and Daubson unquestionably Haydon.) Hear John Poole, dramatist, on the Art of Benjamin Robert Haydon, Historical Painter: "Yet half-an-hour to spare before dinner. Time enough, perhaps, to see Daubson's grand picture, the Grenadier. Inquired whereabouts was Yawkins's skittle ground. Informed that it was an immense way off-quite at the further end of the town. Hopeless for to day, thought I; but asked what the distance might be. Told, nearly four minutes' walk. Went; stood before the 'all-but breathing Grenadier,' as it is designated by Jubb. Hard to describe its first effect upon me. As I approached it, unvoluntarily took off my hat. Thermometer 84° in the shade. Daubson certainly an original genius; unlike Reynolds, Lawrence, Philips, Briggs, or Pickersgill. Neither, did his work put me much in mind of Titian or Vandyke—not in the least of Rembrandt. No servile imitator-in fact, no imitator at all. Perhaps a military critic might object that the fixed bayonet is rather longer than the musket itself: be this as it may, owing to that contrivance, it appears a most formidable weapon. In order that the whole of the arms and accoutrements may be seen by the spectator, the painter, with considerable address, has represented the cartridge box and the scabbard of the bayonet in front. Scabbard about one-third the length of the bayonet-judicious-needless to exaggerate in this-nothing formidable in the appearance of a long scabbard, whatever may be thought of a long bayonet. Legs considerably thicker than the thighs-grand idea of stability-characteristic of a grenadier standing sentry.' Upon the whole a work worthy of its fame, notwithstanding its rejection by that envious and exclusive, that much and justly censured body, the R. A.'s. Took my leave of the Grenadier, resolving to 'put in' for a chance of immortality

by having my profile in black, done by the unrivalled hand of the Pedlingtonian Apelles." If there is any doubt about this "profile in black" being the silhouette of Haydon, there can be none about this rough sketch. Daubson is at an evening reception of the great of Little Pedlington, at the house of Rummins the antiquary, where he wishes to exhibit his last work, a profile of a man on horseback, all at full length, and where he is patronized by the younger Rummins, an editorial Controller of Destinies, who promises that if it satisfies them, he means him, as he doubts not it will, "we shall give -I mean I shall give such a notice of it in our—I mean my next, that if the Royal Academy do not instantly throw wide its portals to receive you"-whereupon the irate Daubson exclaimed, "You inspect my work?' he said, or rather screamed. 'You presume to patronize a Daubson, you young puppy! You get me in the Royal Academy! D-n the Royal Academy! To mention such a set in my presence I take as a personal insult. They shall never see me amongst them; they shall never be honored by the presence of a Daubson: no, Mister; when they refused to exhibit my 'Grenadier,' I made up my mind to that. You get me in, indeed; no, no! this is my passport.' (Here he shook his drawing above his head.) 'This is what shall force open the doors of the Academy for a Daubson; here are my credentials, Mister. Talk to me of the Royal Academy!— a despicable set! But when they get a Daubson amongst them--Good night. You shall none of you see my work; and this is the last time you will be honored with the presence of a Daubson at any of your d-d convershonies." Wordsworth was right:

"Great is the glory, for the strife is hard."

After the caricature of Poole the recollections of a poet My good friend Bayard Taylor gives me

are in order.

these reminiscences, in re Haydon :

"I distinctly remember Haydon's great painting of 'Christ Entering Jerusalem.' I could not have been more than ten or eleven years old when I saw it in Philadelphia; but it was the first large painting I had ever seen, and made a very strong impression upon my young mind. I can still clearly see the central figure of Christ, riding upon an ass, the crowd on either side, and especially a figure in the foreground, in an orange-colored robe. A strong sense of brightness and clearness in the coloring remains with me.

I also feel quite sure that I saw Haydon himself, in April, 1846. Two (I think) of his large pictures were on exhibition at a hall in Piccadilly, and I was very anxious to see them. But my means barely sufficed to procure the absolute needs of life, day by day, without a penny over, and I was never able to pay the admission fee. One day, a gentleman gave me a ticket of admission to Tom Thumb's show, the entrance to which was on the same landing, and exactly opposite to Haydon's. I lingered about the latter, hoping for a chance to peep in, and was struck by the appearance of a man who was talking to the door-keeper. He was stout, broad-shouldered, about sixty years of age, rather shabbily dressed, and with a general air of dilapidated power. There was something fierce and bitter in the expression of his face, as he glanced across to the groups hurrying in to see Tom Thumb. He made some short remark to the doorkeeper, and then entered the room where the paintings were. As the door opened I caught a sight of two spectators within. After his suicide, when the last entries in his diary were published, I could not (and can

not yet) help feeling a pang of regret that I did not give up my dinner that day, and add at least one to the following of the neglected and despairing artist."

It was Haydon whom Mr. Taylor saw, he tells me, for he recognizes his likeness in the portrait painted by himself. I am familiar with his handwriting, for I have it in his copy of the works of George Lillo, the dramatist, and I can testify to the fidelity of the autograph note, of which a fac-simile is presented in this volume, and which relates to the "Napoleon" that was the cause of all his trouble with Sir Robert Peel.

What were the last words of Sir Joshua Reynolds? "We are all going to Heaven, and Vandyke is of the company." The last recorded words of poor Haydon were: "God forgive me.-Amen!"

R. H. S.