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Scenes from an Artist's Life
Chapter 14
"A wreath with many a weed, yet mingled with flowers which will not wither,' SHAKESPEARE.
A LESS0N AT THE BICKERING BUSH-JAMES DORRAN-WATTY DOUGLAS'S
MICROSCOPE-MY FIRST COMMISSION AS A PORTRAIT PAINTER- A LESSON FOR
LIFE-HOW I WON MY OLD SON'S FIRST CORDUROYS- BOB CLINK-THE FIRST CASH
TRANSACTION-MATTHEW MAITLAND- FATE OF MY TWO PATRONS.
ON the evening of a beautiful summer day, I sat by the banks of the Irvine Water, near to the place
known as the Bickering Bush. The remnant of the old thorn stood there; it was by tradition said to
be the place where Wallace first quarrelled with the English, and gave them a taste of his
fishing-rod till they ran like so many sheep. I had that day been taking a sketch of the old castle at
Caprington, and had here sat down to look at the minnows sporting in a deep pool. As I sat by the
selvage of the sullen and treacherous like plumb, the minnows rushed to the far side, which
gradually sloped and terminated in gravel. The minnows might be about three or four inches in
length, and rushed to the shore every now and again till some of them had difficulty to regain their
native element. I thought they were frolicsome before bedtime. A stranger advanced. He had a
thoughtful, sedate, contemplative expression of countenance, and was clean and gentlemanlike in
his dress. He came close to where I sat, and said, " Young man, you seem to be studying. " I said
I was looking at the young fish making sport. He shook his head and said, " That's not sport; it's
terror. You never saw a fish go so far out of its element unless forced by some enemy. Look, and
we may discover the source of their trouble." It was not long till he exclaimed, " Here he is." And
there he was, the largest eel I have ever looked on in fresh water.
The little fish rushed to the shore before him, as he in large coils quietly wysed them shoreward,
then on their return he straightened to his length and met them, taking them into stock in
rnouthfuls. I stood in mute astonishment at the scene before me, likewise at the difference of mind
expressed by the stranger. He seemed to see nature in her true shape, while I had taken a flimsy
view of a great fact. Well, well, " said he after a while, " it would seem to be the same in the water
as on the land; one thing lives on another; we just eat our way through the world. We are not so
honest as the eel; he eats straightforward, and we eat each other indirectly. However, it is just the
same in the invisible world. Have you made a study of it ?" he enquired. I said that I had read
Satan's Invisible World Discovered. The man looked at me in amazement and asked,
'Who put such nonsense into your head?" It was the microscope he meant. I had never heard of
such a thing. He then began a long dissertation on animalculae in water and finished with an
alarming description of how we were eaten off our feet by vermin in every shape. In fact, we could
not get away from it; all nature was just one joyous feast. Were you to examine the leg of a moth,
you would find vermin of inferior quality feasting on it with as much freedom and ease, luxuriating as
happy as those cows you see grazing in the meadows there." He asked me if I had no pastime; if I
did not read wholesome books, and keep good company? I said that I had been taking a sketch of
the castle there. I showed my sketch to him. He made some very judicious remarks on my art,
remarking that even with the pencil the texture of everything should be made visible, and no idle or
waste lines should encumber the surface of a sketch. Touches with the pencil were just what types
were in print: it required that every one of them should be in its proper place, so that the story be
properly laid before the reader. He had painted snuff-boxes in Cumnock, was most minute in his
touch and precise in his taste. I had a small profile of a man's head in pencil. He looked at it,and
made a remark on the shirt-collar as being too stiff. He recommended a bend in the line and a little
spirit at the point to bring it round, and make it look more of a movement than a fixture. That
remark of his has followed me through life. Few shirt-collars have I painted since but a sparkling of
that lesson has been present.
This young man was a shoemaker named James Dorran, who had newly come from Catrine to
Kilmarnock. I was often a visitor at his house afterwards, and always got some useful hint: whatever
he put his hand to there were care and taste displayed.
This microscope haunted my imagination. I had fancied it to be something of the telescope family,
and thought that some place like Morton's Observatory would be essential for its home. I had made
several inquiries as to this new light, but could get no information. Having asked Hughie Reid one
day if ever he had heard of such a thing, Hughie said that he had seen one many a time-that
Watty Douglas up in Cotton Street had one he made himself; it was a compound one of great
power. Then, would there be any possibility of me getting a sight of it ? " Come away just now,"
said Hughie. We started, and soon reached Watty's house. He was a weaver. Hughie stepped into
the shop to apprise him of my desire. Hughie was ordered to take me upstairs and into Watty's
best room, there to await his coming. I oftentimes looked out the back window into the garden, still
expecting to see a lofty receptacle for the power which was to open up a new world. Watty, a
decent, douce-looking auld man, entered the room, saying he liket to see young men looking after
something edifying. He had a wee bit crooket thing in his hand something like an Italian iron on
which women used to pipe the boards of their mutches, and an auld snuff-box in his ither hand.
Watty set the microscope in order, and began a dissertation on the eye of a common house-fly, its
wings, its trunk, its feet with valves like elephants' trunks; a bit of the wing of a butterfly, with its
feathers like the wing of a canary; some human hair cut to show its tube centre, and awned or
wittered outside with other vermin, loathsome enough without being magnified. The first look of that
little instrument was insignificant to my ideality, but before I left I had really seen the wonders
of a new world, and saw in auld Watty a truly great man. He invited me to come back as often as I
pleased, and many a visit I paid the poor but noble owner of the door to the new world.
Every new avenue to knowledge increased my perseverance for the fine arts, and in like ratio an
increase of pleasure was the reward. Poverty had no terror, labour gave pleasure; greatness was to
come, or rather to be achieved. I was to go to greatness.
I was on the road home to see my mother one Sabbath morning, when I met an auld acquaintance
coming into the church. We had ran barefooted together, and had sought lintie's nests on the
heights above Dundonald. He was now raised a step in the world, and kept his riding horse and gig.
It had been a hasty rise; he had got an excellent education, and his uncle gave him the position of
grieve over his coal works at Gatehead. I had with me a small portrait of George Buchanan, from his
portrait in the history of Scotland. It was painted in water-colours, and a good likeness. When I met
M'Alister he stood, and in his own humorous way said, " Come, Jock, let me see what's this you
have in the breast of your jacket." I brought him forth, and he was named by M'Alister at once, and
pronounced a decided hit. He asked if I could take likenesses from the life as well as that. I looked
in his face, and said, "Oh, yes." It was with difficulty I gave utterance to the short answer, which I
knew was not true. Many a lie I had told with an audacious ease before that time, but this lie had
nearly taken away my breath. I felt that it was too bad to impose on an auld comrade and myself at
the same moment. But the feeling ran thus,-You have been raised in the world through the means
of your uncle, should I say " Yes," it will then look as if I had raised myself.
After he had looked often, and always well-pleased like, at George, " Then," said he, " I must have
you down to paint Jeanie's portrait and my own." This was his sister, who kept house for him.
Monday fortnight was the day fixed, and eleven o'clock forenoon the hour of cause. The stretchers
were trysted next day with Robert Barry, an apprentice with James Gemmell. Barry was an original
character, stagestruck, and every way worthy of being a participator in my greatness, or the first big
step to it. I had never been out of the garret before as an artist, and I was strongly haunted by the
reward I was to reap for telling what was not true to my friend and wellwisher.
I prepared two canvases, head size, got some dry colour and boiled oil, in which I used to grind my
colours on the bottom of a broth plate with a kitchen knife; and with the canvas under my arm, the
pallet in my hand, the stock of colour in my pockets, and a stock of impudence in my conduct, I
moved towards Gatehead. As I approached the house a pointer dog made a bounce past me, giving
out a gow-wow indicative of something wrong. A white pig rose on its hind legs and looked over the
rails of its timber prison at me. It gave an alarming yell, and looked the picture of a fiend. I felt
inclined at the moment to turn and run home. But I was on the premises; I might have been seen.
Neither of my chances were pleasant to contemplate-to go forward and make a fool of myself, or
to make a cowardly fool and run home. "Forward" was the word. I reached the door, lifted the
knocker, and even then resolved to allow it to go down quietly and retire. The knocker fell from my
touch, and the sharpness of its crack on the door went to my heart with pointed effect. I thought I
should have fallen. The door was instantly opened by my friend M'Alister in person. He was dressed
for the occasion. Everything about him was so stylish, that I felt, as it were, every way eclipsed: I
had no colours bright enough. His hair was shed in front, lady fashion, and a group of massive curls
at each side, blue coat with clear buttons, yellow vest, and light cashmere trousers, a black stock,
and a profusion of shirt neck and breast, which shirt I soon received strict charges to paint clean.
I got a hearty weleome; friendship was single-hearted and sincere on his side for my success in
this great undertaking. He had already began to look out how many acquaintances he might get to
sit if I was successful with his and Jeanie's. He began to examine the canvas and stretchers, and
to take stock of my brushes and colours. A glass of whisky was
Offered and accepted, to steady the nerves. It was a soother to a perturbed spirit. M'Alister made
great inquiries after my style and procedure, even before I began. I felt a strong necessity to be as
close as possible, for fear the praetice and theory might not harmonize. I got the light to suit, and
as it was a low window I took my seat on the floor like a tailor. I proposed that the work should not
be looked at in a state of process, and quoted great artists who had acted on this plan. However, I
knew that as the canvas was to remain on the ground, it was impossible to hide it from view. I
began to think that it would look cowardly, and I must be ready with some sort of reason for every
shape in which my frail genius would develop itself. I got a broth plate and a knife, and having
ground as much colour as set my first pallet, I proceeded to pencil the outlines of the head, and
many an out-the-way scratch was made calculating proportions. M'Alister sang, " Cam' ye by
Athole, lad wi' the philabeg?" and looked the very picture of happiness. How different my lowly
position ! I was the very essence of remorse, mixed with a wild sort of determination to be worthy of
the event. After a while's pencilling,M'Alister wished to see my foundation. I strongly objected, as I
had so many waste lines he would not be able to see any sense in what I had been doing. He
humorously said, "I doubt there's twa o' us." However, he was promised a look after I had the head
washed in with colour. So to colour I began, lined out the features, and had some colour rubbed on
the brow. In a moment my sitter leaped up, and declared he would not sit a minute longer unless he
got a sight of what I had been after. I turned the front of the portrait towards him. I think I see him
yet. My art fairly upset him. He stared at it, then at me, and with a face such as I never had seen
him wear before. In a sort of despair he inquired, " Good-, Jock, am I like that ?" It fairly upset my
nerves, and I still tried to philosophise on the coming man in art. His look was wholly changed. He
had no more the look of my auld acquaintance, but I thought that he had changed into the shape of
his cousin. I wrought on, finished the first sitting, got dinner, and went home. After the whole shape
was rubbed in, something like hope dawned. He began to blame himself and cheer me up. Next
day and next again put forward the portrait ready for the finishing touches; and so as it might
harden, I began to Jeanie's and put it through the same process. Saturday had now come; a week
had been passed that never can be obliterated from my memory.
What the finishing touches might have done for the advancement of art must ever remain a mystery.
For six months I never spoke of art-the longest Lent in my art career. But it was a daily study, and
the back look at M'Alister's a daily source of humiliation. If I heard any person sing "Cam' ye by
Athole," I looked at them and wondered if they knew that I had been at M'Alister's. Even if a fiddler
on the street should play up the tune, I hurried out of its hearing.
How different the feelings which haunted me from the mirth-inspiring effects left with M'Alister.
When he had a party of friends he used to bring forth my abortive pair of staring nonentities, which
never failed as a source of merriment. They were enough of themselves without word of comment;
but his description of their birth and parentage made them even more interesting to continue the
sport. He told me near a twelvemonth after that he sometimes felt vexed for me in my absence
when the fun would be at the best. The portraits seemed to make an appeal for charity. They looked
so melancholy and sedate, while every living creature was like to split their sides laughing.
The thought of turning away from portraits to landscapes haunted me; but even in that the coward
looked out. A friend, whose nose had not been grudgingly bestowed on his face, called on me one
night, and asked in kindly and confiding terms if I would paint his likeness. I looked at him, and
seeing his face so full of earnestness, with such powerful means of expressing his features, I said
"Yes," and then and there, as under a new inspiration, I began to outline the head. Every touch with
the pencil seemed beaming with life. With great simplicity and wonderful power I hailed the
conclusion. This work of art was handed over to the proprietor, and as a reward I got the first suit of
corduroys
to my old son. New light had dawned, hope was again restored and reinstated in the head, hand,
and heart. Sunshine again gladdened the walls of the auld garret, which, like bonnie Annie Lawrie to
her sweetheart, was a' the warld to me. I was yet to do the great thing, and my great study was to
be able to do it rather than what I might get for it. My faith in the good time coming has always
been unshaken. Grasping greed I have always detested, and kindly patronage I have always
remembered with gratitude.
No eclipse, either heavenly or terrestrial, settles into permanent darkness. The garret door opened
one day, and in came a particular acquaintance, one who from his heart wished me well. He was a
calico printer, wearing an appropriate and characteristic name, which often brought him into trouble.
He was well known over Scotland, yet not well understood. He had a strong desire that the world
should move in a proper way, and gave advice accordingly; but his theory and practice were often
antagonistic. He would fain be an artist, but wanted patience. He had been at College to come out
as a doctor, but left short of the mark. Volatile and unstable, yet wishing to see knowledge flowing
around him, he was very communicative. He used to declare that muscle was with him fully as
sensitive as mind, and he had an unfortunate knack of bringing his fist into contact with any
person's mouth out of which impudence came directed to him. His combativeness was great, and
his kindness of heart unbounded. Bob Clink was the name of the new patron. His portrait was to be
painted, and in an original style, both as regards attitude and execution. Bob had, when in
Glasgow, studied the paintings in the Hunterian Museum, visited fine art exhibitions, been acquaint
with artists. He had good taste, and gave wholesome hints as to how his portrait was to be got up. I
was so well pleased with his eccentricity that I agreed that the composition was to be his and the
execution mine. Bob was to be seated by a table, as in the art of some undefined study. He was to
be looking up, the left elbow was to be resting on the table and the snuff-box in the left hand. The
right hand, between the forefinger and thumb, was to contain a snuff, which was to be arrested on
the road to the nose, which was to remain ungratified till the problem was solved. It was to
represent a night study; a candle was to be placed on the table well burned down, with a long easle
crooked and melting doun the grease to show how deeply the student had been absorbed. A skull
was to be on the table between the sitter and the light, one volume was to be open on the table with
a confusion of old authors in mass, and a library carefully selected was to fill the back ground. Bob
brought canvas and stretcher. The canvas was fine linen, such as printers use to preserve their
patterns at the corners or joinings of selvages. It was to be a cash transaction, and half-a-guinea
was to be the sum total. All this was laid down by Bob.
Next day he called with a friend of his who he said had cash ready, and who Bob proposed should
be first painted, as his cash was not yet ready. His friend offered to advance the cash for him, but
Bob said "No." This would be another job, and by the time it was finished he would be in readiness.
His friend sat, and I was what was considered successful, got great praise and six half-crowns for
the job. I had provided a canvas and stretcher, with an outside frame at 4s 6d, which would leave
about 7s 6d for labour. I took those six half-crowns in my hand with all the feeling of a fortune. I
have not yet seen any amount of money so important in its value. There was a witchery in the
shape of it. I felt a delirious joy. It was the first money I had ever touched for art. My gratitude to
Bob and his friend Alex. Stobbo, who was the sitter, in spite of all their shortcomings, placed them
high up in the list of my art friends.
Bob's great work was now set about. He proposed and I wrought. Never did a joint stock company
work more harmoniously. As the work progressed, I gave Bob great applause for his part of the
picture, and he was in no ways stinted in allowing me credit for manipulating to his theory.
The portrait was taken home to his father's, and a sumptuous tea party given on the occasion. The
father and mother were liberal in their praise as well as in meat and drink. Bob made hopeful
speeches as to the coming artist. Everything was sunshine and new light.
Next day Bob made his appearance in the garret along with another friend of his, to whom I was
introduced as to a designer of great talents, hailing from the Vale of Leven. It was evident in the
bearing of Matthew Maitland that he had seen better days. He was now a wreck. His wardrobe was
scanty and bare. He sat down on a shoemaker's seat stridelegs as one would ride a donkey, put off
his hat, looked at me with the eye of a connoisseur, and then, looking at a portrait of Stephen
Colville which was in a state of forwardness, said, in a style of language which of itself proved that
he had seen better days, " Sir, I see in your efforts a touch which warrants me to bid you persevere,
and I hope yet to see you one of our talented portrait painters in the West of Scotland. I hope, sir,
to see your sign in Glasgow ere long, and should I not, I hope others will. " With that he put on his
hat, then complimented me as to the management of Bob's historical portrait. A kind word has
great influence for good, and it often outlives the speaker. Burns's lines came strongly into my mind
when looking at Matthew:-
" If thou uncommon merit hast
Yet spurned at fortune's door man
A look of pity hither east,
For Matthew was a poor man."
Stobbo was chased out of Kilmarnock by a band of women One of them had a stone in her hand,
which she meant to throw at him, but as he happened to have his portrait in his hand, and was
making along the street at Langland's brae as fast as his lame leg would allow him, the woman
shouted, " Oh the blackguard ! And he has his picture ! Ony ane of them is ower mony in a town ! "
and she made the stone go right through Stobbo's head, splitting it in three stripes.
Clink in after years was on his way to America, without the consent of some parties who had an
interest in the money with which he meant to pay his passage. He had reached Greenock Quay,
and was going to step on board a boat which was to take him out to the ship, when a sheriff-oflicer
hinted to him that his friends in Kilmarnock wanted to see him. Poor Bob meant well in many
things, yet acted foolishly in most. He is now at peace with his neighbours, which was not always
the case when he was above ground. Had my desire been able to keep him right, he should have
been " a burning and a shining light."