going to Dover for the summer. At Hampstead I remained one year
and nine months; most of the time intensely miserable, very hard
up, and a little mad. During this time I was Head Master of the
North London Drawing School for nearly a year. I once received £5
from the Secretary as a loan, which I returned to him a short time
after; this was all I ever saw of my salary of £60 a year. The first
work I undertook at Hampstead was the design for my picture of
_Work_, still unfinished save the background. I also made a small
copy of the _Baa Lambs_, and painted two small portraits; one for
nothing, not even thanks, the other for £5. I began the background
for _Work_ in the Streets of Hampstead, painting there all day
for two months, having spent much time in inventing and making an
apparatus. This, and finishing the picture of _Waiting_, took up
till the beginning of October, when I commenced the Landscape of
_English Autumn Afternoon_; which I had to give up after a month’s
work, in consequence of Mrs. Coats’[75] being ill and her bedroom
being required. Having given this up about the end of October, and
decided that I should not have time to finish the _Work_ for the
next Academy Exhibition, I designed the subject of _The Last of
England_, at the coloured sketch and cartoon of which I worked till
Christmas. During this period I worked about ten days at the cartoon
of _Our Ladye_,[76] etc., and the picture of the _Baa Lambs_. About
this time I also got the twelve guineas from Anthony, and sold the
sketch of _Wiclif_ to McCracken for ten guineas, also the sketch of
_The Infant’s Repast_ to some scoundrel at Bristol for £5. At the
beginning of ’53 I worked for about six weeks at the picture of _Last
of England_, Emma coming to sit to me in the most inhuman weather
from Highgate. This work representing an out-door scene without
sunlight, I painted at it chiefly out of doors when the snow was
lying on the ground. The madder ribbons of the bonnet took me four
weeks to paint. At length, finding that at this rate I could not get
it done for the Academy, I gave it up in much disgust, and began
re-painting the sketch of _Chaucer_ to give to John Marshall; on this
I worked about two months, also a little at the painted sketch of
_Cordelia_ from the etching in _Germ_.
About this time I lost many days through interruptions of a domestic
nature, but resumed work again about the 15th May at the pictures
of _King Lear_ and _Baa Lambs_; doing about two months’ work to the
_King Lear_, which I sent to Manchester along with the _Waiting_,
and perhaps five weeks’ work to the _Baa Lambs_ for Glasgow, all of
which returned unsold. During this period we were residing at Hendon
till the 1st September ’53, when we removed here at Church End.[77]
About the 15th September I recommenced painting on the _English
Autumn_ picture, and finished the view from the back window about the
20th October. From this period till the 10th of June 1854, I must
have wasted four weeks through Lucy’s holidays, two through nervous
disorder of the brain, and about one through Emma’s illness. Of the
remaining time, about two months was taken up again repainting the
_King Lear_; one month on the picture of _The Last of England_;
three days on repainting the picture of _Winandermere_ (since sold
to White[78] for £5); ten days on a lithograph of _Winandermere_
(a failure);[79] nearly a month on an etching of _King Lear_, yet
unfinished;[80] six days on a lithotint of _Baby_ (a failure); and
the rest of the time on _English Autumn Afternoon_, which last (which
took about six months) was sold at Phillips’ Auction for nine guineas
to Dickinson, the frame having cost four. He has since sold it to
Charles Seddon for £20, and declares he will not make any profit by
it, but put it to my account. The _King Lear_ was sold at the same
time for fifteen guineas to John P. Seddon, having cost eight months’
work, and the frame £3. 10s. Shortly after this, White, who had just
purchased the two Wiclifs from McCracken, came here, and bought the
_Cordelia_ sketch for £10; picture of _Waiting_, £20; sketch of _Baa
Lambs_, £5; and _Winandermere_, £5; in all £40. Since which I have
spent one month in finishing the _Cordelia_ for him along with the
others. Having finished these and got the money, I wasted about a
week, and have since been engaged finishing-off a study (two views
of the same girl’s head, painted at Southend in ’47)--one day at
this, and the rest at making a picture of study of _Windermere_
painted in ’48, when with Lucy at the Lakes. I must now endeavour
to keep up this diary more accurately, but have become lazy through
discouragement--yet not so much so as some people think--but broken
in spirit, and but a melancholy copy of what I once was. “Ah what to
me shall be the end?”
1854--17th August.--Rose at a quarter before nine--garden after
breakfast, shower-bath before. To work by eleven till one at the view
of _Windermere_.... This evening I intended drawing, but instead
reflected on alterations to be made in the picture of _Christ and
Peter_, which I think of sending to Paris[81] with the _Chaucer_,
if the English Committee accept it (six hours). The Christ in its
present state I consider to be a failure--too much melo-dramatic
sentiment, not sufficient dignity and simplicity of pose. What to do
with it, however, I scarce know. To suit the public taste, however,
it should be clothed;[82] to suit my own, not; but then the action
suits me not to alter, which would be more trouble than to clothe
the figure. Aureoles they must all have. The St. John is all right.
The Peter would be perfect if the carnation were redder and deeper
in tint, and the cloak a better green; also a bit of the right arm
should be shown; but how? Judas requires a fresh head of hair, his
present one having been dabbed in from _feeling_ in the last hurry
of sending in. Memo.: his garment to be a paler yellow. Four of
the other apostles require more _religious feeling_, which must be
done--William and Gabriel Rossetti in particular require veneration
to be added to them. The table-cloth will require alteration, and the
tiles of the floor. Health and spirits tolerable to-day, nerves quiet.
18th.--Worked from nine till half-past ten at the charcoal sketch of
_Beauty before she became acquainted with the Beast_. Read _Antony
and Cleopatra_ in bed this morning; found it more interesting than
ever, was deeply affected and strengthened; such is the effect of all
history-reading. The moral the play seems to imply, if any, is that
there is in shame and degradation a pitch than which self-inflicted
death is more to be tolerated. Pity when any one with modern notions
of the criminality of such act is driven to it. With poor Haydon it
was the only atonement he could make to humanity degraded in his
personal conduct. How can degraded things be still interesting?
20th.--Yesterday one of degrading idleness. Out for a longish walk
with Emma; came home tired, dejected, and nervous. Tried to work at
drawing of _Beauty_ for about one hour; contemptible state (three
hours). This morning have written notice of sending _Chaucer_, _King
Lear_, and _Christ_, to Paris (will the Committee permit!?!?)....
22nd.--Yesterday I worked at the little picture till six or
half-past; re-painted the child’s hands from the studies, and the
head from feeling; till I became thoroughly disgusted with the
work, as I have with the _Windermere_. Both are now put by till the
inspiration come on again. When nothing hurries, this is the best
plan....
This morning I felt incontrollably disgusted with everything; could
literally do nothing, not even summon energy to go into London; when
Emma started the bright idea that we should go to St. Alban’s. As
soon as dinner over we started on foot for Colney Hatch station....
The rail only goes to Hatfield, we found; but there, got a ride
on the top of the ’bus here, in the most lovely weather--Emma in
a state of buoyant enjoyment. We should have thought more of the
fields, no doubt, were we not so much used to them of late. However,
one field of turnips against the afternoon sky did surprise us into
exclamation, with its wonderful emerald tints. And then we passed
a strange sight; two tall chimneys standing separately in a small
space of ground (about a rod, I suppose); the rest covered with
black-looking rubbish, some of it smoking, some children looking
at it. This, the day before, had been a house, the home of a young
couple married some three months, the man a wheelwright. Fire
surprised them in bed the previous night, it would seem, and they had
to escape as they were, in their bed-clothes. And here lay all that
they possessed, flattened down into black ashes. I broke a tooth a
day or two ago, and the gap seemed for some days hard to reconcile
with my impressions of what forms ought to surround my tongue. If
so it is with the remains of a decayed tooth, the gap caused by
the loss of all one has must be harder still to realize at first.
However, they are young, and no life was lost; and, as the man is
not an artist, there is yet hope of prosperity in store for them.
And now we are at the _Peahen_, and Emma has just gone to bed, and I
am writing God knows to what purpose (but vanity). And we have spent
six shillings getting here, which is sheer madness in the present
state of our prospects; besides one bob wasted on a description of
the Abbey--certainly the silliest little book that fool ever penned,
the most complete do that ever I was subjected to; fifty pages of the
most complete vacuity that ever small-country-town-bred numbskull,
without a shade of learning, ingenuity, or imagination, could
possibly have put into circulation. And now to bed. Not even one line
of the Battles of St. Alban’s!
23rd.--We arose at twenty minutes past seven, and bullied the
chambermaid for not waking us,--at least I did. Breakfasted, and off
to the Abbey. Bill at the Peahen most gloriously small, by the way;
we expected at least sixteen shillings; it was only nine: bed one
and six, no wax lights. What meekness on the part of the woman of
the Peahen!--a woman keeps it. We paid one shilling for two tickets
to the Abbey; not to go up the tower, which would have been two
bob. Emma’s tender state made it a matter of prudence, more than
economy, not to go: and well we did not pay the other shilling, for
mark the sequel. We two (nothing buckram about us as yet) went, and
found ourselves opposed by one abbey-door which would not open; then
one rector’s maidservant came towards us two, and said that it did
not open till ten, and moreover that service began at half-past,
and that, if we wished to see the place, she had better go for the
verger. Well, we two, being there quite in the dark as to what all
this meant, naturally concluded that the rector, his maid, the
verger, and the whole conclave, were of a plot to rob us; so we
declined the offer, saying it was scandalous conduct, and that _we_
would go to the verger’s. So, having got there, a stout woman told us
plainly no verger should open the door before ten o’clock. So, seeing
there was no remedy, we wandered forth to spend the time somehow: and
at ten we got in, bullied the verger--who confessed they had been
shown up but a short while before in the papers. I of course promised
a most venomous letter to _The Times_: but somehow, looking over
these workings-up and scrapings-down of so many centuries, our little
tiff about half an hour was forgotten, and, before we saw half the
wonders of the place, we were excellent friends. However venerable
masonry many hundred years old may look--be it free-stone or rubble,
plaster or Roman tile--somehow the stones of then are like the stones
of now, only a little time-eaten; but there was a thigh-bone and
skull belonging to the good Duke Humphrey that seemed to me more
speaking in its age than all the rest. It might have been any one
else for all we could tell, but we took it on trust: and there, good
Heavens! is part of the man we read of in history, who was too good
for this country 400 years ago, who was therefore got rid of, and the
Duchess made to walk in her shift--a great-grandson of Edward III.,
brother to Henry V., Protector of England, and an honest man; and it
is not a dream, for this is his thigh-bone. This is more interesting
than stones and mortar after all. How I could have wished for a
little more of the same! but no. Next in interest were puritanical
mutilations, comical in their consistancy but lifelike.[83] I had
been here with Mark Anthony some years ago, so it was not new.--Back
to Hatfield; ruins still smouldering, but cold in interest already.
Rail to Barnet, walk home. Lazy, sad, nervous again; hopes gone,
unspeakably flown. Onions for supper. Stupid state. The trip in all
cost £1. 6s. 6d. Sheer madness--but _que voulez vous?_ the thing is
done.
26th.--I hope I shall keep this one[84] more regularly up than
hitherto. Having now recommenced, I must be in earnest, one would
think, after such a pause. Should every one keep a record of his
daily acts and sentiments, the history of the world would be made
out in a way that no historian could distort. However illiberal or
enthusiastic in his nature, however stupid a man might be, could he
be persuaded to set down what he thought or did, something would
accrue from it. To judge by myself, however, many would have day
after day to record blank. I have had a trouble to remember if it is
one or two days that I have omitted to fill in, for want of a book;
and, now I know it to be two, I can remember yesterday but not the
one before. I know them both to have been idle ones. A loathing of
my vocation has seized me. I must rest. Work, work, work for ever
muddles a man’s brain, and mine at times is none of the clearest.
What have I done to-day? Worked in the garden, and weeded the back
yard. Yesterday I turned a servant out of doors.... About this
girl turned out of doors, let me record the fact; and, if wrong,
so confess, if not atone. We took her from Barnet Union; she was
hard-working and reasonably good in her behaviour. But she seemed to
be cursed with the devil’s own temper, which made her incontrollably
surly at times, also at times insufferably insolent.... Yesterday we
were going into London, and she was to take Katty for a walk while we
were absent. On account of the cholera now everywhere, I cautioned
her not to take the child into any house. She answered, “I won’t take
the child out at all.” She stuck to this; I to the fact that servants
must do what they are told, or leave. She was obstinate; I told her
she should leave the house that minute.... Before one she was gone.
I gave her wages up to the day, and one month clear; so she went off
with 12s. 6d. Her wages were £5 a year, everything found her. If this
is poor wages for a girl, I myself am very poor, and cannot help it.
She had a good place in all except wages, but wanted sense to keep
it. Where she is gone I know not. And now for my share. Was I right?
Custom says yes--conscience says no. Discretion says, “What would
it have come to at last, had you put up with such rebellion in one
instance?” Charity says: “Better put up with it a dozen times than
turn a poor girl out, because she is a fool by nature, with 12s. 6d.
in her pocket.” I feel like a scoundrel. Yet it was her own fault--I
was not even cross with her to draw forth her insolence. I don’t know
what to think of it; I must endeavour to forbear passion in future
and all haste. Had I not been angered, I might have found some way to
adjust matters without proceeding to extremities....
28th.--I went into London early, walking to Hampstead. Called on old
White, a serious too-long-deferred visit. He says he’ll come and buy
the _Lady of Saturday Night_ Cartoon for £20. This will save our
bacon for a little while longer; I do begin to think that the run of
ill-luck is out for this time, and that good will continue to be the
order. Saw there Etty’s _Robinson Crusoe_, one of his four or five
really fine works. Saw a little picture of Millais’ quite recent--a
waterfall with a little lady and gent, and a child in the background.
The figures very pretty. The foliage and foreground icy cold and raw
in colour; the greens unripe enough to cause indigestion.... Thence
to see Cave Thomas. He showed me a study of a Russian Merchant that
quite astonished me, a most noble painting, equal to anything modern
or ancient. Thomas will paint great works yet, I now am convinced.
Afterwards dined at Tom’s Coffee House, then Blackfriars.[85]
Rossetti out, so I came home very tired and exhausted, and did not
work yesterday in consequence, but lay the greater part of the day
on the sofa in a state of fish out of water. The new servant came on
Monday; promises well; splendid black eyes and brows, and colour to
paint. To-day I have been industrious, and hope to remain so for a
time. Heat still intense.
1st September.--Out by quarter to eight to examine the river Brent
at Hendon; a mere brooklet, running in most dainty sinuosity under
overshadowing oaks and all manner of leafiness. Many beauties, and
hard to choose amongst, for I had determined to make a little picture
of it. However, Nature, that at first sight appears so lovely, is on
consideration almost always incomplete; moreover there is no painting
intertangled foliage without losing half its beauties. If imitated
exactly, it can only be done as seen from one eye, and quite flat and
confused therefore.... Set to work on the female head of the Emigrant
picture from Emma, a complete portrait....
2nd.--... Out by half-past nine to the river Brent; after trouble,
selected the place, and began work at quarter past one....
On Sunday I began work about half-past eleven; scraped out the head
of the man in the Emigrant picture, because it had cracked all over.
This is the first time a head has ever served me so--three days’ work
gone smash because of the cursed zinc white I laid over the ground.
The female head has healed. Drew-in the man again, and worked at the
expression of the female till half-past six....
Monday.--Up late, shower-bath--to work at Brent by ten till half-past
one,--dinner and sleepy. About three out to a field, to begin the
outline of a small landscape. Found it of surpassing loveliness.
Corn-shocks in long perspective form, hayricks, and steeple seen
between them--foreground of turnips--blue sky and afternoon sun. By
the time I had drawn-in the outline they had carted half my wheat: by
to-day all I had drawn-in was gone. At night, _Beauty_, till eleven.
This morning up late.... After dinner, contrived an apparatus for
slinging my work round my neck while at painting. Set off with it;
began a little landscape in a hurry and fluster--attempting to paint
corn-sheaves and cart while they are going; I fear it will not repay
the trouble, for I cannot paint in a hurry....
Sunday.--... Cholera all round. Worked all day at sketching the
charcoal of _Beauty_; twice missed it, at last all right. About 4
p.m. set some accessories, and drew them in this evening: at it for
about two hours; all well yet (five hours). On last Friday, some
frames came home; and I passed the evening in great glee, putting-in
the pictures--all old rubbishing things saved to sell to the dealers
or others. The study for _Waiting_ finished into a picture. The
study of a little girl’s head, painted in two views at Southend in
’46 on a table napkin, now lined and re-touched. The drawing for the
Emigrants, and the charcoal of _Beauty_.
12th September.--yesterday.... To work at the Brent by 11 a.m. Emma
and the child brought me my dinner there at two, in a little basket.
Hot hashed mutton and potatoes in a basin, cold rice pudding, and
a little bottle of rum and water, beer being bad for cholera. Very
delightful and very great appetite.... This evening worked at the
kitten in _Beauty_, for which Emma and I went out after dark and
stole one yesterday. White cometh not; only £5 in the money-box. This
is all till the quarter’s rent of the wharf comes in, £26, not for
five or six weeks yet. What to be done I scarce know. I ought to go
and take Lucy a pound’s worth of things, and can’t. I ought to buy
shoes, and can’t. We ought to send money to Emma’s mother. To-morrow
Emma means to send her a parcel of things by the carrier, with five
bob as a breather. This is all can be done just at present (seven and
a-half hours).
14th.--Yesterday up at eight.... This morning up at half-past
eight.... Rain all day; so worked at the confounded charcoal of
_Beauty_, which seems as though it never could get done. No doubt
people would accuse me of folly for wasting so much time over it,
but work to the best of one’s power is never wasted. I am true to
my intention of finishing everything I have begun, to the best of
my power; and moreover whatever an artist works at with pleasure to
himself must be good if he is worth anything. It is near done, thank
goodness; and the figure and face of _Beauty_ pleases me, though I
shall not paint the picture. The idea is now safe and intelligible.
I intend it for what the story is--a jumble of Louis XV. and
Orientalism. The glories of Eastern luxuriance mixed with household
common appurtenances to tickle the fancy at both ends; nothing
serious, yet nothing without purpose. Works of this kind should be
intentionally full of anachronisms: to endeavour after unity is to
injure the subject and not illustrate it (ten and a-half hours).
15th.--... Set to work at _Beauty_, from eight till eleven--scraped
out puss, and put in one with a more satisfactory _miow_, finished it
all over, but the general effect is spotty, so must work over it yet
(seven and a-half hours).
17th.--Sunday.... Found the charcoal of _Beauty_ quite spoiled
through my having wet it to fix it, not understanding the steaming
process--it is all cockled. To-morrow I must iron it out, and make
hot cockles of it, if nothing better.... After dinner we went as
far as Mill Hill with the maid and child, and at dusk had tea in
some gardens there, and so home; not an aristocratic proceeding, but
pleasant and healthful. The scenery is very beautiful and paintable
about this part, and I suppose the finest round London. One bit in
particular pleased us. It was looking down from a hill; in a deep
hollow, surrounded on all sides by beautiful trees, lay part of a
road already small by the perspective; through the foliage at the
top in the extreme distance was Hendon church. With large foreground
figures on the hill in front, it would have made a most admirable
picture for perspective depth. Everything alas! cannot be painted,
however.... In the evening I worked at _Beauty_. Finished it, and
then spoiled it again through wetting it at the back; but a work of
art is never spoiled, it can be done again (eight hours).
18th.--... In the evening ironed out _Beauty_, but with no good
effect; so had paste made, and, stretching a clean sheet of paper,
pasted it down (eight hours).
19th.--Rain; so had out the picture of _The Last of England_, and
scraped at the head of the female: afterwards worked at it two hours
without model, and four hours with, using zinc white. Afterwards
re-touched _Beauty_, which with constant wetting was much blurred. In
the evening fixed it in frame, lettered it, and pasted loose drawing
in my big book (seven and a-half hours).