Chapter II: Part 2

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.

If the former of our conclusions is challenged, and if we are asked to reconcile this alleged indifference of the public to “High Art,” with the enthusiasm which greeted Haydon’s earlier picture of the “Entry into Jerusalem,” we refer to what we have just said regarding the advantage which the assertor of some supposed new principle possesses over the veteran whose day has gone by. When the “Entry into Jerusalem” was painted, Haydon, then comparatively a young man, was at open warfare with the Academy, setting old constituted authority at defiance, and was, in point of fact, a far better historical painter than West, the President, whose meagre works were still within the recollection of the public. He was then fighting what seemed a winning battle. The subject, too, had its high and awful interest; whereas no one, in truth, cared the value of a straw for Aristides. There was, and is, no party in the country in favour of gigantic pictures. Haydon, with all his talent, never reached sublimity; and there are none of all his works that can properly be styled perfect. As we have already said, even his most popular pictures were characterised by a certain degree of exaggeration, which tendency was not modified by experience; and that which was originally a blemish, his innate pugnacity prompted him to defend and repeat as a beauty. As to the latter conclusion, we apprehend we need say nothing. There is always a culminating point; and men regard with far more earnest interest the rising than the setting star.

But to poor Haydon himself, knowing, what the world did not, the depth of misery at home, and forced to contemplate the future lot of his dear ones—to a man of his pride, vanity, high impressions of art, and stubbornness—what must have been the effect of this decisive proof that the sympathy of the public was not with him? We find it in his own journal. At the time his pictures were exhibited—at the time when life or death were staked upon the cast—that diminutive human abortion, Tom Thumb, was strutting on a table for the delectation of the London gazers. We do not blame them. All men have their tastes, and so have women and children; and many thousands would rather have seen that dwarf gesticulate than have listened to the full melodies of Shakespeare. Why not? It was the same in ancient times. The Romans never could get up a national drama—they preferred a show of gladiators, or an exhibition of the combats of beasts, to the most powerful efforts of the tragic muse.

But who could have said that to Haydon in the midst of his frantic despair? Few men of genius—and it boots not now to inquire how much of the blame was his own—have been so sorely tried at the last. Far greater men than he was have gone to their graves, indifferent as to the opinion of their contemporaries, and in the assured faith that posterity would do them justice—but these were men who never had relied on the current of popular opinion, and were content to die without immediate acknowledgment. Haydon was not one of them. He could not, like Correggio, commit his fame, with confidence, to the verdict of a coming generation; he required the decision instantly, and was compelled to do so, because upon that his reason or his life depended. Awful was the abyss before him!

Here is his commentary upon the miserable receipts of his exhibition on Easter Monday, a day to which he had looked forward in sanguine expectation that the tide would turn in his favour. £1, 3s. 6d. was taken at the door.

“They rush by thousands to see Tom Thumb. They push, they fight, they
scream, they faint, they cry Help and Murder! and oh! and ah! They see
my bills, my boards, my caravans, and don’t read them. Their eyes are
open, but their sense is shut. It is an insanity, a _rabies_, a
madness, a _furor_, a dream.

“I would not have believed it of the English people.”

Singular instance of faith, that could withstand, for so many years, the almost daily and ever-increasing experience of the fickleness of the world!

“_May 18th._—I closed my exhibition this day, and have lost £111, 8s.
10d. No man can accuse me of showing less energy, less spirit, less
genius, than I did twenty-six years ago. I have not decayed, but the
people have been corrupted. I am the same, they are not; and I have
suffered in consequence.

“I used to accuse Napoleon of want of energy in not driving out the
senate after Waterloo, as he did on the 18th Brumaire. But he knew men
better than I. It would have been useless; he was not altered, they
were.”

And yet he painted on—hard, energetically at work, between the intervals of absolute distraction—on his picture of Alfred, intended to be the third of the series. He did so, because in art only could he find a momentary respite from his miseries. He even worked with more frantic energy than before; for abstraction of thought was his opiate, and in visions of the past alone could he take refuge from the anguish of the present. But the moment he dropped the pencil from his wearied hand, the Furies were again upon him.

“_23d._—Awoke at three, in very great agony of mind; and lay awake
till long after five, affected by my position. Prayed God, as David
did, and fell asleep happier, but still fearing.

“I took the original sketch of Uriel, and went to my landlord, and
asked him to buy it in vain. At last I offered it to him if he would
lend me £1 to pay an instalment, when failure would have been certain
ruin. He assented, and I left a beautiful sketch. I then came home,
and darted at my picture. I have done a great deal this week under all
circumstances, and advanced the masses of the drapery for my jury.
Here lie Aristides and Nero, unasked for, unfelt for, rolled
up—Aristides, a subject Raffaele would have praised and complimented
me on! Good God!—and £111, 11s. 5d. lost by showing it!”

On June 11th there is this entry:—

“I have £15 to pay to-morrow, without a shilling. How I shall manage
to get seven hours’ peace for work, and yet satisfy my creditors,
Heaven only knows.

“£30, Newton, on the 25th; £31, 17s. 6d., Newman, same day; £26, 10s.,
Coutts, on the 24th; £29, 16s. 9d., Gillotts, on the 29th; £17, 10s.
6d. to baker,—in all £136, 14s. 10d. this month, with only 18s. in the
house; nothing coming in—all received; one large picture painting, and
three more getting ready, and Alfred’s head to do. In God alone I
trust, in humility. * * *

“_16th._—I sat from two till five staring at my picture like an idiot,
my brain pressed down by anxiety and anxious looks of my dear Mary and
children, whom I was compelled to inform.”

He had written to Sir Robert Peel, among others, stating his circumstances. The answer was prompt and kind, and in these terms:—

“Sir,—I am sorry to hear of your continual embarrassments. From a
limited fund which is at my disposal, I send as a contribution to your
relief from those embarrassments the sum of £50.”

But that could not rescue the poor man. As the month drew towards its termination, the horror became greater that his intellect could bear. The following are the last entries in his journal.

“_18th._—O God, bless me through the evils of this day. Great anxiety.
My landlord, Newton, called. I said, ‘I see a quarter’s rent in thy
face, but none from me!’ I appointed to-morrow night to see him, and
lay before him every iota of my position. ‘Good-hearted Newton!’ I
said, ‘don’t put in an execution.’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ he repeated,
half hurt.

“I sent the Duke, Wordsworth, dear Fred, and Mary’s heads to Miss
Barrett to protect. I have the Duke’s boots and hat, and Lord Grey’s
coat, and some other heads.

“_20th._—O God, bless us all through the evils of this day. Amen.

“_21st._—Slept horribly. Prayed in sorrow, and got up in agitation.

“_22d._—God forgive me. Amen.

Finis
of
B. R. Haydon.

“Stretch me no longer on this rough world.’—_Lear._

“End of twenty-sixth volume.”

He died by his own hand.

A more profoundly melancholy history than this it is impossible to conceive. But if the records of one life of ambition and misery, fairly and truthfully written, can avail as a warning to others, these volumes have not been published in vain. Genius, it must be acknowledged, too often needs a monitor. It is rash and eccentric—over-confident, and always seeking to conquer; with its eye bent on the glories from afar, it cannot guide its steps along the common pathway of existence. Of devotion to art, or literature, or science in any branch, we desire to speak most reverently. We know that many of the most important services rendered to mankind have been performed by humble men labouring sedulously in seclusion, and shutting themselves out from the external world almost as carefully as did the alchemists of old, when brooding over their electuaries and alembics. But these men were, like all others, subject to the laws of society, and were compelled, somehow, to earn their daily bread, however humble might be their fare. And in this they followed the apostolic example, for we find that even Paul, after he had received his world-wide mission, did not deem himself absolved from the common lot, but laboured diligently at his craft, as a duty, that he might not be a burden upon his fellows. The possession of genius does not exempt men from the ordinary cares of life; they are, after all, but men; they must eat, drink, be clothed and lodged like the other children of Adam; there is no exemption in their favour from the weight of the primitive curse. It is one thing to abandon high aims and impulses in order to acquire wealth, and another to labour diligently in order that they may have the freer scope. It is all very well to talk disparagingly about Pegasus in the yoke; to that restraint Pegasus must needs submit, else a worse thing will befall him. Some faint suspicion of this seems to have passed across the mind of Haydon when he penned the following observation: “Homer begged; Tasso begged in a different way; Galileo was racked; De Witt assassinated, and all for wishing to improve their species. At the same time Raffaele, Michael Angelo, Zeuxis, Apelles, Rubens, Reynolds, Titian, Shakespeare, were rich and happy. Why? _because with their genius they combined practical prudence_. I believe this is the secret.” Haydon, however, could not shape his course accordingly. From first to last he belonged to that unhappy class who are constantly looking out for what they call “the good time coming;” forgetting that every man must be the architect of his own fortune, that the success of to-morrow depends upon the labour of to-day, and that as we sow, so also must we reap. We doubt not that he indulged in glowing anticipations of fame and fortune; but he neglected to take the simplest means towards their attainment, thereby placing himself, from the very commencement of his career, at a sore disadvantage. It cannot be too often repeated, that to an artist or a literary man, early debt is ruin. It is easy to find an excuse for incurring the first obligation; but the very facility with which that has been obtained becomes a temptation to a second; and very soon the unfortunate borrower finds himself so entangled, that no late exertion of industry can set him free. If we are met with the question, What ought Haydon to have done in the earlier part of his career? We answer unhesitatingly, that he ought to have painted portraits—sign-posts—anything, rather than have sacrificed his independence. After all, as we have seen, he _was_ driven to paint portraits in his latter years; but the employment which he then felt as a degradation, and regarded with disgust, would, had he applied himself to it earlier, have been the means not only of affording him a competency, but of giving him free and unharassed leisure to carry out his more ambitious schemes. The casual reader of this work will be amazed to find so many entries of squandered time. In the very midst of his difficulties, months would elapse without Haydon’s taking up his pencil, and those periods of idleness he condemns as “the delinquency of infatuation.” For our part, we should not be inclined to use so harsh a term. Such works as Haydon was engaged in will not admit of continuous and unbroken application. In their composition the faculties must be exerted to the utmost, and both passion and imagination must be excited. That is the case alike with the painter and the poet—if it is otherwise, the pictures of the one and the words of the other will be cold and unsympathetic. Now such a mood of mind is exceedingly exhausting, and moreover cannot always be assumed at pleasure. Some men—we might instance Schiller—have sacrificed their lives in the attempt to prolong this excitement; for nature, whenever overtasked, demands a period of repose, or at least a change of exertion. We have Haydon’s own authority for the fact that, while engaged in composition, he was always under the influence of strong emotion. It is no wonder, therefore, that he frequently felt himself unable to continue—that is, to raise himself to the point of elevation of idea which he had previously reached. But instead of using these intervals profitably, he threw away his time, dreaming and speculating, until the goad of necessity or the prick of conscience roused him to another effort. And how profitless these efforts were, his history too plainly shows.

We have not thought it necessary to attempt, in this article, any criticism of Haydon as a painter. In truth, the materials for doing so are not within our reach, for his pictures are dispersed, and for the greater part forgotten. Nor can he be said to be the founder of a school; for although he numbered among his pupils Sir Edwin Landseer, and Sir Charles Eastlake, the present distinguished President of the Academy, the traces of his style are visible in the works of neither of these eminent men. He will be remembered hereafter rather from his enthusiasm—we had almost said fanaticism—in the cause of High Art, than on account of his works; and these volumes will unquestionably remain, remarkable in literature, as the most faithful record extant of the miserable effects which ensue from the misapplication of genius, from abandonment of prudence, from defiance of public opinion, and from the indulgence of overweening vanity. They ought, as we have already said, to be attentively perused by every student of art and literature; for they convey an important lesson, which is not the less likely to have its effect because our sympathies are keenly excited by the misfortunes, the trials, and miserable fate of the man. May his unhappy story be a warning to those who, proud in the real or fancied possession of genius, believe that nothing more is required to carry them to the summit of their ambition—may all such read and ponder, and recoil from the abyss which yawns for every one who disregards the common duties and daily responsibilities of existence!

BRUTE LIFE IN THE ALPINE REGIONS.[2]

Switzerland has latterly become one of the most commonplace countries in Europe. No matter that its lakes are as lovely, its mountains as magnificent, its landscapes as beautiful, and its cascades as sparkling as they were thirty years ago; it has the grievous misfortune of being too well known. Familiarity has begot indifference. Switzerland is now little more than a baiting place on the road to Italy or the East. Everybody has visited it, and professes to know it by heart. If a railway were accomplished, people would dart through it in a day, as they do through monotonous Belgium on their way to the Rhine—caring to see no more of it than they can spy from the carriage windows. As to Mont Blanc, its ascent is becoming quite an ordinary occurrence; men scramble up and down it like conies on a sandhill, and one thinks of the Grands Mulets pretty much as one used to think, in the dear departed days of four-horse teams and many-coated jehus, of the Halfway House on the Great North Road. Switzerland is now visited (for its own sake) only by persons who are stinted for time—who cannot afford a tour, but merely “a run,” and who accordingly scamper off to the Alps (as they might do to the Westmoreland lakes or Welsh hills), the journey thither being performable, thanks to steam, in somewhere about thirty hours from London Bridge. Rapid gentlemen, who glory in the quantity of ground they get over, who estimate the interest of a tour by the number of leagues accomplished, who have passed a day at Chamouni, climbed the Rhigi, visited the convent of St Bernard, written nonsense in visitors’ books, and satisfactorily settled in their minds the comparative merits of the many excellent tables-d’hôte that British gulosity and guineas have caused to replace Helvetia’s once simple and unsophisticated hospitality,—gentlemen of this class, who have done thus much, declare they know the country thoroughly, consider it rather slow, and pack their portmanteaus for a trip to the Antipodes or a stroll amidst Nineveh’s ruins.

From the Andes to the Alps, the flight is a far one. When first we fell in with that agreeable writer and accomplished naturalist, Dr Frederick Tschudi, he was fresh from Peru, and it was the meritorious book his South American wanderings suggested that brought us acquainted with him. Since that expedition, and probably during many years previously to it, he has studied and observed nearer home. The mountains of his native Switzerland have supplied him a theme for one of those massive octavos which indefatigable Germany loves to produce, and whose close print and countless pages deter foreign readers, unless the author’s name be one that invites and encourages them to proceed. That of Dr Tschudi was associated in our memory with so much valuable information, most pleasantly imparted, that we at once and willingly plunged into his formidable volume.

However well acquainted frequent visits or long residence may have made us with one of the most picturesque and delightful of European lands, a summer’s ramble amidst its mountains will assuredly possess much of the charm of novelty, if performed after an attentive perusal of Dr Tschudi’s recent publication. A summer’s ramble—not for ever along high-roads and beaten tracks, with a luxurious hotel for the goal of each day’s journey, but—away in the mountains, with a change or two of linen, and Dr Tschudi’s book for sole baggage, and with a cheerful resolution to be content with hard beds and shepherd’s fare. We are much mistaken, or Dr Tschudi must have passed many such summers, and less clement seasons too—must long have been a lodger in huts and chalets, and have bivouacked for months together amidst Alpine peaks—as he once did in Peruvian forests—in order to accumulate the country thoroughly, consider it rather slow, and pack their portmanteaus for a trip to the Antipodes or a stroll amidst Nineveh’s ruins.

From the Andes to the Alps, the flight is a far one. When first we fell in with that agreeable writer and accomplished naturalist, Dr Frederick Tschudi, he was fresh from Peru, and it was the meritorious book his South American wanderings suggested that brought us acquainted with him. Since that expedition, and probably during many years previously to it, he has studied and observed nearer home. The mountains of his native Switzerland have supplied him a theme for one of those massive octavos which indefatigable Germany loves to produce, and whose close print and countless pages deter foreign readers, unless the author’s name be one that invites and encourages them to proceed. That of Dr Tschudi was associated in our memory with so much valuable information, most pleasantly imparted, that we at once and willingly plunged into his formidable volume.

However well acquainted frequent visits or long residence may have made us with one of the most picturesque and delightful of European lands, a summer’s ramble amidst its mountains will assuredly possess much of the charm of novelty, if performed after an attentive perusal of Dr Tschudi’s recent publication. A summer’s ramble—not for ever along high-roads and beaten tracks, with a luxurious hotel for the goal of each day’s journey, but—away in the mountains, with a change or two of linen, and Dr Tschudi’s book for sole baggage, and with a cheerful resolution to be content with hard beds and shepherd’s fare. We are much mistaken, or Dr Tschudi must have passed many such summers, and less clement seasons too—must long have been a lodger in huts and chalets, and have bivouacked for months together amidst Alpine peaks—as he once did in Peruvian forests—in order to accumulate the great store and variety of curious information he has brought together in this volume. Some aid he may have derived from the numerous admirable books which Swiss naturalists have devoted to the beauties and wonders of their native land. But his pages bear the stamp of originality, and abound in unmistakable evidence of an enthusiastic love of science, and of keen and intelligent personal observation. One of their most striking features is the minute knowledge displayed of the ways and habits of creatures of whose existence many persons are barely aware—a knowledge which can only have been acquired by long frequentation of their haunts, and by the most cautious watchfulness. The author of a book like this must, one would think, have led the life of an Indian on the war-path—have exercised the craft, and patience, and vigilance, the silence and self-denial of Leatherstocking on a Sioux trail—whilst watching the furred and feathered and scaly denizens of the forests, as eager to note their aspect and peculiarities as the wild warrior could be to surprise foes and add fresh scalps to his savage trophies.

Dr Tschudi has made a Dantesque arrangement of his work, dividing it into “circles,” whose denizens he describes in turn. The circles are the Mountain Region, the Alpine Region, the Snow Region. The first chapter of each circle is devoted to the general characteristics of the region described, its formation, geology, climate, streams and lakes. A botanical chapter follows; then one is given to the lower animals—fish, insects, reptiles—and others to birds and quadrupeds. Each circle is terminated by a series of biographies and delineations of particular animals, and these are some of the most pleasing portions of the book, which, far from being dry or abstruse, contains few scientific terms that are not intelligible to all tolerably educated persons, and maybe ranked in the same class to which belongs White’s delightful Natural History of Selborne. The general reader might be little attracted by so extensive a work devoted entirely to natural history, but Dr Tschudi is capable of imparting attraction and interest to a much drier subject.

“The Alps,” says Dr Tschudi, in his few preliminary pages of general reflections, “are the pride of the Switzer, who has planted his home at their foot. Their vicinity exercises an indescribable and extensive influence on his whole existence. They are in some sort the condition of his natural and spiritual, his social and political life. He loves them almost instinctively; the most secret fibres of his heart are intertwined with them; when absent from them, his longing is incessant to return to his beloved mountains. His love for them is perhaps greater than his knowledge of their nature. Even at the present day, when the furrow is sought in which the locomotive may most easily wind its way over the lowest saddle of the Central Alps, and the galvanic stream glides along the copper wire, where beautiful roads have long intersected them, and thousands of tourists from every part of the world have visited them—even now that the indefatigable spirit of inquiry of our numerous great naturalists has stimulated to a thousand fruitful expeditions to their lofty and glittering summits, a deep mystery still envelopes them.” They compose an almost unknown land, in the midst of thickly peopled and highly civilised countries. Refined and prosperous nations have occupied their valleys, and pushed their way up those lower steeps which form the step of transition from plain to mountain. But at a certain elevation they stop, and go no farther. Above is the domain of bird and beast, rarely intruded upon, save by a stray hunter or by an ardent and adventurous seeker after knowledge. In those lofty regions are immense tracts of mountain, which have never echoed to a human voice, or received the print of human foot, and whose animal and vegetable life are still totally uninvestigated. “Many a valley in the rugged recesses of the Upper Alps is less known than the coasts of the remotest group of islands, or than the banks of the Nile and the Mississippi. And not only this: even the districts which we have before our eyes, and under our feet, have but lately become known to us; we still are but at the threshold of knowledge, and few are there who earnestly knock, and are admitted.”

Dr Tschudi’s first circle, the mountain region, consists of the whole of those parts of Switzerland which are between 2500 and 4000 feet above the level of the sea. Below the former elevation he does not consider the mountains to have begun; above the latter heights we get into the second or Alpine circle. The first region is made up partly of independent mountains, whose height does not exceed the stipulated 4000 feet, partly of the broad flanks and slopes of loftier mountains. It is the region of waterfalls. The Jura is the most important of the independent chains it comprises. Many of the most charming parts of Switzerland are in the horizontal zone, thus established between 2500 and 4000 feet above the sea. It contains beautiful valleys, some manufacturing places; the high-roads to Italy traverse it; small villages, shepherds’ cottages, cow and sheep stables, are found in even its most elevated valleys. In summer it is overrun by travellers, wandering in quest of cascades and glaciers; in winter its fashionable baths and elegant hotels are closed or deserted, and it is enlivened only by the passage of strings of mules laden with merchandise.

To us the most attractive parts of this book are those where we find the author wandering in the woodlands, communing with the brute creation, and unostentatiously displaying his rare familiarity with sylvan sights and sounds. It is with reference to those chapters, and not to his geological and meteorological dissertations, that we have more particularly taken up his work; but before walking with him into the woods, we are tempted to abridge two curious and interesting pages, relating to the hollows and caverns frequently found in the Alps. The worthy naturalist’s German is occasionally as rugged as the rocks he writes about, and we must aim rather at giving its spirit than at rigidly rendering its letter.

“Throughout the whole Alpine land,” he says, “hollows are numerous, and often of very interesting appearance. They assume the most various forms—gentle recesses of cliffs, with overhanging roofs, regular closed grottoes or caves, which the Bernese Oberlanders call ‘Balm;’ ravine-like hollows ending in rocky vaults, or communicating with yet deeper clefts and crevices; and finally, passages broken through the mountains from daylight to daylight. With these hollows tradition associates many pious reminiscences of saints and missionaries, and here and there a chapel or hermitage is still to be found in their vicinity. The interior of these rocky dwellings is often of singular conformation, including narrow galleries, deep and gloomy pools of water, and unexplored precipices, sinking more than a thousand feet into the bowels of the mountain. In some are found, as signs that in former times they were used as hiding-places by fugitives, or as dwellings by banditti, Roman and ancient German coins; in others, petrified bones or shell-fish; in others, again, rounded fragments of serpentine and of other descriptions of stone not proper to the mountain; remains of beasts of prey, which for centuries have been extinct in those regions; and finally—this especially in the Jura—masses of snow and ice that never melt. Most of them have an internal coating of stalactites. Almost more remarkable than these caverns are the _wind-holes_, everywhere found in the mountains—deep narrow clefts in the rock, which sometimes have, and sometimes have not, an upper exit. In fine summer weather, a strong and very cold wind issues from them; in winter, on the contrary, the air rushes into them, and their temperature is higher than that without. Such wind-holes are very numerous in the Alps.... The cow-keepers use them as dairies. They are not without influence upon animal and vegetable life. When not taken possession of by man, they are frequently taken advantage of by a fox or marmot, for one of the several entrances to his earth. Plants will not thrive at their entrance or in their vicinity, with the exception of some few dark mosses and lichens. Upon the same natural laws with these wind-holes, depends the existence of the vast and wonderful ice-caverns which are found in the mountains far below the snow-line, and which contain, for many months together, sometimes the whole year through, huge masses of ice. We may cite the icecavern of St George, situate near Rolle, 2562 feet above the lake of Geneva, on a shelf of the foremost range of the Jura, which contains some 2000 hundredweight of ice, and where it freezes even in summer; also the greatest and most magnificent of all known ice-caverns, the sheep-hole on the lake of Thun, in a cliff 1500 feet high, 5604 above the level of the sea, penetrating deep into the mountain, and containing the strangest formations of ice. Notwithstanding its uninviting aspect, shepherds and cowherds take refuge within it in stormy or very hot weather, and it not unfrequently affords shelter to a thousand head of sheep.”