That Haydon was a fervent believer in Christianity, and constant in prayer, is evident from every page of his journal. There is in the first of these volumes a very remarkable account of a conversation which he held with Shelley, and another literary character (whose name, we presume, from his being still alive, is withheld), on the subject of Christianity; and Haydon records emphatically the keen disgust with which he listened to their flippant blasphemies. Nevertheless, we agree with Mr Taylor that his religiousness is rather puzzling. His prayers are most special—he implores direction for mixing colours, and perfecting a head; and, in regard to his worldly circumstances, he seems rather to have expected a miraculous interposition in his favour, than a blessing on his earnest labour. How else can we understand his remarkable indifference to pecuniary matters, and the almost defiant strain in which the foregoing paragraph is written? He had just begun a work, “The Entry of Christ into Jerusalem,” which, even with unremitting effort, would take a long time before it could be completed, and which was actually not completed until six years had expired. He was worse than penniless—he was deep in debt, and he had to support himself all that time. It never seems to have occurred to him that, even if his picture should be successful to an extent hitherto unparalleled, he must be a loser, inasmuch as he would be necessitated to borrow money in the mean time, and could not hope ultimately to clear such a sum as would defray the intermediate expenses. On he went. £200 paid in advance from a Liverpool commission (which, alas, was not executed till a long period afterwards), and a similar sum from Sir George Beaumont for the despised “Macbeth,” were all the earnings—if we may call them so—which he received. But he took to borrowing. First he had recourse to the money-lenders, who discounted bills on the usual extortionate terms. Then he got £300 from a Mr Harman; £400 from old Mr Coutts the banker, having been acquainted previously with Miss Mellon; also, he fell back upon Sir George Beaumont, from whom he received an additional supply. The latter urged and entreated him most earnestly to turn his talents to some purpose.

“Pray excuse me if I again take the opportunity of recommending some profitable mode of practice. I know you object to portraits, although the dignity you would be able to give them, so far from degrading, would greatly add to your reputation; and the greatest artists have not considered the practice as beneath their notice. Again, painting fancy heads, and other smaller works, would be a relief from severer studies, and be very likely to answer the purpose. Indeed, my dear sir, you must attend to this necessary concern, or circumstances more mortifying than what I recommend cannot fail to attend you.”

Even Haydon could not deny the truth of this, but the pride of the artist in the Grand Style rebelled. He had somehow or other convinced himself, that, instead of his working like an ordinary mortal for his own support, it was the duty of the country to support him; and, true to that convenient faith, he thus reasoned:—

“His letter was prophetic; but all my friends were always advising me what to do, instead of advising the Government what to do for me. Now, a different course, I have no hesitation in saying, would have prevented my necessities, and developed what powers I had. Dear Sir George’s advice was kind and good, but it was yielding the question of public support; and as I had made up my mind to bring that about by storm, I disdained Sir George’s timid caution, and flew at my picture, come what might.”

It is not very easy to understand what Haydon meant. Supposing that he had received a Government commission in the Grand Style, which was the only one he would condescend to undertake, that could not have benefited him more than his private pictures, unless, indeed, he was to have been allowed his own time, and to have painted upon salary. He appears to have been a slow worker, and very liable to fits of intermission, which, we believe, is the invariable tendency in the composition of all large and lengthy works. A very large picture is like an epic—no man can accomplish it at a heat. It must be studied, altered, and retouched—laid aside and again resumed, with time enough in the intervals to allow the imagination to cool, before the artist can satisfy himself of the worthiness of his own work. That Art ought to be countenanced and encouraged by the State, we maintain as strenuously as Haydon; but we demur to the proposition that it is the duty of the Government to provide for every clever painter who chooses to be eccentric enough to deprive himself of the opportunities of his profession.

With singular bad taste, and almost inconceivable impudence, Haydon varied his toils by attacking the Academy afresh; and, if his own account of his literary performances be true, it is no wonder if he made enemies. He says:—

“It is a pity I allowed my mind to act again through the pen when the pencil was my real instrument, but the temptation was irresistible; and then I thought of doing good by implanting sound principles of patronage in a proper quarter. I might, perhaps, have done this without irritating and exasperating the Academicians. Yet, regarding them as a great body who influenced and prejudiced the aristocracy, it was impossible to touch on art without finding the Academy at every point checking, misleading, and obstructing. Every weapon of attack was resorted to—ridicule, sarcasm, allegory, and insinuation, with such success that a member said, ‘By-and-by a man will be afraid to become an Academician.’”

And why was all this anger, the reverse of celestial, displayed? Simply, in so far as we can see, because Haydon thought that his pictures had not been well hung at the Academy, and because he was not an Academician himself. Pass we to 1820 when his picture at last was completed. A room was engaged for its exhibition at the rate of £300 a-year; and yet so poor was Haydon that he was again compelled to borrow from Sir George Beaumont and Messrs Coutts the sum necessary to procure the fittings. The exhibition was upon the whole successful. In London the profit, after payment of expenses, amounted to nearly £1300; and in Edinburgh and Glasgow, where the picture was likewise exhibited, he appears to have drawn about £900. All that, however, had been long anticipated. He was hopelessly in the mire; and, to make matters worse, he married!

Within eighteen months afterwards, he was lodged in the King’s Bench Prison, and finally passed through the Insolvent Court.

“It is pleasant,” says Mr Taylor, “to find so many proofs of substantial sympathy in the letters Haydon received during his confinement. Lord Mulgrave, Sir Edward Codrington, Brougham, Sir Walter Scott, Barnes (of the Times), his fast friend, Miss Mitford, were all prompt and helpful. His active friend and physician, Dr Darling, with Sir George Beaumont, Wilkie, and others as practically benevolent, bought at the sale many of his casts, prints, and painting materials, so that he might have a nucleus for beginning work upon on coming out of prison.”

From the King’s Bench he addressed a petition to the House of Commons, setting forth his own case as an instance of the deplorable lack of encouragement given to historical painters in England, and praying that such assistance might be given to that branch of art, as might place the professors of it on a level with the sculptors to whom government patronage had been liberally extended. This was, so far as we know, the first time that the claims of art for national encouragement were broadly and boldly asserted; and Haydon was not the man to be silenced by a single refusal—for years afterwards he continued to assail Ministers on the subject.

“Nothing daunted, he kept pouring in page after page of passionate pleading on Sir Charles Long, on Mr Vansittart, on Mr Robinson, on the Duke of Wellington, on Lord Grey, on Sir Robert Peel, on Lord Melbourne, on Sir Robert Peel again, and seemed to be making no way whatever with any of them. But our new Houses of Parliament are to have their statues, and their frescoes, and their oil pictures; and Haydon lived to take a part (though an unsuccessful one) in the first competition intended to test the capability of our artists for such work.”

Rejoicing as we do at the recent encouragement given by the state, for the prosecution of art in the higher branches, we are yet apprehensive of the effect this may have upon the rising school of painters. We should be sorry to see their attention exclusively turned to the “grand style,” which, in painter’s language, means the composition of gigantic pictures. If one Haydon, allowed to be the best historical painter of his time, could not, although seldom in want of commissions, provide for the necessities of a single year, how is it possible for twenty Haydons to thrive, even though the state were annually to assign a large sum for their employment? It is not with us, as it was in Italy, where the decoration of the churches afforded the noblest scope for the genius of the painter—so much so, that they are now regarded by the world as the temples of art rather than of religion. It is in vain to hope that in a Protestant country this will be allowed. No regard for art, or sympathy for its professors, will persuade us to convert our churches into picture-galleries; and if the same rigid rule has not been applied to sculpture, it is on account of the monumental associations inseparably connected with the marble. Our public and municipal halls are decorated, not with historical paintings, but with portraits, which has ever been in Britain the favourite branch of art. We do not put up gladiators or Venuses in our streets and squares—we place there the statues of kings, warriors, and statesmen. Italian art can flourish kindly only under an Italian sky. The construction of our mansions is in accordance with the nature of our climate. Except in those dwellings of the high nobility, which are literally palaces, there are no galleries or saloons adapted for the reception of large works, and the best proof of the unfitness of these for our domestic arrangements is that they seldom retain their value. For example, just three years after its completion, Haydon’s large picture of the “Entry into Jerusalem” was sold for £240—that of “Lazarus,” which he esteemed even more, for £300; and the creditor, who bought it for exhibition, lost as much more by the speculation.