of the main conditions of success in art, as in
life itself.

No matter how generous nature has been in bestowing the gift
of genius, the pursuit of art is nevertheless a long and
continuous labour. Many artists have been precocious, but
without diligence their precocity would have come to
nothing. The anecdote related of West is well known.
When only seven years old, struck with the beauty of the sleeping
infant of his eldest sister whilst watching by its cradle, he ran
to seek some paper and forthwith drew its portrait in red and
black ink. The little incident revealed the artist in him,
and it was found impossible to draw him from his bent. West
might have been a greater painter, had he not been injured by too
early success: his fame, though great, was not purchased by
study, trials, and difficulties, and it has not been
enduring.

Richard Wilson, when a mere child, indulged himself with
tracing figures of men and animals on the walls of his
father’s house, with a burnt stick. He first directed
his attention to portrait painting; but when in Italy, calling
one day at the house of Zucarelli, and growing weary with
waiting, he began painting the scene on which his friend’s
chamber window looked. When Zucarelli arrived, he was so
charmed with the picture, that he asked if Wilson had not studied
landscape, to which he replied that he had not.
“Then, I advise you,” said the other, “to try;
for you are sure of great success.” Wilson adopted
the advice, studied and worked hard, and became our first great
English landscape painter.

Sir Joshua Reynolds, when a boy, forgot his lessons, and took
pleasure only in drawing, for which his father was accustomed to
rebuke him. The boy was destined for the profession of
physic, but his strong instinct for art could not be repressed,
and he became a painter. Gainsborough went sketching, when
a schoolboy, in the woods of Sudbury; and at twelve he was a
confirmed artist: he was a keen observer and a hard
worker,—no picturesque feature of any scene he had once
looked upon, escaping his diligent pencil. William Blake, a
hosier’s son, employed himself in drawing designs on the
backs of his father’s shop-bills, and making sketches on
the counter. Edward Bird, when a child only three or four
years old, would mount a chair and draw figures on the walls,
which he called French and English soldiers. A box of
colours was purchased for him, and his father, desirous of
turning his love of art to account, put him apprentice to a maker
of tea-trays! Out of this trade he gradually raised
himself, by study and labour, to the rank of a Royal
Academician.

Hogarth, though a very dull boy at his lessons, took pleasure
in making drawings of the letters of the alphabet, and his school
exercises were more remarkable for the ornaments with which he
embellished them, than for the matter of the exercises
themselves. In the latter respect he was beaten by all the
blockheads of the school, but in his adornments he stood
alone. His father put him apprentice to a silversmith,
where he learnt to draw, and also to engrave spoons and forks
with crests and ciphers. From silver-chasing, he went on to
teach himself engraving on copper, principally griffins and
monsters of heraldry, in the course of which practice he became
ambitious to delineate the varieties of human character.
The singular excellence which he reached in this art, was mainly
the result of careful observation and study. He had the
gift, which he sedulously cultivated, of committing to memory the
precise features of any remarkable face, and afterwards
reproducing them on paper; but if any singularly fantastic form
or outré face came in his way, he would make a
sketch of it on the spot, upon his thumb-nail, and carry it home
to expand at his leisure. Everything fantastical and
original had a powerful attraction for him, and he wandered into
many out-of-the-way places for the purpose of meeting with
character. By this careful storing of his mind, he was
afterwards enabled to crowd an immense amount of thought and
treasured observation into his works. Hence it is that
Hogarth’s pictures are so truthful a memorial of the
character, the manners, and even the very thoughts of the times
in which he lived. True painting, he himself observed, can
only be learnt in one school, and that is kept by Nature.
But he was not a highly cultivated man, except in his own
walk. His school education had been of the slenderest kind,
scarcely even perfecting him in the art of spelling; his
self-culture did the rest. For a long time he was in very
straitened circumstances, but nevertheless worked on with a
cheerful heart. Poor though he was, he contrived to live
within his small means, and he boasted, with becoming pride, that
he was “a punctual paymaster.” When he had
conquered all his difficulties and become a famous and thriving
man, he loved to dwell upon his early labours and privations, and
to fight over again the battle which ended so honourably to him
as a man and so gloriously as an artist. “I remember
the time,” said he on one occasion, “when I have gone
moping into the city with scarce a shilling, but as soon as I
have received ten guineas there for a plate, I have returned
home, put on my sword, and sallied out with all the confidence of
a man who had thousands in his pockets.”

“Industry and perseverance” was the motto of the
sculptor Banks, which he acted on himself, and strongly
recommended to others. His well-known kindness induced many
aspiring youths to call upon him and ask for his advice and
assistance; and it is related that one day a boy called at his
door to see him with this object, but the servant, angry at the
loud knock he had given, scolded him, and was about sending him
away, when Banks overhearing her, himself went out. The
little boy stood at the door with some drawings in his
hand. “What do you want with me?” asked the
sculptor. “I want, sir, if you please, to be admitted
to draw at the Academy.” Banks explained that he
himself could not procure his admission, but he asked to look at
the boy’s drawings. Examining them, he said,
“Time enough for the Academy, my little man! go
home—mind your schooling—try to make a better drawing
of the Apollo—and in a month come again and let me see
it.” The boy went home—sketched and worked with
redoubled diligence—and, at the end of the month, called
again on the sculptor. The drawing was better; but again
Banks sent him back, with good advice, to work and study.
In a week the boy was again at his door, his drawing much
improved; and Banks bid him be of good cheer, for if spared he
would distinguish himself. The boy was Mulready; and the
sculptor’s augury was amply fulfilled.

The fame of Claude Lorraine is partly explained by his
indefatigable industry. Born at Champagne, in Lorraine, of
poor parents, he was first apprenticed to a pastrycook. His
brother, who was a wood-carver, afterwards took him into his shop
to learn that trade. Having there shown indications of
artistic skill, a travelling dealer persuaded the brother to
allow Claude to accompany him to Italy. He assented, and
the young man reached Rome, where he was shortly after engaged by
Agostino Tassi, the landscape painter, as his
house-servant. In that capacity Claude first learnt
landscape painting, and in course of time he began to produce
pictures. We next find him making the tour of Italy,
France, and Germany, occasionally resting by the way to paint
landscapes, and thereby replenish his purse. On returning
to Rome he found an increasing demand for his works, and his
reputation at length became European. He was unwearied in
the study of nature in her various aspects. It was his
practice to spend a great part of his time in closely copying
buildings, bits of ground, trees, leaves, and such like, which he
finished in detail, keeping the drawings by him in store for the
purpose of introducing them in his studied landscapes. He
also gave close attention to the sky, watching it for whole days
from morning till night, and noting the various changes
occasioned by the passing clouds and the increasing and waning
light. By this constant practice he acquired, although it
is said very slowly, such a mastery of hand and eye as eventually
secured for him the first rank among landscape painters.

Turner, who has been styled “the English Claude,”
pursued a career of like laborious industry. He was
destined by his father for his own trade of a barber, which he
carried on in London, until one day the sketch which the boy had
made of a coat of arms on a silver salver having attracted the
notice of a customer whom his father was shaving, the latter was
urged to allow his son to follow his bias, and he was eventually
permitted to follow art as a profession. Like all young
artists, Turner had many difficulties to encounter, and they were
all the greater that his circumstances were so straitened.
But he was always willing to work, and to take pains with his
work, no matter how humble it might be. He was glad to hire
himself out at half-a-crown a night to wash in skies in Indian
ink upon other people’s drawings, getting his supper into
the bargain. Thus he earned money and acquired
expertness. Then he took to illustrating guide-books,
almanacs, and any sort of books that wanted cheap
frontispieces. “What could I have done better?”
said he afterwards; “it was first-rate
practice.” He did everything carefully and
conscientiously, never slurring over his work because he was
ill-remunerated for it. He aimed at learning as well as
living; always doing his best, and never leaving a drawing
without having made a step in advance upon his previous
work. A man who thus laboured was sure to do much; and his
growth in power and grasp of thought was, to use Ruskin’s
words, “as steady as the increasing light of
sunrise.” But Turner’s genius needs no
panegyric; his best monument is the noble gallery of pictures
bequeathed by him to the nation, which will ever be the most
lasting memorial of his fame.

To reach Rome, the capital of the fine arts, is usually the
highest ambition of the art student. But the journey to
Rome is costly, and the student is often poor. With a will
resolute to overcome difficulties, Rome may however at last be
reached. Thus François Perrier, an early French
painter, in his eager desire to visit the Eternal City, consented
to act as guide to a blind vagrant. After long wanderings
he reached the Vatican, studied and became famous. Not less
enthusiasm was displayed by Jacques Callot in his determination
to visit Rome. Though opposed by his father in his wish to
be an artist, the boy would not be baulked, but fled from home to
make his way to Italy. Having set out without means, he was
soon reduced to great straits; but falling in with a band of
gipsies, he joined their company, and wandered about with them
from one fair to another, sharing in their numerous
adventures. During this remarkable journey Callot picked up
much of that extraordinary knowledge of figure, feature, and
character which he afterwards reproduced, sometimes in such
exaggerated forms, in his wonderful engravings.

When Callot at length reached Florence, a gentleman, pleased
with his ingenious ardour, placed him with an artist to study;
but he was not satisfied to stop short of Rome, and we find him
shortly on his way thither. At Rome he made the
acquaintance of Porigi and Thomassin, who, on seeing his crayon
sketches, predicted for him a brilliant career as an
artist. But a friend of Callot’s family having
accidentally encountered him, took steps to compel the fugitive
to return home. By this time he had acquired such a love of
wandering that he could not rest; so he ran away a second time,
and a second time he was brought back by his elder brother, who
caught him at Turin. At last the father, seeing resistance
was in vain, gave his reluctant consent to Callot’s
prosecuting his studies at Rome. Thither he went
accordingly; and this time he remained, diligently studying
design and engraving for several years, under competent
masters. On his way back to France, he was encouraged by
Cosmo II. to remain at Florence, where he studied and worked for
several years more. On the death of his patron he returned
to his family at Nancy, where, by the use of his burin and
needle, he shortly acquired both wealth and fame. When
Nancy was taken by siege during the civil wars, Callot was
requested by Richelieu to make a design and engraving of the
event, but the artist would not commemorate the disaster which
had befallen his native place, and he refused point-blank.
Richelieu could not shake his resolution, and threw him into
prison. There Callot met with some of his old friends the
gipsies, who had relieved his wants on his first journey to
Rome. When Louis XIII. heard of his imprisonment, he not
only released him, but offered to grant him any favour he might
ask. Callot immediately requested that his old companions,
the gipsies, might be set free and permitted to beg in Paris
without molestation. This odd request was granted on
condition that Callot should engrave their portraits, and hence
his curious book of engravings entitled “The
Beggars.” Louis is said to have offered Callot a
pension of 3000 livres provided he would not leave Paris; but the
artist was now too much of a Bohemian, and prized his liberty too
highly to permit him to accept it; and he returned to Nancy,
where he worked till his death. His industry may be
inferred from the number of his engravings and etchings, of which
he left not fewer than 1600. He was especially fond of
grotesque subjects, which he treated with great skill; his free
etchings, touched with the graver, being executed with especial
delicacy and wonderful minuteness.

Still more romantic and adventurous was the career of
Benvenuto Cellini, the marvellous gold worker, painter, sculptor,
engraver, engineer, and author. His life, as told by
himself, is one of the most extraordinary autobiographies ever
written. Giovanni Cellini, his father, was one of the Court
musicians to Lorenzo de Medici at Florence; and his highest
ambition concerning his son Benvenuto was that he should become
an expert player on the flute. But Giovanni having lost his
appointment, found it necessary to send his son to learn some
trade, and he was apprenticed to a goldsmith. The boy had
already displayed a love of drawing and of art; and, applying
himself to his business, he soon became a dexterous
workman. Having got mixed up in a quarrel with some of the
townspeople, he was banished for six months, during which period
he worked with a goldsmith at Sienna, gaining further experience
in jewellery and gold-working.

His father still insisting on his becoming a flute-player,
Benvenuto continued to practise on the instrument, though he
detested it. His chief pleasure was in art, which he
pursued with enthusiasm. Returning to Florence, he
carefully studied the designs of Leonardo da Vinci and Michael
Angelo; and, still further to improve himself in gold-working, he
went on foot to Rome, where he met with a variety of
adventures. He returned to Florence with the reputation of
being a most expert worker in the precious metals, and his skill
was soon in great request. But being of an irascible
temper, he was constantly getting into scrapes, and was
frequently under the necessity of flying for his life. Thus
he fled from Florence in the disguise of a friar, again taking
refuge at Sienna, and afterwards at Rome.

During his second residence in Rome, Cellini met with
extensive patronage, and he was taken into the Pope’s
service in the double capacity of goldsmith and musician.
He was constantly studying and improving himself by acquaintance
with the works of the best masters. He mounted jewels,
finished enamels, engraved seals, and designed and executed works
in gold, silver, and bronze, in such a style as to excel all
other artists. Whenever he heard of a goldsmith who was
famous in any particular branch, he immediately determined to
surpass him. Thus it was that he rivalled the medals of
one, the enamels of another, and the jewellery of a third; in
fact, there was not a branch of his business that he did not feel
impelled to excel in.

Working in this spirit, it is not so wonderful that Cellini
should have been able to accomplish so much. He was a man
of indefatigable activity, and was constantly on the move.
At one time we find him at Florence, at another at Rome; then he
is at Mantua, at Rome, at Naples, and back to Florence again;
then at Venice, and in Paris, making all his long journeys on
horseback. He could not carry much luggage with him; so,
wherever he went, he usually began by making his own tools.
He not only designed his works, but executed them
himself,—hammered and carved, and cast and shaped them with
his own hands. Indeed, his works have the impress of genius
so clearly stamped upon them, that they could never have been
designed by one person, and executed by another. The
humblest article—a buckle for a lady’s girdle, a
seal, a locket, a brooch, a ring, or a button—became in his
hands a beautiful work of art.

Cellini was remarkable for his readiness and dexterity in
handicraft. One day a surgeon entered the shop of Raffaello
del Moro, the goldsmith, to perform an operation on his
daughter’s hand. On looking at the surgeon’s
instruments, Cellini, who was present, found them rude and
clumsy, as they usually were in those days, and he asked the
surgeon to proceed no further with the operation for a quarter of
an hour. He then ran to his shop, and taking a piece of the
finest steel, wrought out of it a beautifully finished knife,
with which the operation was successfully performed.

Among the statues executed by Cellini, the most important are
the silver figure of Jupiter, executed at Paris for Francis I.,
and the Perseus, executed in bronze for the Grand Duke Cosmo of
Florence. He also executed statues in marble of Apollo,
Hyacinthus, Narcissus, and Neptune. The extraordinary
incidents connected with the casting of the Perseus were
peculiarly illustrative of the remarkable character of the
man.

The Grand Duke having expressed a decided opinion that the
model, when shown to him in wax, could not possibly be cast in
bronze, Cellini was immediately stimulated by the predicted
impossibility, not only to attempt, but to do it. He first
made the clay model, baked it, and covered it with wax, which he
shaped into the perfect form of a statue. Then coating the
wax with a sort of earth, he baked the second covering, during
which the wax dissolved and escaped, leaving the space between
the two layers for the reception of the metal. To avoid
disturbance, the latter process was conducted in a pit dug
immediately under the furnace, from which the liquid metal was to
be introduced by pipes and apertures into the mould prepared for
it.

Cellini had purchased and laid in several loads of pine-wood,
in anticipation of the process of casting, which now began.
The furnace was filled with pieces of brass and bronze, and the
fire was lit. The resinous pine-wood was soon in such a
furious blaze, that the shop took fire, and part of the roof was
burnt; while at the same time the wind blowing and the rain
filling on the furnace, kept down the heat, and prevented the
metals from melting. For hours Cellini struggled to keep up
the heat, continually throwing in more wood, until at length he
became so exhausted and ill, that he feared he should die before
the statue could be cast. He was forced to leave to his
assistants the pouring in of the metal when melted, and betook
himself to his bed. While those about him were condoling
with him in his distress, a workman suddenly entered the room,
lamenting that “Poor Benvenuto’s work was
irretrievably spoiled!” On hearing this, Cellini
immediately sprang from his bed and rushed to the workshop, where
he found the fire so much gone down that the metal had again
become hard.

Sending across to a neighbour for a load of young oak which
had been more than a year in drying, he soon had the fire blazing
again and the metal melting and glittering. The wind was,
however, still blowing with fury, and the rain falling heavily;
so, to protect himself, Cellini had some tables with pieces of
tapestry and old clothes brought to him, behind which he went on
hurling the wood into the furnace. A mass of pewter was
thrown in upon the other metal, and by stirring, sometimes with
iron and sometimes with long poles, the whole soon became
completely melted. At this juncture, when the trying moment
was close at hand, a terrible noise as of a thunderbolt was
heard, and a glittering of fire flashed before Cellini’s
eyes. The cover of the furnace had burst, and the metal
began to flow! Finding that it did not run with the proper
velocity, Cellini rushed into the kitchen, bore away every piece
of copper and pewter that it contained—some two hundred
porringers, dishes, and kettles of different kinds—and
threw them into the furnace. Then at length the metal
flowed freely, and thus the splendid statue of Perseus was
cast.

The divine fury of genius in which Cellini rushed to his
kitchen and stripped it of its utensils for the purposes of his
furnace, will remind the reader of the like act of Pallissy in
breaking up his furniture for the purpose of baking his
earthenware. Excepting, however, in their enthusiasm, no
two men could be less alike in character. Cellini was an
Ishmael against whom, according to his own account, every
man’s hand was turned. But about his extraordinary
skill as a workman, and his genius as an artist, there cannot be
two opinions.

Much less turbulent was the career of Nicolas Poussin, a man
as pure and elevated in his ideas of art as he was in his daily
life, and distinguished alike for his vigour of intellect, his
rectitude of character, and his noble simplicity. He was
born in a very humble station, at Andeleys, near Rouen, where his
father kept a small school. The boy had the benefit of his
parent’s instruction, such as it was, but of that he is
said to have been somewhat negligent, preferring to spend his
time in covering his lesson-books and his slate with
drawings. A country painter, much pleased with his
sketches, besought his parents not to thwart him in his
tastes. The painter agreed to give Poussin lessons, and he
soon made such progress that his master had nothing more to teach
him. Becoming restless, and desirous of further improving
himself, Poussin, at the age of 18, set out for Paris, painting
signboards on his way for a maintenance.

At Paris a new world of art opened before him, exciting his
wonder and stimulating his emulation. He worked diligently
in many studios, drawing, copying, and painting pictures.
After a time, he resolved, if possible, to visit Rome, and set
out on his journey; but he only succeeded in getting as far as
Florence, and again returned to Paris. A second attempt
which he made to reach Rome was even less successful; for this
time he only got as far as Lyons. He was, nevertheless,
careful to take advantage of all opportunities for improvement
which came in his way, and continued as sedulous as before in
studying and working.

Thus twelve years passed, years of obscurity and toil, of
failures and disappointments, and probably of privations.
At length Poussin succeeded in reaching Rome. There he
diligently studied the old masters, and especially the ancient
statues, with whose perfection he was greatly impressed.
For some time he lived with the sculptor Duquesnoi, as poor as
himself, and assisted him in modelling figures after the
antique. With him he carefully measured some of the most
celebrated statues in Rome, more particularly the
‘Antinous:’ and it is supposed that this practice
exercised considerable influence on the formation of his future
style. At the same time he studied anatomy, practised
drawing from the life, and made a great store of sketches of
postures and attitudes of people whom he met, carefully reading
at his leisure such standard books on art as he could borrow from
his friends.

During all this time he remained very poor, satisfied to be
continually improving himself. He was glad to sell his
pictures for whatever they would bring. One, of a prophet,
he sold for eight livres; and another, the ‘Plague of the
Philistines,’ he sold for 60 crowns—a picture
afterwards bought by Cardinal de Richelieu for a thousand.
To add to his troubles, he was stricken by a cruel malady, during
the helplessness occasioned by which the Chevalier del Posso
assisted him with money. For this gentleman Poussin
afterwards painted the ‘Rest in the Desert,’ a fine
picture, which far more than repaid the advances made during his
illness.

The brave man went on toiling and learning through
suffering. Still aiming at higher things, he went to
Florence and Venice, enlarging the range of his studies.
The fruits of his conscientious labour at length appeared in the
series of great pictures which he now began to produce,—his
‘Death of Germanicus,’ followed by ‘Extreme
Unction,’ the ‘Testament of Eudamidas,’ the
‘Manna,’ and the ‘Abduction of the
Sabines.’

The reputation of Poussin, however, grew but slowly. He
was of a retiring disposition and shunned society. People
gave him credit for being a thinker much more than a
painter. When not actually employed in painting, he took
long solitary walks in the country, meditating the designs of
future pictures. One of his few friends while at Rome was
Claude Lorraine, with whom he spent many hours at a time on the
terrace of La Trinité-du-Mont, conversing about art and
antiquarianism. The monotony and the quiet of Rome were
suited to his taste, and, provided he could earn a moderate
living by his brush, he had no wish to leave it.

But his fame now extended beyond Rome, and repeated
invitations were sent him to return to Paris. He was
offered the appointment of principal painter to the King.
At first he hesitated; quoted the Italian proverb, Chi sta
bene non si muove; said he had lived fifteen years in Rome,
married a wife there, and looked forward to dying and being
buried there. Urged again, he consented, and returned to
Paris. But his appearance there awakened much professional
jealousy, and he soon wished himself back in Rome again.
While in Paris he painted some of his greatest works—his
‘Saint Xavier,’ the ‘Baptism,’ and the
‘Last Supper.’ He was kept constantly at
work. At first he did whatever he was asked to do, such as
designing frontispieces for the royal books, more particularly a
Bible and a Virgil, cartoons for the Louvre, and designs for
tapestry; but at length he expostulated:—“It is
impossible for me,” he said to M. de Chanteloup, “to
work at the same time at frontispieces for books, at a Virgin, at
a picture of the Congregation of St. Louis, at the various
designs for the gallery, and, finally, at designs for the royal
tapestry. I have only one pair of hands and a feeble head,
and can neither be helped nor can my labours be lightened by
another.”

Annoyed by the enemies his success had provoked and whom he
was unable to conciliate, he determined, at the end of less than
two years’ labour in Paris, to return to Rome. Again
settled there in his humble dwelling on Mont Pincio, he employed
himself diligently in the practice of his art during the
remaining years of his life, living in great simplicity and
privacy. Though suffering much from the disease which
afflicted him, he solaced himself by study, always striving after
excellence. “In growing old,” he said, “I
feel myself becoming more and more inflamed with the desire of
surpassing myself and reaching the highest degree of
perfection.” Thus toiling, struggling, and suffering,
Poussin spent his later years. He had no children; his wife
died before him; all his friends were gone: so that in his old
age he was left absolutely alone in Rome, so full of tombs, and
died there in 1665, bequeathing to his relatives at Andeleys the
savings of his life, amounting to about 1000 crowns; and leaving
behind him, as a legacy to his race, the great works of his
genius.

The career of Ary Scheffer furnishes one of the best examples
in modern times of a like high-minded devotion to art. Born
at Dordrecht, the son of a German artist, he early manifested an
aptitude for drawing and painting, which his parents
encouraged. His father dying while he was still young, his
mother resolved, though her means were but small, to remove the
family to Paris, in order that her son might obtain the best
opportunities for instruction. There young Scheffer was
placed with Guérin the painter. But his
mother’s means were too limited to permit him to devote
himself exclusively to study. She had sold the few jewels
she possessed, and refused herself every indulgence, in order to
forward the instruction of her other children. Under such
circumstances, it was natural that Ary should wish to help her;
and by the time he was eighteen years of age he began to paint
small pictures of simple subjects, which met with a ready sale at
moderate prices. He also practised portrait painting, at
the same time gathering experience and earning honest
money. He gradually improved in drawing, colouring, and
composition. The ‘Baptism’ marked a new epoch
in his career, and from that point he went on advancing, until
his fame culminated in his pictures illustrative of
‘Faust,’ his ‘Francisca de Rimini,’
‘Christ the Consoler,’ the ‘Holy Women,’
‘St. Monica and St. Augustin,’ and many other noble
works.

“The amount of labour, thought, and attention,”
says Mrs. Grote, “which Scheffer brought to the production
of the ‘Francisca,’ must have been enormous. In
truth, his technical education having been so imperfect, he was
forced to climb the steep of art by drawing upon his own
resources, and thus, whilst his hand was at work, his mind was
engaged in meditation. He had to try various processes of
handling, and experiments in colouring; to paint and repaint,
with tedious and unremitting assiduity. But Nature had
endowed him with that which proved in some sort an equivalent for
shortcomings of a professional kind. His own elevation of
character, and his profound sensibility, aided him in acting upon
the feelings of others through the medium of the pencil.”
[173]

One of the artists whom Scheffer most admired was Flaxman; and
he once said to a friend, “If I have unconsciously borrowed
from any one in the design of the ‘Francisca,’ it
must have been from something I had seen among Flaxman’s
drawings.” John Flaxman was the son of a humble
seller of plaster casts in New Street, Covent Garden. When
a child, he was such an invalid that it was his custom to sit
behind his father’s shop counter propped by pillows,
amusing himself with drawing and reading. A benevolent
clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Matthews, calling at the shop one day,
saw the boy trying to read a book, and on inquiring what it was,
found it to be a Cornelius Nepos, which his father had picked up
for a few pence at a bookstall. The gentleman, after some
conversation with the boy, said that was not the proper book for
him to read, but that he would bring him one. The next day
he called with translations of Homer and ‘Don
Quixote,’ which the boy proceeded to read with great
avidity. His mind was soon filled with the heroism which
breathed through the pages of the former, and, with the stucco
Ajaxes and Achilleses about him, ranged along the shop shelves,
the ambition took possession of him, that he too would design and
embody in poetic forms those majestic heroes.

Like all youthful efforts, his first designs were crude.
The proud father one day showed some of them to Roubilliac the
sculptor, who turned from them with a contemptuous
“pshaw!” But the boy had the right stuff in
him; he had industry and patience; and he continued to labour
incessantly at his books and drawings. He then tried his
young powers in modelling figures in plaster of Paris, wax, and
clay. Some of these early works are still preserved, not
because of their merit, but because they are curious as the first
healthy efforts of patient genius. It was long before the
boy could walk, and he only learnt to do so by hobbling along
upon crutches. At length he became strong enough to walk
without them.

The kind Mr. Matthews invited him to his house, where his wife
explained Homer and Milton to him. They helped him also in
his self-culture—giving him lessons in Greek and Latin, the
study of which he prosecuted at home. By dint of patience
and perseverance, his drawing improved so much that he obtained a
commission from a lady, to execute six original drawings in black
chalk of subjects in Homer. His first commission!
What an event in the artist’s life! A surgeon’s
first fee, a lawyer’s first retainer, a legislator’s
first speech, a singer’s first appearance behind the
foot-lights, an author’s first book, are not any of them
more full of interest to the aspirant for fame than the
artist’s first commission. The boy at once proceeded
to execute the order, and he was both well praised and well paid
for his work.

At fifteen Flaxman entered a pupil at the Royal Academy.
Notwithstanding his retiring disposition, he soon became known
among the students, and great things were expected of him.
Nor were their expectations disappointed: in his fifteenth year
he gained the silver prize, and next year he became a candidate
for the gold one. Everybody prophesied that he would carry
off the medal, for there was none who surpassed him in ability
and industry. Yet he lost it, and the gold medal was
adjudged to a pupil who was not afterwards heard of. This
failure on the part of the youth was really of service to him;
for defeats do not long cast down the resolute-hearted, but only
serve to call forth their real powers. “Give me
time,” said he to his father, “and I will yet produce
works that the Academy will be proud to recognise.”
He redoubled his efforts, spared no pains, designed and modelled
incessantly, and made steady if not rapid progress. But
meanwhile poverty threatened his father’s household; the
plaster-cast trade yielded a very bare living; and young Flaxman,
with resolute self-denial, curtailed his hours of study, and
devoted himself to helping his father in the humble details of
his business. He laid aside his Homer to take up the
plaster-trowel. He was willing to work in the humblest
department of the trade so that his father’s family might
be supported, and the wolf kept from the door. To this
drudgery of his art he served a long apprenticeship; but it did
him good. It familiarised him with steady work, and
cultivated in him the spirit of patience. The discipline
may have been hard, but it was wholesome.

Happily, young Flaxman’s skill in design had reached the
knowledge of Josiah Wedgwood, who sought him out for the purpose
of employing him to design improved patterns of china and
earthenware. It may seem a humble department of art for
such a genius as Flaxman to work in; but it really was not
so. An artist may be labouring truly in his vocation while
designing a common teapot or water-jug. Articles in daily
use amongst the people, which are before their eyes at every
meal, may be made the vehicles of education to all, and minister
to their highest culture. The most ambitious artist way
thus confer a greater practical benefit on his countrymen than by
executing an elaborate work which he may sell for thousands of
pounds to be placed in some wealthy man’s gallery where it
is hidden away from public sight. Before Wedgwood’s
time the designs which figured upon our china and stoneware were
hideous both in drawing and execution, and he determined to
improve both. Flaxman did his best to carry out the
manufacturer’s views. He supplied him from time to
time with models and designs of various pieces of earthenware,
the subjects of which were principally from ancient verse and
history. Many of them are still in existence, and some are
equal in beauty and simplicity to his after designs for
marble. The celebrated Etruscan vases, specimens of which
were to be found in public museums and in the cabinets of the
curious, furnished him with the best examples of form, and these
he embellished with his own elegant devices. Stuart’s
‘Athens,’ then recently published, furnished him with
specimens of the purest-shaped Greek utensils; of these he
adopted the best, and worked them into new shapes of elegance and
beauty. Flaxman then saw that he was labouring in a great
work—no less than the promotion of popular education; and
he was proud, in after life, to allude to his early labours in
this walk, by which he was enabled at the same time to cultivate
his love of the beautiful, to diffuse a taste for art among the
people, and to replenish his own purse, while he promoted the
prosperity of his friend and benefactor.

At length, in the year 1782, when twenty-seven years of age,
he quitted his father’s roof and rented a small house and
studio in Wardour Street, Soho; and what was more, he
married—Ann Denman was the name of his wife—and a
cheerful, bright-souled, noble woman she was. He believed
that in marrying her he should be able to work with an intenser
spirit; for, like him, she had a taste for poetry and art; and
besides was an enthusiastic admirer of her husband’s
genius. Yet when Sir Joshua Reynolds—himself a
bachelor—met Flaxman shortly after his marriage, he said to
him, “So, Flaxman, I am told you are married; if so, sir, I
tell you you are ruined for an artist.” Flaxman went
straight home, sat down beside his wife, took her hand in his,
and said, “Ann, I am ruined for an artist.”
“How so, John? How has it happened? and who has done
it?” “It happened,” he replied, “in
the church, and Ann Denman has done it.” He then told
her of Sir Joshua’s remark—whose opinion was well
known, and had often been expressed, that if students would excel
they must bring the whole powers of their mind to bear upon their
art, from the moment they rose until they went to bed; and also,
that no man could be a great artist unless he studied the
grand works of Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, and others, at Rome and
Florence. “And I,” said Flaxman, drawing up his
little figure to its full height, “I would be a
great artist.” “And a great artist you shall
be,” said his wife, “and visit Rome too, if that be
really necessary to make you great.” “But
how?” asked Flaxman. “Work and
economise,” rejoined the brave wife; “I will
never have it said that Ann Denman ruined John Flaxman for an
artist.” And so it was determined by the pair that
the journey to Rome was to be made when their means would
admit. “I will go to Rome,” said Flaxman,
“and show the President that wedlock is for a man’s
good rather than his harm; and you, Ann, shall accompany
me.”

Patiently and happily the affectionate couple plodded on
during five years in their humble little home in Wardour Street,
always with the long journey to Rome before them. It was
never lost sight of for a moment, and not a penny was uselessly
spent that could be saved towards the necessary expenses.
They said no word to any one about their project; solicited no
aid from the Academy; but trusted only to their own patient
labour and love to pursue and achieve their object. During
this time Flaxman exhibited very few works. He could not
afford marble to experiment in original designs; but he obtained
frequent commissions for monuments, by the profits of which he
maintained himself. He still worked for Wedgwood, who was a
prompt paymaster; and, on the whole, he was thriving, happy, and
hopeful. His local respectability was even such as to bring
local honours and local work upon him; for he was elected by the
ratepayers to collect the watch-rate for the Parish of St. Anne,
when he might be seen going about with an ink-bottle suspended
from his button-hole, collecting the money.

At length Flaxman and his wife having accumulated a sufficient
store of savings, set out for Rome. Arrived there, he
applied himself diligently to study, maintaining himself, like
other poor artists, by making copies from the antique.
English visitors sought his studio, and gave him commissions; and
it was then that he composed his beautiful designs illustrative
of Homer, Æschylus, and Dante. The price paid for
them was moderate—only fifteen shillings a-piece; but
Flaxman worked for art as well as money; and the beauty of the
designs brought him other friends and patrons. He executed
Cupid and Aurora for the munificent Thomas Hope, and the Fury of
Athamas for the Earl of Bristol. He then prepared to return
to England, his taste improved and cultivated by careful study;
but before he left Italy, the Academies of Florence and Carrara
recognised his merit by electing him a member.

His fame had preceded him to London, where he soon found
abundant employment. While at Rome he had been commissioned
to execute his famous monument in memory of Lord Mansfield, and
it was erected in the north transept of Westminster Abbey shortly
after his return. It stands there in majestic grandeur, a
monument to the genius of Flaxman himself—calm, simple, and
severe. No wonder that Banks, the sculptor, then in the
heyday of his fame, exclaimed when he saw it, “This little
man cuts us all out!”

When the members of the Royal Academy heard of Flaxman’s
return, and especially when they had an opportunity of seeing and
admiring his portrait-statue of Mansfield, they were eager to
have him enrolled among their number. He allowed his name
to be proposed in the candidates’ list of associates, and
was immediately elected. Shortly after, he appeared in an
entirely new character. The little boy who had begun his
studies behind the plaster-cast-seller’s shop-counter in
New Street, Covent Garden, was now a man of high intellect and
recognised supremacy in art, to instruct students, in the
character of Professor of Sculpture to the Royal Academy!
And no man better deserved to fill that distinguished office; for
none is so able to instruct others as he who, for himself and by
his own efforts, has learnt to grapple with and overcome
difficulties.

After a long, peaceful, and happy life, Flaxman found himself
growing old. The loss which he sustained by the death of
his affectionate wife Ann, was a severe shock to him; but he
survived her several years, during which he executed his
celebrated “Shield of Achilles,” and his noble
“Archangel Michael vanquishing Satan,”—perhaps
his two greatest works.

Chantrey was a more robust man;—somewhat rough, but
hearty in his demeanour; proud of his successful struggle with
the difficulties which beset him in early life; and, above all,
proud of his independence. He was born a poor man’s
child, at Norton, near Sheffield. His father dying when he
was a mere boy, his mother married again. Young Chantrey
used to drive an ass laden with milk-cans across its back into
the neighbouring town of Sheffield, and there serve his
mother’s customers with milk. Such was the humble
beginning of his industrial career; and it was by his own
strength that he rose from that position, and achieved the
highest eminence as an artist. Not taking kindly to his
step-father, the boy was sent to trade, and was first placed with
a grocer in Sheffield. The business was very distasteful to
him; but, passing a carver’s shop window one day, his eye
was attracted by the glittering articles it contained, and,
charmed with the idea of being a carver, he begged to be released
from the grocery business with that object. His friends
consented, and he was bound apprentice to the carver and gilder
for seven years. His new master, besides being a carver in
wood, was also a dealer in prints and plaster models; and
Chantrey at once set about imitating both, studying with great
industry and energy. All his spare hours were devoted to
drawing, modelling, and self-improvement, and he often carried
his labours far into the night. Before his apprenticeship
was out—at the ace of twenty-one—he paid over to his
master the whole wealth which he was able to muster—a sum
of 50l.—to cancel his indentures, determined to
devote himself to the career of an artist. He then made the
best of his way to London, and with characteristic good sense,
sought employment as an assistant carver, studying painting and
modelling at his bye-hours. Among the jobs on which he was
first employed as a journeyman carver, was the decoration of the
dining-room of Mr. Rogers, the poet—a room in which he was
in after years a welcome visitor; and he usually took pleasure in
pointing out his early handywork to the guests whom he met at his
friend’s table.

Returning to Sheffield on a professional visit, he advertised
himself in the local papers as a painter of portraits in crayons
and miniatures, and also in oil. For his first crayon
portrait he was paid a guinea by a cutler; and for a portrait in
oil, a confectioner paid him as much as 5l. and a pair of
top boots! Chantrey was soon in London again to study at
the Royal Academy; and next time he returned to Sheffield he
advertised himself as ready to model plaster busts of his
townsmen, as well as paint portraits of them. He was even
selected to design a monument to a deceased vicar of the town,
and executed it to the general satisfaction. When in London
he used a room over a stable as a studio, and there he modelled
his first original work for exhibition. It was a gigantic
head of Satan. Towards the close of Chantrey’s life,
a friend passing through his studio was struck by this model
lying in a corner. “That head,” said the
sculptor, “was the first thing that I did after I came to
London. I worked at it in a garret with a paper cap on my
head; and as I could then afford only one candle, I stuck that
one in my cap that it might move along with me, and give me light
whichever way I turned.” Flaxman saw and admired this
head at the Academy Exhibition, and recommended Chantrey for the
execution of the busts of four admirals, required for the Naval
Asylum at Greenwich. This commission led to others, and
painting was given up. But for eight years before, he had
not earned 5l. by his modelling. His famous head of
Horne Tooke was such a success that, according to his own
account, it brought him commissions amounting to
12,000l.

Chantrey had now succeeded, but he had worked hard, and fairly
earned his good fortune. He was selected from amongst
sixteen competitors to execute the statue of George III. for the
city of London. A few years later, he produced the
exquisite monument of the Sleeping Children, now in Lichfield
Cathedral,—a work of great tenderness and beauty; and
thenceforward his career was one of increasing honour, fame, and
prosperity. His patience, industry, and steady perseverance
were the means by which he achieved his greatness. Nature
endowed him with genius, and his sound sense enabled him to
employ the precious gift as a blessing. He was prudent and
shrewd, like the men amongst whom he was born; the pocket-book
which accompanied him on his Italian tour containing mingled
notes on art, records of daily expenses, and the current prices
of marble. His tastes were simple, and he made his finest
subjects great by the mere force of simplicity. His statue
of Watt, in Handsworth church, seems to us the very consummation
of art; yet it is perfectly artless and simple. His
generosity to brother artists in need was splendid, but quiet and
unostentatious. He left the principal part of his fortune
to the Royal Academy for the promotion of British art.

The same honest and persistent industry was throughout
distinctive of the career of David Wilkie. The son of a
Scotch minister, he gave early indications of an artistic turn;
and though he was a negligent and inapt scholar, he was a
sedulous drawer of faces and figures. A silent boy, he
already displayed that quiet concentrated energy of character
which distinguished him through life. He was always on the
look-out for an opportunity to draw,—and the walls of the
manse, or the smooth sand by the river side, were alike
convenient for his purpose. Any sort of tool would serve
him; like Giotto, he found a pencil in a burnt stick, a prepared
canvas in any smooth stone, and the subject for a picture in
every ragged mendicant he met. When he visited a house, he
generally left his mark on the walls as an indication of his
presence, sometimes to the disgust of cleanly housewives.
In short, notwithstanding the aversion of his father, the
minister, to the “sinful” profession of painting,
Wilkie’s strong propensity was not to be thwarted, and he
became an artist, working his way manfully up the steep of
difficulty. Though rejected on his first application as a
candidate for admission to the Scottish Academy, at Edinburgh, on
account of the rudeness and inaccuracy of his introductory
specimens, he persevered in producing better, until he was
admitted. But his progress was slow. He applied
himself diligently to the drawing of the human figure, and held
on with the determination to succeed, as if with a resolute
confidence in the result. He displayed none of the
eccentric humour and fitful application of many youths who
conceive themselves geniuses, but kept up the routine of steady
application to such an extent that he himself was afterwards
accustomed to attribute his success to his dogged perseverance
rather than to any higher innate power. “The single
element,” he said, “in all the progressive movements
of my pencil was persevering industry.” At Edinburgh
he gained a few premiums, thought of turning his attention to
portrait painting, with a view to its higher and more certain
remuneration, but eventually went boldly into the line in which
he earned his fame,—and painted his Pitlessie Fair.
What was bolder still, he determined to proceed to London, on
account of its presenting so much wider a field for study and
work; and the poor Scotch lad arrived in town, and painted his
Village Politicians while living in a humble lodging on eighteen
shillings a week.

Notwithstanding the success of this picture, and the
commissions which followed it, Wilkie long continued poor.
The prices which his works realized were not great, for he
bestowed upon them so much time and labour, that his earnings
continued comparatively small for many years. Every picture
was carefully studied and elaborated beforehand; nothing was
struck off at a heat; many occupied him for years—touching,
retouching, and improving them until they finally passed out of
his hands. As with Reynolds, his motto was “Work!
work! work!” and, like him, he expressed great dislike for
talking artists. Talkers may sow, but the silent
reap. “Let us be doing something,” was
his oblique mode of rebuking the loquacious and admonishing the
idle. He once related to his friend Constable that when he
studied at the Scottish Academy, Graham, the master of it, was
accustomed to say to the students, in the words of Reynolds,
“If you have genius, industry will improve it; if you have
none, industry will supply its place.”
“So,” said Wilkie, “I was determined to be very
industrious, for I knew I had no genius.” He also
told Constable that when Linnell and Burnett, his fellow-students
in London, were talking about art, he always contrived to get as
close to them as he could to hear all they said,
“for,” said he, “they know a great deal, and I
know very little.” This was said with perfect
sincerity, for Wilkie was habitually modest. One of the
first things that he did with the sum of thirty pounds which he
obtained from Lord Mansfield for his Village Politicians, was to
buy a present—of bonnets, shawls, and dresses—for his
mother and sister at home, though but little able to afford it at
the time. Wilkie’s early poverty had trained him in
habits of strict economy, which were, however, consistent with a
noble liberality, as appears from sundry passages in the
Autobiography of Abraham Raimbach the engraver.

William Etty was another notable instance of unflagging
industry and indomitable perseverance in art. His father
was a ginger-bread and spicemaker at York, and his mother—a
woman of considerable force and originality of
character—was the daughter of a ropemaker. The boy
early displayed a love of drawing, covering walls, floors, and
tables with specimens of his skill; his first crayon being a
farthing’s worth of chalk, and this giving place to a piece
of coal or a bit of charred stick. His mother, knowing
nothing of art, put the boy apprentice to a trade—that of a
printer. But in his leisure hours he went on with the
practice of drawing; and when his time was out he determined to
follow his bent—he would be a painter and nothing
else. Fortunately his uncle and elder brother were able and
willing to help him on in his new career, and they provided him
with the means of entering as pupil at the Royal Academy.
We observe, from Leslie’s Autobiography, that Etty was
looked upon by his fellow students as a worthy but dull, plodding
person, who would never distinguish himself. But he had in
him the divine faculty of work, and diligently plodded his way
upward to eminence in the highest walks of art.

Many artists have had to encounter privations which have tried
their courage and endurance to the utmost before they
succeeded. What number may have sunk under them we can
never know. Martin encountered difficulties in the course
of his career such as perhaps fall to the lot of few. More
than once he found himself on the verge of starvation while
engaged on his first great picture. It is related of him
that on one occasion he found himself reduced to his last
shilling—a bright shilling—which he had kept
because of its very brightness, but at length he found it
necessary to exchange it for bread. He went to a
baker’s shop, bought a loaf, and was taking it away, when
the baker snatched it from him, and tossed back the shilling to
the starving painter. The bright shilling had failed him in
his hour of need—it was a bad one! Returning to his
lodgings, he rummaged his trunk for some remaining crust to
satisfy his hunger. Upheld throughout by the victorious
power of enthusiasm, he pursued his design with unsubdued
energy. He had the courage to work on and to wait; and
when, a few days after, he found an opportunity to exhibit his
picture, he was from that time famous. Like many other
great artists, his life proves that, in despite of outward
circumstances, genius, aided by industry, will be its own
protector, and that fame, though she comes late, will never
ultimately refuse her favours to real merit.

The most careful discipline and training after academic
methods will fail in making an artist, unless he himself take an
active part in the work. Like every highly cultivated man,
he must be mainly self-educated. When Pugin, who was
brought up in his father’s office, had learnt all that he
could learn of architecture according to the usual formulas, he
still found that he had learned but little; and that he must
begin at the beginning, and pass through the discipline of
labour. Young Pugin accordingly hired himself out as a
common carpenter at Covent Garden Theatre—first working
under the stage, then behind the flys, then upon the stage
itself. He thus acquired a familiarity with work, and
cultivated an architectural taste, to which the diversity of the
mechanical employment about a large operatic establishment is
peculiarly favourable. When the theatre closed for the
season, he worked a sailing-ship between London and some of the
French ports, carrying on at the same time a profitable
trade. At every opportunity he would land and make drawings
of any old building, and especially of any ecclesiastical
structure which fell in his way. Afterwards he would make
special journeys to the Continent for the same purpose, and
returned home laden with drawings. Thus he plodded and
laboured on, making sure of the excellence and distinction which
he eventually achieved.

A similar illustration of plodding industry in the same walk
is presented in the career of George Kemp, the architect of the
beautiful Scott Monument at Edinburgh. He was the son of a
poor shepherd, who pursued his calling on the southern slope of
the Pentland Hills. Amidst that pastoral solitude the boy
had no opportunity of enjoying the contemplation of works of
art. It happened, however, that in his tenth year he was
sent on a message to Roslin, by the farmer for whom his father
herded sheep, and the sight of the beautiful castle and chapel
there seems to have made a vivid and enduring impression on his
mind. Probably to enable him to indulge his love of
architectural construction, the boy besought his father to let
him be a joiner; and he was accordingly put apprentice to a
neighbouring village carpenter. Having served his time, he
went to Galashiels to seek work. As he was plodding along
the valley of the Tweed with his tools upon his back, a carriage
overtook him near Elibank Tower; and the coachman, doubtless at
the suggestion of his master, who was seated inside, having asked
the youth how far he had to walk, and learning that he was on his
way to Galashiels, invited him to mount the box beside him, and
thus to ride thither. It turned out that the kindly
gentleman inside was no other than Sir Walter Scott, then
travelling on his official duty as Sheriff of Selkirkshire.
Whilst working at Galashiels, Kemp had frequent opportunities of
visiting Melrose, Dryburgh, and Jedburgh Abbeys, which he studied
carefully. Inspired by his love of architecture, he worked
his way as a carpenter over the greater part of the north of
England, never omitting an opportunity of inspecting and making
sketches of any fine Gothic building. On one occasion, when
working in Lancashire, he walked fifty miles to York, spent a
week in carefully examining the Minster, and returned in like
manner on foot. We next find him in Glasgow, where he
remained four years, studying the fine cathedral there during his
spare time. He returned to England again, this time working
his way further south; studying Canterbury, Winchester, Tintern,
and other well-known structures. In 1824 he formed the
design of travelling over Europe with the same object, supporting
himself by his trade. Reaching Boulogne, he proceeded by
Abbeville and Beauvais to Paris, spending a few weeks making
drawings and studies at each place. His skill as a
mechanic, and especially his knowledge of mill-work, readily
secured him employment wherever he went; and he usually chose the
site of his employment in the neighbourhood of some fine old
Gothic structure, in studying which he occupied his
leisure. After a year’s working, travel, and study
abroad, he returned to Scotland. He continued his studies,
and became a proficient in drawing and perspective: Melrose was
his favourite ruin; and he produced several elaborate drawings of
the building, one of which, exhibiting it in a
“restored” state, was afterwards engraved. He
also obtained employment as a modeller of architectural designs;
and made drawings for a work begun by an Edinburgh engraver,
after the plan of Britton’s ‘Cathedral
Antiquities.’ This was a task congenial to his
tastes, and he laboured at it with an enthusiasm which ensured
its rapid advance; walking on foot for the purpose over half
Scotland, and living as an ordinary mechanic, whilst executing
drawings which would have done credit to the best masters in the
art. The projector of the work having died suddenly, the
publication was however stopped, and Kemp sought other
employment. Few knew of the genius of this man—for he
was exceedingly taciturn and habitually modest—when the
Committee of the Scott Monument offered a prize for the best
design. The competitors were numerous—including some
of the greatest names in classical architecture; but the design
unanimously selected was that of George Kemp, who was working at
Kilwinning Abbey in Ayrshire, many miles off, when the letter
reached him intimating the decision of the committee. Poor
Kemp! Shortly after this event he met an untimely death,
and did not live to see the first result of his indefatigable
industry and self-culture embodied in stone,—one of the
most beautiful and appropriate memorials ever erected to literary
genius.

John Gibson was another artist full of a genuine enthusiasm
and love for his art, which placed him high above those sordid
temptations which urge meaner natures to make time the measure of
profit. He was born at Gyffn, near Conway, in North
Wales—the son of a gardener. He early showed
indications of his talent by the carvings in wood which he made
by means of a common pocket knife; and his father, noting the
direction of his talent, sent him to Liverpool and bound him
apprentice to a cabinet-maker and wood-carver. He rapidly
improved at his trade, and some of his carvings were much
admired. He was thus naturally led to sculpture, and when
eighteen years old he modelled a small figure of Time in wax,
which attracted considerable notice. The Messrs. Franceys,
sculptors, of Liverpool, having purchased the boy’s
indentures, took him as their apprentice for six years, during
which his genius displayed itself in many original works.
From thence he proceeded to London, and afterwards to Rome; and
his fame became European.

Robert Thorburn, the Royal Academician, like John Gibson, was
born of poor parents. His father was a shoe-maker at
Dumfries. Besides Robert there were two other sons; one of
whom is a skilful carver in wood. One day a lady called at
the shoemaker’s and found Robert, then a mere boy, engaged
in drawing upon a stool which served him for a table. She
examined his work, and observing his abilities, interested
herself in obtaining for him some employment in drawing, and
enlisted in his behalf the services of others who could assist
him in prosecuting the study of art. The boy was diligent,
pains-taking, staid, and silent, mixing little with his
companions, and forming but few intimacies. About the year
1830, some gentlemen of the town provided him with the means of
proceeding to Edinburgh, where he was admitted a student at the
Scottish Academy. There he had the advantage of studying
under competent masters, and the progress which he made was
rapid. From Edinburgh he removed to London, where, we
understand, he had the advantage of being introduced to notice
under the patronage of the Duke of Buccleuch. We need
scarcely say, however, that of whatever use patronage may have
been to Thorburn in giving him an introduction to the best
circles, patronage of no kind could have made him the great
artist that he unquestionably is, without native genius and
diligent application.

Noel Paton, the well-known painter, began his artistic career
at Dunfermline and Paisley, as a drawer of patterns for
table-cloths and muslin embroidered by hand; meanwhile working
diligently at higher subjects, including the drawing of the human
figure. He was, like Turner, ready to turn his hand to any
kind of work, and in 1840, when a mere youth, we find him
engaged, among his other labours, in illustrating the
‘Renfrewshire Annual.’ He worked his way step
by step, slowly yet surely; but he remained unknown until the
exhibition of the prize cartoons painted for the houses of
Parliament, when his picture of the Spirit of Religion (for which
he obtained one of the first prizes) revealed him to the world as
a genuine artist; and the works which he has since
exhibited—such as the ‘Reconciliation of Oberon and
Titania,’ ‘Home,’ and ‘The bluidy
Tryste’—have shown a steady advance in artistic power
and culture.

Another striking exemplification of perseverance and industry
in the cultivation of art in humble life is presented in the
career of James Sharples, a working blacksmith at
Blackburn. He was born at Wakefield in Yorkshire, in 1825,
one of a family of thirteen children. His father was a
working ironfounder, and removed to Bury to follow his
business. The boys received no school education, but were
all sent to work as soon as they were able; and at about ten
James was placed in a foundry, where he was employed for about
two years as smithy-boy. After that he was sent into the
engine-shop where his father worked as engine-smith. The
boy’s employment was to heat and carry rivets for the
boiler-makers. Though his hours of labour were very
long—often from six in the morning until eight at
night—his father contrived to give him some little teaching
after working hours; and it was thus that he partially learned
his letters. An incident occurred in the course of his
employment among the boiler-makers, which first awakened in him
the desire to learn drawing. He had occasionally been
employed by the foreman to hold the chalked line with which he
made the designs of boilers upon the floor of the workshop; and
on such occasions the foreman was accustomed to hold the line,
and direct the boy to make the necessary dimensions. James
soon became so expert at this as to be of considerable service to
the foreman; and at his leisure hours at home his great delight
was to practise drawing designs of boilers upon his
mother’s floor. On one occasion, when a female
relative was expected from Manchester to pay the family a visit,
and the house had been made as decent as possible for her
reception, the boy, on coming in from the foundry in the evening,
began his usual operations upon the floor. He had proceeded
some way with his design of a large boiler in chalk, when his
mother arrived with the visitor, and to her dismay found the boy
unwashed and the floor chalked all over. The relative,
however, professed to be pleased with the boy’s industry,
praised his design, and recommended his mother to provide
“the little sweep,” as she called him, with paper and
pencils.

Encouraged by his elder brother, he began to practise figure
and landscape drawing, making copies of lithographs, but as yet
without any knowledge of the rules of perspective and the
principles of light and shade. He worked on, however, and
gradually acquired expertness in copying. At sixteen, he
entered the Bury Mechanic’s Institution in order to attend
the drawing class, taught by an amateur who followed the trade of
a barber. There he had a lesson a week during three
months. The teacher recommended him to obtain from the
library Burnet’s ‘Practical Treatise on
Painting;’ but as he could not yet read with ease, he was
under the necessity of getting his mother, and sometimes his
elder brother, to read passages from the book for him while he
sat by and listened. Feeling hampered by his ignorance of
the art of reading, and eager to master the contents of
Burnet’s book, he ceased attending the drawing class at the
Institute after the first quarter, and devoted himself to
learning reading and writing at home. In this he soon
succeeded; and when he again entered the Institute and took out
‘Burnet’ a second time, he was not only able to read
it, but to make written extracts for further use. So
ardently did he study the volume, that he used to rise at four
o’clock in the morning to read it and copy out passages;
after which he went to the foundry at six, worked until six and
sometimes eight in the evening; and returned home to enter with
fresh zest upon the study of Burnet, which he continued often
until a late hour. Parts of his nights were also occupied
in drawing and making copies of drawings. On one of
these—a copy of Leonardo da Vinci’s “Last
Supper”—he spent an entire night. He went to
bed indeed, but his mind was so engrossed with the subject that
he could not sleep, and rose again to resume his pencil.

He next proceeded to try his hand at painting in oil, for
which purpose he procured some canvas from a draper, stretched it
on a frame, coated it over with white lead, and began painting on
it with colours bought from a house-painter. But his work
proved a total failure; for the canvas was rough and knotty, and
the paint would not dry. In his extremity he applied to his
old teacher, the barber, from whom he first learnt that prepared
canvas was to be had, and that there were colours and varnishes
made for the special purpose of oil-painting. As soon
therefore, as his means would allow, he bought a small stock of
the necessary articles and began afresh,—his amateur master
showing him how to paint; and the pupil succeeded so well that he
excelled the master’s copy. His first picture was a
copy from an engraving called “Sheep-shearing,” and
was afterwards sold by him for half-a-crown. Aided by a
shilling Guide to Oil-painting, he went on working at his leisure
hours, and gradually acquired a better knowledge of his
materials. He made his own easel and palette,
palette-knife, and paint-chest; he bought his paint, brushes, and
canvas, as he could raise the money by working over-time.
This was the slender fund which his parents consented to allow
him for the purpose; the burden of supporting a very large family
precluding them from doing more. Often he would walk to
Manchester and back in the evenings to buy two or three
shillings’ worth of paint and canvas, returning almost at
midnight, after his eighteen miles’ walk, sometimes wet
through and completely exhausted, but borne up throughout by his
inexhaustible hope and invincible determination. The
further progress of the self-taught artist is best narrated in
his own words, as communicated by him in a letter to the
author:—

“The next pictures I painted,” he says,
“were a Landscape by Moonlight, a Fruitpiece, and one or
two others; after which I conceived the idea of painting
‘The Forge.’ I had for some time thought about
it, but had not attempted to embody the conception in a
drawing. I now, however, made a sketch of the subject upon
paper, and then proceeded to paint it on canvas. The
picture simply represents the interior of a large workshop such
as I have been accustomed to work in, although not of any
particular shop. It is, therefore, to this extent, an
original conception. Having made an outline of the subject,
I found that, before I could proceed with it successfully, a
knowledge of anatomy was indispensable to enable me accurately to
delineate the muscles of the figures. My brother Peter came
to my assistance at this juncture, and kindly purchased for me
Flaxman’s ‘Anatomical studies,’—a work
altogether beyond my means at the time, for it cost twenty-four
shillings. This book I looked upon as a great treasure, and
I studied it laboriously, rising at three o’clock in the
morning to draw after it, and occasionally getting my brother
Peter to stand for me as a model at that untimely hour.
Although I gradually improved myself by this practice, it was
some time before I felt sufficient confidence to go on with my
picture. I also felt hampered by my want of knowledge of
perspective, which I endeavoured to remedy by carefully studying
Brook Taylor’s ‘Principles;’ and shortly after
I resumed my painting. While engaged in the study of
perspective at home, I used to apply for and obtain leave to work
at the heavier kinds of smith work at the foundry, and for this
reason—the time required for heating the heaviest iron work
is so much longer than that required for heating the lighter,
that it enabled me to secure a number of spare minutes in the
course of the day, which I carefully employed in making diagrams
in perspective upon the sheet iron casing in front of the hearth
at which I worked.”

Thus assiduously working and studying, James Sharples steadily
advanced in his knowledge of the principles of art, and acquired
greater facility in its practice. Some eighteen months
after the expiry of his apprenticeship he painted a portrait of
his father, which attracted considerable notice in the town; as
also did the picture of “The Forge,” which he
finished soon after. His success in portrait-painting
obtained for him a commission from the foreman of the shop to
paint a family group, and Sharples executed it so well that the
foreman not only paid him the agreed price of eighteen pounds,
but thirty shillings to boot. While engaged on this group
he ceased to work at the foundry, and he had thoughts of giving
up his trade altogether and devoting himself exclusively to
painting. He proceeded to paint several pictures, amongst
others a head of Christ, an original conception, life-size, and a
view of Bury; but not obtaining sufficient employment at
portraits to occupy his time, or give him the prospect of a
steady income, he had the good sense to resume his leather apron,
and go on working at his honest trade of a blacksmith; employing
his leisure hours in engraving his picture of “The
Forge,” since published. He was induced to commence
the engraving by the following circumstance. A Manchester
picture-dealer, to whom he showed the painting, let drop the
observation, that in the hands of a skilful engraver it would
make a very good print. Sharples immediately conceived the
idea of engraving it himself, though altogether ignorant of the
art. The difficulties which he encountered and successfully
overcame in carrying out his project are thus described by
himself:—

“I had seen an advertisement of a Sheffield steel-plate
maker, giving a list of the prices at which he supplied plates of
various sizes, and, fixing upon one of suitable dimensions, I
remitted the amount, together with a small additional sum for
which I requested him to send me a few engraving tools. I
could not specify the articles wanted, for I did not then know
anything about the process of engraving. However, there
duly arrived with the plate three or four gravers and an etching
needle; the latter I spoiled before I knew its use. While
working at the plate, the Amalgamated Society of Engineers
offered a premium for the best design for an emblematical
picture, for which I determined to compete, and I was so
fortunate as to win the prize. Shortly after this I removed
to Blackburn, where I obtained employment at Messrs.
Yates’, engineers, as an engine-smith; and continued to
employ my leisure time in drawing, painting, and engraving, as
before. With the engraving I made but very slow progress,
owing to the difficulties I experienced from not possessing
proper tools. I then determined to try to make some that
would suit my purpose, and after several failures I succeeded in
making many that I have used in the course of my engraving.
I was also greatly at a loss for want of a proper magnifying
glass, and part of the plate was executed with no other
assistance of this sort than what my father’s spectacles
afforded, though I afterwards succeeded in obtaining a proper
magnifier, which was of the utmost use to me. An incident
occurred while I was engraving the plate, which had almost caused
me to abandon it altogether. It sometimes happened that I
was obliged to lay it aside for a considerable time, when other
work pressed; and in order to guard it against rust, I was
accustomed to rub over the graven parts with oil. But on
examining the plate after one of such intervals, I found that the
oil had become a dark sticky substance extremely difficult to get
out. I tried to pick it out with a needle, but found that
it would almost take as much time as to engrave the parts
afresh. I was in great despair at this, but at length hit
upon the expedient of boiling it in water containing soda, and
afterwards rubbing the engraved parts with a tooth-brush; and to
my delight found the plan succeeded perfectly. My greatest
difficulties now over, patience and perseverance were all that
were needed to bring my labours to a successful issue. I
had neither advice nor assistance from any one in finishing the
plate. If, therefore, the work possess any merit, I can
claim it as my own; and if in its accomplishment I have
contributed to show what can be done by persevering industry and
determination, it is all the honour I wish to lay claim
to.”

It would be beside our purpose to enter upon any criticism of
“The Forge” as an engraving; its merits having been
already fully recognised by the art journals. The execution
of the work occupied Sharples’s leisure evening hours
during a period of five years; and it was only when he took the
plate to the printer that he for the first time saw an engraved
plate produced by any other man. To this unvarnished
picture of industry and genius, we add one other trait, and it is
a domestic one. “I have been married seven
years,” says he, “and during that time my greatest
pleasure, after I have finished my daily labour at the foundry,
has been to resume my pencil or graver, frequently until a late
hour of the evening, my wife meanwhile sitting by my side and
reading to me from some interesting book,”—a simple
but beautiful testimony to the thorough common sense as well as
the genuine right-heartedness of this most interesting and
deserving workman.

The same industry and application which we have found to be
necessary in order to acquire excellence in painting and
sculpture, are equally required in the sister art of
music—the one being the poetry of form and colour, the
other of the sounds of nature. Handel was an indefatigable
and constant worker; he was never cast down by defeat, but his
energy seemed to increase the more that adversity struck
him. When a prey to his mortifications as an insolvent
debtor, he did not give way for a moment, but in one year
produced his ‘Saul,’ ‘Israel,’ the music
for Dryden’s ‘Ode,’ his ‘Twelve Grand
Concertos,’ and the opera of ‘Jupiter in
Argos,’ among the finest of his works. As his
biographer says of him, “He braved everything, and, by his
unaided self, accomplished the work of twelve men.”

Haydn, speaking of his art, said, “It consists in taking
up a subject and pursuing it.” “Work,”
said Mozart, “is my chief pleasure.”
Beethoven’s favourite maxim was, “The barriers are
not erected which can say to aspiring talents and industry,
‘Thus far and no farther.’” When
Moscheles submitted his score of ‘Fidelio’ for the
pianoforte to Beethoven, the latter found written at the bottom
of the last page, “Finis, with God’s
help.” Beethoven immediately wrote underneath,
“O man! help thyself!” This was the motto of
his artistic life. John Sebastian Bach said of himself,
“I was industrious; whoever is equally sedulous, will be
equally successful.” But there is no doubt that Bach
was born with a passion for music, which formed the mainspring of
his industry, and was the true secret of his success. When
a mere youth, his elder brother, wishing to turn his abilities in
another direction, destroyed a collection of studies which the
young Sebastian, being denied candles, had copied by moonlight;
proving the strong natural bent of the boy’s genius.
Of Meyerbeer, Bayle thus wrote from Milan in
1820:—“He is a man of some talent, but no genius; he
lives solitary, working fifteen hours a day at
music.” Years passed, and Meyerbeer’s hard work
fully brought out his genius, as displayed in his
‘Roberto,’ ‘Huguenots,’
‘Prophète,’ and other works, confessedly
amongst the greatest operas which have been produced in modern
times.

Although musical composition is not an art in which Englishmen
have as yet greatly distinguished themselves, their energies
having for the most part taken other and more practical
directions, we are not without native illustrations of the power
of perseverance in this special pursuit. Arne was an
upholsterer’s son, intended by his father for the legal
profession; but his love of music was so great, that he could not
be withheld from pursuing it. While engaged in an
attorney’s office, his means were very limited, but, to
gratify his tastes, he was accustomed to borrow a livery and go
into the gallery of the Opera, then appropriated to
domestics. Unknown to his father he made great progress
with the violin, and the first knowledge his father had of the
circumstance was when accidentally calling at the house of a
neighbouring gentleman, to his surprise and consternation he
found his son playing the leading instrument with a party of
musicians. This incident decided the fate of Arne.
His father offered no further opposition to his wishes; and the
world thereby lost a lawyer, but gained a musician of much taste
and delicacy of feeling, who added many valuable works to our
stores of English music.

The career of the late William Jackson, author of ‘The
Deliverance of Israel,’ an oratorio which has been
successfully performed in the principal towns of his native
county of York, furnishes an interesting illustration of the
triumph of perseverance over difficulties in the pursuit of
musical science. He was the son of a miller at Masham, a
little town situated in the valley of the Yore, in the north-west
corner of Yorkshire. Musical taste seems to have been
hereditary in the family, for his father played the fife in the
band of the Masham Volunteers, and was a singer in the parish
choir. His grandfather also was leading singer and ringer
at Masham Church; and one of the boy’s earliest musical
treats was to be present at the bell pealing on Sunday
mornings. During the service, his wonder was still more
excited by the organist’s performance on the barrel-organ,
the doors of which were thrown open behind to let the sound fully
into the church, by which the stops, pipes, barrels, staples,
keyboard, and jacks, were fully exposed, to the wonderment of the
little boys sitting in the gallery behind, and to none more than
our young musician. At eight years of age he began to play
upon his father’s old fife, which, however, would not sound
D; but his mother remedied the difficulty by buying for him a
one-keyed flute; and shortly after, a gentleman of the
neighbourhood presented him with a flute with four silver
keys. As the boy made no progress with his “book
learning,” being fonder of cricket, fives, and boxing, than
of his school lessons—the village schoolmaster giving him
up as “a bad job”—his parents sent him off to a
school at Pateley Bridge. While there he found congenial
society in a club of village choral singers at Brighouse Gate,
and with them he learnt the sol-fa-ing gamut on the old English
plan. He was thus well drilled in the reading of music, in
which he soon became a proficient. His progress astonished
the club, and he returned home full of musical ambition. He
now learnt to play upon his father’s old piano, but with
little melodious result; and he became eager to possess a
finger-organ, but had no means of procuring one. About this
time, a neighbouring parish clerk had purchased, for an
insignificant sum, a small disabled barrel-organ, which had gone
the circuit of the northern counties with a show. The clerk
tried to revive the tones of the instrument, but failed; at last
he bethought him that he would try the skill of young Jackson,
who had succeeded in making some alterations and improvements in
the hand-organ of the parish church. He accordingly brought
it to the lad’s house in a donkey cart, and in a short time
the instrument was repaired, and played over its old tunes again,
greatly to the owner’s satisfaction.

The thought now haunted the youth that he could make a
barrel-organ, and he determined to do so. His father and he
set to work, and though without practice in carpentering, yet, by
dint of hard labour and after many failures, they at last
succeeded; and an organ was constructed which played ten tunes
very decently, and the instrument was generally regarded as a
marvel in the neighbourhood. Young Jackson was now
frequently sent for to repair old church organs, and to put new
music upon the barrels which he added to them. All this he
accomplished to the satisfaction of his employers, after which he
proceeded with the construction of a four-stop finger-organ,
adapting to it the keys of an old harpsichord. This he
learnt to play upon,—studying ‘Callcott’s
Thorough Bass’ in the evening, and working at his trade of
a miller during the day; occasionally also tramping about the
country as a “cadger,” with an ass and a cart.
During summer he worked in the fields, at turnip-time, hay-time,
and harvest, but was never without the solace of music in his
leisure evening hours. He next tried his hand at musical
composition, and twelve of his anthems were shown to the late Mr.
Camidge, of York, as “the production of a miller’s
lad of fourteen.” Mr. Camidge was pleased with them,
marked the objectionable passages, and returned them with the
encouraging remark, that they did the youth great credit, and
that he must “go on writing.”

A village band having been set on foot at Masham, young
Jackson joined it, and was ultimately appointed leader. He
played all the instruments by turns, and thus acquired a
considerable practical knowledge of his art: he also composed
numerous tunes for the band. A new finger-organ having been
presented to the parish church, he was appointed the
organist. He now gave up his employment as a journeyman
miller, and commenced tallow-chandling, still employing his spare
hours in the study of music. In 1839 he published his first
anthem—‘For joy let fertile valleys sing;’ and
in the following year he gained the first prize from the
Huddersfield Glee Club, for his ‘Sisters of the
Lea.’ His other anthem ‘God be merciful to
us,’ and the 103rd Psalm, written for a double chorus and
orchestra, are well known. In the midst of these minor
works, Jackson proceeded with the composition of his
oratorio,—‘The Deliverance of Israel from
Babylon.’ His practice was, to jot down a sketch of
the ideas as they presented themselves to his mind, and to write
them out in score in the evenings, after he had left his work in
the candle-shop. His oratorio was published in parts, in
the course of 1844–5, and he published the last chorus on
his twenty-ninth birthday. The work was exceedingly well
received, and has been frequently performed with much success in
the northern towns. Mr. Jackson eventually settled as a
professor of music at Bradford, where he contributed in no small
degree to the cultivation of the musical taste of that town and
its neighbourhood. Some years since he had the honour of
leading his fine company of Bradford choral singers before Her
Majesty at Buckingham Palace; on which occasion, as well as at
the Crystal Palace, some choral pieces of his composition, were
performed with great effect. [201]

Such is a brief outline of the career of a self-taught
musician, whose life affords but another illustration of the
power of self-help, and the force of courage and industry in
enabling a man to surmount and overcome early difficulties and
obstructions of no ordinary kind.