Fill' 3110.
A PUGILIST PAINTER.
INSTANCES are not wanting to prove that the study of pugilism and a love of the arts are compatible. Byron affectionately refers to his " old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq., Professor of Pugilism," many of us have read of Sir Thomas Law- rence's fistie encounters in Bristol fields with the lad who afterwards became his model for "Satan," and the name of George Morland was intimately connected with the prize-fighting fraternity. Mr. Ruskin considers that "painting, as a mere physical exertion, requires the utmost strength of constitution and of heart," and recommends the simultaneous study of "all athletic exercises, and all delicate arts." The shortness of life is, unfortunately, inimical in most cases to the attainment of proficiency in both pursuits ; the poet or painter may be but an indifferent pugilist, while the pugilist's attempt at painting would probably end in the production of a hopeless daub. His efforts at a literary composition, judging from the advertisements in the sporting papers, are only remarkable for their manly defiance of grammatical rules. Nevertheless, at the present time, London boasts the possession of a man who has studied the "art of self-defence" and the art of painting with equally happy results, of one who has taken the first pugilistic honours, and borne for some six or seven years the proud title of " Champion of England," though in the re- cognition of his artistic claims he has not been so fortunate : his name does not yet appear on the list of members of the Royal Academy.
Of the antecedents of this remarkable man I am unable to say much. James Ward was born at Liverpool, in 1801. His early life was one of hard work, being passed in ballast-heaving and coal- whipping. His pugilistic triumphs have been duly chronicled in Bell's Life. In 1832 he retired from the ring, and fifteen years later, being then forty-six years of age, began to practise painting, and has since continued to combine the somewhat antagonistic profes- sions of a publican and an artist. I had heard rumours of Mr. Ward's pictorial bent, had occasionally come across advertisements which, with admirable modesty, announced the fact that "Jem Ward has just finished another picture, which he will challenge t143 world for colour," but never came across anybody who had seen any‘ specimen of his talent. I determined, therefore, to go and judge for myself of the merits of this pugilist-painter's work, and, contrary to expectation, found that it evinced much manipulative dexterity and considerable poetic feeling. If the pictures of Mr. Ward pre- sented no points of interest beyond the fact of having been painted by an " ex-champion," a notice of them would have been out of place in the pages of this journal; but inasmuch as they really pos- sess intrinsic merit, a wider popularity than they have hitherto at- tained may very fairly be accorded to them.
In the far East, in the unsavoury locality called the Whitechapel- road, stands a small public-house. A huge red lamp which bangs over the doorway proclaims it to be "The King's Arms," or, more familiarly, "Jem Ward's." Pushing aside the door, the "host" is discovered standing behind the bar dispensing beer and gin to cus- tomers, whose apparel is not clean, and whose diction is strong. His appearance, if not altogether refined, has none of the ordinary aspect of the prize-fighter. The head is broad, massive, and powerful, and the expression of the face is honest, simple, and intelligent. Your errand stated, you are ushered by " Jem" up an awkward staircase into a parlour of dingy aspect, and smelling somewhat strongly of stale tobacco-smoke. The low ceiling is blackened With the fumes of the gas-jets. Around the room are hung some eight or ten of the proprietor's chefs-d'teuvre, in gilt frames, as fly-bitten as the walls on which they hang. Other pictures, in various states of progress, are stowed away in odd nooks, their faces to the wall. A bench runs along one side of the apartment, the furni- ture of which is coarse and common, with the exception of a rosewood piano, the instrument belonging to the painter's daughter, a pupil of Benedict's, and a pianist, I believe, of some celebrity. Such is the studio of "Jem Ward." A strange home for the arts it is, in the midst of the ceaseless roar of carts and omnibuses, the continual cries of costermongers and hawkers, and the frequent din of drunken squabbles. Jem is his own showman, and considerately saves his visitors the trouble of venturing any remarks on his pictures by cri- ticizing them himself. Diffidence is evidently a word of the mean- ing of which lie is ignorant, and any tribute of praise that may be awarded to his work is accepted, not as a compliment, but as a king accepts the homage of a subject. In his own opinion, few men, if any, have the advantage over him either as a painter or a con- noisseur. To quote his own words, he " can do all that Turner could do in colour and atmosphere," which he considers his " forte," though he confesses with cheerful frankness that Turner surpassed him in " detail." That which has baffled the skill of so many painters, the imitation of the subtle hues of human flesh, is no mystery to Mr. Ward. He finds it " very easy." The old masters
he considers almost unapproachable in this, but allows that Etty oc- casionally succeeded well. Thad no opportunity of testing the ac- curacy of the ex-champion's opinions as to the facility he enjoyed in flesh-painting, no portraits or figure subjects by him being at that time in the house. A coarse-coloured lithograph, from a picture he painted of the fight between Sayers and Heenan, hangs in the bar ; but this, of course, only gives an idea of the arrangement of the figures. The original was painted in opposition to the representation of the "great event" published by Mr. Newbold, the cheap print- seller in the Strand. Jem Ward's version has at least this ad- vantage over its rival, that the figures it contains are, for the most part, directing their gaze to the main business in hand, while in the Newbold print at least half the spectators are turning their backs on the contest, and testify utter indifference to its result by glaring out of the picture with most unprofessional concern. In other respects there is much similaritybetween these works, and both enforce the same moral with equal power. The coarse, degraded features of the "fancy" multitude, represented in each specimen with harsh literality unredeemed by any refinement in art, afford a very strong argument in favour of the suppression of the prize-ring. Turner, to whom Mr. Ward so often compares himself, has evidently been the model on which he has formed his style. One picture, an English landscape with some sheep in the foreground and a brilliant sunset sky, resembles somewhat the style of Constable in the execution of the foliage. This is one of the most defined and finished works of the painter, but in general they all resemble more or less the later manner of Turner. Venetian scenes there are with the sea and sky blending into each other in a suffused mass of light, revealing glimpses of hazy, pinky buildings, opposed by dark gondolas and vessels in the foreground. A cattle piece, in which two cows are painted with a Morland-like power of brush, is so good, and the back of the canvas looks so old, as to raise in my mind the unamiable suspicion that it is some " lot " purchased at a sale, and since invested with "colour and atmosphere" by Join ; but be this as it may, I saw ample evi- dences of his artistic faculty. His pictures are painted with great solidity, firmness, and a reckless power of band, such as one might expect from a practised bruiser. They display a strong appreciation of colour—not true colour, perhaps, in many cases, but often beautiful in itself—and though frequently strong and brilliant, in no one in- stance does it betray the slightest suspicion of vulgarity. "Here," said lie, turning a picture from the wall, placing it in a favourable light, and rubbing his moistened hand over parts that had lost their richness—" here's colour if you like ; no one can beat that —it's soft and blooming like a peach. All done with the palette- knife. Here's a pair, now, just begun; laid in the foundation, you may call it ; don't know what I shall do with 'em yet, no more than a baby. When an idea strikes me, I shall take 'em up and put in any detail. Some little cattle on the hills here, perhaps a figure or two, and there you are. I could knock off a couple of pair of them in a week if Pd only time, but when you're in business, you're always being called off—you lose your idea, and then you're done. Sunday morning's about the only time I can get to work. I sit down here with my colours on a large slab (don't use a palette), put my canvas on the back of that old chair, mix up the paint till I ,get a nice bit of colour, and then on it goes with the palette-knife. Never mix the colours much; if you do you can't get richness or transparency : the fewer the colours the better." In this last sen- tence it will be observed that Mr. Ward echoes unconsciously, per- haps, the precepts of the old Venetian masters. I have said that some of Jem's landscapes bear resemblance to 'Turner's later works. They would certainly deceive the superficial observer, and a tolerably near inspection would be required ere the practised eye could determine their author. It is not surprising, therefore, nor incredible, when the painter assures you that pictures he has given away, or sold as his own, have been vended by un- scrupulous dealers as coming from the hand of the greatest landscape painter. Mr. 'Ward strongly insists on the stability of his work, from the simplicity of his materials and execution. Time, which injures and *destroys other pictures, respects the works of Jem. It even un proves them. "I've been into places," said he, "where pictures of mine have been hanging; some I hadn't seen for a long time, and I couldn't believe my own eyes at first; they looked so much better than when I painted 'em. ' God bless my soul !' I said, ' they seem too good for me. Thy looked like old masters.'" I have thus introduced to your readers a thoroughly original character. Of that there can be little doubt, and though opinions may differ as to the estimate of Mr. Ward's pictorial capacity, I think few will deny, after inspection of his works, that he has somewhat of the "immortal element." Had ids life been cast in a different lot, we might have had great things from him. Pictures far far below his.standard may be seen by scores many of our annual exhibitions. The painter's egotism is not sur- prising in one who has not measured his work with that of others ; moreover, it is an inoffensive and amusing egotism, while there is -something almost touching in the thought of this sexagenarian gladiator snatching a brief solace from the noise and tumult of a public-house bar, and creeping to his little room above, there to paint with all the eagerness of a boy, and think of Turner and the "old
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