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wich, is another case in point. In attitude and expression you can see it is the man, and his reigning passion; but it is not flattering nor agreeable, and it is forcible to sarcasm. Decidedly, Haydon failed as a general portrait-painter of agreeable resemblance, but he gave the character. And yet portraits of his occur to my mind in which there can be no question of his success; his heads of the Duke of Wellington, of Wordsworth, of Clarkson, were as fine as any portrait-painter by profession ever painted. The heads of such men interested him. I remember two more, widely different in character, and which, for equal beauty in the one, and breadth and power in the other, one must seek something in Reynolds, or Velasquez. One was the pathetic, pensive head of his dying boy, in which that curious out-look which heralds death, and the listless, suffering attitude, and wonderful intellectual beauty, were rendered with a fidelity, an artlessness, and a natural grace, that showed how Haydon could paint a portrait" when his heart was in his work. The other is a portrait of his old physician, Dr. Darling—a grand old Scotch head, full of brain-power and quiet humor, with just a touch of the keen Scotch "wut" that used to twinkle in the eye of the kindly old man; a portrait that, for depth of expression, fulness of recorded life, and breadth of power, I only fully understood when I went into the gallery at Madrid and studied Velasquez. But such sitters did not come every day; or I doubt not Haydon would have left some reputation as a painter of portraits. But it is to be remembered these were his chosen sitters. In general, to get bread and cheese, he had to plod on, taking anybody who offered, enduring all "that drudgery of portrait" Hogarth speaks of so bitterly.



He relieved his mind, however, by occasionally painting ideal subjects of a miniature size. Thus, he painted a little picture of "Puck," which his solicitor bought at about a fourth of its fair price; another of “Silenus,” which he sold for a trifle ; and another of "Juliet at the Balcony," which his solicitor also

bought at a bargain. Perhaps he took it in part payment of his bill; though the profession is not often satisfied with taking “good will” for any part of their payment: yet when a painter can do no better they may relax-probably they make more out of him. At last Haydon got a commission from a rich City man for a small two hundred guinea historical picture—“ Pharaoh dismissing Moses "—and this at once raised his hopes. I have never seen the picture, but the original sketch, in red and black chalk, was long in my portfolio. The composition is noble, and the story well told. A group of kneeling women in the foreground; the queen and her two daughters lifting up the dead heir to the crown; the queen-mother listening to her boy's heart for a sign of life; the sisters looking up, one imploringly to the king, the other looking back with horror at Moses, who points to the dead child; the king, haughty, but subdued, waves Moses away; while, in the background, a vast and curious crowd of Egyptians tossing up their dead children, are struggling against the guards to get into the palace. The distance is dark and awful, the front groups lighted by torches ; the whole, full of pathos and solemnity. The picture was finished by January, 1826, and was at once sent to the British Gallery for exhibition.

By the end of February, 1826, Haydon was once more at work upon an ideal subject, "Venus and Anchises," a cabinet commission from Sir John Leycester, who, on the completion of the picture, begged that it might be sent to the Royal Academy exhibition. Haydon reluctantly consented. It is pleasant to be able to say it was well received and well placed. On the 27th of May he writes in his journal, “My exhibiting with the Royal Academy has given great satisfaction to everybody, and they seem to regard me now without the gloomy dislike they used to do. I heartily wish they may become as they seem,

1 The loss of this original sketch, and of some six hundred others, many of them designs for works he never lived to paint, is a national loss to the art. They were all burned, with many valuable documents, and memoranda on Art affairs by Haydon, in the fire at the Pantechnicon, 1874. His journals, fortunately, were in better security.-ED.

cordial, and that in the end all animosities may be forgotten in our common desire to advance the art. This is my desire; whether it be theirs, time only will show." This is frank and sincere, I believe; but his hopes were never realized, and if time showed anything, it was that the "Academy" was opposed to him to the last. He adds, a day or two after, "I should wish to do the good I want accomplished, backed by the Academy; but if I cannot, I must make one more attempt to do it again without them, and perhaps perish before I accomplish it; God only knows."




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Meanwhile, the promise of a five-hundred guinea commission for a picture of “ Alexander and Bucephalus " was withdrawn on account of the commercial panic, and Haydon found the wolf" once more scratching fiercely at his door. In his agony where to turn for help to prevent another disaster, he wrote to Lord Egremont, a man noted for his kindness and liberality to artists. Lord Egremont went off to Carew, the sculptor, who lived in the house opposite to Haydon. "What bedevilment has Haydon got into now?" None, my lord. He has lost commissions he relied on, and of course, having a wife and five children,he is anxious that they should not starve." "Is he extravagant?" No," said Carew, not in the least; he is domestic, economical, and indefatigable." Why did he take that house after his misfortunes?" "Because the light was good, and he is at less rent than in a furnished lodging." "Well, he shan't starve. But why did he write? He has made himself enemies everywhere by his writing." Lord Egremont came over on the 14th of May, 1826-the first noble lord that had come into Haydon's painting-room since his ruin in April, 1823. He saw the sketch of " Alexander and Bucephalus," was delighted with it, ordered it for himself, but never thought of leaving the poor painter a sixpence, and went home to his own 70,000l. a year




1 Haydon was now living at the corner house of Burwood Place (then No. 4), the house in which he died.-Ed.

and his dinner with a consciousness of having done a good action. It never occurred to him to make it better. At length, in July, Haydon's difficulties for want of ready money became so serious that his arrest was imminent. He wrote to Lord Egremont. I am too pleased to be able to say that Lord Egremont did not take offence. He came up the next day and brought 100l. with him in advance. It was not much, but it saved Haydon for the time. In November, Lord Egremont invited him to Petworth and treated him with great distinction, which would have been very well if Lord Egremont had combined with it a full understanding of the needs of a poor man. For instance, the picture was finished at Christmas, but for sixteen days after, Lord Egremont kept Haydon without the balance due, and involved him, in consequence, in a mass of law-costs, writs, and executions, with three warrants of attorney, three cognovits, and three actions at law. Indeed, he was only saved from arrest and imprisonment, and the seizure and sale of his property, by the prompt interference of his old friend, Sir Francis Freeling. It was mere want of experience on the part of Lord Egremont, who never in his life had known the want of credit, or of money, and could not conceive such a condition. But this did not lessen Haydon's sufferings, nor diminish his embarrassment. It would be no bad training for great lords, with heavy rent rolls, to put them early through a course of want, poverty, and imprisonment, that they might gain experience, and acquire consideration for their penniless fellow-men when in the full enjoyment of their own inheritance.

-"Take physic, pomp!

Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

That thou may'st shake the superflux to them,
And show the Heavens more just."

The" Alexander," by Lord Egremont's desire, was sent to the Academy Exhibition of 1827. Previous to this, and during 1826, in consequence of the pressure put upon him by Lord Egremont, Sir John Leycester, Sir Francis Freeling, and many other friends, Haydon had committed what he afterwards set

down as 66 the disgrace of my life," although I see no disgrace in it. He sought reconciliation with the Academy. They had made him an offer in 1814, which he had declined. It was now his turn, and they paid him the same compliment. He called on the leading academicians, Flaxman, Lawrence, Shee, Phillips, Stothard, Chantrey, Cooper, Soane, and others, with the view to effect a reconciliation. He has left an amusing and characteristic description of his different interviews, but which has lost its chief interest now, although the scene with Flaxman will bear repeating.


"I said, Mr. Flaxman, I wish to renew my acquaintance after twenty years' interval.” "Mr. Haydon," said the intelligent deformity, “I am happy to see you, walk in!" "Mr. Flaxman, Sir, you look well." "Sir, I am well, thanks to the Lord! I am seventy-two, and ready to go when the Lord pleases."

As he said this, there was a look of real, unaffected piety, which I hope and believe was sincere.



Ah, Mr. Haydon, Lord Egremont is a noble creature." "He is, Mr. Flaxman, he has behaved very nobly to me." "Ah, Mr. Haydon, has he? How?" 66 'Why, Mr. Flaxman, he has given me a handsome commission." "Has he, Mr. Haydon ? I am most happy to hear it-most happy-very happy." And then, with an elevation of brow, and looking askance, he said, "How is your friend, Mr. Wilkie ?" "Why, Mr. Flaxman, he is ill-so ill I fear he never again will have his intellects in full vigor." Really, Mr. Haydon? why, it is miserable. I suppose it is his miniature painting has strained him, for between you and me, Mr. Haydon, 'tis but miniature painting! you know, hem—he—m—e—e—em ! " "Certainly, Mr. Flaxman, 'tis but miniature painting." Ah, Mr. Haydon, the world is easily caught." Here he touched my knee familiarly, and leaned forward, and his old, deformed, humped shoulder protruded as he leaned, and his sparkling old eye, and his apish old mouth, grinned on one side, and he rattled out of his throat, husky with coughing, a jarry, inward, hesita


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