CHARLES WEST COPE.*
THE interest—we had very nearly said, the charm—of these Reminiscences lies in the simple, commonplace character of most of them. They very seldom rise above the level of this entry in their author's diary :—" Wednesday, Septem- ber 15th.—Painted Bishop's mitre and crosier. Dined with Maclise at the Rainbow on soles and hashed venison, and returned at eight to the House of Lords, to see the effect of gaslight on the frescoes and on the stained glass, gas being laid on outside as well. The frescoes looked very brilliant and much improved, particularly that by Dyce. The glass, being more strongly illuminated inside than out, looked nega- tive and inky, and like old paintings on an opaque surface." The author of such an entry as this stands revealed as an every-day, jog-trot, patiently industrious man. Yet he was no mean artist. About 1843, the Royal Commission on the Fine Arts was instituted under the presidency of the Prince Consort, and one of its first acts was to invite painters and sculptors to send in cartoons of historical subjects, for which they were to receive prizes according to the merit of their work. "Having myself no commissions on hand," says Cope in his simple way, "and the picture of The Board of Guardians' not having proved a pecuniary success, 'I thought that this appeal might open a new field of employment for me, in the direction of a nobler kind of art, and I determined to become a competitor. Sitting one day in my studio, a composition occurred to me, • Reminiscences of Charles Wcat Cope, B.A. By his Son, Charles Henry Cope, LA.. London ; Richard Bentley and Son. 1891. of which Tat once made a slight sketch. The subject was 'Au Early Trial by Jury,' and I scarcely altered a line from this first
scrawl." Cope was, however, awarded one of the first three prizes of £300 each, his colleagues being "Watts, with a noble design of ` Caractacus,' and E. Armitage, with The Landing of Julius Ctesar in Britain,' excellent and vigorous in action:' Considering that among the beaten competitors was Haydon, who "half his life had been writing up the claims of history. painters," Cope's success was more than creditable to him. It was also, in a sense, typical. As a glance at the list of his works, which is given as an appendix to this volume, clearly demonstrates, he maintained a position of equality with men of much more pronounced genius than himself. This was due to his industry,—the patient and immense industry of a man of great talent and genuine enthusiasm for his art.
This autobiography consists of the simple chit-chat and outpourings of the heart of a man who may be said to have been literally born an artist. His father was a teacher in art in Leeds—where he himself was born in 1811—and his mother was, as he says, "a gifted amateur." After a term of
schooling, young Cope went up to London to study art fnrther in what was known as Sass's Academy in Blooms- bury ; and although his father, whom he describes as a water-drinker and a deeply religious man, died before his time of the effect of a carriage accident, his professional education, which included the usual trip to Italy, was continued. His pleasures were of the simplest, the chief being fishing and boating and walking, and he seems to have found his way once a year to Yorkshire. Among his early friends were his brother-
artists, Stonhouse, Sulivan, and George Richmond. Another —although, of course, he must have been a much older man than Cope—was Edward White, who was a diligent amateur painter, but who is best known from his having been at the East India House when Charles Lamb was there. This is all,
however, that Cope has to say of White and Lamb :—" He was intimate with Charles Lamb, and, at his weekly soirees he was a constant guest, and met there many of the literary celebrities. Charles Lamb drank largely of weak gin-and-water, and generally bad to retire early to bed in consequence. The rest used to sit up late, in spite of their host's departure." Cope, during one of his Italian tours, jostled up against Pickersgill in Florence. This story is characteristic :—
" While copying a small Paul Veronese in the 'Uffizi, the Martyrdom of Sta. Justine,' I was aware of a visitor overlooking me. It was Pickersgill, RA. After some preliminary 'ahems,' he spoke to me : Sir, I believe, by the look of your work and that of your colour-box, that you are an Englishman.'—I replied : 'Yes, Mr. Pickersgill.'—' Ah !' he said, go where I will, I'm known. Sir, look at me, and see how I'm suffering for my country, a martyr to ray desire for improvement in my art. Sir, I travelled three days and four nights without rest; and on arriving here, I retired to my couch. The window was open, and I was a prey to mosquitoes all night long. In the morning I was blind. Only see my nose ! ' " In course of time, and while struggling in his profession Cope married,—made, in fact, the natural, happy love-marriage that might have been expected of a man with a nature so simple
as his is from the first revealed to be. Thenceforward his life was one of domesticity and bard professional work, while his informal autobiography, which is occasionally supplemented by extracts from his note-book, contains little beyond details of this life and work, and a number of fairly good stories. Taken as a whole, the volume, as may be inferred, is one which is well worth reading, but scarcely lends itself to quotation. Here is, however, a very circumstantial "true story" of Dickens's Squeers and Dotheboys Hall :—
" In one of my frequent visits to Barnard Castle (I forget at what date), I sat on the box-seat of the stage-coach which, in those days, united Barnard Castle to Darlington. The driver was a shrewd Yorkshireman, and interested me much by his comments on Dickens's account of Dotheboys Hall.' He had formerly driven on the great North Road, and described how the coach at vacation- time was filled by pupils going home for the holidays, accompanied by Mr. Shaw (' Squeers '). What a jolly time it was, and how hearty and healthy the boys looked! The coach was covered with flags. The boys, armed with pea-shooters, peppered all that passed by. How well they fed, and how liberal was " Squeers "! ' He stoutly denied that they were half-starved. He allowed that there existed some schools like what Dickens described, but Shaw's was an exception.—' Then why,' I asked, should Dickens have singled out Shaw's school for exposure P'—Coachman I'll tell you, Sir. Mr. Dickens had his information from a dismissed usher; it was a poisoned source. Dickens wrote to Shaw, and asked to inspect his school. He went, and was shown into the parlour. Shaw came in, and said, "Follow me, gentlemen." He asked them to go through the hall to a side-door, bowed, and shut
the door behind them. They found themselves in the road.
They did not see the school.' When I was in these parts I visited Bowes, and saw the school-house, then occupied by a farmer, who had married Shaw's daughter (' Fanny Squeers '). My friend Mr. Harrison, of Stubb House, told me that when he went to shoot over Bowes Moor, he stopped at the inn at Bowes to dine and sleep, and generally invited Shaw to dine with him, and he said he was excellent company.' The caricature of
Sqneers ' in the story, with his one eye, was very like him, he said."
One can easily see that Cope was highly respected by his brother-artists, and was regarded as a kind of consulting physician in matters of Academy reform. His views are, as a rule, sensible, though many may seem antiquated, even to the verge of being weak. He complains bitterly of the "niggardly parsimony" of the Government in regard to national art, and declares that the loss of the Prince Consort to the nation has been irreparable. It has only to be added " that, after the death of his first wife—he was twice married- ' Cope had a most enjoyable trip to America, and that he passed away peacefully at Bournemouth, 1890. He was a man de- serving of the highest esteem, and his book should be read generally, and not in artistic circles alone, even although the style in which the bulk of it is written is not what he terms Addisonian, and the story it tells is essentially uneventful.
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