Whilst drawing as a student at the Academy, he became intimate with Wilkie, then just entering on his career of fame. They were marked contrasts to each other both in theory and conduct. Haydon was all for the grand style; Wilkie for the familiar. The one was disputatious and combative; the other gentle and submissive. The former was reckless as to means; the latter careful and provident. And yet, notwithstanding these discrepancies, Haydon was probably more attached to Wilkie than to any other person in the world. They entered life together, they worked together, and they gloried in each others’ early triumphs; nor, as is too often the case, was their friendship ever obliterated. It is true that throughout Haydon’s journals there are scattered gibes at the worldly-wisdom, and sneers at the timidity of his friend—hints at occasional coolness, and complaints of national parsimony; and several times there are indications of a little jealousy, not unnatural from a man whose temper had been tried by frequent and sore disappointment. But for all that, it is plain that Haydon really loved his early fellow-student. Apparently, for a time, there was estrangement and coolness, but never entire separation; and when Wilkie died, no one mourned for him more sincerely and deeply than did Haydon. The entries in his journal for 1841, the year of Wilkie’s death, are most affecting; and perhaps it would be impossible to give a better idea of the man, than by transcribing the following passage:—

“May 15th.—I dreamt I was sleeping in the tombs of the kings at Jerusalem, and awoke in a wild confusion, and thought, in the dim twilight of daybreak, the arch of my bed was the cold cave. Poor Wilkie! he seemed to look on me, and to say, ‘Did I ever give you cause of offence? Did I not bear and forbear? Did I not assist you with money? Was not our friendship unalloyed until you tried to destroy the Institute in which you were brought up? When did I leave you? Did I not enjoy your genius—bear testimony to your great talents? My character was different from yours. You have no right to reproach me for not being willing to go to the extremes of your hatred, and involve myself in suspicions which I did not deserve. No, my dear Haydon, I loved you as much as, nay more than, any man; and while we entertained the same views, saw each other daily, and pursued the same objects, nothing disturbed our happiness. When you did not fear ill-usage as I did; when worse treatment afflicted and nearly destroyed me, you ought not to blame me for wishing for that peace so natural to my nature?’

“This passed through my imagination as I lay dosing; and I hugged my pillow, and seemed to wish never again to wake.

“‘But,’ I replied, ‘you were a slave to the great and the world. You feared to show regard to a man the world had deserted. You shrank from an ardent heart, whose only fault was its excess of affection,’” &c.

And so on; rather, as is evident, for the purpose of excusing to himself what share he might have had in their estrangement, than of reviving past ground of offence. But again and again he breaks out into a cry of lamentation, as if thenceforward for him there would be less of sunshine on the world.

But perhaps we anticipate too much. Wilkie, who had the start of his friend by dint of previous study in Edinburgh, rapidly rose into notice. In 1806 he received no less than three commissions for the “Village Politicians,” “The Blind Fiddler,” and “The Rent Day”—was patronised by Lords Mansfield and Mulgrave, and by Sir George Beaumont—and, in short, became a lion. Haydon all this while was drawing and studying anatomy under the late Sir Charles Bell, who was then laying the foundation of his future distinction. From these lectures and expositions he received much practical benefit.

His first picture, “Joseph and Mary resting on their way to Egypt,” which was exhibited in 1807, does not seem to have been very successful, and cost him enormous labour from his inexperience and ignorance of vehicle. But, through Wilkie, he became acquainted with the Beaumonts and Lord Mulgrave; was invited as a guest to their tables; and occasionally, by way of signifying his independence, waxed contradictory and argumentative, and made himself disagreeable. At no time of his life was Haydon qualified to shine in society. Imbued with vanity, he was never satisfied unless allowed to play the first fiddle, and even then he wished to concentrate the whole orchestra in himself. In a young man, who had seen nothing whatever of the world, this egotism was peculiarly offensive; and it is highly creditable to the good-nature and forbearance of his early patrons, that they overlooked his impertinence, and did not withdraw their encouragement. One or two commissions he received, and in 1810 gained the prize of one hundred guineas offered by the directors of the British Gallery for the best historical picture. That which he sent in was the “Dentatus,” already painted for Lord Mulgrave.

By this time Haydon was twenty-four. He had made a great stride in art by studying and drawing from the Elgin marbles, which had just come to this country, and which, to his credit, he was the first to appreciate. This made him a master of form and proportion, the qualities in which he excelled—grouping, expression, and fine harmonious colouring were those in which he was deficient. Hitherto he had been supported by his father, but now came his trials. That resource was withdrawn. It is but justice to Haydon’s memory to say that he does not appear to have been extravagant, or to have been addicted to the pursuit of pleasure. His life was remarkably pure and blameless, and he did not squander money upon mere sensual gratifications. But he grudged no expense for the purposes of art. His extravagance lay in models, which he cast and drew with an enthusiasm which is almost ludicrous—in a huge painting-room, and such like. He had no capital to start with; and, as he would paint neither portraits nor small pictures, he was forced to depend upon the doubtful success of immense historical pieces, which, in this country, have never found a ready sale. Then he had already quarrelled with the Academy on the old ground of injustice in the hanging of his pictures. It is the stock complaint of young artists; but it is to be hoped that the majority of those to come will behave more temperately than Haydon, and take warning by his example. His note, referring to this period, is valuable.

“This year (1810) might be considered as the beginning of those painful contests which have tormented my life for so many years. I was not independent, and had my fortune to get like Wilkie, who was at one time, I think, almost as fierce as myself; but the first blow Wilkie got, his sagacity showed him the power of his rivals, and he sunk down in submission, whilst my blood rose like a fountain. I returned, with all my might, blow for blow, and heated a furnace for my foe so hot, that I singed myself, reckless of consequences.

“All my youthful readers will say, ‘you were right.’ No, my young friends, I was not right; because I brought useless obstructions in my path, which, though they did not entirely prevent the development of my genius, brought it out in such agonising distresses, as will make you wonder, as you proceed, that I did not go raving mad; though, from the state of ignorance existing as to the value of High Art, I question whether, if I had been as quiet as a kitten, or more abject than Wilkie, the result would not have been just the same; whereas, by the eternal uproar I made, I indisputably kept alive the public attention.”

Rather paradoxical this! A confession of error, and a vindication of it in the same sentence. The truth is, Haydon’s combativeness was so largely developed, that under no possible circumstances could he have remained at peace.

He had begun by squabbling with the Academy, and he now squabbled with Sir George Beaumont, the first man of influence who had taken him by the hand, about “Macbeth.” The result was, that the picture was thrown on his hands, Haydon being at this time beyond £600 in debt. To his great misfortune, he had become intimately acquainted with Mr Leigh Hunt, then editor of the Examiner, a journal which then owed its reputation entirely to the catholicity of its abuse, from which, as now, the realms of Cockneydom were alone excepted. Haydon was exceedingly imprudent in having associated himself with such company, and afterwards acknowledged it, as the following extract will show:—

“Exasperated by the neglect of my family, tormented by the consciousness of debt, cut to the heart by the cruelty of Sir George, fearful of the severity of my landlord, and enraged at the insults from the Academy, I became furious. An attack on the Academy and its abominations darted into my head. I began by refuting an article by Payne Knight, on Barry, in the Edinburgh Review, which came out in the previous year. Sitting down one evening, I wrote on all night, and by morning I had completed my exposure for the Examiner, and walked about the room as if revenged and better.