landscape painter. He was the wildest enthusiast in the studio—and there are generally a good many wild enthusiasts in a studio. “Other artists,” said one of his comrades, “talked meat and drink, but Runciman talked landscape!” At nineteen he renounced further tutelage, and started on his own account as a landscape painter. He commenced to exhibit his works. Every one praised, but unfortunately no one purchased. The market seemed to be only for the show, not the sale of goods. The notion of the many seemed to be that Art was an absurd luxury, which only the very few could indulge in. A middle-class man would have been considered very eccentric and extravagant who in those days bought a picture, unless it happened to be his own portrait. There was some demand for portrait painting—that paid—if you, the painter, were nearly at the head of your profession. Poor Wilson had given up portraiture, and soon found himself painting landscapes, and starving the while. It was like keeping a shop full of nothing but boots too big to fit any one. So Runciman found quickly enough—and with characteristic un-reason abandoned landscapes and took to historical art, which, being in much less request even than landscape painting, rather enhanced and quickened his chances of starvation. Somehow he struggled on. At thirty it occurred to him that he had never been to Rome, and that fact had probably confined his powers and limited his prosperity. He packed up his things—an easy task—and, with a very small purse—that he should have had one at all was the marvel—set out for the south. He was soon, of course, on his knees, in the regular way, doing homage to Raphael and M. Angelo. There are always professional conventions; it was as necessary then for the artist to be rapt and deliriously enthusiastic about his calling as for the lawyer to wear a wig and gown.
At Rome he swore friendship with Fuseli. The Scot was the elder, but the Swiss the more learned. They had probably both quite made up their minds about art before they met, and what drew them together was very much the similarity of their opinions. Neither was liable to change of view, let who would be the teacher. Runciman no more took his style from Fuseli, than Fuseli from Runciman, and the unquestionable resemblance between their works was only the natural result of an identity of idiosyncrasy. They both worked hard together, making painstaking copies of the great masters. “Runciman, I am sure you will like,” Fuseli wrote home, “he is one of the best of us here.” No doubt Fuseli found him quite a kindred spirit—mad as himself about heroic art—possessed with like insane extacies—like pell-mell execution—like whirling, extravagant drawing—like wild ideas interpreted by a like wild hand, and a like execrable nankeen and slate tone of colour. Runciman returned in 1771, and proceeding to Edinburgh, arrived just in time to receive the vacant situation of professor of painting to the academy established in Edinburgh College, in the year 1760. The salary was £120 a-year. The artist accepted the appointment gleefully, and, had his knowledge and his taste been equal to his enthusiasm, few could have better fulfilled the duties of his office. Soon he began to dream of a series of colossal pictures that should make his name live for ever in the annals of art. The dream took form. There were but two or three men in Scotland who would even hear out the project. Fortunately he lighted on one of these: Sir James Clerk consented to the embellishment of his hall at Pennyciuck with a series of pictures from Ossian, by the hand of Runciman.
Ossian was the rage—quotations from the blind bard of Morven were in every one’s mouth. True, Dr. Samuel Johnson, who loved to thrust his brave fist through a sham (though he was tricked in the Cock Lane business), had denounced the whole thing as an imposition “as gross as ever the world was troubled with.” Dr. Blair wrote in defence, “Could any man, of modern age, have written such poems?” “Why yes, sir,” was the answer—“Many men, many women, and many children.” Macpherson wrote offensively and violently to Dr. Samuel, who replied heartily enough—“I received your foolish and impudent letter . . . . I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian . . . I thought your book an imposture. I think so still. Your rage I defy,” &c., &c. What was all this to Runciman? He had no learning—he cared nothing for antiquarianism. He took for granted that Ossian was authentic. Many North of the Tweed looked upon it merely as a national question. Macpherson was a Scotchman, therefore it was the duty of Scotchmen to side with him. His condemners were English, and were jealous, of course, and wrong no doubt. Runciman was hard at work at Pennyciuck, painting as for his life, while all this discussion was going on, and Macpherson and his friends were striving might and main to produce an ancient manuscript anything like the published poem, and so confute and silence Johnson Goldsmith, Burke, Garrick and lastly Boswell, who did not even pair with the doctor on the occasion, though the question did affect Scotland. Runciman had sketched out and commenced his twelve great pictures. 1. Ossian singing to Malvina. 2. The Valour of Oscar. 3. The Death of Oscar, &c., &c. Who reads Ossian now? Who cares about Agandecca, “with red eyes of tears”—“with loose and raven locks.” “Starno pierced her side with steel. She fell like a wreath of snow which slides from the rocks of Ronan.” Who knows anything now about Catholda, and Corban Cargloss, and Golchossa and Cairbar of the gloomy brow? For some time the poems held their own, retained their popularity; their partizans fought with their opponents for every inch of ground, even though discovery was mining them. And some fragments found their way in a fashion to the stage. Is there not a living ballet master, not very young now, who owes his baptismal name to parental success in the grand ballet of “Oscar and Malvina, or the Cave of Fingal?” But this must have been years after Runciman. The poems had merit, and that floated them for a long time, but the leak of falsehood made its way—they sunk at last. And Macpherson? Well, if a poet will be a forger, he must prepare