James Nasmyth: Engineer; an autobiography Part 5

He was so earnest in his devotion to the study of landscape that in some respects he neglected the ordinary routine of school education.

He successfully accomplished the three R.'s, but after that his school was the fields, in the face of Nature. He was by no means a Romantic painter. His taste was essentially for Home subjects. In his landscapes he introduced picturesque farm-houses and cottages, with their rural surroundings; and his advancement and success were commensurate with his devotion to this fine branch of art. The perfect truth with which he represented English scenery, a.s.sociated as it is with so many home-loving feelings, forms the special attractiveness of his works. This has caused them to be eagerly sought after, and purchased at high prices.

Patrick had a keen sense of humour, though in other respects he was simple and unpretending. He was a great reader of old-fas.h.i.+oned novels, which indeed in those days were the only works of the kind to be met with. The Arabian Nights, Robinson crusoe, The Mysteries of Udolpho, and such like, were his favourites, and gave a healthy filip to his imagination. He had also a keen relish for music, and used to whistle melodies and overtures as he went along with his work.

He acquired a fair skill in violin playing. While tired with sitting or standing he would take up his violin, play a few pa.s.sages, and then go to work again.

Patrick removed to London in 1808, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in the following year. He made excursions to various parts of England, where he found subjects congenial to his ideas of rural beauty.

The immediate neighbourhood of London, however, a bounded with the most charming and appropriate subjects for his pencil. These consisted of rural "bits" of the most picturesque but homely description--decayed pollard trees and old moss-grown orchards, combined with cottages and farm-houses in the most paintable state of decay, with tangled hedges and neglected fences, overrun with vegetation clinging to them with all "the careless grace of Nature." However neglected these might be by the farmer, they were always t.i.t-bits for Patrick. When sketching such subjects he was in his glory, and he returned to his easel loaded with sketch-book treasures, which when painted form the gems of many a collection.

In some of these charming subjects glimpses of the distant capital may be observed, with the dome of St. Paul's in the distance; but they are introduced with such skill and correctness as in no way to interfere with the rural character of his subject. When he went farther afield --to Windsor Forest, Hamps.h.i.+re, the New Forest, or the Isle of Wight --he was equally diligent with his pencil, and came home laden with sketches of the old monarchs of the forest. When in a state of partial decay his skilful touch brought them to life again, laden with branches and lichen, with leaves and twigs and bark, and with every feature that gives such a charm to these important elements in true English landscape scenery. On my brother's first visit to London, accompanied by my father, he visited many collections where the old Dutch masters were to be seen, and he doubtless derived much advantage from his careful studies, more particularly from the works of Hobbema, Ruysdael, and Wynants. These came home to him as representations of Nature as she is. They were more free from the traditional modes of representing her. The works of Claude Lorraine and Richard Wilson were also the objects of his admiration, though the influence of the time for cla.s.sicality of treatment to a certain extent vitiated these n.o.ble works. When a glorious sunset was observed, the usual expression among the lovers of art was, "What a magnificent Claudish effect!" thus setting up the result of man's feeble attempt at representation as the standard of comparison, in place of the far grander original!

My brother carefully studied Nature herself. His works, following those of my father, led back the public taste to a more healthy and true condition, and by the aid of a n.o.ble army of modern British landscape painters, this department of art has been elevated to a very high standard of truth and excellence.

I find some letters from Patrick to my father, after his settlement as an artist in London. My father seems to have supplied him with money during the early part of his career, and afterwards until he had received the amount of his commissions for pictures. In one of his letters he says: "That was an unlucky business, the loss of that order which you were so good as send me on my account." It turned out that the order had dropt out of the letter enclosing it, and was not recovered. In fact, Patrick was very careless about all money transactions.

In 1814 he made the acquaintance of Mr. Barnes, and accompanied him to Bure Cottage, Ringwood, near Southampton, where he remained for some time. He went into the New Forest, and brought home "lots of sketches."

In 1815 he exhibited his works at the Royal Academy. He writes to his father that "the prices of my pictures in the Gallery are-- two at fourteen guineas each (small views in Hamps.h.i.+re), one at twelve guineas, and two at fourteen guineas. They are all sold but one. These pictures would now fetch in the open market from two to three hundred guineas each. But in those days good work was little known, and landscapes especially were very little sought after.

Patrick Nasmyth's admirable rendering of the finer portions of landscape nature attracted the attention of collectors, and he received many commissions from them at very low prices. There was at that time a wretched system of delaying the payment for pictures painted on commission, as well as considerable loss of time by the constant applications made for the settlement of the balance. My brother was accordingly under the necessity of painting his pictures for the Dealers, who gave him at once the price which he required for his works. The influence of this system was not always satisfactory.

The Middlemen or Dealers, who stood between the artist and the final possessor of the works, were not generous. They higgled about prices, and the sums which they gave were almost infinitesimal compared with the value of Patrick Nasmyth's pictures at the present time.

The Dealers were frequent visitors at his little painting-room in his lodgings. They took undue advantage of my brother's simplicity and innate modesty in regard to the commercial value of his works. When he had sketched in a beautiful subject, and when it was clear that in its highest state of development it must prove a fine work, the Dealer would pile up before him a row of guineas, or sovereigns, and say, "Now, Peter, that picture's to be mine!", The real presence of cash proved too much for him. He never was a practical man. He agreed to the proposal, and thus he parted with his pictures for much less than they were worth. He was often remonstrated with by his brother artists for letting them slip out of his hands in that way--works that he would not surrender until he had completed them, and brought them up to the highest point of his fastidious taste and standard of excellence.

Among his dearest friends were David Roberts and Clarkson Stanfield.

He usually replied to their friendly remonstrances by laughingly pointing to his bursting portfolios of sketches, and saying, "There's lots of money in these banks to draw from." He thus warded off their earnest and often-repeated remonstrances. Being a single man, and his habits and style of living of the most simple kind, he had very little regard for money except as it ministered to his immediate necessities. His evenings were generally spent at a club of brother artists "over the water;" and in their company he enjoyed many a pleasant hour. His days were spent at his easel. They were occasionally varied by long walks into the country near London, for the purpose of refilling his sketch-book.

It was on one of such occasions--when he was sketching the details of some picturesque pollard old willows up the Thames, and standing all the time in wet ground--that he caught a severe cold which confined him to the house. He rapidly became worse. Two of his sisters, who happened to be in London at the time, nursed him with devoted attention. But it was too late. The disease had taken fatal hold of him. On the evening of the l7th August 1831 there was a violent thunderstorm. At length the peals of thunder ceased, the rain pa.s.sed away, and the clouds dispersed. The setting sun burst forth in a golden glow. The patient turned round on his couch and asked that the curtains might be drawn. It was done. A blaze of sunset lit up his weary and worn-out face. "How glorious it is!" he said. Then, as the glow vanished he fell into a deep and tranquil sleep, from which he never awoke. Such was the peaceful end of my brother Patrick, at the comparatively early age of forty-four years.

CHAPTER 4. My Early Years.

I WAS born on the morning of the 19th of August 1808, at my father's house No. 47 York Place, Edinburgh. I was named James Hall after my father's dear friend, Sir James Hall of Dungla.s.s. My mother afterwards told me that I must have been "a very noticin' bairn," as she observed me, when I was only a few days old, following with my little eyes any one who happened to be in the room, as if I had been thinking to my little self, "Who are you?"

After a suitable time I was put under the care of a nursemaid.

I remember her well--Mary Peterkin--a truly Scandinavian name.

She came from Haddingtons.h.i.+re, where most of the people are of Scandinavian origin. Her hair was of a bright yellow tint.

She was a cheerful young woman, and sang to me like a nightingale.

She could not only sing old Scotch songs, but had a wonderful memory for fairy tales. When under the influence of a merry laugh, you could scarcely see her eyes; their twinkle was hidden by her eyelids and lashes. She was a willing worker, and was always ready to lend a helping hand at everything about the house, she took great pride in me, calling me her "laddie."

When I was toddling about the house, another sister was born, the last of the family. Little Mary was very delicate; and to improve her health she was sent to a small farm-house at Braid Hills, about four miles south of Edinburgh. It was one of the most rural and beautiful surroundings of the city at that time. One of my earliest recollections is that of being taken to see poor little Mary at the farmer's house. While my nursemaid was occupied in inquiring after my sister, I was attracted by the bright red poppies in a neighbouring field. When they made search for me I could not be found. I was lost for more than an hour. At last, seeing a slight local disturbance among the stalks of corn, they rushed to they spot, and brought me out with an armful of brilliant red poppies. To this day poppies continue to be my greatest favourites.

When I was about four or five years old, I was observed to give a decided preference to the use of my left hand. Everything was done to prevent my using it in preference to the right. My mother thought that it arose from my being carried on the wrong arm by my nurse while an infant. The right hand was thus confined, and the left hand was used.

I was constantly corrected, but "on the sly" I always used it, especially in drawing my first little sketches. At last my father, after viewing with pleasure one of my artistic efforts, done with the forbidden hand, granted it liberty and independence for all time coming. "Well," he said, "you may go on in your own way in the use of your left hand, but I fear you will be an awkward fellow in everything that requires handiness in life. I used my right hand in all that was necessary, and my left in all sorts of practical manipulative affairs.

My left hand has accordingly been my most willing and obedient servant in transmitting my will through my fingers into material or visible forms. In this way I became ambidexter.

When I was about four years old, I often followed my father into his workshop when he had occasion to show to his visitors some of his mechanical contrivances or artistic models. The persons present usually expressed their admiration in warm terms of what was shown to them. On one occasion I gently pulled the coat-tail of one of the listeners and confidentially said to him, as if I knew all about it, "My papa's a kevie Fellae!" My father was so greatly amused by this remark that he often referred to it as "the last good thing" from that old-fas.h.i.+oned creature little Jamie.

One of my earliest recollections is the annual celebration of my brother Patrick's birthday. Being the eldest of the family, his birthday was held in special honour. My father invited about twenty of his most intimate friends to dinner. My mother brought her culinary powers into full operation. The younger members of the family also took a lively interest in all that was going on, with certain reversionary views as to "the day after the feast." We took a great interest in the Trifle, which was no trifle in reality, in so far as regarded the care and anxiety involved in its preparation.

In connection with this celebration, it was all established inst.i.tution that a large hamper always arrived in good time from the farm attached to my mother's old home at Woodhall, near Edinburgh. It contained many substantial elements for the entertainment--a fine turkey, fowls, duck, and suchlike; with two magnums of the richest cream. There never was such cream! It established a standard of cream in my memory; and since then I have always been hypercritical about the article.

On one of these occasions, when I was about four years old, and being the youngest of the family, I was taken into the company after the dinner was over, and held up by my sister Jane to sing a verse from a little song which my nurse Mary Peterkin had taught me, and Which ran thus:

"I'll no bide till Sat.u.r.day, But I'll awa' tile morn, An' follow Donald Hielandman, An' carry his poother-horn."

This was my first and last vocal performance. It was received with great applause. In fact, it was encored. The word "poother,"

which I p.r.o.nounced "pootle", excited the enthusiasm of the audience.

I was then sent to bed with a bit of plum-cake, and was doubtless awakened early next morning by the irritation of the dried crumbs of the previous night's feast.

I am reminded, by reading over a letter of my brother Patrick's, of an awkward circ.u.mstance that happened to me when I was six years old.

In his letter to my father, dated London, 22d September 1814, he says: "I did get a surprise when Margaret's letter informed me of my little brother Jamie's fall. It was a wonderful escape. For G.o.d's sake keep an eye upon him!" Like other strong and healthy boys, I had a turn for amusing myself in my own way. When sliding down the railing of the stairs I lost my grip and fell suddenly over. The steps were of stone.

Fortunately, the servants were just coming up laden with carpets which they had been beating. I fell into their midst and knocked them out of their hands. I was thus saved from cracking my poor little skull.

But for that there might have been no steam hammer--at least of my contrivance!

Everything connected with war and warlike exploits is interesting to a boy. The war with France was then in full progress. Troops and bands paraded the streets. Recruits were sent away as fast as they could be drilled. The whole air was filled with war. Everybody was full of excitement about the progress of events in Spain. When the great guns boomed forth from the Castle, the people were first startled.

Then they were surprised and anxious. There had been a battle and a victory! "Who had fallen?" was the first thought in many minds.

Where had the battle been, and what was the victory? Business was suspended. People rushed about the streets to ascertain the facts.

It might have been at Salamanca, Talavera, or Vittoria. But a long time elapsed before the details could be received; and during that time sad suspense and anxiety prevailed in almost every household.

There was no telegraph then. It was only after the Gazette had been published that people knew who had fallen and who had survived.

The war proceeded. The volunteering which went on at the time gave quite a military aspect to the city. I remember how odd it appeared to me to see some well-known faces and figures metamorphosed into soldiers It was considered a test of loyalty as well as of patriotism, to give time, money, and leisure to take up the arms of defence, and to practise daily in military uniform in the Meadows or on Bruntsfield Links. Windows were thrown up to hear the bands playing at the head of the troops, and crowds of boys, full of military ardour, went, as usual, hand to hand in front of the drums and fifes. The most interesting part of the procession to my mind was the pioneers in front, with their leather ap.r.o.ns, their axes and saws, and their big hairy caps and beards. They were to me so suggestive of clearing the way through hedges and forests, and of what war was in its actual progress.

Every victory was followed by the importation of large numbers of French prisoners. Many of them were sent to Edinburgh Castle.

They were permitted to relieve the tedium of their confinement by manufacturing and selling toys; workboxes, brooches, and carved work of different kinds. In the construction of these they exhibited great skill, taste, and judgment. They carved them out of bits of bone and wood. The patterns were most beautiful; and they were ingeniously and tastefully ornamented. The articles were to be had for a mere trifle, although fit to be placed with the most choice objects of artistic skill.

These poor prisoners of war were allowed to work at their tasteful handicrafts in small sheds or temporary workshops at the Castle, behind the palisades which separated them from their free customers outside.

There was just room between the bars of the palisades for them to hand through their exquisite works, and to receive in return the modest prices which they charged. The front of these palisades became a favourite resort for the inhabitants of Edinburgh; and especially for the young folks. I well remember being impressed with the contrast between the almost savage aspect of these dark-haired foreigners, and the neat and delicate produce of their skilful fingers.

At the peace of 1814, which followed the siege of Paris, great rejoicings and illuminations took place, in the belief that the war was at an end. The French prisoners were sent back to their own country, alas! to appear again before us at Waterloo. The liberation of those confined in Edinburgh Castle was accompanied by an extraordinary scene.

The French prisoners marched down to the transport s.h.i.+ps at Leith by torchlight. All the town was out to see them. They pa.s.sed in military procession through the princ.i.p.al streets, singing as they marched along their revolutionary airs, "Ca lra" and "The Ma.r.s.eillaise." The wild enthusiasm of these haggard-looking men, lit up by torchlight and accompanied by the cheers of the dense crowd which lined the streets and filled the windows, made an impression on my mind that I can never forget.

A year pa.s.sed. Napoleon returned from Elba, and was rejoined by nearly all his old fighting-men. I well remember, young as I was, an a.s.sembly of the inhabitants of Edinburgh in Charlotte Square, to bid farewell to the troops and officers then in garrison. It was a fine summer evening when this sad meeting took place. The bands were playing as their last performance, "Go where glory waits thee!" The air brought tears to many eyes; for many who were in the ranks might never return.

After many a hand-shaking, the troops marched to the Castle, previous to their early embarkation for the Low Countries on the following morning.

Then came Waterloo and the victory! The Castle guns boomed forth again; and the streets were filled with people anxious to hear the news.

At last came the Gazette filled with the details of the killed and wounded. Many a heart was broken, many a fireside was made desolate.

It was indeed a sad time. The terrible anxiety that pervaded so many families; the dreadful sacrifice of lives on so many battlefields; and the enormously increased taxation, which caused so many families to stint themselves to even the barest necessaries of life;--such was the inglorious side of war.

But there was also the glory, which almost compensated for the sorrow.

I cannot resist narrating the entry of the Forty-second Regiment into Edinburgh shortly after the battle of Waterloo. The old "Black Watch"

is a regiment dear to every Scottish heart. It has fought and struggled when resistance was almost certain death. At Quatre Bras two flank companies were cut to pieces by Pire's cavalry. The rest of the regiment was a.s.sailed by Reille's furious cannonade, and suffered severely. The French were beaten back, and the remnant of the Forty-second retired to Waterloo, where they formed part of the brigade under Major-General Pack. At the first grand charge of the French, Picton fell and many were killed. Then the charge of the Greys took place, and the Highland regiments rushed forward, with cries of "Scotland for ever!" Only a remnant of the Forty-second survived.

They were however recruited, and marched into France with the rest of the army.

Towards the end of the year the Forty-Second returned to England, and in the beginning of 1816 they set out on their march towards Edinburgh. They were everywhere welcomed with enthusiasm. Crowds turned out to meet them and cheer them. When the first division of the regiment approached Edinburgh, almost the entire population turned out to welcome them. At Musselburgh, six miles off; the road was thronged with people. When the soldiers reached Piers.h.i.+ll, two miles off, the road was so crowded that it took them two hours to reach the Castle.

I was on a balcony in the upper part of the High Street, and my father, mother, and sisters were with me. We had waited very long; but at last we heard the distant sound of the cheers, which came on and on, louder and louder.

The High Street was wedged with people excited and anxious.

There seemed scarcely room for a regiment to march through them.

The house-tops and windows were crowded with spectators. It was a grand sight. The high-gabled houses reaching as far as the eye could see, St. Giles' with its mural crown, the Tron Kirk in the distance, and the picturesque details of the buildings, all added to the effectiveness of the scene.

At last the head of the gallant band appeared. The red coats gradually wedged their way through the crowd, amidst the ringing of bells and the cheers of the spectators. Every window was in a wave of gladness, and every house-top was in a fever of excitement. As the red line pa.s.sed our balcony, with Colonel d.i.c.k at its head, we saw a sight that can never be forgotten. The red-and-white plumes, the tattered colours riddled with bullets, the glittering bayonets, were seen amidst the crowd that thronged round the gallant heroes, amidst tears and cheers and hand-shakings and shouts of excitement. The ma.s.s of men appeared like a solid body moving slowly along; the soldiers being almost hidden amongst the crowd. At last they pa.s.sed, the pipers and drums playing a Highland march; and the Forty-Second slowly entered the Castle. It was perhaps the most extraordinary scene ever witnessed in Edinburgh.