Poor Brock is gone, and I am sorry for it. I had known him exactly a quarter of a century. He always appeared to be a strong, tough, hale man, likely to reach the age of fourscore. Of late years I had not seen very much of him, but at one time we used to meet rather frequently at John Murray’s, Charles Turner’s, Blewitt’s, and elsewhere. The last time we met was in the summer of 1852, on board a steamer going from Folkestone to Boulogne, when I found my somewhat corpulent and grey-headed friend, equipped with a green wide-awake, and attired in very wide trousers, grey gaiters, and a drab-coloured blouse—a costume in which, it appears, our English tourists now like to exhibit themselves to the gaze of Continentals.
Being very much of a Liberal, he was wishing for another Revolution, or
for more barricades to upset Louis Napoleon. But,
among the many subjects which my friend would discuss with great vehemence and fluency,
without understanding anything about them, politics stood conspicuous. But Brockedon had a great deal of merit and much varied
talent. He was born and bred in the genial county of Devon, which has given birth to so
many of our artists, and was brought up there to the very humble calling of a watchmaker,
or rather watchmender. But he early displayed some ability in drawing and etching,
| CHAP. XV] | ALBUM OF PORTRAITS | 151 |
See his “Passes of the Alps,” his
views in Italy, and other works. He travelled considerably, and at the same time he
addicted himself to physics or natural philosophy. He lost his wife, to his very great
grief, but her property and a dear son remained, and on him he seemed to raise all his
hopes for the future, all his bright visions. By degrees he had become acquainted with most
of the celebrities of the day. He had a very handsome sort of album, in which he had
cleverly drawn, in pencil or chalk, the portraits of all his friends or
acquaintances—politicians, poets, painters, sculptors, and engravers. He did me the honour
of including my effigies, and at a period when I was little known in England, in 1831.
“I shall make no use of these things while I live,” said he,
“but it will be interesting hereafter. I intend it as an heirloom to my boy,
and if he turn out a man of taste and feeling he will prize it, and if he choose he may
have the sketches engraved and published.” Poor Brock! Another striking specimen of the “vanity of human
wishes.” The child lived on to youth, and then followed his mother to the
grave, leaving his father for many years if not a solitary man—for that
Brock never could be—yet a man without Lares or Penates, with a
lonely home-hearth. He betook himself more than ever to natural and experimental
philosophy, and not con-
| 152 | WILLIAM BROCKEDON | [CHAP. XV |
When wife and son were both gone, poor Brockedon became invaded with the spirit of money-making, and of commercial speculation. I know not how many schemes and joint-stock companies he took up or joined; but I remember that the whole aspect of his home—a very nice old-fashioned house in Queen Anne’s Square—was entirely changed; for instead of meeting with artists, men of letters, and musicians there, one met miners, brokers, projectors, managers of companies, and other men who had “shares,” “premiums,” and “cent. per cent.,” scarified on their countenances.
I think it must have been about the year 1836 that Brocky became excessively long-winded on the subject of
stopping bottles. Meet him where you would, you were sure to hear a denunciation of corks.
“Cork,” said he, “is an antiquated barbarism, a vile
solecism, a monstrous imposition on an ignorant, unthinking public! Cork never properly
preserves your wine, but it often gives it a bad flavour, and so spoils it. For
stopping your bottles and decanters there is nothing like caoutchouc,
| CHAP. XV] | INDIA-RUBBER CORKS | 153 |
William Brockedon was a friendly, rather
warm-hearted, and “serviceable” man. He must have made very considerable sums
by some of his publications, for he was always rather a keen man of business, and the
property his wife brought him put him above subjection to the whims or the rapacious
tyranny of the booksellers and publishers, and of the vendors of engravings. He had an
affection for the memory of that oddest of odd artists, his
| 154 | WILLIAM BROCKEDON | [CHAP. XV |
I knew James Northcote, R.A., a Devonshire man and confirmed old bachelor, in 1814, when he was living like a solitary old spider in a cob-webbed house in Argyle Street. Brockedon, who attempted to write his life, had many curious tales about him. Northcote had a cordial hatred for his county-man, poor Haydon, who, on his side, hated all the members of the Royal Academy, quoad Academicians, and who contrived to quarrel with nearly every man he met half a dozen times.
“Isn’t this beautiful!” said old Jemmy, showing Brockedon The Times newspaper. “Isn’t this charming! Here’s the King has been sending for Haydon to go down to Windsor Castle, and to take the daub of a picture, called ‘The Mock Election’ with him! I wish to Christ the King had knighted him! I only wish he had knighted him! It would have shown how Art is appreciated by Royalty!”
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