the prosecution of art in the higher branches, we are yet apprehensive
of the effect this may have upon the rising school of painters. We
should be sorry to see their attention exclusively turned to the “grand
style,” which, in painter’s language, means the composition of gigantic
pictures. If one Haydon, allowed to be the best historical painter of
his time, could not, although seldom in want of commissions, provide for
the necessities of a single year, how is it possible for twenty Haydons
to thrive, even though the state were annually to assign a large sum for
their employment? It is not with us, as it was in Italy, where the
decoration of the churches afforded the noblest scope for the genius of
the painter—so much so, that they are now regarded by the world as the
temples of art rather than of religion. It is in vain to hope that in a
Protestant country this will be allowed. No regard for art, or sympathy
for its professors, will persuade us to convert our churches into
picture-galleries; and if the same rigid rule has not been applied to
sculpture, it is on account of the monumental associations inseparably
connected with the marble. Our public and municipal halls are decorated,
not with historical paintings, but with portraits, which has ever been
in Britain the favourite branch of art. We do not put up gladiators or
Venuses in our streets and squares—we place there the statues of kings,
warriors, and statesmen. Italian art can flourish kindly only under an
Italian sky. The construction of our mansions is in accordance with the
nature of our climate. Except in those dwellings of the high nobility,
which are literally palaces, there are no galleries or saloons adapted
for the reception of large works, and the best proof of the unfitness of
these for our domestic arrangements is that they seldom retain their
value. For example, just three years after its completion, Haydon’s
large picture of the “Entry into Jerusalem” was sold for £240—that of
“Lazarus,” which he esteemed even more, for £300; and the creditor, who
bought it for exhibition, lost as much more by the speculation.
Art, like everything else, must be regulated, depressed, or elevated
according to the demand for its productions. The epic is considered,
almost universally, as the highest form of poetry; but it is extremely
doubtful whether a new epic, even of the highest merit, would now
command a sale. Is the state, then, with the view of elevating the
public taste, to give commissions for epics? The idea is sufficiently
absurd; and yet poetry, from its universality, is clearly to be ranked
above painting.
And yet we have a British school, and its productions are greatly
admired and prized. We shall not, for obvious reasons, refer to living
artists, though, if we were to do so, we could mention several names
which undoubtedly will hereafter be classed with those of the highest
European renown. But take Wilson, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Wilkie, and
Turner. None of these men pretended to the “Grand Style,” and yet see
how their fame endures! Who would not rather have a masterpiece from the
hands of one of them, than a specimen of gigantic grotesqueness neither
classical nor romantic, such as is now called in the style of the
highest art? It is a vast mistake to suppose that figures constructed
from the models of prize-fighters, or of the nymphs of the Walhalla, are
either heroic or beautiful. The style and expression of art, like those
of thought, must vary according to the country that gives them birth.
We are led to make these observations, because we wish to see the
British school remain uncontaminated by imitation. At present, the
tendency is to Germanise, and to adopt the German manner. Hence the rage
for frescoes, and for unlimited cartoons. In the indulgence of this, we
see nothing but future disappointment for the artists. It is to the
great body of the public that artists must ultimately look for
encouragement; and, whatever may be their confidence in their own
theories, they cannot hope to change the popular perception. Let art, by
all means, be encouraged; but in the proper direction. There is a very
great deal in the observation of Haydon, that the noble and wealthy of
this country are well disposed towards the encouragement of art, but
sadly ignorant of its principles. We are quite of his opinion that there
ought to be in every one of our universities an æsthetical chair, for
the purpose of tracing the history of art, and exercising its
productions. This would greatly tend to elevate the general taste, and
would, we think, be of much benefit to the artists, whose position, as a
highly intellectual class of men, has not yet been sufficiently
recognised.
Unfortunate Haydon! After obtaining his discharge, he had to begin life
anew; but with the burden of a wife and family. Even his obstinacy gave
way before the absolute necessity of something like remunerative labour,
and he began to paint portraits, and small pictures; but he was
successful in neither department. He had studied the heroic so long that
he could not get rid of it.
“The great drawback,” says Mr Taylor, “was the reception his critics
gave his portraits when exhibited. Their attacks took what Haydon
calls ‘a new direction.’ The painter was assailed through the personal
peculiarities of his sitters. It is natural enough to find the angry
artist expressing an opinion that this is a cruel and deep-laid plot
to injure him, at his starting on this more lucrative branch of his
calling; but we shall perhaps do the critics more justice, if we
believe that Haydon’s portraits had something about them provokingly
open to ridicule. The heroic style of treatment could hardly have been
adapted to a comfortable citizen family, or a provincial ex-mayor.
Indeed, I am assured that, in the latter performance, he had
represented the mayor of proportions too heroic even to have got
through a door-way, out of which he was supposed to have issued in his
civic state.”
In fact, he hated portrait-painting, and complained of being cramped in
the composition of small pictures. He longed to be at the gigantic
canvass again. Still, he had a good deal of employment, and, had he
persevered, might have overcome his difficulties; but a new commission
tempted him, and he again plunged into the Grand Style. In 1827, he was
again arrested for debt.
The rest of his story is a record of perpetual struggle, not so much
against debt as against payment. He became familiar with the King’s
Bench Prison, where he painted his “Mock Election,” and “Chairing of the
Member;” and, when not in jail, exerted his powers of borrowing to the
uttermost. He had no hesitation in applying to those upon whom he had
not the slightest claim, and expressed himself as an injured man if they
refused. He painted the “Reform Banquet,” and lost money by it. He
pestered Sir Robert Peel and the Duke of Wellington to take colossal
pictures until his importunity became intolerable. He addressed a
furious letter to his kind friend and most indulgent landlord, Newton,
to whom he was indebted for heavy arrears of rent, and threatened him
with a notice to quit! Then he lectured on art—and lectured well—but
that would not suffice for his support. A more wretched life than his it
is hardly possible to conceive. The gleams of fortune that visited
him—for some of his pictures brought good prices, and one was purchased
by the King—were all illusory; he was inextricably and hopelessly
entangled. And yet all this while he was in communication with some of
the first men, both political and literary, of the age—was addicted to
no degrading vice, and endeavoured, as he best could, to rear and
educate his children. Indeed, in his domestic relations, he appears in a
most amiable light, striving manfully to avert the blow of misfortune
from those whom he was bound to protect, however heavily it might fall
on his own head. What agony must have possessed the soul of this
unfortunate man, when he penned the following sentence!
“The greatest curse that can befall a fellow in England is to have a
son gifted with a passion and a genius for high art. Thank God, with
all my soul and all my nature, my children have witnessed the
harassing agonies under which I have ever painted; and the very name
of painting, the very name of high art, the very thought of a picture,
gives them a hideous and disgusting taste in their mouths. Thank God,
not one of my boys, nor my girl, can draw a straight line even with a
ruler, much less without one; and I pray God, on my knees, with my
forehead bent to the earth, and my lips to the dust, that He will in
His mercy afflict them with every other passion, appetite, or
misery—with wretchedness, disease, insanity, or gabbling idiotism,
rather than a longing for painting—that scorned, miserable art—that
greater imposture than the human species it imitates!”
Evidently this was not his serious thought—it was but a wild and frantic
ejaculation, uttered in a paroxysm of despair; but it serves to show how
tremendous his agony must have been. When that was penned, he was
well-nigh sixty years of age; and what triumphs had he to show? In his
fortunes he was an utterly broken man, almost a beggar; for what else is
he who is constantly supplicating for loans which he knows he can never
repay? Some of his best pictures, on which he rested his hopes of fame,
had been thrown aside and neglected. He had not made friends with his
cotemporaries, and he was distanced in popularity by many of the rising
generation of artists. With all his vanity, he could not delude himself
into the idea that he had won the popular support—the failure of his
later Exhibitions had given too distinct a proof of the reverse. He had
passed the best years of his life in active opposition to the Academy,
and now he found himself almost an outcast from his fellows.
There can be, we think, no doubt that in secret he deeply regretted
this, and deplored the rashness of his former conduct. In 1826 he
attempted a reconciliation, but his pride interfered to prevent it. It
was then that he held the following conversation with the elder
Reinagle, which will explain what we have just said regarding the
neglect of his pictures.
“‘Where is your Solomon, Mr Haydon?’ ‘Hung up in a grocer’s shop.’
‘Where your Jerusalem?’ ‘In a wareroom in Holborn.’ ‘Where your
Lazarus?’ ‘In an upholsterer’s shop in Mount Street.’ ‘And your
Macbeth?’ ‘In Chancery.’ ‘Your Pharaoh?’ ‘In an attic, pledged.’ ‘Good
heavens! and your Crucifixion?’ ‘In a hay-loft.’ ‘And Silenus?’ ‘Sold
for halfprice.’”
Haydon constantly uses, in his Journal, expressions which would lead to
the conclusion that he had suffered some heinous wrong or insult at the
hands of the Academicians. We believe that charge to be utterly
unfounded; indeed, the only grievance that he has particularised is the
unfortunate position assigned to his “Dentatus,” in the exhibition of
1809. He himself admits, that whenever he chose to approach the
Academicians individually, he was kindly and courteously received; and,
so late as 1842, an overture appears to have been made to him on the
part of his brethren. The entry is characteristic.
“_October 11th._—Collins called to-day, and in the course of
conversation said, ‘_I really think you ought to join us._’ I said
nothing.
“The state of the question is this. All the objects I have fought for
are coming. If they are realised without the Academy claiming me as a
member, I am victorious, isolated, unsanctioned by rank or station. If
they induce me to join them, and the victory comes after, they will
claim a share in the honour of an achievement they have always tried
to oppose. So, if I am great, and let things take their course,
whether I benefit or not individually, my character is consistent
before the country. I would not lose that character in dear old
England for all the treasures of the earth.
“My dear old friend and fellow-student, Collins, is anxious for me to
join the Academy; but how can I? It is too late. After having brought
up my family, through every species of misery, to distinction and
honour, am I now to show that, after all, _their_ honours were
necessary? Oh! no, no; the compromise of principle would be dreadful.
Let me do as I have lived, O God! and give me strength of mind to
resist temptation, for I see it’s coming. And let me live in the
hearts of my countrymen, like John Milton and William Shakespeare! Ah!
may I be worthy—may I be worthy! Amen.”
But the heaviest blow of all was yet to fall upon him. In 1843, that
grand dream of his life—a competition of native artists for the purpose
of testing their capability of executing great monumental and decorative
works—was realised, and cartoons were directed to be given in. Haydon
became a competitor. We never saw the cartoons which he exhibited, and
consequently cannot offer any opinion upon their merits; but this much
seems certain, that he had greatly overrated his own capabilities of
execution. Mr Taylor says,—
“He would not admit to himself that his powers were impaired; that he
was less fit for great achievements than when he painted Solomon and
Lazarus. But if he held this opinion himself, he held it alone. It was
apparent to all, and to none more than to his warmest and truest
friends, that years of harassment, humiliation, distraction, and
conflict, had enfeebled his energies, and led him to seek in
exaggeration (to which even in his best days he had been prone) the
effect he could no longer attain by well-measured force. His restless
desire to have a hand in all that was projected for art had wearied
those in authority; and even his old and sincere friend, the secretary
of the Commission, was unable to put forward his name without the
chance of doing him more injury than service. He had shown himself too
intractable to follow, and he had not inspired that confidence which
might have given him a right to lead.”
On the day appointed for the decision, his cartoons were passed over,
and the prize was awarded to others!
This was the prostrating stroke, and from it he never recovered.
Although he did not directly question the justice of the decision, he
appears to have persuaded himself that an evil influence was at work
against him; and that it was predetermined by his enemies, that, come
what might, he should not carry the prize. “The Academy,” says he, “the
Government, and the Commission, thoroughly understand each other. They
have all made up their minds that I must be sacrificed, as a successful
rebel, because I have succeeded, in spite of four ruins, and will keep
my ground in spite of four more. My cartoons, therefore, it was clearly
predetermined, were not to be rewarded, on the principle of authority
being supported at all hazards.” These are but wild and wayward words;
but they show how deeply the arrow had penetrated. It is impossible not
to feel for Haydon, who really had done more than any other man to force
the subject of the encouragement of art upon the government, and had
made enormous sacrifices by doing so. But he was beaten in a fair
competition, such as he had himself recommended, and he had no cause to
complain. Perhaps, indeed, the consciousness that the decision was a
just one, was, to a man imbued with such vanity as his, the bitterest
pang of all. With regard to future public employment, irrespective of
his defeat, he had so unmercifully abused the patience of every man in
power, and made such a glaring revelation of his impracticable nature,
that no one would have been justified in offering it to him. Still, we
think that some generosity might have been shown, and some
acknowledgment made, to a man distinguished in his day, now well up in
years, and who had laboured incessantly, and almost single-handed, for
that very object which the Government had recognised as legitimate. We
grant the difficulty of the case; but we cannot read this tragedy
without feeling a poignant regret that something was not done to avert
the woeful catastrophe.
But the old spirit was not yet extinguished, and after a brief interval,
the misery of which no one can tell, for the news of his disappointment
brought a swarm of creditors upon him, he again set to work, painting
Napoleons, Wellingtons, anything, to provide for immediate necessities,
but having in his heart one last object—an exhibition of pictures, on
the subjects which he had long before proposed for the decoration of the
old House of Peers—to prove to the world the extent of his powers, and
the injustice of the award of the Royal Commissioners. He worked hard,
and he worked long, but still he could not get over the feeling of
disappointment, and the wound was opened afresh when the commissions
were actually given. “All the young men,” he writes, “have got
commissions—Bell, Marshall, Foley, Maclise, and others. I am totally
left out, after forty-one years’ suffering and hard work, with my
Lazarus, and Curtius, and Uriel, before their eyes; and being, too, the
whole and sole designer for the House of Lords, in the first instance,
and the cause of the thing being done at all.” This brings us to the
conclusion of the year 1845. What follows is the first entry in his
journal for the last year of his life.
“_1846. January 1st._—O God, bless the beginning, progression, and
conclusion of this year, for Jesus Christ’s sake, my dear family, my
art, and myself!
“The ‘Nero’ to-day looks well; but I am very uneasy. I cannot keep my
word for want of means. I paid away too rapidly, and left myself bare;
and have now to struggle—paint—conceive—borrow—promise, and fly at my
picture—get enchanted—and awake out of a delicious dream to think of
the butcher. But in God I trust. At sixty, men are not so bold as at
twenty-five; but why not? If Napoleon had behaved with the same spirit
in 1815 as on the 13th Brumaire, he would not have died at St Helena.
“There is no competition till next year. If I lose this moment for
showing all my works, it never can occur again....
“I shall never have a great opportunity again of connecting myself
with a great public commission by opposition, and interesting the
public in the contrast. If I miss it, it will be a tide not taken at
its flood.”
It can have been only in the desperate hope of still obtaining public
employment that Haydon persisted in the execution of these large
pictures; for the next entry in his journal is a statement of the profit
and loss on his various exhibitions for the twenty-six years immediately
preceding. Four of these exhibitions were profitable, while six entailed
a loss. Deducting the loss from the profits, there remains a balance of
£1466 in the artist’s favour for ten exhibitions, and of this no less
than £1453 was derived from the “Entry into Jerusalem.” Setting that one
picture aside, the profits upon Haydon’s exhibitions in the gross barely
sufficed to cover the expenditure. All his later exhibitions had proved
failures, therefore it is not likely that Haydon could have expected a
direct return from the efforts of his old age. He wished probably to
keep himself before the view of the public, in the hope that his case,
certainly a hard one, might awaken sympathy, and lead to a withdrawal of
that sentence of exclusion which he believed to have been passed against
him.
But he was imprudent in all things. Three months before his exhibition
opened, he sent an advertisement to the newspapers, in which he impugned
not only the selection of artists by the Commission, but the style of
the artists selected: at least that is the only interpretation which we
can put upon an announcement which is rather a criticism upon others
than an appeal in behalf of himself. The following is an extract from
it:—
“This exhibition will open in no spirit of opposition to the
Government plan about to be put in force, but with the view of letting
the public see that works, endeavoured to be executed on the
principles of the great masters of the British school, founded on
those established by the greater men of other schools, are perfectly
consistent with the decoration of any building, Grecian or Gothic, and
that there is no necessity for endangering the practice of the British
schools by the adoption of the wild theories of a sect of foreigners,
who have considered the accidental ignorance of an early age as a
principle fit to guide an enlightened one. The British school was
progressing to excellence five years ago, and would have attained it,
had not the weak recommendation of absurd fancies thrown the young men
off the right road, and the whole school into confusion. Backgrounds
are now considered a vulgarity; rotundity of imitation, the proofs of
a debased mind; nature, a nuisance, and the necessity of models,
evidence of no poetry of soul; portraits are beginning to appear with
coats of arms sticking to their noses; the petty details of decoration
and patterns of borders take place of expression and features; and all
those great doctrines which the experience of centuries established,
are now questioned with the dandy air of infinite superiority to
Titian, Rubens, Velasquez, Reynolds, Vandyke, Michael Angelo’s
Prophets, or Raffaele’s Cartoons. The end of such a state of things
may be easily predicted; and Mr Haydon respectfully hopes his humble
attempt to prove there is no occasion to change the principles of the
school for the purpose of decoration will be supported by the sound
sense of the people. He was the first to petition the House for State
support to high art—he was the first to petition for schools of
design—he was the first to plan the decoration of the old House of
Lords, and to keep up the excitement till it was resolved to decorate
the new—he has devoted forty-two years, without omission of a day, to
simplify the principles of the art for the instruction of the people;
and having been utterly neglected when all his plans have been
adopted, he appeals to the public to support his exhibition, that he
may be able to complete the series he has planned.”
Ah, poor Haydon! All his experience had not sufficed to teach him that
appeals of this nature are the weakest that can be urged. He dwells upon
his many efforts, his long labours, and the neglect of him as an artist,
as if these were so many claims to public support; not reflecting that,
to the uninitiated (and how few are initiated in art!) these very
circumstances would appear conclusive arguments against him. A mere tyro
would, in this case, have had a better chance than a veteran. If a young
man, hitherto unknown, had risen up, denounced the prevailing taste as
vicious, flung down his gauntlet to the Commissioners, and declared that
he was ready to give proof, by his own works, that they were corrupting
instead of advancing art, the curiosity of the public might have been
stimulated by the mere audacity of the challenge. But Haydon, by his own
confession, had been forty-two years before the public; and during
twenty-six of these his reputation, instead of increasing, had declined.
He was a man marked by many defeats, and was now reclaiming against the
last of these as a wrong. And he had none to back him. No portion of the
press maintained that, in the matter of the decision as to the cartoons,
the judgment of the Commissioners was wrong. Therefore we are not
surprised that this announcement, appeal, or criticism of his passed
almost unregarded by the many. Some, who remembered his earlier efforts,
may have regarded it with pity or with sorrow—pity for the
disappointments of the man, and sorrow for the imprudence of the appeal.
But it failed to awaken sympathy, because he asked it only as an artist.
Had the appeal been made solely on behalf of Haydon—had it been stated
that, after so many years of labour and misfortune, his last hope of
success rested upon this exhibition—we are anxious to believe that the
public would have responded readily to such a call. But he did not ask
support for himself; he asked it for his principles, which few cared for
or understood. In art, novelty is much. People will rush for a year or
two to gaze at pre-Raphaelite paintings, or any other whimsical
monstrosity, not because they really admire, but because the spectacle
is something new. But that does not last long; and the enterprising
innovator must either fall back upon the principles of common sense, or
submit to become a laughingstock. Poor Haydon had no novelty to offer as
an enticement. He and his paintings and his principles had been long
before the public, and had not met with due appreciation. If there was
no reaction in his favour before, it was in vain to expect it now.
Darker and darker gather the clouds as we approach towards the close of
his existence. More miseries—more hardships! On the 6th of April his
last exhibition, consisting of the “Banishment of Aristides,” and the
“Burning of Rome,” was opened, and the receipts of the first day
amounted to £1, 1s. 6d. On no one day were two pounds taken at the
doors! And why was this? Because, as we verily believe, the bulk of the
British public care nothing about what is called “High Art,” and because
Haydon had outlived his reputation.