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Scenes from an Artist's Life
Chapter 19
' Remembrance was her favourite possessions,
Particular features, scenes, and circumstances-
Pictures of which the colour ever freshens,
Which time, instead of injuring, enhances."
ALLAN PARK PATON .
MY FIRST RAFFLE-A GENTLEMAN AND HIS CHANCE-A PROJECTED EXHIBITION-THE
CHOLERA-DISSOLUTION OF THE ACADEMY-MORRISON S GRAND START--HOW
MORRISON FARED AT HOME-HIS WELCOME AT PERTH-HE GETS A WIFE IN FIFE-THE
WEDDING SUPPER AT KIRKALDY-WE MEET IN EDINBUBRGH-HIS SUBSEQUENT
WANDERINGS.
COMING before the world for the first time produces a queer sensation, yea coming before a few
friends, as I did at my first raffle, puts one about. There was a strange feeling of gratitude mixed up
wi' a sort of stupor. I tried to be all eye, all ear, and above all I endeavoured to be self-possessed. It
was the first time I had called on the public in that way, and they had responded largely. The great
mass seemed to feel happy that I had been so honoured. I heard some one mention what a
quantity of money I would now be in possession of. I overheard a very sensible man remark, "It's
maybe a' eaten langsyne; whaur there are mony weans they need a heap o' things." I heard one
whom I had only known to look at say, " He has got more money than he valued his pictures at.
He'll surely give us value for the difference." Before that I had often heard the canty laugh o' Johnny
Weir Then I heard him say to this man, " The very thing that's makin' us sae canty is to see Hunter
getting sae mony bawbees: it's an evidence that he is weel liket." " But it's not right that he should
take more than he valued them at." Johnny said, " Man, onybody wi' half an e'e may see that the
man hasna' half valued his wark; but what need you grumble at his guid luck ?" " It lessens my
chance," says the gentleman. "How mony chances ha'e you?" inquired Johnny. "I have one." " O
man," quo Johnny, " I ha'e five, and if it vexes you to see a poor man getting on, I'll buy up your
share, so that there's nae need o' you suffering grief on that score."
A general meeting was called one night on business of great importance. John Ingram, our true ally
and honorary member, had written to the president making a proposal that a Fine Art Exhibition
should be got up in Kilmarnock, the proceeds to be applied in purchasing paintings, models, and
other necessaries, so that the members might have some chance of improvement. His appeal was
to the public in our favour; we might give it publicity if we thought fit. John offered twelve paintings
of his own to grace the Exhibition, some of them of large dimensions. He proposed that some of the
gentry about the place who had works of art might lend them. We had a full attendance; the whole
scheme was looked at in its sunniest light, and we could see an Exhibition looming in the distance.
A hall must be had, and many wants must be supplied. We were all willing to assist in what and
where we could. It was proposed that the letter be sent to the Kilmarnock Chronicle. With some
suggestions by the editor, this was done, and the sun seemed to shine on our hopes. Morrison in
solemn silence had made a survey of the old powder magazine. Within it was thirty feet diameter,
was an octagon, the walls were fifteen feet high. Here was a space for action. Morrison had drawn a
plan of a roof for this commodious place, to be lighted from the top. Another meeting was convened
to consider this proposition. It looked well on paper. After the Exhibition it was to be the Academy !
The speeches were all in favour of the undertaking. Dalrymple, Morrison, and myself were a
deputation elected to wait on Thomas Morton, the proprietor. We called next day, had an audience,
laid our plans and prospects before him. And to our joy, he entered as warmly into our proposals as
if he had been one of us. A ten years' lease was offered, and seven-and-a-half per cent. on the
outlaid money was all the rent asked.
We had our scheme brought to a conclusion on the sixth of July, 1832. Next day the cholera came
to Kilmarnock, and, taking possession of the minds of men, brought every speculation not really of
daily use to the ground. So fell our roofless art home.
The Academy was literally deserted. From its window one day we saw three funerals of poor people
come out of the Strand, the coffins being conveyed on hurly barrows, and each run with by two
men. A feeling of fright took place. I called the last meeting; only three attended: John Hood, John
M'Lew, and myself. We divided the property, the meeting being called for that purpose. Raphael's
Head and Sir Joshua Reynolds' Lectures were all that belonged to the society. We went to work
read the minutes of last meeting, and went on with the business of the night. Three parcels were
laid out. We cast lots, every one lifted his parcel in silence, and we came away without a word.
Death seemed to have shut up speech.
It was a sad time. Morrison took the affair sore to heart. He could not stay in the town; he would
return to his favourite scenery. He knew that there were patrons in Perth awaiting his coming. His
mind had been for a time in an excited state, looking forward to some great epoch more ideal than
real. He spoke of those patrons as if he had been in communication with them. He had a hall sixty
feet in length to paint in if he chose to accept of it, and he thought that he knew the very spot where
he would set up his easel. There was a corner, where with his back to a rock, the Rumbling Brig,
the Caldron Linn and the Devil's Mill to his front, he would embody such an amount of art on canvas
as would astonish the world. He had copied some paintings in the Academy from pictures by
Thomson of Duddingstone, and particularly one of the Golden Age, from the engraving of Barbour's
picture, which is now in the Corporation Galleries of Glasgow. He had made a clear and clever
copy, for which he received great applause, and coming before the public with a subscription sale
he was well patronised. After settling his affairs in town, Morrison resolved to go to his art paradise
in Perthshire.
It was the first grand start of any of the members on an art pilgrimage, and something must be
done. A meeting was convened in Hugh Paton's, where honours were to be conferred on Morrison
before starting. John Ingram declared that we could not let him go with a common name. He had
won for himself great honour by copying Barbour's picture, and John proposed that the name of
Barbour be attached to Morrison, and that he get this name from his associates of the Kilmarnock
Drawing Academy ! The name of Barbour Morrison was a new name, perfectly original, although it
had been bestowed for copying the works of another man. There was no other alternative. We were
sending Barbour Morrison forth to the world to earn a greater name for himself at the Rumbling Brig,
or any other brig he chose to select. A circle was formed around Morrison and Ingram. A chair was
introduced, on which Ingram took his stand, and declared the past history and progress of
Morrison, and at the same time declared that we could not let him pass from among us with such a
plain name as James H. Morrison; nobody would believe in that name being artistic. " So, brethren,
lay on your hands on the head of our frien' wha is aboot to depart from our care and keeping, to
take up his abode among strangers: let us and every other man in all time eoming recognise our
artistic brother by the name of Barbour Morrison!" His sketch-book was taken and his newname
enrolled in it. Earnestly did Barbour accept of the performanee, and a heartfelt speeeh of gratitude
he made. The only thing he had to regret was that we had not given him the name of Claude, as
Claude Lorraine was now the only art opponent he had to overcome. Ingram told him that as
conscientious men we could not pass over Barbour, through whose aid he had made such a rapid
stride. Indeed, he added, although we were willing, it wad tak' a' the yill in Hugh Paton's cellar to
wash aff the name of Barbour, but if ever he should come back to see us and be worthy of the name
of Claude, we would as in the past put on the new with great pleasure.
It was then proposed that a dozen of Jews' harps be got, so that we might play him out o' the toun
wi' wailing music governed by our fareweel breath. Dawson the watchmaker, a particular friend of
Morrison's, was with us on this last interview. He was despatched to Miller and Donald's for the
trumps: and to ask for a low toned kind wi' a mournfu' twang The harps were brought; each
academician was supplied with his instrument. Ingram proposed that we try Auld Langsyne before we
left the room. Morrison joined with the rest. There was not a smile on a single face-there was
something rather ridiculously earnest-till old Mr Aitken, a particular friend of Barbour Morrison's,
proposed that we strike up an appropriate tune for travelling, and he named the Rogue's March.
We convoyed Barbour to Beansburn, took an affectionate farewell, and stood playing till he went out
of sight; then returned to town and scattered never to meet again.
It was our last meeting and first break of membership. The founder of the Institution had started on
his travels to enjoy the luxury of art where people had knowledge to understand his worth.
Before starting, Morrison's chest had been packed. Brushes, colours and canvas were the most of
Barbour's worldly treasure. He had twa cotton sarks gey sair worn, the which Nanny, my wife, was
meaning to lay on the top to keep the fine art furniture from shifting. He made a dart at them, pulling
them out and throwing them aside, saying, " Don't desecrate art material with rags like those; keep
them for your husband," meaning me ! Nanny wisely said, "Ye'll maybe be glad o' them yoursel'
yet." ":No," said he, "I'll mix with different society. I'll have at least half-a-dozen of linen shirts when I
go there," meaning Perth.
The chest went forward with the carrier addressed to the care of John Gray, lathsplitter. Barbour
Morrison took the moor on foot, a slow but sure process of reaching true greatness One day, some
two years before he left, he and I had some discussion about perspective. I was painting a view of
Princes Street, Edinburgh, from a print. Before that, he had hinted that he had lessons in store I
stood in need of. Looking at the picture I was working at, he pointed to Waterloo Place, and putting
his finger to the top tier of windows, said, with emphasis not to be mistaken, " I'll never rest till I
have a drawing school in that corner, in that flat; " and he strutted away with as much dignity as if
he had been assured of the fact.
Before parting, we requested regular communication to be kept up with Barbour, which he promised
faithfully to do. Six months passed and no word of him. At last a letter came to me, wherein was
set down his travels' history. He seemed to have kept nothing back. All the greatness of the past
six months was graphically set before us, beginning with his travel from where he left us till he
arrived in Glasgow; his calling on Peter Agnew and finding him a kindred soul. Barbour Morrison
was an enthusiast in music as well as art. He said there was no instrument so soothing to a
wounded spirit as the flute. It was so easily carried and not easily put out of repair. That night in
Glasgow was so well spent it was like part of what he had left behind in Kilmarnock. Peter Agnew
had in his personal organisation all the elements of the art friends he had left. Barbour, after
passing the night with Peter in his own house, started next day for Alloa. Wearied no doubt, he
called on his father, who did not know him. He began to speak about some family affairs in early
life, and, among other things, about a loom his father had for weaving fine riddles. The old man then
declared him an impostor come to steal his mystery, and ordered him about his business.
Morrison was far from being fluent in speech. He had a diffident manner at times in saying what he
would like to say, which gave very much the appearance of one not exactly knowing what to say.
His old father was so peremptory in ordering him about his business as an impostor, that it took the
heart out of him for the time. He had a sister and a step-mother in the house. He began to talk over
some past scenes with his sister, and reminded his father of some events when his mother was in
life, till the old man began to look intently into his face, and thought that he saw some traits of the
boy who had left his house long ago and whom he had looked on as dead. Barbour treated the
family to some drams, and was fully taken into stock as one of them.
Great was the joy among them, except the step mother, who, Barbour thought, would have felt as
much pleased at his ejectment as recognition. When it was drawing near to bed time, Barbour saw
a want of accommodation; and going to the door to take the air, he felt his pockets, and discovered
that he had just a bawbee left. Without saying good night, he bought a scone, put it in his pocket,
and took the road for Perth.
Wearied and footsore he reached the Fair City at breakfast time next day. He called on his auld
friend John Gray, to whom the fine art treasures had been consigned, and was a little surprised to
see John look cold at him, and on enquiring after the box, was told the carrier had it. He was not
going to pay carriage for what did not belong to him. This was rather a damper. Barbour then told
John his plight, wishing as much as redeem the box and start him in art. John had called on
Barbour while he was staying with me in Kilmarnock, and was well used by him. In return for which,
John said that he would give him some deafening wood to split at three-halfpence a bundle, and that
was all he would or could do for him. There was no alternative. The gentry whom he had idealised
were not to be seen, and a matter-of-fact existence was the only thing left open. The short account
ran thus in the letter I had from him:-"After arriving at Perth, it took me six weeks before I could
save as much as relieve the box with the fine art materials. During this time I had walked my shoes
through, worn my stockings down to the heads, my knees through my trousers, and wore my shirt
without washing all the time since I left your house. At last I got possession of the colours,
brushes, and canvas and in a cooper's shop I wrought for three days, subsisted on two charitable
meals, slept two nights in a hay rick, sold my first picture for ten shillings. Thus began my painting
career !"
Then followed several cases of success and silence as to his whereabouts, except one case of
hearsay, for nine years. When I was in Duntocher at one time, a woman came to Dr Pender to get
a tooth extracted. He was not in when she came. I was painting portraits in the room where she was
resting till he came in. She began to tell me of a dadgeonlike man wha made his appearance in Fife
at a gentleman's house where she was serving. He was every way out o' the fashion. He seemed a
broken-hearted sort of a man, for he was always sighing like one in trouble o' mind mair than body.
He took a view o' the place and painted two of the gardener's children for a trifle. There was a real
decent man wha wrought on the estate. He had a grown-up family of eleven, ten sons, and a
daughter wha was considered rather odd in her notions, and didna care muckle about the fashions.
The artist and her met, and they fell unco pack in a jiffey. Their minds were in perfect harmony with
each other, and a' at once they wad be married. He gaed awa' tae ask the consent of the family,
but got a fearfu' cauld reception; but that didna cool either him or her. They were cried in the kirk
three times in one day; and when the daughter wadna take her father's advice, he had her prayed
for in the afternoon, and that big family gaed a' to the kirk in mourning next Sabbath. As the parents
could lodge no legal objection, the man lifted the extract of the cries on Monday morning, and they
gaed to twa ministers and nane o' them wad marry them. It was a fearfu' wet morning, yet they
started on their travels, bridegroom and bride. The first town they came to they got a minister to do
what they requested, and then they continued their journey on their wedding trip. They were for
Kirkcaldy, and it was twenty-two miles frae where they started. She was saft-footed, and before
they were muckle mair than half road she was fairly done up. There was a country servant gaun to
the mill. He had two horses and carts with him. A proposal was made for a ride. He was going four
miles their way. The artist had only one shilling in the world, and he let the country lad know that.
Though the carter was informed of the state of things, he wanted the whole shilling for the four mile
ride. The artist offered him the half o't wi' the tear in his e'e, and the lad consented to take it. With
the cauld rain and cooling on the cart, when they came to where it stopped the bride could not
stand on her feet. The bridegroom then took her on his back and carried her as far as he was
able.With the heat and the kindness ness, her heart, which was like to sink, began to rally, and she got
the use of her feet again. The twa jogged along slowly, and every noo and then he gied her a carry,
and they got crawling to Kirkcaldy after dark. He had been there before, and kent the place. There
was a house he knew was untenanted when he left some few weeks before, so he called on a woman
who lived in the garret above. She had the key, and could show him the house, but she hadna a
candle. The artist went and bought two loaves, a bawbee candle, and a bottle o' sma' yill, for which he
paid fivepence-halfpenny. He brought the wedding supper to the cauld house, and placed the candle
between two bricks on the floor, and his wife and he sat down at the same level, with their backs to
the wall. The loaves were out, and the bottle was uncorked with the aid of a fork they got from the
old woman in the garret. The artist, ready for the marriage feast, asked a blessing on this their first
meal; and, so far as money was concerned, it was likely to be a while before the next would be
forthcoming. They took their meal without a word being spoken, and afterwards the artist laid his last
bawbee in the lap of his new-made wife, and said that was his all. She then put her hand in her bosom
and brought forth a snuffbox. She laid it on his knee. It had some weight; and on opening it, five
pounds in silver met his,view. What could this mean ? How could so much treasure be concealed, and
only now brought to light ? She said that she had proven him, and found him worthy of confidence.
He gave thanks, rose from his seat, and, taking the bride by the two hands, lifted her up. When
looking at the places where they had been sitting, it looked as if a washing of clothes had been wrung
out. They were able to buy the use of the old woman's bed for a night, and next day took up house in
the one where they held the feast the night before. Such was rather a hard beginning for an artist.
It was nine years after I had the first letter from Barbour Morrison before I received another. An
Edinburgh letter came one day, dated 23 Waterloo Place, Edinburgh, and signed Barbour Morrison.
He had been teaching drawing in the very premises which he pointed out nearly ten years before. I
was through and staid a week with him. I did not see the wife: she was at the saut water, or some
other water near to Leith. Barbour had been in deep water: the furniture was out of the house. I had
taught him to gild frames, and at this time he was doing a good business for himself in that way. He
used to make frames and sell them to his pupils and their friends, keeping it a secret that he made
them, for fear of lessening the dignity of the artist.
We went out one morning by his desire, that we might take a sketch together for auld langsyne. It was
his proposal, and l could see that he meant to astonish me. We stood together looking back towards
Edinburgh. I kept as like the old style as might be, running a slender outline round every prominent
object; while Barbour was touching up a spirited effect from a very small section of the view before
us. We changed sketches, when he remarked, " You are still the old man yet," letting me know that he
was a new man. We walked a bit farther till we came to a neat little gatehouse into a gentleman's seat.
He pointed to it as a beautiful spot, and finely adapted for a lesson for pupils. " Come then," said I,
"we'll try a sketch of it," pointing out what we would take in; and I added, " First done and best; and
mind you, Barbour, the effect to be based on truth." I talked the whole time I was running the outline;
then I made the pencil tell on his ear, which I knew was a disturbing influence. To hear a pencil
scratching on the paper used to upset his nerves. It had the same effect still; and he began his old habit
of sighing. When we changed sketches this time, he looked in my face and said, " I thought that I
would be ahead of you now, but I see that you have not been idle since we sketched together first.
Do you know," said he, "you are the only individual I wish to excel in sketching ! " This was honest.
After this I saw his name in the bankrupt list. He had gone back to Kirkcaldy. He taught drawing
there; and there his wife died. I had several letters from him during her trouble. He was left with seven
children. He left that and came to Stirling, where he had great hopes of a school. He got premises
finely fitted up, but the scholars not coming, it turned out a loss. He had made advances to a second
wife, or rather one whom he meant to make his wife. She had been looked upon with a favourable
eye by some other gentleman possessed of literary attainments and a knowledge of the law. He
waylaid Barbour, and did the ruffian department by disfiguring his face and spoiling his hat, and,
denying the whole, looked the picture of innocence. The lady made choice of Barbour. He removed at
one time to Haddington, and this highvvayman who had hurt his carcass had access to a newspaper, in
which, and through which, he hammered and hurt the reputation of Barbour, insomuch that when he
went to Baddington with his numerous and helpless family, the magistrates caused the furniture to be
arrested on the cart which conveyed the group to the centre of the grain district until Barbour would
give caution that he would not come on the parish with such a host of paupers. He felt his honour
wounded; and doing so much as he had done to people a district, to have his efforts set at naught was
heard to bear. How long he staid among such a heathen population, I know not.
The next letter I got from him was from London, where he had been for nine months. He began a
long history of the great pictures he had seen in the various galleries, and ended with a very
judicious remark, that there was no possibility of conveying their grandeur on paper, and that I must
come and see them for myself. I returned a letter to Barbour Morrison, telling him that I had seen all
the galleries he had named, and, moreover, that I had exhibited my own Head in the Royal
Academy's Exhibition, London, in 1847. That fairly took Barbour by surprise.
I have had a visit from him since. He was full of a dream that he should be supported by the public
to form a school where he would like to have the training of teachers, to fill such situations in the
various Government schools throughout the kingdom; also a class for governesses. He thought he
would like to give a true and healthy tone to art over the civilised world. Such was his desire; how
far he may have been successful is to me a mystery. The last letter I had from him was from
Gravesend
Such is a short outline of the travels and history of the founder of the Kilmarnock Drawing
Academy; and such was the history of his marriage. I was suspicious that it was my auld frien' as
soon as the woman at Duntocher said that he was a dadgeon sort o' a man. I had a relation of the
affair from himself afterwards. Wherever he be, I trust that his hope is as high as ever. He always
soared high, and it would be a pity such a luminary should fall.