BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLVII. NOVEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
CONTENTS.
HAYDON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 519
BRUTE LIFE IN THE ALPINE REGIONS, 539
THE ROMANS IN SCOTLAND, 557
ATHENS IN 1853, 569
A FEW MORE WORDS ON UNIVERSITY REFORM, 583
OUR COMMISSIONER IN PARIS, 595
THE NARCOTICS WE INDULGE IN.—PART II., 605
POEMS, BY H. G. K., 629
A FEW FACTS CONCERNING THE TURKISH QUESTION, 633
* * * * *
EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET; AND 37 PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON.
_To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed._
SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.
BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCCLVII. NOVEMBER, 1853. VOL. LXXIV.
HAYDON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[1]
We fear that, of late, there has been considerable deterioration in the
tone of contemporary criticism. Works which, in themselves, contain
nothing either interesting or memorable, have been puffed into notice on
account of the celebrity of the editorial accoucheur, or the former
reputation of the party to whom they more particularly refer. Others,
which set nature, truth, and common-sense at defiance, and which are,
both in conception and composition, extravagant and absurd, are lauded
to the skies as the productions of great and commanding genius.
Belonging to the former class are the Memoirs, Journal, and
Correspondence of Thomas Moore, to which Lord John Russell, actuated no
doubt by the most pious and praiseworthy motives, has consented to
appear as sponsor. Anything less interesting than the Memoirs, more
weakly gossiping than the Journal, and more deplorably dull than the
Correspondence of the Bard of Erin, it would be difficult for the
imagination of man to conceive; and yet for a time, and until the work
got into circulation, there was no limit to the roaring of the laudatory
bellows. Belonging to the latter class are sundry works of fiction, of
which the present season has produced a remarkably contemptible crop.
Journals of some pretension have not hesitated—from what motive we shall
not inquire—to characterise the silliest of these as among the most
truthful, eloquent, and interesting publications of the year. Few can
have forgotten the shout of exultation with which Lord Holland’s
Reminiscences were hailed by a certain section of the press, and the
persevering attempt to cram down the public throat that farrago of
imbecility and scandal. Even in the domain of poetry, fustian has been
mistaken for inspiration; and the crude fancies of a whimsical brain
have been represented as the noblest efforts of sublime and godlike
genius.
This tendency towards undue and extravagant laudation may perhaps in
some degree be accounted for by the paucity of new works of merit.
Certainly there has been very little of late in the productions of the
press to stimulate curiosity or excite interest; and the critics, who
are in the main endowed with a much larger share of good-nature than
they receive credit for, grow weary of snarling, and, in the absence of
better material, take to praising books which, in better and more
fruitful times, they would unhesitatingly have condemned. The error is
on the gentle side, and we cannot harshly condemn it. But, on the other
hand, we now and then meet with remarkable instances of neglect. Judging
from the notices which we have seen in various literary journals, and
the slight and almost supercilious tone of their commentaries, we are
led to believe that the work presently before us—the autobiography of
Haydon the painter—has not as yet received, at the hands of the critics,
the full measure of consideration. Works of this kind are not to be
judged by strictly artistic rules. It is impossible that a diary,
extending over the period of many years—indeed the active part of a
lifetime—and faithfully chronicling the thoughts, deeds, and struggles
of the writer, should be otherwise than unequal in its interest. In the
career of all men there are elevations and depressions—fits of energy
and times of carelessness—high aims and humble objects—alternations of
triumph and despair. Sometimes we are inclined to smile at the eagerness
displayed in the pursuit of a phantom; sometimes we are moved to tears
by the cry of agony wrung from a disappointed spirit. Sunshine and
shadow, calm and tempest—these follow each other in the life of man as
certainly as in external nature; and sometimes, even when the clouds are
at the darkest, a gleam comes athwart the mass to light up the glories
of the rainbow. The value of an autobiography is its truth. If it has
been written, not for the purpose of giving a true impression of thought
or a just portraiture of self, but for posthumous exhibition, in order
that men may know the altitude of him who wrote it, vanity is almost
sure to assume the place of truth, and the picture, however skilfully
designed, has small resemblance to the original. The author, in
designing his own mausoleum, forgets the rules of proportion, and over
the remains of an ordinary mortal would construct the pyramid of a king.
If, on the other hand, it be a genuine chronicle, in which thoughts are
entered and deeds described irrespective of all considerations as to
after judgment or approval, we have indeed a record over which it is
salutary to ponder. For, not only in his strength, but in his weakness
also, is the man confessed; and which of us, looking to himself, can
deny that in weakness rather than in strength is the true character
revealed? What need we care for journals compiled purposely to show that
the writer has, in his own day, mingled on easy terms with the great and
illustrious of this world—that he has dined with a duke, was on intimate
terms with an earl, and has heard from the lips of beauty the warmest
encomiums on his genius? Alas for the little vanity that can see, in
such things as these, a passport to posthumous consideration! Is Virgil
remembered through his works, or through the reflected credit of his
having been the favourite of Mæcenas? Would Shakespeare even have been
heard of as the friend of Lord Southampton, without his immortal legacy?
No. The way to the Temple of Fame does not lie through Holland House,
Woburn Abbey, Bowood, or any other seat of titled hospitality. No man
can cheat posterity into the belief that he was really great, by
registering the blandishments of society, however these may have
convinced himself of the extraordinary range of his genius. We can give
but a passing regard to the eccentric flitting of the butterfly.
Read Moore’s Journal, and then tell us what matter of interest you have
found—what lesson of value you have received? Of _bons mots_ and
anecdotes current among the loungers of society, there are a few good,
many indifferent, and a multitude heinously bad. There are notes of
balls and dinners, tavern bills, Tivoli amusements, and theatrical
small-talk—numerous instances of fulsome compliment addressed to the
author, and apparently received by him as genuine without hesitation—the
contents of Falstaff’s pocket with scarce a scintillation of his wit.
But where are the notices of the serious struggle of life—where the
aspirations of high genius elaborately working out its aims—where the
traces of that self-denial and energy without which even the choicest
gifts of genius are vouchsafed in vain? Of these there is no vestige. We
are indeed very sorry that such a book has been given to the world; for,
while it tends to lower greatly, in the estimation of all thinking men,
the character of one who was at least a sparkling poet, it conveys a
false impression of life, and we believe was intended to do so.
Most unlike the flippant journals of Moore is the stern autobiography of
Haydon. No matter what judgment may be passed upon the rashness,
imprudence, inconsistencies, or even follies of the man, these volumes
contain as true a record of the struggles of a life as ever yet was
exposed to the public view. In them there is nothing concealed, nothing
falsified. Haydon never set down a word, which he did not believe to be
true, nor ever forged a sentiment in order that it might raise him in
the world’s esteem. Doubtless he expected—for an inordinate estimation
of his own importance in regard to his art was his foible—that these
volumes would hereafter be perused by many an aspirant after fame; but
we can nowhere trace any indication of their being otherwise than a
faithful transcript of his thoughts. Over and over again we find him
referring to former entries—blaming himself for having entertained too
rash an impression, or retracting some accusation set down in an
irritated moment—but never do we perceive him engaged in framing an
imposture for posterity. The hopes and the disappointments, the success
and the failure of each day and of each scheme, are chronicled with a
minuteness which gives decisive evidence of their truth; and we hesitate
not to say that, within the compass of these volumes—most ably edited
and arranged by Mr Taylor—is expressed a deeper tragedy than any which
has been shadowed on the stage. It is a work that ought to be studied,
not for its artistic but for its practical lesson, by every student of
art, whether his implement be the brush, the chisel, or the pen; and,
although poor Haydon would have revolted from the thought, it is
nevertheless true that he is more likely to be known to posterity on
account of this expressive journal of his, than from all the yards of
canvass that he covered with his historical compositions.
The story of Haydon is indeed a sad one, though by no means without its
parallels. Nature designed him to be a painter, and, as is customary in
such cases, he overcame at an early age the parental opposition, and
enlisted himself as a child of art. In this commercial and money-seeking
country of ours, parents very often take upon themselves to decide the
future destiny of their children without any regard to the peculiar
direction of their talents or bent of their inclination. Nothing is more
common than to hear elderly men, connected with trade or manufactures,
complain that gross injustice was practised towards them in their
boyhood, and that, if they had been allowed to take their own way, they
would, to a certainty, have become shining lights of art, literature, or
science, instead of having simply made their fortunes by attending to
foreign exportation. We confess that we always listen to such murmurs
without an atom of sympathy. We don’t believe that the gentleman who has
just cleared ten thousand pounds by a lucky consignment to Australia,
could ever have written a stanza worthy of a reviewer’s scalpel, or that
the wholesale fabricator of calico could by any effort have painted a
picture which the easiest Boniface would have hoisted as a signboard
attractive to his hostelry. We are inclined to hold that, in the great
majority of cases, the parental judgment is correct, and the influence
legitimately exercised. Were it not so, the stage would be inundated
with recruits; and the attainment of the part of Romeo (whenever there
was a good-looking Juliet) be an object of ambition, perhaps at the risk
of bloodshed. Even among the Anglo-Saxons, practical as they may call
themselves, there is, in early youth, a considerable feeling of romance;
and no boy would willingly devote himself to a perch on a three-legged
stool if he saw a reasonable prospect of achieving fame or independence
otherwise. For our own part, we believe that the annual sacrifice of
talent is very small, and that, of genius infinitesimally less. For,
where true genius exists, it is irrepressible. Let parents strive as
they may, they cannot extinguish the flame in one who is a poet born. No
adverse circumstances, no accumulation of distasteful labour will put it
out—it is like the fire which the Ghebirs adore—stop it up at one place,
and it is sure to break forth at another. So with the genuine painter.
Bind him apprentice to an attorney, and his art breaks out on the
blotting-sheet—try to make a mechanic of him, and the walls are defiled
with charcoal. Mere talent may succumb: genius never does. And very
often men of genius have, through being thwarted in the earlier part of
their career, and through subjection to a training altogether alien from
their fancy, received most wholesome lessons and impressions which
afterwards have been of signal benefit. Haydon, we suspect, obtained his
liberty too early. A few years of servitude might have been of great use
in the way of teaching him prudence, and as a corrective against
rashness, impetuosity, and defiance. They might, at any rate, have
tended to lessen his overweening confidence in his own ability, and have
sent him better prepared to woo fortune in that particular walk for
which he certainly was designed. But, from the very first, he was
opinionative, self-willed, and impatient of restraint. An accidental
perusal of Reynolds’s Discourses seems to have strengthened his
hankering after art into an inflexible resolution to pursue it. He
says—“I read one. It placed so much reliance on honest industry; it
expressed so strong a conviction that all men were equal, and that
application made the difference, that I fired up at once. I took them
all home, and read them through before breakfast the next morning. The
thing was done. I felt my destiny fixed. The spark which had for years
lain struggling to blaze, now burst out for ever.” At this time Haydon
could not have been much above eighteen. His father, a respectable
tradesman in Plymouth, but by no means opulent in his circumstances,
made the usual remonstrances, and he was further assailed by his mother
with every argument which love and anxiety could suggest. Nothing,
however, would serve young Benjamin but an immediate removal to London,
where, uncontrolled, he might work out the plans which he had conceived
for the future, and devote himself thoroughly and entirely to the study
of art, in what he conceived to be the highest walk. Haydon had no
notion whatever of intellectual progression, and therefore fell into the
error committed by many artists and writers, who, not content with
gradual advancement, strive to anticipate their time. For
portrait-painting—undoubtedly the most lucrative department of his
profession, and a very high one, as is testified by the masterpieces of
Vandyke, Velasquez, Titian, and Rembrandt, besides a host of later
distinguished painters—he entertained an intense contempt. Utterly
destitute of worldly prudence, and reckless to a culpable degree in
pecuniary matters, he could not be brought to understand that the first
duty of every man, whether gifted with genius or not, is to labour for
his livelihood, and to avail himself, for that purpose, of all the means
within his power. To the end of his days Haydon never understood this.
He seemed to think that the possession of genius gave him an absolute
claim upon the purses of the opulent; and that they were, if not
legally, at all events morally bound to come forward and buy his
pictures whether they wanted them or not. Be it remembered that a
picture by Haydon was no trifle, nor adapted for the capacity of every
drawing-room. Here is his own account of his system and method, in
connection with his picture of the “Raising of Lazarus.”
“I always filled my painting-room to its full extent; and had I
possessed a room 400 feet long, 200 feet high, and 400 feet wide, I
would have ordered a canvass 199–6 long by 199–6 high, and so have
been encumbered for want of room, as if it had been my pleasure to be
so. My room was 30 feet long, 20 wide, 15 high. So I ordered a canvass
19 long by 15 high, and dashed in my conception, the Christ being 9
feet high. This was a size and a subject which I loved to my very
marrow.”
No wonder that with these views he was doomed to repeated
disappointment—that Lady Beaumont objected to the purchase of his
“Macbeth” because “we have no room”—and that, on another occasion, when
a gentleman had offered six hundred guineas for the “Judgment of
Solomon,” (12 feet 10 inches by 10 feet 10 inches) his lady said, “But,
my dear, where am I to put my piano?” And that bargain was at an end. By
making his pictures utterly disproportionate to the size of ordinary
dwelling-houses, Haydon, as a matter of course, deprived himself of the
chance of disposing of his pictures to that very numerous and opulent
class of persons who are sincerely attached to art, and willing to buy
its choicest productions on a moderate scale. People will not build
houses for pictures. They want pictures that will suit their rooms, and,
if artists will be foolish enough to expand their ideas over whole
acres, they must necessarily pay the penalty of their folly. Large art
is not high art, nor is it necessary for sublimity to expand the human
figure into the colossal dimensions of a giant. But more of this
hereafter. On his arrival in London, Haydon waited upon Northcote,
likewise a Plymouth man, with a letter of introduction.
“I went. He lived at 39 Argyle Street. I was shown first into a dirty
gallery, then up-stairs into a dirtier painting-room, and there, under
a high window with the light shining full on his bald grey head, stood
a diminutive wizened figure in an old blue striped dressing-gown, his
spectacles pushed up on his forehead. Looking keenly at me with his
little shining eyes, he opened the letter, read it, and, with the
broadest Devon dialect, said, ‘Zo, you mayne tu bee a peinter
doo-ee?—what zort of peinter?’ ‘Historical painter, sir.’
‘Heestoricaul peinter! why, yee’ll starve with a bundle of straw under
yeer head!’
“‘I zee,’ he added, ‘Mr Hoare zays you’re studying anatomy; that’s no
use. Sir Joshua didn’t know it; why should you want to know what he
didn’t?’ ‘But Michael Angelo did, sir.’ ‘Michael Angelo! What’s he tu
du here? you must peint portraits here!’ This roused me, and I said,
clinching my mouth, ‘But I won’t.’ ‘Won’t?’ screamed the little man,
‘but you _must_! your vather isn’t a monied man, is he?’ ‘No, sir; but
he has a good income, and will maintain me for three years.’ ‘Will he?
hee’d better make ’ee mainteen yeezelf!’ A beautiful specimen of a
brother artist, thought I. ‘Shall I bring you my drawings, sir?’ ‘Ees,
you may,’ said he, and I took my leave.”
Ten thousand pities for Haydon that he did not take Northcote’s words to
heart. By laying himself out for portrait painting, at least for a time,
and studying the essentials, Haydon would have acquired more rapidly
than in any other manner the mechanical portion of his art, and probably
would have been gradually weaned from that extravagance of manner which
disfigured many of his most ambitious works. He might also have learned
independence, which, under his circumstances, was a duty, and so have
early avoided the fatal habit of looking to others for support. Fuseli
gave him worse counsel, and confirmed him in his resolution to adhere to
what is, absurdly enough, denominated the “Grand Style.”
Whilst drawing as a student at the Academy, he became intimate with
Wilkie, then just entering on his career of fame. They were marked
contrasts to each other both in theory and conduct. Haydon was all for
the grand style; Wilkie for the familiar. The one was disputatious and
combative; the other gentle and submissive. The former was reckless as
to means; the latter careful and provident. And yet, notwithstanding
these discrepancies, Haydon was probably more attached to Wilkie than to
any other person in the world. They entered life together, they worked
together, and they gloried in each others’ early triumphs; nor, as is
too often the case, was their friendship ever obliterated. It is true
that throughout Haydon’s journals there are scattered gibes at the
worldly-wisdom, and sneers at the timidity of his friend—hints at
occasional coolness, and complaints of national parsimony; and several
times there are indications of a little jealousy, not unnatural from a
man whose temper had been tried by frequent and sore disappointment. But
for all that, it is plain that Haydon really loved his early
fellow-student. Apparently, for a time, there was estrangement and
coolness, but never entire separation; and when Wilkie died, no one
mourned for him more sincerely and deeply than did Haydon. The entries
in his journal for 1841, the year of Wilkie’s death, are most affecting;
and perhaps it would be impossible to give a better idea of the man,
than by transcribing the following passage:—
“_May 15th._—I dreamt I was sleeping in the tombs of the kings at
Jerusalem, and awoke in a wild confusion, and thought, in the dim
twilight of daybreak, the arch of my bed was the cold cave. Poor
Wilkie! he seemed to look on me, and to say, ‘Did I ever give you
cause of offence? Did I not bear and forbear? Did I not assist you
with money? Was not our friendship unalloyed until you tried to
destroy the Institute in which you were brought up? When did I leave
you? Did I not enjoy your genius—bear testimony to your great talents?
My character was different from yours. You have no right to reproach
me for not being willing to go to the extremes of your hatred, and
involve myself in suspicions which I did not deserve. No, my dear
Haydon, I loved you as much as, nay more than, any man; and while we
entertained the same views, saw each other daily, and pursued the same
objects, nothing disturbed our happiness. When you did not fear
ill-usage as I did; when worse treatment afflicted and nearly
destroyed me, you ought not to blame me for wishing for that peace so
natural to my nature?’
“This passed through my imagination as I lay dosing; and I hugged my
pillow, and seemed to wish never again to wake.
“‘But,’ I replied, ‘you were a slave to the great and the world. You
feared to show regard to a man the world had deserted. You shrank from
an ardent heart, whose only fault was its excess of affection,’” &c.
And so on; rather, as is evident, for the purpose of excusing to himself
what share he might have had in their estrangement, than of reviving
past ground of offence. But again and again he breaks out into a cry of
lamentation, as if thenceforward for him there would be less of sunshine
on the world.
But perhaps we anticipate too much. Wilkie, who had the start of his
friend by dint of previous study in Edinburgh, rapidly rose into notice.
In 1806 he received no less than three commissions for the “Village
Politicians,” “The Blind Fiddler,” and “The Rent Day”—was patronised by
Lords Mansfield and Mulgrave, and by Sir George Beaumont—and, in short,
became a lion. Haydon all this while was drawing and studying anatomy
under the late Sir Charles Bell, who was then laying the foundation of
his future distinction. From these lectures and expositions he received
much practical benefit.
His first picture, “Joseph and Mary resting on their way to Egypt,”
which was exhibited in 1807, does not seem to have been very successful,
and cost him enormous labour from his inexperience and ignorance of
vehicle. But, through Wilkie, he became acquainted with the Beaumonts
and Lord Mulgrave; was invited as a guest to their tables; and
occasionally, by way of signifying his independence, waxed contradictory
and argumentative, and made himself disagreeable. At no time of his life
was Haydon qualified to shine in society. Imbued with vanity, he was
never satisfied unless allowed to play the first fiddle, and even then
he wished to concentrate the whole orchestra in himself. In a young man,
who had seen nothing whatever of the world, this egotism was peculiarly
offensive; and it is highly creditable to the good-nature and
forbearance of his early patrons, that they overlooked his impertinence,
and did not withdraw their encouragement. One or two commissions he
received, and in 1810 gained the prize of one hundred guineas offered by
the directors of the British Gallery for the best historical picture.
That which he sent in was the “Dentatus,” already painted for Lord
Mulgrave.
By this time Haydon was twenty-four. He had made a great stride in art
by studying and drawing from the Elgin marbles, which had just come to
this country, and which, to his credit, he was the first to appreciate.
This made him a master of form and proportion, the qualities in which he
excelled—grouping, expression, and fine harmonious colouring were those
in which he was deficient. Hitherto he had been supported by his father,
but now came his trials. That resource was withdrawn. It is but justice
to Haydon’s memory to say that he does not appear to have been
extravagant, or to have been addicted to the pursuit of pleasure. His
life was remarkably pure and blameless, and he did not squander money
upon mere sensual gratifications. But he grudged no expense for the
purposes of art. His extravagance lay in models, which he cast and drew
with an enthusiasm which is almost ludicrous—in a huge painting-room,
and such like. He had no capital to start with; and, as he would paint
neither portraits nor small pictures, he was forced to depend upon the
doubtful success of immense historical pieces, which, in this country,
have never found a ready sale. Then he had already quarrelled with the
Academy on the old ground of injustice in the hanging of his pictures.
It is the stock complaint of young artists; but it is to be hoped that
the majority of those to come will behave more temperately than Haydon,
and take warning by his example. His note, referring to this period, is
valuable.
“This year (1810) might be considered as the beginning of those
painful contests which have tormented my life for so many years. I was
not independent, and had my fortune to get like Wilkie, who was at one
time, I think, almost as fierce as myself; but the first blow Wilkie
got, his sagacity showed him the power of his rivals, and he sunk down
in submission, whilst my blood rose like a fountain. I returned, with
all my might, blow for blow, and heated a furnace for my foe so hot,
that I singed myself, reckless of consequences.
“All my youthful readers will say, ‘you were right.’ No, my young
friends, I was not right; because I brought useless obstructions in my
path, which, though they did not entirely prevent the development of
my genius, brought it out in such agonising distresses, as will make
you wonder, as you proceed, that I did not go raving mad; though, from
the state of ignorance existing as to the value of High Art, I
question whether, if I had been as quiet as a kitten, or more abject
than Wilkie, the result would not have been just the same; _whereas,
by the eternal uproar I made, I indisputably kept alive the public
attention_.”
Rather paradoxical this! A confession of error, and a vindication of it
in the same sentence. The truth is, Haydon’s combativeness was so
largely developed, that under no possible circumstances could he have
remained at peace.
He had begun by squabbling with the Academy, and he now squabbled with
Sir George Beaumont, the first man of influence who had taken him by the
hand, about “Macbeth.” The result was, that the picture was thrown on
his hands, Haydon being at this time beyond £600 in debt. To his great
misfortune, he had become intimately acquainted with Mr Leigh Hunt, then
editor of the _Examiner_, a journal which then owed its reputation
entirely to the catholicity of its abuse, from which, as now, the realms
of Cockneydom were alone excepted. Haydon was exceedingly imprudent in
having associated himself with such company, and afterwards acknowledged
it, as the following extract will show:—
“Exasperated by the neglect of my family, tormented by the
consciousness of debt, cut to the heart by the cruelty of Sir George,
fearful of the severity of my landlord, and enraged at the insults
from the Academy, I became furious. An attack on the Academy and its
abominations darted into my head. I began by refuting an article by
Payne Knight, on Barry, in the _Edinburgh Review_, which came out in
the previous year. Sitting down one evening, I wrote on all night, and
by morning I had completed my exposure for the _Examiner_, and walked
about the room as if revenged and better.
“To expose the ignorance of a powerful patron (thus offending the
patrons) and to attack the Academy (thus insuring an alliance of the
academicians with the patrons) would have been at any time the worst
and most impolitic thing on earth. I should have worked away and been
quiet. My picture rose very high, and was praised. The conduct of Sir
George was severely handled. People of fashion were beginning to feel
sympathy. In fact, had I been quiet, my picture would have sold, the
prize of three hundred guineas would have been won, and, in a short
time, I might, in some degree, have recovered the shock his caprice
had inflicted.
“But no. I was unmanageable. The idea of being a Luther or John Knox
in art got the better of my reason. Leigh Hunt encouraged my feelings,
and without reflection, and in spite of Wilkie’s entreaties, I
resolved to assault. ‘Hunt,’ said Wilkie, ‘gets his living by such
things; you will lose all chance of it. It is all very fine to be a
reformer; but be one with your pencil and not with your pen!’”
Sounder advice could not have been given; but the _rabies_ was upon
Haydon, and he would not listen. First appeared the attack upon Payne
Knight—next that on the Academy. Very improperly, as it appears to us,
John Hunt, the brother of Leigh, on being questioned, divulged the name
of the writer. Haydon tells the consequences.
“From this moment the destiny of my life may be said to have changed.
My picture was caricatured, my name detested, my peace harassed; so
great was the indignation at my impertinence that all merit was denied
to ‘Macbeth.’
“West went down and did his best as president to damn the picture
before a crowded room. Sir George was at once praised for his
resistance to my insolent attempt to force on him a picture he, in
fact, never ordered (it was said); and no excuse or palliation for me,
either in the case of Sir George or the Academy, was listened to for a
moment. I was looked at like a monster, abused like a plague, and
avoided like a maniac.”
There is, of course, an immense deal of exaggeration in this. Haydon was
not quite so formidable as he evidently wishes us to believe; neither
were shafts from such a quiver armed with so formidable a barb. But he
certainly did enough to make himself unpopular with the Academy, and to
alienate those who, up to that time, had shown the warmest disposition
to befriend him. Wilkie, whose name he had very improperly introduced in
his diatribes, as one equally injured with himself, wrote him a most
sensible, kind, and affectionate letter, which terminated thus:—
“You have certainly got plenty of work on your shoulders, and I should
advise you to get out of it in the best way you can. But is this the
way an artist should be engaged? Why not follow up the reputation your
painting might gain you, and let that carry you through? It will
lessen the respect people would have for your talents as a painter,
when they find them employed disputing in a newspaper.
“I shall be miserable till I hear that you are going on with your
picture—I shall then be assured that you have regained your peace of
mind.”
Wilkie might have spared himself the trouble. Haydon had now convinced
himself that he was a deeply injured man, had thrown down the gauntlet
of defiance, and begun to write. His notion evidently was that he had
made the whole of the Academicians his enemies for life.
How stood the fact? This escapade of his occurred in 1812, and
immediately afterwards he began to paint the “Judgment of Solomon.” He
was awfully in debt, which was constantly increasing, and at last we
find him in perfect despair for a dinner. The kind-hearted owner of an
eating-house, where he had dined for years, allowed him to run a score;
and his landlord consented to wait for better times. It is a curious
feature in human life that indulgences, so given, rarely stimulate to
exertion. Haydon seems to have considered them as the proper
acknowledgments of his genius, and to have idled more than he ever
formerly had done. He got, too, into some sort of entanglement with “an
infernal woman,” which seems to have caused him needless remorse, since
he says, he “came off, thank God, without actual falling;” but possibly
he may have committed himself unwarily, through the new habit,
unfortunately acquired, of writing letters for the _Examiner_. He was
then in the country; but, returning to London, he appears to have worked
lazily, and for many months to have been in great distress, without
credit anywhere, except for food and lodging. His new friends, Leigh and
John Hunt, were then imprisoned for their libel on the Prince of Wales,
and he had no one to apply to. He was very indolent, studying Italian
when he should have been painting, and then chronicling his defalcations
in his journal, without any visible effort at amendment. At last, in
1814, his position became desperate. From Hilton, an old fellow-student
of his, he borrowed a considerable sum; but this would not suffice, and,
just as his eyesight was failing, from inanition as he says, West, the
President of the Academy, whom he had attacked, came in to his
assistance. Although straightened in his own means, West sent him £15,
an act of kindness which Haydon, indeed, acknowledges to have been
“noble,” but which does not seem in the least degree to have modified
his belief in the unrelenting persecution of the Academy. Men of letters
and artists are strangely liable to this sort of delusion. Starting with
an exaggerated view of their own importance, they regard criticism as
the result of a deliberate conspiracy to put them down. They are such
consummate gluttons of praise that they construe everything like censure
into the outpouring of diabolical malignity. Certainly up to this time
it does not appear that Haydon had suffered anything at the hands of the
Academicians. If jealousy in any quarter prevailed, he had himself to
blame as the aggressor; but there is not, in these journals, a scrap of
evidence that the leading artists regarded him otherwise than with
forbearance and compassion.
At length his picture was finished, but he would not exhibit it at the
Academy. He sent it to the Water-Colour Society, which then admitted
pictures, and it proved entirely successful. The “Judgment of Solomon”
is generally considered as the best of Haydon’s paintings; it was again
exhibited this season at the British Institution, and stood its ground
well among some of the masterpieces of antiquity. It was purchased on
the third day by the partners of a Devonshire banking-house, for the sum
of six hundred guineas, the receipt of which enabled Haydon to discharge
his most pressing claims, but it did not extricate him from his
difficulties. On a review of his liabilities, just before sending the
picture for exhibition, it appeared that he owed upwards of £1100.
Haydon’s exultation was naturally very great. He had indeed achieved a
triumph, but, with his usual pugnacity, he could not entertain the idea
of a triumph disconnected with the humiliation of an enemy. He estimated
the value of success by the amount of opposition encountered, and, as
usual, magnified the latter. That he was sincere, however, in his
delusion, no one, we think, can doubt. The following is his pæan:—
“The success of Solomon was so great, and my triumph so complete, that
had I died then my name must have stood on record as a youth who had
made a stand against the prejudices of a country, the oppressions of
rank, and the cruelty and injustice of two public bodies.
“It was a victory in every sense of the word. In my pursuit, I had
proved the power of inherent talent, and I had done good to this great
cause as far as I could do it. _I did not command bayonets and
cannons; would to God I had!_ But what I did command, I wielded with
firmness and constancy. I had shown one characteristic of my dear
country—bottom. I had been tried and not found wanting. I held out
when feeble, and faint, and blind, and now I reaped the reward.”
So that, in the opinion of Haydon, he had not only to contend against
the opposition of the Academy, but against the prejudices of the
country, and the ill-will of the aristocracy! The last charge, in
particular, is most ungracious. No one can peruse these volumes
attentively without feeling amazed at the extent of the private
liberality shown in his instance. The perverseness of the man in
supposing himself to be the victim of a conspiracy, is the more
unaccountable because he actually was receiving substantial
acknowledgment of his talents. A few pages later, we find this entry:
“The British Institution, on the proposition of Sir George Beaumont,
seconded by Lord Mulgrave, voted me one hundred guineas, as a mark of
admiration for the ‘Judgment of Solomon.’”
Some recreation was doubtless necessary for the re-establishment of his
health, but hardly to the extent he allowed himself. More than six
months elapsed before he commenced seriously to work at his next
picture. His difficulties were again increasing.
“_February 25th_ (1815).—The more I reflect on my nature, the more I
am convinced of my adaptation to great difficulties. I am once again
without a farthing. I have paid off the greatest part of my debts. The
price of ‘Solomon’ was so inadequate, that my models and journey have
swept off most of the rest. So far from being depressed, my breast
broadens at the contemplation of conquering. I look upon all
difficulties as stimulants to action. I have £200 to pay the
twenty-first of next month. As yet I have not a sixpence towards it;
but in God I trust who has always relieved me. Let me but be
successful in realising my conceptions in my day’s labour, and what
shall subdue me but extinction?”
That Haydon was a fervent believer in Christianity, and constant in
prayer, is evident from every page of his journal. There is in the first
of these volumes a very remarkable account of a conversation which he
held with Shelley, and another literary character (whose name, we
presume, from his being still alive, is withheld), on the subject of
Christianity; and Haydon records emphatically the keen disgust with
which he listened to their flippant blasphemies. Nevertheless, we agree
with Mr Taylor that his religiousness is rather puzzling. His prayers
are most special—he implores direction for mixing colours, and
perfecting a head; and, in regard to his worldly circumstances, he seems
rather to have expected a miraculous interposition in his favour, than a
blessing on his earnest labour. How else can we understand his
remarkable indifference to pecuniary matters, and the almost defiant
strain in which the foregoing paragraph is written? He had just begun a
work, “The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem,” which, even with unremitting
effort, would take a long time before it could be completed, and which
was actually not completed until six years had expired. He was worse
than penniless—he was deep in debt, and he had to support himself all
that time. It never seems to have occurred to him that, even if his
picture should be successful to an extent hitherto unparalleled, he must
be a loser, inasmuch as he would be necessitated to borrow money in the
mean time, and could not hope ultimately to clear such a sum as would
defray the intermediate expenses. On he went. £200 paid in advance from
a Liverpool commission (which, alas, was not executed till a long period
afterwards), and a similar sum from Sir George Beaumont for the despised
“Macbeth,” were all the earnings—if we may call them so—which he
received. But he took to borrowing. First he had recourse to the
money-lenders, who discounted bills on the usual extortionate terms.
Then he got £300 from a Mr Harman; £400 from old Mr Coutts the banker,
having been acquainted previously with Miss Mellon; also, he fell back
upon Sir George Beaumont, from whom he received an additional supply.
The latter urged and entreated him most earnestly to turn his talents to
some purpose.
“Pray excuse me if I again take the opportunity of recommending some
profitable mode of practice. I know you object to portraits, although
the dignity you would be able to give them, so far from degrading,
would greatly add to your reputation; and the greatest artists have
not considered the practice as beneath their notice. Again, painting
fancy heads, and other smaller works, would be a relief from severer
studies, and be very likely to answer the purpose. Indeed, my dear
sir, you must attend to this necessary concern, or circumstances more
mortifying than what I recommend cannot fail to attend you.”
Even Haydon could not deny the truth of this, but the pride of the
artist in the Grand Style rebelled. He had somehow or other convinced
himself, that, instead of his working like an ordinary mortal for his
own support, it was the duty of the country to support him; and, true to
that convenient faith, he thus reasoned:—
“His letter was prophetic; but all my friends were always advising me
what to do, instead of advising the Government what to do for me. Now,
a different course, I have no hesitation in saying, would have
prevented my necessities, and developed what powers I had. Dear Sir
George’s advice was kind and good, but it was yielding the question of
public support; and as I had made up my mind to bring that about by
storm, I disdained Sir George’s timid caution, and flew at my picture,
come what might.”
It is not very easy to understand what Haydon meant. Supposing that he
had received a Government commission in the Grand Style, which was the
only one he would condescend to undertake, that could not have benefited
him more than his private pictures, unless, indeed, he was to have been
allowed his own time, and to have painted upon salary. He appears to
have been a slow worker, and very liable to fits of intermission, which,
we believe, is the invariable tendency in the composition of all large
and lengthy works. A very large picture is like an epic—no man can
accomplish it at a heat. It must be studied, altered, and retouched—laid
aside and again resumed, with time enough in the intervals to allow the
imagination to cool, before the artist can satisfy himself of the
worthiness of his own work. That Art ought to be countenanced and
encouraged by the State, we maintain as strenuously as Haydon; but we
demur to the proposition that it is the duty of the Government to
provide for every clever painter who chooses to be eccentric enough to
deprive himself of the opportunities of his profession.
With singular bad taste, and almost inconceivable impudence, Haydon
varied his toils by attacking the Academy afresh; and, if his own
account of his literary performances be true, it is no wonder if he made
enemies. He says:—
“It is a pity I allowed my mind to act again through the pen when the
pencil was my real instrument, but the temptation was irresistible;
and then I thought of doing good by implanting sound principles of
patronage in a proper quarter. I might, perhaps, have done this
without irritating and exasperating the Academicians. Yet, regarding
them as a great body who influenced and prejudiced the aristocracy, it
was impossible to touch on art without finding the Academy at every
point checking, misleading, and obstructing. Every weapon of attack
was resorted to—ridicule, sarcasm, allegory, and insinuation, with
such success that a member said, ‘By-and-by a man will be afraid to
become an Academician.’”
And why was all this anger, the reverse of celestial, displayed? Simply,
in so far as we can see, because Haydon thought that his pictures had
not been well hung at the Academy, and because he was not an Academician
himself. Pass we to 1820 when his picture at last was completed. A room
was engaged for its exhibition at the rate of £300 a-year; and yet so
poor was Haydon that he was again compelled to borrow from Sir George
Beaumont and Messrs Coutts the sum necessary to procure the fittings.
The exhibition was upon the whole successful. In London the profit,
after payment of expenses, amounted to nearly £1300; and in Edinburgh
and Glasgow, where the picture was likewise exhibited, he appears to
have drawn about £900. All that, however, had been long anticipated. He
was hopelessly in the mire; and, to make matters worse, he married!
Within eighteen months afterwards, he was lodged in the King’s Bench
Prison, and finally passed through the Insolvent Court.
“It is pleasant,” says Mr Taylor, “to find so many proofs of
substantial sympathy in the letters Haydon received during his
confinement. Lord Mulgrave, Sir Edward Codrington, Brougham, Sir
Walter Scott, Barnes (of the _Times_), his fast friend, Miss Mitford,
were all prompt and helpful. His active friend and physician, Dr
Darling, with Sir George Beaumont, Wilkie, and others as practically
benevolent, bought at the sale many of his casts, prints, and painting
materials, so that he might have a nucleus for beginning work upon on
coming out of prison.”
From the King’s Bench he addressed a petition to the House of Commons,
setting forth his own case as an instance of the deplorable lack of
encouragement given to historical painters in England, and praying that
such assistance might be given to that branch of art, as might place the
professors of it on a level with the sculptors to whom government
patronage had been liberally extended. This was, so far as we know, the
first time that the claims of art for national encouragement were
broadly and boldly asserted; and Haydon was not the man to be silenced
by a single refusal—for years afterwards he continued to assail
Ministers on the subject.
“Nothing daunted, he kept pouring in page after page of passionate
pleading on Sir Charles Long, on Mr Vansittart, on Mr Robinson, on the
Duke of Wellington, on Lord Grey, on Sir Robert Peel, on Lord
Melbourne, on Sir Robert Peel again, and seemed to be making no way
whatever with any of them. But our new Houses of Parliament are to
have their statues, and their frescoes, and their oil pictures; and
Haydon lived to take a part (though an unsuccessful one) in the first
competition intended to test the capability of our artists for such
work.”