Self Help, Samuel Smiles [good romance books to read .txt] 📗

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 gingerbread

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 shoemaker 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, painstaking, 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