EXTRACT FROM TEXT TO PLATE LIII OF THE AMERICAN EDITION OF BOYDELL’S ILLUSTRATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE.

It is deemed appropriate to devote this page to the infelicities which often fall to the lot of men of genius, in hopes to strike a sympathetic chord; since to them the world owes all that is beautiful as well as useful in art. It is well known that men of fine imaginations and delicate taste, are generally distinguished for acute sensibilities, and for being deficient in more practical qualities; they are frequently eccentric, and illy adapted to contend with the coldness and indifference of the world, much less its sarcasm and enmity. The history of Art is full of melancholy examples.

When Torregiano, the cotemporary of Michael Angelo, had finished his exquisite group of the Madonna and Child for the Duke d’Arcos, with the assurance of a rich reward, the nobleman sent two servants, bearing two well-filled bags of money, with orders to bring the work to his palace. The sculptor, upon opening the bags, found nothing but brass maravedi! Filled with just indignation, he seized his mallet, in a moment of uncontrollable rage, and smashed the beautiful group into a thousand pieces, saying to the servants, “Go, take your base metal to your ignoble lord, and tell him he shall never possess a sculpture by my hand!” The infamous nobleman, burning with shame, resolved on a terrible revenge; he arraigned the unhappy artist before the Inquisition, on a charge of sacrilege for destroying the sacred images. Torregiano was imprisoned and condemned to death by torture; but to escape that awful fate, he destroyed himself in the dungeon.

It is not necessary to go back further than the history of this work, to find melancholy examples of the trials of genius. Thomas Banks vainly endeavored to introduce a lofty and heroic style of sculpture into his native country. He could obtain no commissions to execute in marble his most beautiful and sublime compositions, and was compelled to confine himself to monumental sculpture. James Barry, after struggling with poverty and neglect all his days, died in a garret, a raving maniac. A subscription had been started for his relief; but it was all expended in defraying his funeral expenses, and in erecting a monument to his memory in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with this inscription,—“The Great Historical Painter, James Barry. Died, Feb. 1806, aged 65”! His remains were laid out in state, in the Great Room of the Adelphi—the true and appropriate monument of his genius. The Society had requested the members of the Royal Academy to decorate their Room, and when all others declined, Barry nobly came forward, and offered his services gratuitously, which were gladly accepted. He spent seven long years in decorating this apartment with fresco paintings, which the Society publicly declared was “a national ornament, as well as a monument of the talents and ingenuity of the artist”; and Dr. Johnson said, “They shew a grasp of mind that you will find nowhere else.” Observe the contrast: Cunningham says, that when he began this great work, he had but a shilling in his pocket, and during its execution he lived on the coarsest fare, in a miserable garret, subsisting by the sale of an occasional drawing, when he could find a purchaser!

The life of William Blake presents a picture no less melancholy. An eccentric and extraordinary genius, he seemed, in the flights of his wild imagination, to hold converse with the spirits of the departed; and in some of his works there is a truly wonderful sublimity of conception and grandeur of execution. Although not appreciated during his lifetime, he toiled on in abject poverty with indefatigable industry, reveling in visions of future fame. His Ancient of Days was his greatest favorite; three days before his death, he sat bolstered up in bed, and touched it over and over with the choicest colors, in his happiest style; then held it off at arms’ length, exclaiming, “There! that will do! I cannot mend it.” Observing his wife in tears, he said, “Stay, Kate! keep just as you are; I will draw your portrait, for you have been an angel to me.” She obeyed, and the dying artist made a fine likeness. He was cheerful and contented to the last. “I glory,” said he, “in dying, and have no grief but in leaving you, Katharine; we have lived happy and we have lived long; we have ever been together, but we shall be divided soon. Why should I fear death! Nor do I fear it. I have endeavored to live as Christ commands, and have sought to worship God truly.” On the day of his death, Aug. 12, 1827, he composed and sung hymns to his Maker, so sweetly to the ear of his beloved Katharine, that she stood wrapt to hear him. Observing this, he said to her, with looks of intense affection, “My beloved, they are not mine—no, they are the songs of the angels.”

Young Proctor, the sculptor, was a student of the rarest promise, in the Royal Academy. After obtaining two silver medals, the president, Benjamin West, had the suggestion conveyed to him, that he had better execute a historical composition. Accordingly, in the next year, Proctor produced his model of “Ixion on the Wheel,” and in the following year, “Pirithous slain by Cerberus,” both of which excited great admiration. In the third year, he conceived a much bolder flight of imagination, “Diomed torn in pieces by Wild Horses,” which was far more successful than his previous efforts, approaching, in the opinion of the best judges, the grandeur of Michael Angelo, and even the Phidian period of Greek design. But this noble emanation of high native talent could not find a purchaser, and at the close of the exhibition it was returned to the studio of the sculptor, who, stung to the heart by this severe disappointment, instantly destroyed his sublime creation. Derided by his more favored but less deserving cotemporaries, Proctor shunned society, and having exhausted all his means of support to produce this last work, he was reduced to the greatest straits. When Mr. West, after some time, succeeded in ascertaining the place of his obscure retreat, he stated the circumstance to the Academy, who unanimously agreed to send Proctor to Italy, with the usual pension, and fifty pounds besides, for necessary preparations. This joyful intelligence was immediately communicated to the despairing artist, but it came too late! his constitution, undermined by want and vexation, was unable to bear the revulsion of his feelings, and he shortly after breathed his last, “a victim,” says his biographer, “to anti-national prejudices.”

The life of Thomas Kirk, termed the “English Raffaelle,” is another melancholy example of unappreciated genius. Chagrin and disappointment of his ambitious hopes, consigned him to an untimely grave. Taylor, in his History of the Fine Arts in Great Britain, says, that a few years ago, one of Hogarth’s pictures brought at public sale in London, more money than the artist ever received for all his paintings together. Nollekens, the sculptor, bought two landscapes of Richard Wilson, for fifteen guineas, to relieve his pressing necessities. At the sale of the effects of the former after his decease, they brought two hundred and fifty guineas each!

Shall instances like these stain the annals of American Art, or will this free people accord to its gifted sons the encouragement they so richly deserve? May the sympathies of those who can perceive in painting and sculpture, most efficient means of mental culture, refinement, and gratification, be enlisted by these sad memories, to render timely encouragement to exalted genius! It adds to national and individual profit, pride, and glory. How much does America owe Robert Fulton and Eli Whitney? Millions, untold millions!