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Scenes from an Artist's Life
Chapter 27
" Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul,
Sweet'ner of life, aud solder ot society,
I owe thee much."
THE CONTRAST-THE START FOR MUNICH-DR CHALMERS-THE PORTRAIT
COMPARED-MORE THAN TEN PER CENT.-NOTHING AT ALL- HIGH PATRONAGE-THE
VOYAGE TO LONDON-GERMAN WITH A MASTER-THE CONVERSATION IN DUTCH-THE
EARL OF ABERDEEN -THE MURILLO MOVING ABOUT THE WALLS-THE INVERTED
SENSES -MISDlRECTED-FAREWELL TO TADDY.
HOW like yesterday it seems to step back a quarter of a century in memory-the living
buoyant-minded friends around me, the living art hopes within me, with pith and perseverance to
follow up the will-o'-the-wisp delusion that danced and dazzled on the road to fame before me. Many
of those friends are dead; the art hope is asleep; the pith taken from me; and will-o'-the-wisp
dancing away as usual, to lead some other ambitious mortal into his mire and mosshag home.
My friend Peter Wilson Clark, now dead, thought that I was deserving a chance of seeing some of
the works of the old masters. He proposed that I should go to Munich, the capital of Bavaria, and
there copy five pictures by Murillo. He would back me out on the journey with cash, and all needful
information for the tour of the Continent. Before starting from England, I was to make a study of the
galleries in and around London. It would look foolish to go from home ignorant of our own power. I
had a particular friend in Glasgow, Mr Harry Johnson, who had been a kind patron. He introduced to
me in Glasgow his uncle from London, Mr Robert Johnson, of the firm of Bulmer and Johnson,
Watling Street. When Mr P. W. Clark proposed my going to Munich, he thought if I could get an introduction
to the British Embassy there, it might be of advantage to me. To be prepared for every emergency was a duty. I
wrote to Mr Robert Johnson of London, and through him I got introduced to the Earl of Aberdeen, who was
Her Majesty's Minister for Foreign Affairs.
All things being got in readiness, on the 10th April, 1844, I started for Edinburgh, saw the Royal
Scottish Academy's exhibition there. On that day, I had the pleasure for the first and last time of
seeing in the flesh and spirit the celebrated Dr Chalmers. His portrait by Thomas Duncan was in the
exhibition, and the Doctor came in with five young ladies. He put them into rank at a certain spot of
the floor. I looked at him, and thought that here was a man I should know-his face, form and dress
were quite familiar. I thought that he must be a country tailor, who had brought in some young
friends to see the pictures. After placing them in proper position, he walked rapidly to the front of
his portrait, then off with his hat and put himself into the attitude of the portrait. For about a minute
he was as still as the painting. I stood glancing at him and the portrait alternately. When he
thought that he had given fair play to the critics, he made a bow to me, put on his hat, and made
hurriedly to the young ladies, whose united gabble, by way of approbation, was fluent and racy. I
took off my hat, made a return bow, and watched the life of greatness as it glinted momentarily at
some point of attraction among the pictures, then as rapidly at the ladies, directing them to some
object worthy of their attention. This sight of Dr Chalmers connects him with art, with my start on
art hopes in the meridian of life, and leaves behind him a fine flow of humanity. Few young men
could be more gallant to the young ladies than this patriarchal teacher. There was health in his life.
The last living tie connecting Paisley, Edinburgh, and auld Scotland existed for the time being in the
persons of William Cross, proprietor of the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle and Peter M'Gilvray, who
was in his employ. They were both early friends and patrons in Paisley. They were both at that time
manufacturers, but now were attempting to clothe the public mind with knowledge through the
power of the press. I had a friendly interview with both; and to this day they stand as living
landmarks connected with my intended foreign trip in pursuit of knowledge.
I should have mentioned that before starting from Glasgow I had called upon my friends to
subscribe for a sale of the portrait of " The Cobbler beyond his Last." Simple as little touches seem
in a picture, it is by them that the great power of the picture is expressed to the eye and the sense
of the observer. I had thought up the facts of my announcement to the public. I needed a place to
exhibit the painting, so that I might say to the public, " Go and see." I had been dealing for canvas
and colour with Mr M'Clure, Royal Bank Place. He had a public shop, and I named my scheme to
him. He said that he did not see how he could take in my picture, as he had promised to Thomas
Duncan of Edinburgh to take in some paintings of his which were meant to be disposed of by ballot;
and Mr Duncan might think it curious were he to take in my portrait at the same time. I plainly said
that I did not wish him to either solicit his customers or put himself any way about for me in the
matter. I only wished a respectable place to say, " Go and see." I asked him what percentage he
would charge for money subscribed. He said ten per cent. on large speculations, but small ones
would require to be more. The ticket for this painting was to be 5s. I remarked that surely Thomas
Duncan would never think the like of me an antagonist or obstruction to the success of his sale.
However, my friend Mr M'Clure thought that he might. I gently hinted that on the same principle the
portrait of the Duke of Wellington and that of Napoleon Bonaparte should not be kept for sale in the
same shop, as their meeting at Waterloo was anything but friendly.
I saw that my art and presence were at a discount. And although I had not dealt with Mr John
Finlay except in trifles, yet I knew the man, and, determined that my portrait should have a
respectable home to be seen in, I went to Mr Finlay, laid my case before him, that I was hard up,
and going to raise the wind, would he allow the presence of my portrait in his gallery? He was exhibiting
Martin's great paintings at the time. He said, " O yes ! you shall have a place." I asked what percentage he
would charge for money subscribed. He looked at me with a face full of comic humour, and said, " Percentage
from you, Hunter, in such a case; go and bring your picture, you are welcome to the use of my place, and with
pleasure I will take the name and money of any person who wishes to patronise you." Ever since that day
sunshine seems to play around the open features of John Finlay.
I advertised the great event; and Mr Finlay was much pleased to think that a lady should be the first
to patronise me. He did not know her. When she came in she said that she wished to see a portrait
that was advertised for sale by subscription. She looked for a little; then requested a pen, and in my
book at this moment I look on the signature of Lady Belhaven, Wishaw, paid four shares. I had the
patronage of Colonel Gilmour and a number of his friends; among them was a Mrs Dalrymple, wife
of General Dalrymple's brother. She had lived six years on the Continent and written a criticism on
the high class pictures in most of the galleries, for the use of gentlemen who wish to travel. She
had dedicated her book to her husband, and had only one copy left, which was the one personally
presented. I was honoured with a reading of the book. She spoke flatteringly of my power, and from
her I got a hint that I never heard mentioned before. She said that whatever colour an eye was, no
matter how deep in shadow you wished to keep the picture, a speck of the colour must be visible
by reflected light, otherwise you cannot express life from a sullen eye. It is the window of the soul,
and must have light before it can give out life.
I had the pleasure of receiving sixteen pounds five shillings for this portrait. The ballot took place in
the London Hotel. Colonel Gilmour took the chair on the occasion. My friend Harry Johnson was the
winner of this portrait. From scenes like these both joy and sadness spring. Many of those warm
friends are long since dead.
On the evening of the 10th April, 1844, I sailed from Granton for London on board the steamship
Adelaide. I was in the second cabin. The passage was then 45s, one shilling on the quay, and two
shillings to the steward. The feeding was first-class. While preparing for tea, directly after sailing, I
was paying some attention to the ladies to see that they were all comfortably seated before I sat
down myself. I was elected chairman for the voyage. The night was calm and beautiful. I stayed on
deck till I saw the sun go to bed; then, with some feeling, I gave out for the benefit of the hearers
Childe Harold's first song at sea, and went down stairs to bed. I was up before the sun, and saw
him rise out of the water next morning. It was a fine sight. I put him to bed next night, and waited on
his rising next morning also.
In forty-six and a half hours, we were in London. We arrived on Friday night. I went to a Scotch
house, near St Katherine's dock, and secured lodgings at 2s a night. Before bed-time, I took my
first walk in town, as far as London Bridge, and was welcomed with as much pomp as the
Yorkshireman who sings, " When first in Lunnon I arrived." It was both rain and thunder. I had
always reasoned that there was something radically wrong in a country where it would take a man's
wage to pay for a bed to lie on. The cooking depot and model lodging-houses have sinced solved
the problem. I looked at the outside of some bits of London on Saturday, returning to my lodging at
night, getting a cup of coffee and cut of loaf for sixpence. London, at that time, was far in advance of
Glasgow for dining rooms. For sevenpence one could get a plate of meat, potatoes, vegetables, and
plum pudding. I called on my friend George Mossman, sculptor, who at that time was employed by
Behenes, a celebrated man in London, who invited me to enter his studio and inspect works
finished and in process. I went to breakfast with George on Sabbath, and took with me a piece of
Glasgow boiled ham and a farle of oatmeal cake. It gave the breakfast a tone above even the great
city. I arranged to stay with George the time I remained in London. We were bedfellows. I was
cook. I prepared breakfast every morning before he went out, and had tea ready for him every night when he
came home.
On Monday, I, for the first time, entered the National Gallery. I took off my hat in honour of genius.
A strange feeling came over me. I had seen engravings of the pictures, but now I stood before them
face to face. I had heard much of their greatness, now I witnessed it. I met here with three of our
fellow-passengers, who knew that I was to make my appearance there that day, and they came
individually to meet me and have a laugh. It gave a home tone to the place at once. One of them
was a Frenchman, who was a teacher of languages, and was trying his fortune in a strange
country, the same as I meant to do. When on board of the boat I was reading " German without a
Master," when this gentleman enquired kindly if I was studying for use or pastime. I said for use. He
asked me if I knew the grammar of the language. I said I did not know the grammar of any
language, not even my own. He took the book out of my hand and rattled ower a piece of it like
ABC. He asked where I was going. I said, " To Munich," pronouncing it Munick. "For God sake,"
said he, "don't go there ! Go to Muneech. Accent the last syllable heavy; open your mouth wide
when you pronounce any German word. You'll not be like other Scotchmen if you cannot say loch
and och. Can you pronounce velhurr ? make a gurl at the last syllable." I did all he required, and he
declared me a finished scholar. " Velhurr is the ugliest word in the German language, and it means
which. About the inns, a great many understand a gibberish of English, and when you want
anything sign like a dummy and give imitation of sounds. Suppose, now, you went in to get
something to eat-you will easily know the houses that deal in that commodity- supposing you
wanted tea from me and an egg." I made signs for the teapot, crowed like a cock, and keckled like
a hen, going through the shapes of eating and drinking. My teacher laughed till the tears ran down
his face, and declared that he never had such a pupil ! For the next three days I met him in some
corner of London every day. The last time he held up his hands and said, " The like of this may
never happen in a life again, to meet so often without appointment."
I did not observe anything out of the way till I discovered that after I had been four weeks in London I
had only met two people on the street that I was acquainted with-John Kibble, from Glasgow, and
William Anderson, manufacturer, of Smith & Anderson, and the latter had been only two days in
London. On the Monday I called on Mr Johnson, was kindly received, and invited to dine with him
next day. His house being seven miles out from the place of business, he ordered his carriage at
five P.M., and we started to where I was to be a wonder to the children and a mystery to Mrs
Johnson. He was full of humour, and had informed the youths that he was going to have a cobbler
at dinner with him. The youths enquired if it was one of the people they had seen sitting below
windows on the street mending boots and shoes. He assured them that it was one of the same sort
of people, and Mrs Johnson was also informed by him that I was a Dutchman. He could speak
broad Scotch, polite Irish, and pure English. We had dinner and a jolly conversation. He spoke
Scotch, and I felt myself at home. Mrs Johnson never joined in our conversation, and after a while
he addressed her and said, " Now, my dear, I hope you have enjoyed our conversation." With the
greatest simplicity she said, "You know, Johnson, I don't understand Dutch." The woman was in
the full belief that it was the Dutch language I was speaking.
I next day called on the Earl of Aberdeen, at his office in Downing Street. I sent in my card, and
was admitted. His lordship had been served with a brief outline of my position and intentions. He
questioned me over the ground, and I answered him every question easily. He seemed pleased with
my position, for he added, " Call on me for a passport at least two days before you are going to use
it; and if there should appear anything to you which you may have forgot, take a note of it, and I will
embody it in the letter I give you to Her Majesty's embassy at Munich; and to show you that I am
friendly to your views, I will give you a free passport." He was placid, kindly, and courteous. I lodged
a certificate of character, attested by fifteen friends, with John Mitchell, magistrate, on the front of
them. He very considerately said, should I be so circumstanced as to require reference in London, I
could use the one I had given to him. I thanked him, and said that I was prepared at all points, so
far as I saw yet. Should any unseen something occur, where I required such a thing, I would take
the benefit of his kindness; but I had considered that my certificate should remain with him as a
warrant for his kindness and confidence. I went back to my friend Mr Johnson daily, and was kindly
treated at all times. He said, "Whatever you think I can do for you, command me."
I visited the National Gallery daily three times; it was the first place in the morning. Then, after an
hour with the old masters, I had a turn to some of the places where new pictures were to be seen.
The Suffolk Street exhibition was now open; and by studying the contrast the mind began to
expand. I found that true greatness had always a quiet look, more being concealed from the eye
than was revealed to it, and the whole reaching the sense produced a new sensation. You felt what
you could not see. Such theory may appear to some a delusion, but wholesome art is juggling the
sense through the eye.
Every day when I entered I went direct to a small picture of St. John, by Murillo, and next to The
Trinity, a large altar picture, by Murillo also. I wished to study his treatment, and try to ascertain the
secret of his greatness. I was one day in deep thought as to the masses of shadow, masses of
warm and cool colour opposing, so as to produce conflict and harmony at the same time. I felt as if
I was unravelling the mystery. As all those different parts and powers were in fine motion on the
surface of the picture, the figures were really beginning to move. I knew that to be nonsense, and
concluded that the sight was dazzled by looking too long. I lifted my eye to the roof, and there was
the great picture of Murillo working its way up the wall, and wherever I rested my eye there was the
whole affair as if I had been looking at a picture given by the camera obscura. I felt also a queer
sensation. I leapt straight up on a seat, and so wild like, I should suppose, had my appearance
become, that both men and women who had been standing near to where I was stepped back to a
respectful distance. The sensation was like that produced by a shot. I thought that the top part of
my skull was blown off, and the brains scattered among the works of the old masters. I stood fast,
and cautiously turning my eyes to the roof, I saw no mark of the brains. Still I saw the large picture.
I was sure that the upper part of my head was off, and I held my head steady, that, in case the
brains were still left, I might not spill them. I had seen a head opened, and felt distinctly as if it had
been the fact with me. When I saw no external marks, I began to reason that the whole contents
might be lodged in my hat, the taking off of which was a study. With great caution I put my hand up
to the top of the hat to feel if all was right, and finding the crown entire, the next great study was to
remove the hat without spilling the precious compound. I began to fancy that they must still be left
in the head, else how could I reason about them. I lifted the hat with great caution, and on
examining it found it empty.
The next trying experiment was to feel the top of the head. The nervous excitement was such that
the sweat broke on me, both cold and warm. I felt as if it were the dew of death stealing ower me,
and the brain getting cold. I made a breathless, cautious venture, expecting to put my fingers over
the edge of the skull. I was now balancing, for fear of any tumble by which the whole might play
clash at my foot. The hand crawled up and found all right. I drew a long breath and rubbed my head,
feeling thankful that the crust was whole, although I was not sure but some of the furniture was
displaced inside. I thought of so many things at once that a sort of confusion ran through my head.
I made for the door to get the air, and looking at a painting of Sir Joshua Reynolds', where there
was a strong mass of red, I thought that I would refresh my eye for a little on it. When, lo ! it was
green, a bright green; I looked, I could not be mistaken, something was confused about the picture.
The red had turned green. I met old George Shephard, one of the keepers of the gallery. George
and I had grown very intimate in a short time, and, behold ! there stood two Georges. One played off the other
as when you shuffle one card from behind another; and there, about three feet apart, stood the two Georges.
They both seemed to inform me that I was bilious. George invited me to take tea with him in the
evening. I did so. On leaving the gallery and coming to the light, it seemed too strong for me. I
began to reason, on seeing so many people, that everything in the outer world was in a state of
confusion by being doubled in quantity. I thus reasoned for the change of colour: that the sight had
become inverted in some way, as the real colour had vanished and the complementary taken its
place. Everything had a colder appearance.
My prospects for travelling and copying seemed at an end. I was advised not to think of going to a
warm climate, but to think of green fields and study them for a time. It seemed to flow from
long-continued anxiety, as I had much small preparation for family matters before leaving. A man
often thinks that he is more philosophic than he really is.
The next time I went back to the gallery I was walking with a cautious stealthy step, afraid of the
paintings getting into motion. While looking lightly around I was easy; but the moment I rested my
eye on a painting, it got into motion. One figure began to shuffle off another. I moved about in the
outer world for a few days, and came to the conclusion that I must and should give up the
enterprise. This partly unstrung the mind, and I felt more at rest. Still the double vision haunted and
annoyed me. I wrote home to the effect that I was blind to colour; and it was reported there that I
was blind altogether.
I had written a letter to Sir John Maxwell's housekeeper at Pollok. She was on the eve of being
married to the Rev. Mr Macintyre, at Eastwood. I had of course written a good deal of nonsense to
a lady so situated. l had written another letter to Mr Robert Mercer, at Duntocher, who was newly
married to the widow of a particular friend of mine. Being very intimate with both, I also used a good
deal of fun and freedom, sending compliments to several people about the place. In the other letter I
had sent compliments to known people about Pollok House. I had directed the letters wrong, so
that neither the one nor the other knew an individual to whom I referred. Neither did they know
anything about what I wrote. So, from both places came the additional sympathy for my being
insane. Everything pointed to it. Nobody who read the letters doubted it. My case seemed worse
than it really was, although it was bad enough.
On the twenty-fourth of April, 1844, I was as usual in the National Gallery, and at that time I used
snuff, the real " Taddy." I used four ounces a week of this deleterious and brain-poisoning
compound. I got eight ounces in a present from Claude Robertson,-as his artistic name was;
Andrew was his name proper,-M'Nee's old master at the boxes in Cumnock. I was nearing the end
of the lot; and, what every snuffer knows, there is no satisfying the nose when the box is getting
near the bottom. I used to carry quarterpound canisters in my pocket; and every now and then out
came the box, and a new application, with the same result- no satisfaction. I said, speaking up to
my nose, " You surely will be satisfied if you get it all." I brought forth the box, and emptying the
whole contents on the back of my left hand, I brought my nose quietly down upon the brown dust
and wrought among it till it was all taken into stock. I was satisfied that there was nothing lost past
the nose, although it might be all lost in the nose: I looked at the back of my hand; it was bare. I
thought that my nose had become so outrageous in its unnatural demands, that a stop must be put
to it. " Then," said I, and at this time I was talking loud, I saw people again standing back from me,
but was so serious in the affair of snuff, I could not think I was any way in their road. I said, " You
are a dirty neighbour, and I think that it is the mouth's duty to speak up to you. Aren't you ashamed
of yourself ? I'll take ways and means to redress the wrongs; not only the mouth, but the pocket
must suffer. You swallow a shilling's worth of dust in the week; it would keep the mouth in meal,
but, recollect, you have got the last meal. I'll take you home and wash you like a jawbox, and you
can record this date as an end to your filthy habit." I was standing quite earnest making this
speech I took out the box and said to it, " I will turn you to a useful account. When I go home to Glasgow, I'll
fill you with white lead." All this I said, and all this I did. It was the last snuff that went into my nose, and it
was a thumper.