Chapter XXXIII: Letter V (2)

27th.--Worked at the outline of Poats:[61] drew-in the page in the foreground from nature (four hours)....

5th May.--Worked at the water-colour sketch;[62] began re-painting it in oil (four hours)....

8th June.--Began painting on the centre compartment of the picture. Painted at the yellow hood in the foreground; painted-in the head of it ...; lemon, chrome, cadmium, and yellow lake, with copal; vehicle, copal and drying-oil (five hours)....

21st.--Painted-in one hand and the head; laying-in the shadows with emerald-green and white and much copal, and the lights with pure white and copal; the outline drawn with water-colours, much hatched (ten hours).

22nd.--Painted-in one hand from Maitland in sunlight: find I can put the models in the sun (three hours).

23rd.--Painted-in the neck and hair and draperies of the admiring courtier, also one hand of the foreground page, always laying-in the flesh with pure white (eight hours)....

25th.--Painted a study of the head of Maitland for the Black Prince, and the head of page from young Deverell[63] (seven hours)....

29th.--Touched the Page’s head, and painted-in the Jester’s from John Marshall (nine hours)....

2nd July.--Set off to Shorn Ridgway. Found some fine scenery overlooking the Thames and Essex; began a study of it for my background to _Chaucer_ (three hours)....

[Towards end of August].--Painted about twelve days at the picture of _King Lear_: altered the head of Cordelia, shortened her hands and arms, enlarged the head, thickened the figure (sixty hours).

Painted four days at the little picture of _Mother and Child_ before sending it home (twenty hours)....

Spent three days arranging the sleeves of the Page. Went to Margate with my daughter, and stayed there two weeks, during [which time I] had three sittings for her portrait[64] (nine hours)....

5th October.--Began a portrait of Mr. Seddon;[65] to be painted, and that of Mrs. Seddon, for a sofa; went to a conversazione with them....

3rd November.--Finished Mr. Seddon’s Portrait. Drew-in the Jester, and painted his hands, sleeves, etc. Drew at other parts. Composed a subject for _Beauty and the Beast_; ... drew a figure of Beauty from nature. Wasted about two months changing into a new studio. Began the portrait of Shakespeare for the Dickinsons: painted a sketch of it, made a drawing of the head, and a study from Mr. Barker for it. Drew a cartoon of it.... Drew a figure of _the Lord Jesus_ for the Dickinsons.[66]

1850--2nd March.--Worked at it and the cartoon of Shakespeare to-day (four and a half hours). In the evening three hours at _The Lord Jesus_ (border-work)....

4th.--... To meet S. C. Hall,[67] at Lucy’s, meeting of the committee of the North London School of Drawing and Modelling (two hours)....

6th.--Painted at the forehead and hair of Shakespeare, and drew the border of thorns of the Christ (eight hours)....

12th.--Went to a committee of North London School (six hours).

13th.--Idem. Went to Fenton to paint his dead child (six hours)....

16th.--Painted at the head of Shakespeare and background, and drew at the Cordelia for etching[68] (10 hours)....

_Diary resumed on the 16th August 1854._[69]

Idle day: morning spent musing in bed; afternoon walked out with Emma and Katy;[70] evening, garden and dim reflections. Much study of Blue-book of Department of Art and Science (impudently called “of Science and Art”). In the interval which the diary shows (to the best of my recollection) I painted in the year 1850, still in Newman Street, first the remainder of the Shakespeare portrait, for which I was paid sixty guineas; then I finished the etching for _The Germ_, which cost me 31s. 6d. and brought me in nothing. Afterwards I designed a card for the Dickinson Exhibition of _Shakespeare_, on which I worked several days for no remuneration. The drawing of _The Lord Jesus_ was paid me £2: they afterwards lithographed it in shameful style, so as to cause me much annoyance.

For the remainder of the year I worked at the large picture of _Chaucer_, and studies of landscape for it, one of which I afterwards finished up, and gave to Seddon. In 1851 I finished the centre compartment of _The Fruits of English Poetry_,[71] having determined to abandon the wings. To get this part finished for the Academy, I had to labour very hard, and at the last worked three whole nights in one week, only lying down with my clothes on for a couple of hours. Emma sat for the Princess, which was done in two sittings of two hours each.... Elliott, a pupil of Lucy’s, the cardinal. John Marshall, of University Hospital, was the Jester. Miss Gregson, since Mrs. Lee, was the fair princess behind the Black Prince. Her friend Miss Byne sat for the dark one, but much altered. The scoundrel (and afterwards thief) Maitland, then under Marshall’s hands for operation, sat for the Black Prince. The fine woman below looking round was a portrait of Julia Wild, celebrated as model, ... also for black eyes; the boys were mostly portraits, but the other heads ideal chiefly. I sold this picture to Dickinson for 85 per cent. of whatever he might afterwards sell it for, to be paid after he should have received the money. I have since urged him to put it up to auction, which he has done, but no one would buy it; so he still has it. This year 1854 he paid me £20 on account of it, which was all I ever had for it.

After finishing this picture (which I forgot to say the Academicians hung in such a way as to shine all over, and _without the frame_), I took a house at Stockwell.... I went for three days to the Isle of Wight with Anthony and Hunt. The first day we marched for five hours in the rain; the second and third, revelled in the enjoyment--liberty, novelty of scene, fine weather, and huge appetite. The fourth we returned home. At Stockwell this year I painted one month at the sketch for the _Chaucer_, begun on paper and water-colour. Anthony was to give me a work for this, but I afterwards asked him to give me twelve guineas instead, which he did. I then began my picture of the _Baa Lambs_, which I finished in five months of hard labour; during which time I was very hard up generally, owing to McCracken not paying me all at once for the picture of _Wiclif_, which he purchased of me at this time for fifty guineas and a very bad Deighton[72]--a do in fact. During this time I painted Mrs. Seddon’s portrait, which turned out bad and a curse: this was the second portrait for the sofa, which they valued at thirteen guineas cost-price. During this time I also finished the landscape-study of Shorn, which I gave to Tom Seddon; he having kindly lent me money about this time, £12, I think; £5 of which I borrowed to lend Lucy. But Seddon was the first to borrow of me, £10 once. At this time I also finished the sketch of _Wiclif_, and the first of _Chaucer_ (since given to John Marshall); about a day’s work between the two.

The _Baa Lamb_ picture was painted almost entirely in sunlight, which twice gave me a fever while painting. I used to take the lay figure out every morning, and bring it in at night or if it rained.... My painting-room being on a level with the garden, Emma sat for the lady, and Kate for the child. The lambs and sheep used to be brought every morning from Clapham Common in a truck: one of them ate up all the flowers one morning in the garden, where they used to behave very ill. The background was painted on the Common. The medium I used was Roberson’s undrying copal (flake white). After getting rid of these works I went to Foot’s Cray for Michaelmas with my daughter Lucy, where I painted my picture of _Paul’s Cray Church_ in ten days. This I have sent to Robinson’s Auction a few months since, and it fetched £2. 8s. inclusive of frame. It was exhibited at Grundy’s and Liverpool in 1852.

After these works I began my picture of _Christ washing Peter’s Feet_, painting this one at my painting-rooms in Newman Street: at the same time I began the study for the small picture of _Waiting_,[73] working at it in the three evenings a week I used to sleep in Stockwell--the other three being passed at the studio to save time. Twelve days before sending in the _Christ_ picture I had given it up in despair, none of the heads being yet done: so I returned to Stockwell to alter the head in the _Baa Lambs_ picture, being dissatisfied with it. I afterwards took up the _Christ_ again at the instigation of Millais, and painted the heads of Peter, Christ, and John (this one the only one laid-in), also all the other figures of apostles, in ten days, and sent it in. This picture was painted in four months, the flesh painted on _wet white_ at Millais’s lying instigation; Roberson’s medium, which I think dangerous like Millais’s advice. Having got rid of these pictures (which were hung, one above the line so as to shine all over, the other against the window in the octagon room), I immediately began the picture of _Waiting_; from Miss Ryan[74] the head, the remainder copied from the study painted at night. I all but finished this little picture before leaving our house at Stockwell: ten weeks’ work at least....

In June I left Stockwell and Newman Street for Hampstead, Emma going to Dover for the summer. At Hampstead I remained one year and nine months; most of the time intensely miserable, very hard up, and a little mad. During this time I was Head Master of the North London Drawing School for nearly a year. I once received £5 from the Secretary as a loan, which I returned to him a short time after; this was all I ever saw of my salary of £60 a year. The first work I undertook at Hampstead was the design for my picture of _Work_, still unfinished save the background. I also made a small copy of the _Baa Lambs_, and painted two small portraits; one for nothing, not even thanks, the other for £5. I began the background for _Work_ in the Streets of Hampstead, painting there all day for two months, having spent much time in inventing and making an apparatus. This, and finishing the picture of _Waiting_, took up till the beginning of October, when I commenced the Landscape of _English Autumn Afternoon_; which I had to give up after a month’s work, in consequence of Mrs. Coats’[75] being ill and her bedroom being required. Having given this up about the end of October, and decided that I should not have time to finish the _Work_ for the next Academy Exhibition, I designed the subject of _The Last of England_, at the coloured sketch and cartoon of which I worked till Christmas. During this period I worked about ten days at the cartoon of _Our Ladye_,[76] etc., and the picture of the _Baa Lambs_. About this time I also got the twelve guineas from Anthony, and sold the sketch of _Wiclif_ to McCracken for ten guineas, also the sketch of _The Infant’s Repast_ to some scoundrel at Bristol for £5. At the beginning of ’53 I worked for about six weeks at the picture of _Last of England_, Emma coming to sit to me in the most inhuman weather from Highgate. This work representing an out-door scene without sunlight, I painted at it chiefly out of doors when the snow was lying on the ground. The madder ribbons of the bonnet took me four weeks to paint. At length, finding that at this rate I could not get it done for the Academy, I gave it up in much disgust, and began re-painting the sketch of _Chaucer_ to give to John Marshall; on this I worked about two months, also a little at the painted sketch of _Cordelia_ from the etching in _Germ_.

About this time I lost many days through interruptions of a domestic nature, but resumed work again about the 15th May at the pictures of _King Lear_ and _Baa Lambs_; doing about two months’ work to the _King Lear_, which I sent to Manchester along with the _Waiting_, and perhaps five weeks’ work to the _Baa Lambs_ for Glasgow, all of which returned unsold. During this period we were residing at Hendon till the 1st September ’53, when we removed here at Church End.[77] About the 15th September I recommenced painting on the _English Autumn_ picture, and finished the view from the back window about the 20th October. From this period till the 10th of June 1854, I must have wasted four weeks through Lucy’s holidays, two through nervous disorder of the brain, and about one through Emma’s illness. Of the remaining time, about two months was taken up again repainting the _King Lear_; one month on the picture of _The Last of England_; three days on repainting the picture of _Winandermere_ (since sold to White[78] for £5); ten days on a lithograph of _Winandermere_ (a failure);[79] nearly a month on an etching of _King Lear_, yet unfinished;[80] six days on a lithotint of _Baby_ (a failure); and the rest of the time on _English Autumn Afternoon_, which last (which took about six months) was sold at Phillips’ Auction for nine guineas to Dickinson, the frame having cost four. He has since sold it to Charles Seddon for £20, and declares he will not make any profit by it, but put it to my account. The _King Lear_ was sold at the same time for fifteen guineas to John P. Seddon, having cost eight months’ work, and the frame £3. 10s. Shortly after this, White, who had just purchased the two Wiclifs from McCracken, came here, and bought the _Cordelia_ sketch for £10; picture of _Waiting_, £20; sketch of _Baa Lambs_, £5; and _Winandermere_, £5; in all £40. Since which I have spent one month in finishing the _Cordelia_ for him along with the others. Having finished these and got the money, I wasted about a week, and have since been engaged finishing-off a study (two views of the same girl’s head, painted at Southend in ’47)--one day at this, and the rest at making a picture of study of _Windermere_ painted in ’48, when with Lucy at the Lakes. I must now endeavour to keep up this diary more accurately, but have become lazy through discouragement--yet not so much so as some people think--but broken in spirit, and but a melancholy copy of what I once was. “Ah what to me shall be the end?”

1854--17th August.--Rose at a quarter before nine--garden after breakfast, shower-bath before. To work by eleven till one at the view of _Windermere_.... This evening I intended drawing, but instead reflected on alterations to be made in the picture of _Christ and Peter_, which I think of sending to Paris[81] with the _Chaucer_, if the English Committee accept it (six hours). The Christ in its present state I consider to be a failure--too much melo-dramatic sentiment, not sufficient dignity and simplicity of pose. What to do with it, however, I scarce know. To suit the public taste, however, it should be clothed;[82] to suit my own, not; but then the action suits me not to alter, which would be more trouble than to clothe the figure. Aureoles they must all have. The St. John is all right. The Peter would be perfect if the carnation were redder and deeper in tint, and the cloak a better green; also a bit of the right arm should be shown; but how? Judas requires a fresh head of hair, his present one having been dabbed in from _feeling_ in the last hurry of sending in. Memo.: his garment to be a paler yellow. Four of the other apostles require more _religious feeling_, which must be done--William and Gabriel Rossetti in particular require veneration to be added to them. The table-cloth will require alteration, and the tiles of the floor. Health and spirits tolerable to-day, nerves quiet.

18th.--Worked from nine till half-past ten at the charcoal sketch of _Beauty before she became acquainted with the Beast_. Read _Antony and Cleopatra_ in bed this morning; found it more interesting than ever, was deeply affected and strengthened; such is the effect of all history-reading. The moral the play seems to imply, if any, is that there is in shame and degradation a pitch than which self-inflicted death is more to be tolerated. Pity when any one with modern notions of the criminality of such act is driven to it. With poor Haydon it was the only atonement he could make to humanity degraded in his personal conduct. How can degraded things be still interesting?

20th.--Yesterday one of degrading idleness. Out for a longish walk with Emma; came home tired, dejected, and nervous. Tried to work at drawing of _Beauty_ for about one hour; contemptible state (three hours). This morning have written notice of sending _Chaucer_, _King Lear_, and _Christ_, to Paris (will the Committee permit!?!?)....

22nd.--Yesterday I worked at the little picture till six or half-past; re-painted the child’s hands from the studies, and the head from feeling; till I became thoroughly disgusted with the work, as I have with the _Windermere_. Both are now put by till the inspiration come on again. When nothing hurries, this is the best plan....

This morning I felt incontrollably disgusted with everything; could literally do nothing, not even summon energy to go into London; when Emma started the bright idea that we should go to St. Alban’s. As soon as dinner over we started on foot for Colney Hatch station.... The rail only goes to Hatfield, we found; but there, got a ride on the top of the ’bus here, in the most lovely weather--Emma in a state of buoyant enjoyment. We should have thought more of the fields, no doubt, were we not so much used to them of late. However, one field of turnips against the afternoon sky did surprise us into exclamation, with its wonderful emerald tints. And then we passed a strange sight; two tall chimneys standing separately in a small space of ground (about a rod, I suppose); the rest covered with black-looking rubbish, some of it smoking, some children looking at it. This, the day before, had been a house, the home of a young couple married some three months, the man a wheelwright. Fire surprised them in bed the previous night, it would seem, and they had to escape as they were, in their bed-clothes. And here lay all that they possessed, flattened down into black ashes. I broke a tooth a day or two ago, and the gap seemed for some days hard to reconcile with my impressions of what forms ought to surround my tongue. If so it is with the remains of a decayed tooth, the gap caused by the loss of all one has must be harder still to realize at first. However, they are young, and no life was lost; and, as the man is not an artist, there is yet hope of prosperity in store for them. And now we are at the _Peahen_, and Emma has just gone to bed, and I am writing God knows to what purpose (but vanity). And we have spent six shillings getting here, which is sheer madness in the present state of our prospects; besides one bob wasted on a description of the Abbey--certainly the silliest little book that fool ever penned, the most complete do that ever I was subjected to; fifty pages of the most complete vacuity that ever small-country-town-bred numbskull, without a shade of learning, ingenuity, or imagination, could possibly have put into circulation. And now to bed. Not even one line of the Battles of St. Alban’s!

23rd.--We arose at twenty minutes past seven, and bullied the chambermaid for not waking us,--at least I did. Breakfasted, and off to the Abbey. Bill at the Peahen most gloriously small, by the way; we expected at least sixteen shillings; it was only nine: bed one and six, no wax lights. What meekness on the part of the woman of the Peahen!--a woman keeps it. We paid one shilling for two tickets to the Abbey; not to go up the tower, which would have been two bob. Emma’s tender state made it a matter of prudence, more than economy, not to go: and well we did not pay the other shilling, for mark the sequel. We two (nothing buckram about us as yet) went, and found ourselves opposed by one abbey-door which would not open; then one rector’s maidservant came towards us two, and said that it did not open till ten, and moreover that service began at half-past, and that, if we wished to see the place, she had better go for the verger. Well, we two, being there quite in the dark as to what all this meant, naturally concluded that the rector, his maid, the verger, and the whole conclave, were of a plot to rob us; so we declined the offer, saying it was scandalous conduct, and that _we_ would go to the verger’s. So, having got there, a stout woman told us plainly no verger should open the door before ten o’clock. So, seeing there was no remedy, we wandered forth to spend the time somehow: and at ten we got in, bullied the verger--who confessed they had been shown up but a short while before in the papers. I of course promised a most venomous letter to _The Times_: but somehow, looking over these workings-up and scrapings-down of so many centuries, our little tiff about half an hour was forgotten, and, before we saw half the wonders of the place, we were excellent friends. However venerable masonry many hundred years old may look--be it free-stone or rubble, plaster or Roman tile--somehow the stones of then are like the stones of now, only a little time-eaten; but there was a thigh-bone and skull belonging to the good Duke Humphrey that seemed to me more speaking in its age than all the rest. It might have been any one else for all we could tell, but we took it on trust: and there, good Heavens! is part of the man we read of in history, who was too good for this country 400 years ago, who was therefore got rid of, and the Duchess made to walk in her shift--a great-grandson of Edward III., brother to Henry V., Protector of England, and an honest man; and it is not a dream, for this is his thigh-bone. This is more interesting than stones and mortar after all. How I could have wished for a little more of the same! but no. Next in interest were puritanical mutilations, comical in their consistancy but lifelike.[83] I had been here with Mark Anthony some years ago, so it was not new.--Back to Hatfield; ruins still smouldering, but cold in interest already. Rail to Barnet, walk home. Lazy, sad, nervous again; hopes gone, unspeakably flown. Onions for supper. Stupid state. The trip in all cost £1. 6s. 6d. Sheer madness--but _que voulez vous?_ the thing is done.

26th.--I hope I shall keep this one[84] more regularly up than hitherto. Having now recommenced, I must be in earnest, one would think, after such a pause. Should every one keep a record of his daily acts and sentiments, the history of the world would be made out in a way that no historian could distort. However illiberal or enthusiastic in his nature, however stupid a man might be, could he be persuaded to set down what he thought or did, something would accrue from it. To judge by myself, however, many would have day after day to record blank. I have had a trouble to remember if it is one or two days that I have omitted to fill in, for want of a book; and, now I know it to be two, I can remember yesterday but not the one before. I know them both to have been idle ones. A loathing of my vocation has seized me. I must rest. Work, work, work for ever muddles a man’s brain, and mine at times is none of the clearest. What have I done to-day? Worked in the garden, and weeded the back yard. Yesterday I turned a servant out of doors.... About this girl turned out of doors, let me record the fact; and, if wrong, so confess, if not atone. We took her from Barnet Union; she was hard-working and reasonably good in her behaviour. But she seemed to be cursed with the devil’s own temper, which made her incontrollably surly at times, also at times insufferably insolent.... Yesterday we were going into London, and she was to take Katty for a walk while we were absent. On account of the cholera now everywhere, I cautioned her not to take the child into any house. She answered, “I won’t take the child out at all.” She stuck to this; I to the fact that servants must do what they are told, or leave. She was obstinate; I told her she should leave the house that minute.... Before one she was gone. I gave her wages up to the day, and one month clear; so she went off with 12s. 6d. Her wages were £5 a year, everything found her. If this is poor wages for a girl, I myself am very poor, and cannot help it. She had a good place in all except wages, but wanted sense to keep it. Where she is gone I know not. And now for my share. Was I right? Custom says yes--conscience says no. Discretion says, “What would it have come to at last, had you put up with such rebellion in one instance?” Charity says: “Better put up with it a dozen times than turn a poor girl out, because she is a fool by nature, with 12s. 6d. in her pocket.” I feel like a scoundrel. Yet it was her own fault--I was not even cross with her to draw forth her insolence. I don’t know what to think of it; I must endeavour to forbear passion in future and all haste. Had I not been angered, I might have found some way to adjust matters without proceeding to extremities....

28th.--I went into London early, walking to Hampstead. Called on old White, a serious too-long-deferred visit. He says he’ll come and buy the _Lady of Saturday Night_ Cartoon for £20. This will save our bacon for a little while longer; I do begin to think that the run of ill-luck is out for this time, and that good will continue to be the order. Saw there Etty’s _Robinson Crusoe_, one of his four or five really fine works. Saw a little picture of Millais’ quite recent--a waterfall with a little lady and gent, and a child in the background. The figures very pretty. The foliage and foreground icy cold and raw in colour; the greens unripe enough to cause indigestion.... Thence to see Cave Thomas. He showed me a study of a Russian Merchant that quite astonished me, a most noble painting, equal to anything modern or ancient. Thomas will paint great works yet, I now am convinced. Afterwards dined at Tom’s Coffee House, then Blackfriars.[85] Rossetti out, so I came home very tired and exhausted, and did not work yesterday in consequence, but lay the greater part of the day on the sofa in a state of fish out of water. The new servant came on Monday; promises well; splendid black eyes and brows, and colour to paint. To-day I have been industrious, and hope to remain so for a time. Heat still intense.

1st September.--Out by quarter to eight to examine the river Brent at Hendon; a mere brooklet, running in most dainty sinuosity under overshadowing oaks and all manner of leafiness. Many beauties, and hard to choose amongst, for I had determined to make a little picture of it. However, Nature, that at first sight appears so lovely, is on consideration almost always incomplete; moreover there is no painting intertangled foliage without losing half its beauties. If imitated exactly, it can only be done as seen from one eye, and quite flat and confused therefore.... Set to work on the female head of the Emigrant picture from Emma, a complete portrait....

2nd.--... Out by half-past nine to the river Brent; after trouble, selected the place, and began work at quarter past one....

On Sunday I began work about half-past eleven; scraped out the head of the man in the Emigrant picture, because it had cracked all over. This is the first time a head has ever served me so--three days’ work gone smash because of the cursed zinc white I laid over the ground. The female head has healed. Drew-in the man again, and worked at the expression of the female till half-past six....

Monday.--Up late, shower-bath--to work at Brent by ten till half-past one,--dinner and sleepy. About three out to a field, to begin the outline of a small landscape. Found it of surpassing loveliness. Corn-shocks in long perspective form, hayricks, and steeple seen between them--foreground of turnips--blue sky and afternoon sun. By the time I had drawn-in the outline they had carted half my wheat: by to-day all I had drawn-in was gone. At night, _Beauty_, till eleven.

This morning up late.... After dinner, contrived an apparatus for slinging my work round my neck while at painting. Set off with it; began a little landscape in a hurry and fluster--attempting to paint corn-sheaves and cart while they are going; I fear it will not repay the trouble, for I cannot paint in a hurry....

Sunday.--... Cholera all round. Worked all day at sketching the charcoal of _Beauty_; twice missed it, at last all right. About 4 p.m. set some accessories, and drew them in this evening: at it for about two hours; all well yet (five hours). On last Friday, some frames came home; and I passed the evening in great glee, putting-in the pictures--all old rubbishing things saved to sell to the dealers or others. The study for _Waiting_ finished into a picture. The study of a little girl’s head, painted in two views at Southend in ’46 on a table napkin, now lined and re-touched. The drawing for the Emigrants, and the charcoal of _Beauty_.

12th September.--yesterday.... To work at the Brent by 11 a.m. Emma and the child brought me my dinner there at two, in a little basket. Hot hashed mutton and potatoes in a basin, cold rice pudding, and a little bottle of rum and water, beer being bad for cholera. Very delightful and very great appetite.... This evening worked at the kitten in _Beauty_, for which Emma and I went out after dark and stole one yesterday. White cometh not; only £5 in the money-box. This is all till the quarter’s rent of the wharf comes in, £26, not for five or six weeks yet. What to be done I scarce know. I ought to go and take Lucy a pound’s worth of things, and can’t. I ought to buy shoes, and can’t. We ought to send money to Emma’s mother. To-morrow Emma means to send her a parcel of things by the carrier, with five bob as a breather. This is all can be done just at present (seven and a-half hours).

14th.--Yesterday up at eight.... This morning up at half-past eight.... Rain all day; so worked at the confounded charcoal of _Beauty_, which seems as though it never could get done. No doubt people would accuse me of folly for wasting so much time over it, but work to the best of one’s power is never wasted. I am true to my intention of finishing everything I have begun, to the best of my power; and moreover whatever an artist works at with pleasure to himself must be good if he is worth anything. It is near done, thank goodness; and the figure and face of _Beauty_ pleases me, though I shall not paint the picture. The idea is now safe and intelligible. I intend it for what the story is--a jumble of Louis XV. and Orientalism. The glories of Eastern luxuriance mixed with household common appurtenances to tickle the fancy at both ends; nothing serious, yet nothing without purpose. Works of this kind should be intentionally full of anachronisms: to endeavour after unity is to injure the subject and not illustrate it (ten and a-half hours).

15th.--... Set to work at _Beauty_, from eight till eleven--scraped out puss, and put in one with a more satisfactory _miow_, finished it all over, but the general effect is spotty, so must work over it yet (seven and a-half hours).

17th.--Sunday.... Found the charcoal of _Beauty_ quite spoiled through my having wet it to fix it, not understanding the steaming process--it is all cockled. To-morrow I must iron it out, and make hot cockles of it, if nothing better.... After dinner we went as far as Mill Hill with the maid and child, and at dusk had tea in some gardens there, and so home; not an aristocratic proceeding, but pleasant and healthful. The scenery is very beautiful and paintable about this part, and I suppose the finest round London. One bit in particular pleased us. It was looking down from a hill; in a deep hollow, surrounded on all sides by beautiful trees, lay part of a road already small by the perspective; through the foliage at the top in the extreme distance was Hendon church. With large foreground figures on the hill in front, it would have made a most admirable picture for perspective depth. Everything alas! cannot be painted, however.... In the evening I worked at _Beauty_. Finished it, and then spoiled it again through wetting it at the back; but a work of art is never spoiled, it can be done again (eight hours).

18th.--... In the evening ironed out _Beauty_, but with no good effect; so had paste made, and, stretching a clean sheet of paper, pasted it down (eight hours).

19th.--Rain; so had out the picture of _The Last of England_, and scraped at the head of the female: afterwards worked at it two hours without model, and four hours with, using zinc white. Afterwards re-touched _Beauty_, which with constant wetting was much blurred. In the evening fixed it in frame, lettered it, and pasted loose drawing in my big book (seven and a-half hours).

20th.--... Got to the Brent late, at eleven; worked till one, when it was raining pretty freely. I endeavoured to work through it; but, the big drops piercing the foliage overhead, I had to give over; spent twenty minutes under a thicket of leafage. Tried to begin again when the rain was a little cleared off, but found the weight of water quite displaced the different branches from their normal position, making confusion; so came home to dinner. Felt my head very oppressed while there, and extremely and unusually nervous before setting to work; is this from smoking again? After dinner, worked at drawing-in the outline of the male head in _The Last of England_. Then reflected on it till near five. Settled that I would paint the woman in Emma’s shepherd-plaid shawl, instead of the large blue-and-green plaid, as in the sketch. This is a serious affair settled, which has caused me much perplexity. After this, I worked till tea-time at scraping away the ground of zinc white which I had laid myself for the picture at Hampstead. I found that the head of the man had cracked all over since I painted it, so had to scrape it out. His coat also has cracks in it, a bad thing in a coat in particular; so I will have no more of this zinc, confound it. There is nothing like tin for a foundation to go upon: on this system will I work henceforth. After tea I worked at altering the little lady reading a letter in _The Brent_, which I had rubbed in from Emma the other day. I have made it more sentimental....

21st.--To the Brent by half-past nine: worked well till half-past one. Begins to look bravely, and beautiful colour; but still requires all my energy and attention to master the difficulties attending a style of work I have not been bred to. Weather very cold; north wind, which it is to be hoped will take off the cholera. After dinner to the corn-field for about three hours; interrupted by a shower, and somehow did very little. Altogether these little landscapes take up too much time to be profitable. This evening, wasted two hours with Emma trying to make out an error of sixpence in our accounts, in which I succeeded at last. I meant to have done so much to-night, and so have done nothing. I cannot help it, but somehow whatever I am about I must go through with to the extremity. This, if the work happens to be of importance, is a most happy quality; but on the other hand it is a most unprofitable mania when the occasion that calls it forth is trivial, as in the present case,--such as an error of sixpence, weeding a piece of garden, or such-like. The only thing I can never bring myself to do with care is writing. This has always (I know not wherefore) appeared to me as base and mechanical, and in some way I am sure to make it disgraceful. Either I spell it wrong, and this I can’t help and never could manage; or else I get a bad pen, and so blotch and scribble it that it is not readable; or else I get sleepy, and fill it up with iterations or faults of prosody,[86] which must make me appear like a most illiterate ass, which however I am not. Oh for Woolner’s[87] precision--rare in a man of art!...

24th.--Sunday.... Worked at the _Lady of Saturday night_ Cartoon, which White has promised to buy, but has not yet performed. Two pound and the pawnshop is all that now remains us. No debts, however, except about £14 in all to my tailor, my lawyer, and my frame-maker whose account is not sent in: so I do not owe above £8, and have one hundred a year still. This week I have worked steadily on neither Sunday, but forty-two hours in the week, which is seven hours per diem _pure work_ (for I only put down the time I actually work at art, not the time lost in preparatives). I am in reality employed at _business_ all my time, from the moment I get up till I go to bed; but I am dreamy, and slow in my movements....

26th.--... To the Brent by ten, worked till one--finished the landscape part as much as I can do to it from nature. Went to see the river, as far as the Decoy-farm; found none of it so beautiful as I had painted. Home to lunch, after a splendid walk in a broiling sun. Afternoon, to the corn-field....

27th.--... Up late. Worked at filling up the holes made over the parlour-window, from which I had knocked away three hideous grinning heads, that formed part of the house.

29th.--Terribly warm; could do nothing after I came back, headachy and feeble.... After dinner no work; stupid and lazy--unwell and disgusted.... Funds reduced to £1. 9s. 6d. (two and a-half hours).

30th.--... Placed the lay figure in the back yard; and, after reading the newspaper, worked at the resumed coat of the Emigrant, from the one I had made on purpose two winters ago, at Hampstead, and have worn since then, it being horrid vulgar. Worked at it from twelve to half-past two. Lunch, and to the field from three to half-past five....

1st October.--Sunday.... I meant to have worked at the coat in the morning, when the sun is off the backyard, and then to have taken Lucy to church in the afternoon; but Heaven put a bar to the godless intent, in the shape of a thick mist with drizzle, so that we went in the morning. It was collection morning; and I, having nothing but three half crowns (my last), asked Lucy what money she had--which turned out to be another: so, no alternative obtaining, I gave one of my half crowns. I did this, not in imitation of Haydon, but because I did not like to pass the plate at the door; so now my enemies will rejoice in the fact. But yet in truth was I pleased at being so forced to give; because, if I had not given, it would have been on principle, because I have no right to give when I have deficiency, instead of superfluity, to take from. But, indeed, giving is a pleasure, and it was for the poor cholera parentless brats. Now my enemies are chop-fallen, and say pish! and stuff and humbug. So after this, we took Katty a walk in the fields, and Katty kept thinking the horses would eat her....

3rd.--To work at the cornfield from quarter past three till quarter to six: did next to nothing. It would seem that very small trees in the distance are very difficult objects to paint, or else I am not suited to this sort of work; for I can make nothing of this small screen of trees, though I have pottered over [them] sufficient time to have painted a large landscape, the men of English schools would say. This evening, there were no lamp-candles in the house, and Emma strongly advised laziness.... White does not come; he cannot value my works much, one would think, or he would show more anxiety to purchase, buying at such prices as I offer at. What chance is there for me, out of all the bodies, Institutions, Art-unions, and Academies and commissions, of this country? Classes, sects, or coteries, nobles, dealers, patrons, rich men, or friends--which one takes an interest in me or my works? Is it encouraging to go on? Is it not rather a clear affirmation of my not being required of the British Public? And yet--patience is the only motto--we shall see what we shall see. I only wish to be allowed to go on, to be permitted to work.... Emma brought me home 8s. 6d. of her money unspent: funds at present 10s....

5th.--Took Lucy back to school, calling on Rossettis in the way.... Heard from Christina the first news of the fall of Sebastopol. What times we live in! It would seem that the allied armies were quite determined to show the irresistible supremacy of the western nations this time. How fearfully humiliated must feel the Emperor of Russia! what a merited lesson! Perhaps most of all this is owing to the genius of one man--Omar Pasha. Forty years ago the Russian armies of serfs used to fight drawn battles with the conquering legions of the first Napoleon. Twenty-five years ago, the Turks were hopelessly their prey, and could not make a stand against them. One man, furnished only with a lively and keen perception of the real state of things, perplexes and retards the pedantic Russian generals, till he makes their troops doubt their own prowess, they who come to conquer and submerge; while his own wild ruffians at length believe themselves invincible wherever he will allow them to fight. He does all this in spite of the brutish obtuseness of his own generals, who, where there is a chance left them of blundering, do it--the pashas being as incompetent as the wild troops are naturally brave. Then follows the ever-memorable defence of Silistria, where some eight-thousand Turks, headed by a brave man and assisted by two young Englishmen, left to themselves for six weeks (while upwards of one hundred and fifty thousand English, French, and Turkish soldiers are _doing nothing_, not fifty miles distant), end by defeating the efforts of forty-thousand Russians to take the place by storm or bribery (much to the inexpectancy of all parties, it is whispered--oh dark and hideous suspicion!), and cause the Russians crestfallen to abandon Turkey. “For,” say they, “if a Turkish rabble can serve us thus, what were we, pitted against French and English?” Again, say French and English soldiers, “If Turks can handle them thus, what must be expected of _us_?” And so the huge reputation shrinks up, like the decline of an Academician, or any other titled, decorated, and legalized humbug; and nothing remains but bitterness, and the necessity (through long habit) of speaking pompously. To what pitch is England destined to soar in the history of the world? Externally a far-shining glory to all the earth, and an example: internally, a prey to snobbishness and the worship of gold and tinsel--a place chiefly for sneaks and lacqueys, and any who can fawn and clutch, or dress clean at church, and connive. The deepest pondering alas! brings me back to old and nothing-original conclusions--that the Aristocracy of this country presses, with torpedo-influence, all classes of men and works; commerce alone is free from their intermeddling, and thoroughly successful. In all else--be it war, literature, art, or science--we are great, if great, in _spite_ of them, and the depressing influence of established authority taking the precedence of merit and justice. And yet every one would avert revolutions as still worse. Abroad, somehow, things are managed with more of the feeling of modern improvement and common-sense justice; even amid the crash of breaking-up governments, and violations of personal liberties and rights. Here the government--with our boasted nobility, the greatest in the world--takes the lead in all that is dullest and stupidest; and the genius of the nation, with utmost effort, can alone force the improvement of art and the dictates of common sense on it, long, long after date, after patience is exhausted, and frequently not before a press-feeling has again sprung up. And yet such is the vital energy of the nation, and the stubborn irresistible patience of Englishmen, that improvement keeps pace almost with other nations in all except such branches of art as are especially government-reared, such as Architecture, Sculpture, Music, and High Art. Alas for the latter! Yet has the nation forced even some of that on it, witness Dyce. Our troops are decidedly victorious, in spite of the utmost obtuseness of feeling at the Horse Guards, with respect both to improvements and the causes of promotion. It would seem as if it were impossible to set an Englishman to a duty that he does not fulfil with ability of some degree; but, were the Napoleonic spirit of promoting and evoking merit the rule with us in lieu of _family interests_, what height should we attain to in the scale of glory and the world’s wonder! But this world is a mere mouse-trap--a trap baited to catch poor, greedy, selfish, stupid man, who thinks himself so precious clever, while damning his soul to feed his guts; a most cunningly devised trap forsooth, where the utmost circumspection and wisdom, aided by the purest intentions, shall hardly serve to keep a man’s heels free. Alas! the poor selfish man is baited on all sides. Gluttony, lechery, glory, were the least chances of destruction, where a wretch may serve two ends, the safety of a nation and his own damnation; or thinks still more cunningly to save his selfish soul by selfish religion, and a giving up of man for God, and thinking to win God’s notice and refuge by forced marches, leaving all others behind. Alas! man shall forget himself in the community of being: woe to the temerity that would call down the searching eye on his individuality! Therefore is the Eternal shrouded in impenetrable mystery: otherwise who but themselves would be first to seek him? Whoever feels a tenderness for a fellow beg worships God in the act,--nay, a kind feeling for a dog or a cat shall not pass unnoticed; but woe to the self-seeker and him who despises the poor--

“Whose belly with thy treasure hid
Thou fill’st: they children have
In plenty; of their goods the rest
They to their children leave.

“But as for me, I thine own face
In righteousness will see,
And with thy likeness when I wake
I satisfied shall be.”

6th.--... Off to the field; rain; worked about one hour and a-half under an umbrella, at the swedes. Rain drove me off; came home and dined. At half-past three prepared all our plate (six teaspoons), all the jewelry, my watch, opera-glass, and bronzes, to take into London to the pawnbroker’s. Stayed unconsciously too long at dinner. After dinner it rained so furiously that I hesitated, and finally remitted the expedition, so I have the pleasant task for the morning (two hours). Funds reduced to three shillings, and two more that Lucy has left behind.

7th.--Walked into London. Raised £11; bought Lucy some things, and self a pair of shoes. Called on Thomas. Heard from him some curious details of the cholera, which raged furiously round his two streets,[88] but did not molest _them_. Bodies taken from Middlesex Hospital in vans. In the pest-stricken streets groups of women and children frantic for their relations taken off. Police and others with stretchers running about. Undertakers as common as other people in the streets running about with coffins, like lamplighters. Hearses with coffins outside as well as in; people following in cabs. One funeral consisted of a cab, with coffin atop, and people inside. Thomas and family all well.... Heard of the taking of Sebastopol being all a lie, so my flaming up to epic pitch was unnecessary and unwarranted. “Sic transit gloria” &c. However, let me, before it is too late to prophesy, declare it my conviction that the allies acted [like] imbeciles, to allow the Austrians to take the Principalities without first having _fought_ the Russians--so. Next, our government acted like imbeciles to imagine the Emperor of Russia would withdraw his troops without force, and so waste precious time. Next, the government has acted with pusillanimity in not requiring more of Dundas in the Black Sea. Next, it is disgraceful to the nation that, while all the powerful places of the Baltic and Black Sea have been hitherto unmolested [?] some unfortunate Laplanders in the White Sea should be murdered in their houses, and ruined, to no earthly purpose, under the pretext of war. Surely, surely, this nation is powerful enough to enable them to do grace to the poor inhabitants of the Frozen Ocean. What a pity Captain Lyons cannot be exchanged with Admiral Dundas! In the regions where Nature shows herself so cruel, man should (fear of the Almighty would suggest) be awed into charity. And so the capital of Lapland (combining antiquity of most strange and foreign character with mysterious remoteness almost unearthly) is reduced to a heap of ashes by a set of semi-barbarous sailors. Very likely that neither Captain Lyons nor any of his crew are elevated (in literary knowledge, feeling for art, morals, or the world’s best interests) much above the rank of shopkeepers or any other mechanically civilized savages. The men, whatever or wherever set to do, will do their work; this is certain; but they are unequally officered, and the want of vigour and unanimity at home is very sadly apparent. Lord John would perhaps sniff and snort could he read this--and what in sooth _can_ I know about the matter? Yet sure it is that men of genius and vigour have been in politics, and it wants no ghosts to tell us that Austria is false at heart, and Russia in want of vigorous licking.

10th.--... I hope Sebastopol is done; I hope also White will come and be done.

Could I but see him here once more,
That shining bald-pate deep old file,
Oh how I’d meet him at my door,
And greet him with a pleasant smile!

His blarney soft I’d suck it in,
Nor let his comments stir my bile;
And when my hand once grasped his tin
How kindly on him I would smile!

And as he strained my hand, full fain
My daubs were in his cab the while,
And promised soon to come again,
Oh how I’d smile him back his smile!

11th.--The field again.--Sunshine when I did not want it, cold and wind when it went. Worked at the trees and improved them--found the turnips too difficult to do anything with of a serious kind. I don’t know if it would be possible to paint them well; they change from day to day. An unpleasant and profitless day (eight hours).

12th.--Up latish--bath. Saw my turnips were all false in colour: ruminated over this disgrace, and tried to retrieve it. Put it in some shape, ready to take out in the afternoon. Set to work at the coat from lay figure in back yard--very cold--worked till four at it. Then to the swedes. Found the gate nailed up and brambled; had to go round by a _détour_, but in and set to work; but not much good. Tried to get the main tree more in harmony; a little to the swedes--men in the field pulling them. At night the cartoon (seven hours).