MADOX BROWN. SOME LETTERS FOLLOWED BY A DIARY. (continued 2)

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—

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.

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).

13th.—Beautiful day. Meant to walk into Hampstead, feeling strangely idle. Emma, being better of her cramp, came for a walk instead. Exquisite day: hedges all gold, rubies, and emeralds, defying all “white grounds” to yield the like. About one to work at the coat from self in a glass, back yard. Altered the folds of day before; made it all right, nearly done. Afterwards to the field—for last time, thank Heaven. I am sick of it; I have now only to work at home at it to put in a little harmony. A labourer came and looked, and, stuttering fearfully, expressed admiration, which ended in his supposing he could not beg half a pint of beer—one whom I used to look upon as a respectable man. I gave the degraded wretch twopence and scorn (five hours).

14th.—To-day one of fearful idleness, self-abasement, and disgust. Emma got up; I went down to breakfast with her, unwashed and only half dressed. I intended working at the coat, then walking to Hampstead to purchase flannel for Emma and baby-clothes. I sat down to write to Gabriel a few lines about his calf,⁠[89] and like an ass must write in verse—bad rhymes. Spent till one o’clock, and lunched—still unwashed—then read the paper—still unwashed till half-past four: “Oh that it should be so!” Then dressed and took Katty out—then we dined—then read the paper to Emma; the dear is poorly and nervous. This is the true and particular history of a day—a piteous thing to tell of.

15th, Sunday.—Worked at the coat out in the yard—then indoors, driven in by fog, then fine and out again. Five hours in all....

16th.—Reflected seriously on my money position. Found I should have four weeks’ money, and the same credit; after which something must be done if White does not come. Decided on going the next day to collect my rent at Greenwich, and to look up acquaintances in London, to see what might turn up (three hours).

17th.—Walked to Holloway, ’bus to City, rail to Greenwich and back. Got my quarter’s rent. Called on Robert Dickinson; tried to find John Seddon. Called on my poor old aunt Brown, and on the Rossettis—heard of Woolner’s return.⁠[90]

18th.—A complete blank. Have done nothing all day, but sit by the fire with Emma and try to think of ways towards means, ineffectual. Could think of anything else but that; romped with Katty. A pitiable day.

19th.—To Gravesend to take my daughter her winter-things and a trunk. Met Shenton who had forgot his purse, lent him half-a-crown. Saw his Art-Union Print of Cœur de Lion:⁠[91] not very good. Has taken I think six years. Find that he lives at Hendon, and is great friends with the old rascally Vicar there whom we nicknamed Judas from his iniquitous looks and conduct, especially towards cats. Helen Bromley’s eldest daughter very sadly ill; mine quite well. Walked home from the Camden Station; walked altogether seventeen miles, spent £1. 12s. Read a number of Thackeray’s Newcomes—good, females equal to Shakespeare, in all worldliness perfect; his artists all asses, and his knowledge on that head about at zero.

20th.—Up late—no bath—still lazy, dreamy, and incompetent. Worked at the draperies of Our Ladye about two hours; headache (two hours).

21st.—Wrote reluctantly to White; but with some appearance of a reason, the infamous scoundrel Reynolds⁠[92] having published in his Miscellany the wood-cut (that was formerly in The People’s Journal) of Wiclif. Worked at the draperies about four hours. A letter from old Bamford, to ask me to make a portrait from the one I formerly painted of his son, since just lost in the Lady Nugent. Some sort of tin tumbling in, and the old saying of an ill wind very truly exemplified (five hours).

22nd, Sunday.—Up at half-past eight—bath. Worked well all day at the Lady of Saturday: finished the drapery, and began spoiling the heads.

23rd.—Up at half-past nine—no bath—to work at the Ladye. Found part of the drapery bad, rubbed it out, heightened the seat she sits on, mended the heads again; did a great deal, but not finished yet. Any one might be surprised to read how I work whole days on an old drawing done many years since, and which I have twice worked over since it was rejected from the Royal Academy in ’47, and now under promise of sale to White for £20. But I cannot help it. When I see a work going out of my hands, it is but natural, if I see some little defect, that I should try to mend it, and what follows is out of my power to direct: if I give one touch to a head, I give myself three days’ work, and spoil it half-a-dozen times over. This is invariable. Is it so with every one? Alas!...

24th.—Bought colours, vehicles, etc. Called on divers beings—out. Came home in the rain—spoiled my clothes to save eighteen pence....

29th.—To dine with the Rossettis, to meet Woolner; found him very strangely altered....

2nd December.—To-day no work. Woolner dined here last night, and this morning Rossetti took a walk with him and me, and then went into London with him. I walked out with Emma; and then over to Hendon, to arrange with Smart our grocer about not paying him and getting credit. Yesterday I worked on the tarpaulin over the Lady’s knees in The Last of England. Three hours. Woolner, who ought to know, likes it well; also the subject for which I painted the background at Hampstead—called Work. Since the 12th [November] Gabriel has still been here, and I have omitted filling up in consequence, not choosing he should know of this. To the best of my recollection, I have worked as follows: 26th [November].—Began painting the tarpaulin out in the back yard, having arranged bars to the chair in which the lay figure sits like a Guy (four hours)....

30th.—Beautiful day. Worked well at the shawl in the open air. Now that the pattern is all drawn and covered with a tint, I put-in the outdoor effect. To have painted it all out of doors would have taken six weeks of intense cold and suffering, and perhaps have failed....

3rd December.—After dinner tried to think of ways towards means; could not think of anything else—fell asleep. No decision as yet: £8 left (two and a half hours).

4th.—Up late—to work about one till four at shawl. Went to the farm with Emma to see Rossetti’s calf....

5th.—Up at half-past eight.... National Gallery: absurd old pictures bought by Dyce.⁠[93] An Albert Durer,⁠[94] however, very fine, though not painted, rather mapped; a Masaccio⁠[95] with fine in it. Bad Rembrandts, and a worse Wilkie—The Beadle.⁠[96] Altogether it goes from weak to foolish; faults of last year corrected by faults of this....

13th.—Finished the background of Beauty, and lettered it afresh, and pasted in frame; then wrote the letter to Secretary Mogford of the Sketch-Exhibition. I have sent this morning The Brent to this place, and to-morrow go the Studies of Heads, and Beauty....

14th.—... Went to National Gallery. Met Woolner; his statue of Wentworth the Lag⁠[97] not a safe bill yet—poor Woolner! The Lag has some idea of being done by some greater artist, and going down to posterity more beautiful. Walked home from the Archway with a bad foot. Evening, suffered severely....

16th.—Worked at the landscape of the turnip-field. Took off dirt and inequalities of surface, and retouched the corn-part of it. Evening, idle and suffering (two hours)....

18th.—This evening inconceivably dejected and stupid. Read newspaper, and thought over our melancholy position; Emma about to be confined—£2. 10s. in the house—Christmas-boxes to be paid out of this, and the children taken back to Gravesend—and not one person in the world I would ask to lend me a pound. No one that buys my pictures; damn old White! (two hours).

19th.—Disagreeable day—foot rather better. I lazy and not wishing to work, we devised to have the drugget up, it being at length too disgracefully full of holes. Remainder of the evening—nothing.

20th.—Wrote a disagreeable letter, and put down the carpet, and planned and directed the patching thereof—children assisting in great delight; and with Ruth we got it done. Last night also glued sundry chairs, &c.

21st.—Took down the Christ and Peter, and scraped it for repainting, morning and evening....

23rd.—An alarm from Emma.... Started back as far as Islington to see after the nurse.... Took ’bus myself to the Archway, Highgate, in distress of mind at not being able to afford a cab in such an emergency; and so walked home four miles, racked with anxiety about Emma, the most beautiful duck in existence. With 18s. 9d. in hand, to last at least three weeks, how could I take a cab? and this was all that remained me this evening. As I walked down the Grove, and very tired with a weak foot, I felt that mysterious assurance that all was right which I have before felt when nearing some dreaded event that has eventually turned out all right. I got home at eight p.m., and found dear Emma still in expectation.... I found also (strange coincidence) a letter from William Bamford asking me to do a miniature of him. Such a demand I have wished for at other times in vain, and not for months and months has anything of the kind occurred.

24th.—... This evening Emma found in her drawers two shillings and three farthings—all in four-penny-pieces, pennies, halfpence, farthings, &c., left there at different times, and forgotten. What a boon! Katty appropriated the three farthings. To-night I have worked about four hours, altering the linen cloth round the loins of Christ, and correcting the drawing—(seven hours).

25th.—Christmas-day. Up at half-past nine: Emma still pretty well. I worked about four hours at restoring the erasures I had made in the Christ. I have begun altering the character of the head to severity; lengthening the fore-arm; enlarging the hand; shortening the thighs; enlarging the girdle, to be less indecent; and planning the glory. Worked comfortably in front parlour—rain pouring down.... Finances £1. 0s. 6d....

26th.—... The draught from the window increased a cold....

27th.—Very bad—stopped in bed with the fever—got up by 3 p.m. This cold must have been taken on Saturday, being out so many hours with shoes unsound in wet weather. Dreary, dreary, very dreary....

29th.—To town to see after William Bamford’s miniature. The ass wants something for two guineas, yet will not decide even on this; so back defeated, having spent one bob in buses. Called on Woolner, and heard how badly the country was governed. Paid to-day the baker two weeks, lest I should be asked for three next week, and 3s. 6d. for soling shoes; the net result of which is 4s. 8d. in pocket. O heavens and little fishes!—No work....

1855—3rd January.—... To work by twelve at the fringe of the shawl—finished it by one. Triumphantly stripped the lay figure, and set the place somewhat to rights, and restored poor Emma her shawl, which she has done without the half of the winter. The shawl is at length finished, thank the powers above. Dinner—then took the little picture of Waiting, and scraped it preparatory to beginning to retouch in order to fit it for the Great Paris Exhibition, having received intimation that the Board of Trade proposes sending it and the great Chaucer picture. Scraped and pumice-stoned it all over till it looks quite spoiled. Prepared my box for to-morrow, to go and work at the Autumn Afternoon, which I propose sending to the British Institution; it is at Charles Seddon’s. This evening worked at the design of the Hampstead picture, called Work. Whenever I set to at designing I feel in the most ethereal and ecstatic state possible. I do not hurry with it because it is such enjoyment. To-night I arranged the chief navvy tossing off the beer, also the one descending the ladder, and improved other parts.

I must try and fill up the other days omitted. Saturday, 30th December, I worked out in the open air at the shawl till half-past three; when, having fully resolved, I took my dress-coat, trousers and waistcoat, and necktie, with a silk cape and brooch of Emma’s; and, putting them into a bag, walked into Hampstead, and took ’bus to New Road, and discovered the abode of old Williams,⁠[98] who used to wash for me; and told him to pawn them, which he did for 10s. I gave him one, at which he stared in awe and respect. Came away 8s. 5d. richer.... 31st.—Sunday. Up latish—worked at the shawl; made up my mind to apply for a Mastership of one of the Government Art-Schools.... 1st January.—Shawl out of doors, and in evening at length wrote the long-deferred much-dreaded application to the humbug Henry Cole, C.B.: it will only be the humiliation for nothing. Afterwards took up the design of Work, and enjoyed it—designed the artist⁠[99] in it again, and sundries—2nd.—Up about nine. At eleven took the lay figure out in the yard as usual; but this time laid it down on its side in order to paint the fringe blown by the wind. Doing so disordered the folds. Then it came on to drizzle—then the wind was too high, and blew the fringe so that I could not paint it. After wasting much time I brought the lay figure into my room, and placed it on the table; and after much arrangement painted for about one and a half hour, but it was good. To-day I finished it, and it looks as natural as life. Evening, I worked at the navvies; the pot-boy a triumph, the mortar-man perfection, and the ragged child upsetting the barrow and getting cuffed, all creations, and the whole becoming more and more exciting. Finances reduced again to 6s. 9d.: so we drag on.

4th.—I went to Charles Seddon, and worked at the Autumn piece, which is for the British....

6th.—... In the evening copied-in the background from the Study at Hampstead into the design of Work, so as to get all quite correct.... At it again till twelve to-night. I have been queerish all day; work and worry begin to try me, 4s. 10d. left in pocket.... Cole, C.B., answered me very short, saying a certificate was imperative, and referred me to Burchett.⁠[100] I wrote again to Cole, telling him that, as he knew as much about me as any examiner could, if he thought I could be of use he had better write and let me know, and then I would go through all formalities. Will he answer? Waking up this morning with a bad head, I began to reflect, and at length a lucid idea came as to my prospects. It struck me I was doing very foolishly to let myself down in so many ways, instead of raising money, and going hard at it and conquering. If I do not get a school, I will do it.

8th.—Up at ten. Felt ill—could eat no breakfast. Set to work at the part of the little picture of Waiting which I set and began last night. Sunday began it. Slow work retouching all over, having scraped within a hair’s-breadth of its existence. Took a long walk at dusk; and in the evening placed the table-lamp etc., having changed the subject into one of an officer’s wife thinking of him at Sebastopol; a miniature effects this....

9th.—Dispirited and heavy about the head—funds 4s....

10th—Have been casting up my accounts. Find that in twenty weeks we have spent £66. 18s. and owe about £35 besides. The excess is chiefly in the house-money, about £15 (or 15s. per week): this is Emma’s bad management. In pleasure and all extras we have exceeded £2. 10s., or 2s. 6d. a week; this is our trip to St. Alban’s, I suppose. I allow about 5s. a week for these. How are we to go on Heaven only knows. Rossetti has been here six weeks, and Nurse two, besides the children and Woolner and William Rossetti....

11th.—Made up my mind to make up a parcel of Emma’s shawl, some papier-maché ornaments, and two engravings after Claude, with the large Shipwreck of Turner, to send by the carrier to old Williams to-morrow, for him to pledge, if we do not have a letter with Ritchie’s money before the carrier calls. Something must be done, as there is only 3s. 3d. in hand, and Emma about to be confined.... I am getting a regular Haydon at pawning. So long as I do not become one at cheating my creditors, it matters little. God help us. I see nothing but ruin by progressive stages. No work to-day.

12th.—Up at ten—sent off the things by the carrier. I started myself about half-past twelve: walked to Anthony’s at Westbourne Grove. Saw his pictures; very fine in many respects, but all unfinished, and in a state that will not admit of their being so save by his taking them back to where he painted them. He has a habit (of late particularly), of making his skies so heavy that they quite spoil all the fine qualities other ways evinced in his works. The picture of Stratford Church, however, is magnificent in every respect—save the sky; which if he can paint, it will be one of his finest works. It is admirable colour, but his other works look somewhat opaque. Thence to Dickinson’s to see about the large picture for Paris; then called on Lowes⁠[101] at his new gorgeous rooms. Afterwards to St. Pancras Church at 6 p.m. to meet old Williams. A nice affair. He had just been pawning the Shipwreck after Turner, given me by Lowes before he left for Italy. Poor old Williams took them to six places in all, and could only get 13s. 6d. in all: I gave him one and some copper obtaining.⁠[102] I must reward him better when he gets them out. I walked with my 12s. 6d. to the Britannia ’bus to Hampstead. Met a young lady at North End afraid to encounter the darkness alone; escorted her some way past Golder’s Green. Then by a cross road regained this Finchley one, and got home very tired, having only one bun.

13th.—No letter from ... Ritchie, so it is well I pawned the things. No letter from the scoundrel Cole, C.B., so it’s ill I wrote to him. But I derived some satisfaction at reading to-day that the Belfast School of Design has, under his precious care, died a natural death; not getting fat, it seems, on “self support.”... At dusk walked to Hendon by a forbidden private foot-path, and bought Katty a pair of boots. Walked home again by the same—quite dark; found the gate locked, clambered over; ... was caught for a short time by the seat of my trousers....

16th.—... A letter from some underling of the scoundrel Cole, C.B., enclosing sheets of print again; subterfuge and insolence; no go in that quarter. A letter from Scott, the poet. Yesterday Seddon⁠[103] came back, after more than twenty months of absence, looking thinner and genteeler than ever and in high spirits: I went with him to Kentish Town, leaving my work just begun. His pictures are cruelly P.R.B’d.... The high finish is too obtrusive. However, they present qualities of drawing and truthfulness seldom surpassed; but no beauty, nothing to make the bosom tingle. Could I but have seen them in progress! I will do all I can to make him improve them yet, but it is late. Hunt, he tells me, gave him no advice at all; he has been prepossessed against him, I fear. It is a great pity. There is not a better-hearted fellow living nor a truer gentleman. He is to be married in June, these pictures all his wealth! how strange!... Hunt used to be in agonies about his joking propensities, and lecture him and get mighty sulky if things did not go right, and tell him secrets of great worth for his getting on in the world, and expect him to do all the housekeeping (which he declined after a time), and indulge in many whims incompatible with the locality and circumstances. But Seddon entertains a high opinion of his worth and gallantry. Hunt knocked an Arab down, and they afterwards stood with pistols cocked at each other a space of time. Seddon used to camp above the valley of Jehoshaphat, for three months, alone with his servant, in a place considered unsafe by the Consul and others of Jerusalem. They used to sleep each with a revolver at hand, but were never disturbed; this was plucky. Hunt since is gone to the Dead Sea....

17th.—Out to hunt up Ritchie for his rent; got none. Out from half-past eleven till eight; walked about eighteen miles in snow. Ordered liberally of my tailor, who is a brick.... Funds 11s. 3d., no work, no adventures.

20th.—This morning at half-past 12 a.m. dearest Emma was delivered of a son, my first. He is very red, a large nose, eyes and shape of face like a Calmuck Tartar, shape of head like a Bosjesman.... Emma dearest pretty well, feverish. Thank heaven it is over comfortably.... The surgeon ... turned out a very pleasant clever fellow, well informed, and this was because he was a Scotchman; knew all about my grandfather;⁠[104] says his doctrine is every year coming more into practice.... A cheque from Ritchie come for £9, and I went and paid the butcher and baker, and got a bottle of whisky. To-day sent money to get the clothes and pictures back; item to Emma’s mother in arrears: net result, £1. 16s. in pocket. Shoes leaky....

25th.—Up at near eleven. Got the balance of £16 from Ritchie last night. Paid away all but £5. 10s.; my all till I raise money. Worked at my son’s portrait about three hours; then Hendon, and paid Smart the grocer £10.

28th.—Sunday.... In a state of great despondency and nervousness all day. An unsuccessful man is a bore to every one. Took a walk, but could not walk it off. Came back, and penned an advertisement for The Times—“Wanted £300 on mortgage of good freehold property.” So one gradually rides to ruin. This evening I have tried to sleep off my headache and low spirits, without much success. I have so managed things that at the age of 34, or nearly, after having worked vigorously all my youth, after having repeatedly aroused public attention in more than one country, and been considered a man of genius, I, far from being able to make a livelihood by my work, have not even one friend whom I can apply to for advice how to raise money on the property I have. Some people have rich friends who get a poor devil occasionally out of a mess. My friends cannot muster sufficient sympathy to give me advice on such a delicate subject. I thought I might apply for some information to old Seddon, and get W. Rossetti to ask his uncle Polydore (who is in the law) something about Building Societies. Old Seddon takes no notice of what I write to him; and William has asked his uncle, but without success, or any very evident pleasure in the matter.⁠[105] An unsuccessful man is a bore ... Woolner ... says.... Carlyle as well as Ruskin consider Patmore’s book⁠[106] a glorious one; this after having sent an insulting note to W. B. Scott about his poetry.⁠[107] So much for Carlyle’s critical powers. Somehow or another, there is nowhere common sense to be met with in this world, neither among one’s friends nor among one’s enemies, nor any known set or sect. Yesterday I went to town to see about my large picture for Paris. A gallery Dickinson has found; but the picture must not remain, should it let, nor in any case after 17th February next. Much bother to ascertain if the Government packers can take it from thence when required. Secretary at Marlborough House not able to say till he has consulted the Board—obliged to write a letter. Running backwards and forwards all day, and the one before. They evidently belong to the same sort who are starving our unfortunate soldiers in the Crimea. Captain Fowke R.E. They seem to have nice snug berths of it, and plenty of coals provided. The same bother to obtain my steps from the Clerkenwell School. A certain unyielding “pliceman” has no idea of acting without a written order from the treasurer. I have no hope in me.

30th.—Up at ten—cold in my head. Deep and still-thickening layers of snow cover everywhere all round. With this, and a cold in my head, I decide not to stir out for the day, although it is anxious time with me now. So I sit in Emma’s bedroom, and, from a cargo of books I sent her yesterday, I select the Life of Washington, and read all day. A Godlike man—a rare example of an unselfish man. If Cromwell was a great man, Washington was a God—spotless, passionless. The book is ill written; passing the pen over many superfluous passages might improve it. But the matter is eternal, unchangeable.—Yesterday I walked into town through Hampstead, and put an advertisement in The Times, and sought out Building Societies. Much fatigue—some snow—and a cold the result. Dearest Emma looking blooming again in a new cotton wrapper....

Wednesday [31st.]... To Pall Mall. Entered the Winter Exhibition. Saw my “Studies of Head” there, but not the other two, viz.: Beauty, and The Brent. I had no catalogue, and I asked no questions, but I feel pretty certain they were not there. Slap No. 1. Then I walked in fast snow to the British Institution, having received an intimation that it was varnishing-day, which means “Your picture is hung.” I looked everywhere but could not find it, and pretty sure feel I it is not hung. Slap No. 2. No answer about the large picture from Marlborough House. Slap No. 3. Altogether I begin to feel as though the tide were against me. Told R. Dickinson I did not feel in spirits to come and work at the large picture; went home with a determination to work vigorously at the small one. Thursday worked at it about three hours; scraped out the table-cloth three times, and at last made it right with a dash. Got very pleased with it. Went to Hampstead for the answers to advertisement—found eleven. Curious examination. Found I was right in my conceptions regarding the sort of people who sent them, but that the difficulties are greater than I imagined. Walked that day (Friday) at least 20 miles. Went into a coffee-shop, and wrote five letters; then walked home. Yesterday I painted about three hours, but felt intensely languid and inert....

Thursday [1st February].—I did the cradle, and painted at the cloth, but it looked wrong. Dreadfully nervous. Anxiety about immediate money-wants, and the melancholy prospects of future ruin, I suppose cause it; but I do not much worry about it neither, only when I wake up in the morning I feel it rather. Emma is very well, and the boy getting fat. Funds £3. 2s.—nearly all owing....

7th.—To town; found my picture placed in the gallery—worked on it till five....

8th.—To town.—Worked at the Chaucer, altering bits of the colour to make more harmonious, giving more colour here and there to the flesh; making the whole more solid and round. Till quarter to five.

9th.—I had been to the City first, after money, about 30 shillings being my all.—Worked from one to five at Chaucer: White called to see it.—Came home by seven.—Found Seddon here; consulted him about my affairs. Money I must have.

10th.—To town, and at the same till five: the fool, the cardinal, and the woman, giving them colour and substance. Could not manage the old woman.

18th.—Sunday; a day of rest in reality, after a week of most harrassing work. I have done nothing to-day except settle the pattern of two frames for my Emigrants, and my little Turnip-Field.... Monday I went to call on my uncle about the money I wish to raise on mortgage; found it would be attended with great difficulties; consequent discouragement. Worked (about two hours, I think) in a state of mental anguish. In despair I called in on old White; he told me to send him my duplicate of Waiting and my Saturday Night Virgin. Tuesday 13th.—I saw him; told him price £20 each. He abused both, but would buy neither that day. I told him about Seddon and his works, and promised to take him there the next day; which I did. Old White again abused the works, and I promised to alter his little picture of Waiting, as the fire-light is too red. Thence to the City to see if my tailor would lend me money, which he declined. Came back dejected, and, as a last trial, sent to fetch my duplicate of Waiting from old White, to see if he would keep it; he let it go. Home in despondent state.... Friday, I called on Seddon, and asked him about money-lenders; he told me his father would lend me the £50 I wanted, on security. This relieved me. I walked on into town, and met a man more to be pitied than myself—poor Papworth, son-in-law and assistant to the old scoundrel Baily,⁠[108] whose fifth bankruptcy leaves [Papworth] for the time destitute, and with a family....

19th.—... Saw old Seddon’s lawyer; all right. Saw my Uncle Madox, who has got the old lady to lend me the £500, which is an immense relief. I can now go to India, or continue my pictures, as may seem prudent. So to Maddox Street, and worked till five on the Chaucer; Gallery full of fog. King’s head, Princess’ hair and scarf, little boy with jelly. Indescribable touches to all, to improve the solidity and truth of colour....

22nd.—... Got Seddon’s £50.... Heard that Windus⁠[109] had bought four of my pictures from White: the cunning old rogue never told me this. I consider this may save me from going to India. I have felt hopeful again since I heard it. He has the Wiclif and the sketch of ditto, the Winandermere, and the Cordelia parting with her Sisters. We shall see.

23rd.—... Began work about eleven, at changing the cloak of the female in converse with the page, from grey to reddish brown—did more than half.... Found the brown-red tint did not suit: so, at much cost of rag, I wiped it off, and hit, I don’t know how, on a peculiar kind of blue, which seemed to me to improve the picture much—nous verrons demain. This was a change suggested by Robert Dickinson; who however proposed black, which would have spoiled the picture. Worked till dark in excellent spirits, the weather being, however, much against doing any good. Bought a hood and cloak for my son, and embroidery for a frock for him. Did not get home till nine in consequence; and, being tired and dinnerless, I was very sulky, and abused every one. The cloak was not to my taste; I had proposed to have one made after my own design. Smoked, filled up my account....

24th.—... To work by twelve at the grey cloak; found the colour not so good as I thought it; changed it to a greener hue.... Set my accounts in order; find the little brute Oliver has cost £7. 15s. for clothes; I am an ass....

27th.—... Called on Seddon, who strongly urged me to call on Windus of Tottenham....

28th.—... Worked at the pages on each side of Chaucer, etc. etc.; and determined to do no more, as it must dry; so left the sky all covered with finger-marks.

1st March.—Wasted the morning writing letters to Windus and others, and then worked on the Waiting picture, which is now to be An English Fireside of 1854-5: did not much good.

2nd.—Up at nine. I have sold one of the three works I sent to the Winter Exhibition—the Studies of Heads: I think it was £10 I put on it. This pleased me. Wrote an order for the other two. Walked to the draper’s, to buy things for Emma, and to see about registering Oliver. Dined, and did hardly any work, like a most extreme fool; my time being now exquisitely precious, having only one month to finish The Last of England for the R.A. Put my accounts to rights. A letter from Windus that shows favourably; I am to call on him on Tuesday. Man came and registered “Oliver Madox Brown.”

3rd.—Worked at English Fireside; finished all but head. Cough bad.

4th.—Last night I woke with excruciating pain in my chest, and almost fainted in bed. Slept again, and in the morning ditto, so lay in bed—got up towards evening. Arranged frames for the second Windermere, which I will cut down like the other Windus has. Took my first chalk drawing of Chaucer out of my book of sketches, and settled to send it to be mounted and framed; ditto with the water-colour of the Fresco which Haydon admired⁠[110]....

6th.—Walked to Tottenham to call on Godfrey’s Cordial:⁠[111] found him polite, but not too empressé. Told me his rooms were full, which is surely true; and that he did not buy any more pictures, only a sketch now and then of White. He thinks old White “of exquisite taste.” He has Millais’ Isabella and Lorenzo, which looked much faded, but I suppose it is I who have brightened; it is, however, very fine in expression. His Huguenot was being engraved. Windus would not let Millais make a sketch of it. Millais threatened “he should never have another picture of his”: if he sold one to a dealer, it should be with the proviso that it never should be sold to Windus. Windus would not let it go to Paris. His collection is a strange medley of good, bad, and indifferent. Some noble drawings of Turner, however; one good Etty, Robinson Crusoe; a fine Bonington; a lot of Stothard’s drawings; and some X X X P.R.B.’s;⁠[112] also a noble study of Millais, an ugly girl in black receiving bad news; also a very queer one, of a girl all hair with a wedding-ring.⁠[113] My Wiclif looks quite faded, but my sketch of Cordelia and her Sisters noble. He did not ask to see what I was doing, nor I him. I had better not have gone; it was Seddon made me.

7th.—At the English Fireside again: finished it....

9th.—... Began the baby’s hand in the Emigrant picture from Emma and Oliver; painted them in badly. In the evening drew-in the man’s hand again, from self and Lucy in a glass.

10th.—... Out into back yard, and painted the man’s hand from my own, with Lucy holding it (in a glass): snow on the ground, and very cold.... Katty seems as if she would turn out witty. Funds reduced to £5—not received the money for the picture.

11th.—Sunday.... Obliged to work. Rain; so could not paint in the yard after sweeping away the snow. Altered the drawing of the hand again; painted the skirts of the coat indoors. After tried to get out again, but it came on to rain. I hope this will not be a month of bad weather, or I am floored—only 28 days left. This evening put the English Fireside in its frame....

12th.—Out in the yard—three hours at the hand. Rain, then worked at it three hours in. Evening, little boy and nurse as models; he too big, so drew-in Katty....

14th.—Changed cheque (£9. 9s. for Studies of Head) received. Enquired after models: all the red-headed boys in Finchley came here to-day. Tried to work from one, could do no good; painted-in the hair of the boy in corduroys detestably; sent him off by five. After tea another boy with Mary and my Kate for the group behind the principal ones. Terrible work trying to do anything from a woman and two children. However, I did what is the only way in such a case; I did nothing, not even get in a wax; and at length I saw some faint glimmer of an opening to begin through. I did a very little: and then, after they were gone, I drew the group from inspiration. Katty sits well.

15th.—Up by nine; took a walk, and began work by eleven. Painted the boy’s boots and breech.... Intensely cold out of doors all day. Received a note given me over the wall by the next neighbour, who is the landlord’s agent. I owe him two quarters, and on the 24th three ditto. I must write and explain. This evening again the servant, boy, and Katty, and muddled about one hour. Seddon wants me to be at his place on Saturday, to meet Millais, Rossetti, etc.: I won’t go. £10. 5s. in hand; and I mean to keep it there, and not be such a fool as to pay rent: “Base is the slave” etc....

17th.—Out per ’bus and rail to Limehouse, to get a net and tackle. No success, and rain. At last saw a pig-net and an old block at a marine-store shop; brought them off in triumph, with a coil of rope, for 2s. 10d.... Then to Seddon’s, to meet Millais, Rossetti, and Collins.... Millais, when a hanger at the R.A., to write to the Times if they do not put the best pictures in the best places (?). Collins occasionally chuckles hysterically at these grand projects—believes Millais a second Revelation; but himself I like.

18th.—Up at eight—still at Seddon’s. Breakfast and talk. Hunt writes no end of letters, it seems; being of opinion that it is more needful than painting to an artist....

19th.—Up at half-past nine; dressed hurriedly, and to work by half-past ten. Fine day; showers at intervals, but kept on under large umbrella. Painted the woman’s glove and part of shawl, holding boy; his jacket and hair again, and quite successful; ditto his hand and comforter. Good day till half-past six....

22nd.—From half-past two to six at Emma’s head—must see to-morrow if it is improved. I scrape it all over with my penknife to begin, getting thereby the ground partly seen through for the repainting. This head is with zinc white on zinc white ground. I keep it faithfully like Emma. After tea one hour and a half at the Cartoon—indoors—the head being under umbrella....

24th.—Up at half-past eight—out with Emma and children. She gone to see her mother with Oliver. To work by twelve till five at the head, without Emma. Thought I had improved it, and then got disgusted with it just before leaving off, consequently in a state of great despondency; this is invariably the case when I work at a female head or any principal one. I cannot believe it is fit to be seen till I have put it away for a week. But to-day I have been heavy about the head and irritable....

28th.—Began retouching the red shawl and the olive-green skirt, and actually worked the whole day at them, and did not succeed. In the evening an old washerwoman for the widow, mother of the profligate.

29th.—To work by ten till one at the confounded skirt again. After dinner placed the bulwark out in the yard, and began painting it through the window. This evening drew-in the netting, ropes, and the old widow.

30th.—Up at half-past nine—stupid feeling—trifled away much time. Out to see after cabbages—failure. To work by twelve at the bulwark. After dinner, finding that cabbages must be had, I out with the boy who is digging the garden. Our greengrocer’s red cabbages all spoiled. Brought back two red and four white; then begged two more of our next neighbour. Trimmed them, and hung them round the bulwark, and to work till seven....

3rd April.—Up before nine; to work about half-past ten. All day at the rope and netting, under an umbrella (as it rained); dreary work, and I feel as though I had done none, so mechanical was the work and so mechanically worked I. I now see that I cannot have done for the R.A.; is it for good or for evil? I know not, yet it is vexing. Had I not painted the two little landscapes in the autumn, I would have had time. I have foolishly trifled away my time, and am punished.

4th.—Up at half-past seven, to go into City to see after my mortgage, having made our landlord a promise to pay him by the 15th. Bad news—little hope of my being able to keep my word....

7th.—Up by nine, to work at Carrying Corn for the R.A. A letter from Windus to say my Cordelia is at my service for the R.A.; one from White, to say I may send for my Ladye of Saturday Night, not having the slightest chance of disposing of it.... White was so hot about buying the drawing six months ago; and, after getting me to alter it and send it to him, now says he has not the slightest chance of disposing of it. Old ass....

11th.—Up at eight—very absent and dejected, no prospects but going to India. With difficulty roused myself to work about eleven at my pallet and preparatives till twelve; then till three at work, and from half-past four till seven out in yard. Cold north wind yesterday and to-day has given me a cold on my chest. This evening cleaned pallet, and worked at Emma’s head—the drawing I made at Hampstead when I began the picture. Emma would not sit, so I worked from feeling. Yesterday she had a sad fall from off a stile, and in bed was fainting last night—poor dear.... Millais, it seems, has finished his Fireman picture, although three weeks ago he had more than half uncovered, they say. How he does I can’t tell....

12th.—Took Lucy back to school: bad cold on my chest. Took her to Mrs. Rossetti’s, and met Millais, who was waiting for Collins to cock-horsing⁠[114] on hire. Told me he had terribly scamped his picture of The Fireman, but thought he must send in this year. Very amiably disposed, and humble in manner, so I promised to call on him. So we missed our train. Took her to the Pantheon, and there stopped so long, looking at Anthony’s pictures put there by the old scoundrel Thomas the Serjeant,⁠[115] that we miss our train again. Anthony’s things there, every one of them well nigh, look glorious colour; like Constable, only better by far. Oh the perverseness of men in general and picture-buyers especially!—A story of Johnny Millais:—William Rossetti, he, and Collins, dined at Campbell’s⁠[116] a short time since. Millais summoned the waiters, and with utmost noise ordered everything that was good in the place. Kept up such a noise that very soon everything was brought, and Millais ate as he can. A modest man in the next box had first asked for a chop, and continued asking; till Millais, being well stuffed and ready to leave, suddenly takes to pitying the ill-used one. “Sir,” says he, “these waiters behave very badly to you; were I in your place, I would bully them frightfully. Why, sir, we’ve actually got our dinner and eaten, while you’ve been waiting for your chop. Were I you, sir, when it came I would send it back—leave it on their hands.” The poor man got incensed, and did so; which having witnessed, out stalked Millais triumphans. William suggested that the poor man would have to go elsewhere, and begin waiting again for his chop....

16th.—Out to pay rent. About £3 left in pocket. Tax-man called (I think for the fourth time) for the poor-rate; sent him about his business. Worked at the sketch of Last of England. To-day I am thirty-four, a dull thing to consider. How little done, O Lord, and how much gone through! How many changes, how many failures! Is it fate, is it fault? Will it end, or must it end me? A bad cold on my chest with pain therein these three days.

17th.—Up at half-past nine—to work at the sketch as before from eleven till six; unsatisfactory. To-night accounts, also unsatisfactory. I find two things quite impossible: the one, to live under £300 a year; and the other, to do a reasonable amount of work. Try as I will, it cannot be....

20th.—Woke up very unhappy—shower-bath. Frames came home last night, and wrong. I tried the picture in its one, and then the head of Emma struck me as very bad, and made me miserable all night. This morning I scraped at it with my penknife, and so widened the cheeks some, and improved it. The colour is good, but the chin and jowls look heavy....

21st.—... Trifled away my time. I find, as usual, I have got lazy now the screw (R.A.) is off. Worked after dinner at the rope and netting....

23rd.—... In the evening did a little to the design of Work, altered the pot-boy.

24th.—To the City about the mortgage, much in want of the tin. Made divers calls, and went to Lowes Dickinson’s, where Seddon and Woolner; he preaching phrenology, and the greatness of the deceased Emperor Nick. I suppose Carlyle has by this time reached this conclusion.

25th.—... After dinner out in the yard, and painted a lot of drops of water on the netting; very cold, and I not in cue.

26th.—Began work out of sorts. Pumice-stoned the man’s hand, and oiled it, to repaint it out of doors, but enlarged the fingers from feeling; and, although the day was propitious (no sun), yet I felt loth to do the bother of going out in the yard, and so unconsciously what Bacon calls our “affections” prevailed, and I began altering the female’s head from “feeling”—id est, without nature; and so spent the day till six, when I gardened. The jaw and mouth had displeased me for some days; I certainly improved both, but somewhat at the expense of the colour. In the evening worked at Work, as I did last night also; the pot-boy calling out “beeawe,”⁠[117] and the navvy tossing it off....

29th, Sunday.—... All day at the design of Work. This is now to me a species of intoxication. When I drew-in the poor little vixen girl pulling her brother’s hair, I quite growled with delight—A bon mot of Woolner’s was that it should be a point of honour with women to stand smoke as with men to stand fire....

2nd May.—To town to finish the mortgage. Called on Marshall, and heard that the scoundrel Louis Napoleon had been shot at. Called on Dickinson, and heard that everyone had been ill-used at the R.A.; Millais “talking about giving up his diploma.” To the City, and got £460, remainder of the mortgage-money. Lawyer’s bill £20. Made up my mind, going along, not to lend my uncle any of it, should he ask. After his partner had given me the cheque, I walked out with him to the bank; and I verily believe the stern looks I wore deterred him from asking me. Went and lodged it in the London and Westminster Bank; and then paid my frame-maker a cheque for £10. There is a certain feeling (common to the species, I suppose) about drawing a cheque which were superfluous to analyse. Called on Thomas, in state of fidget.

3rd.—Made up my mind to do much work, and did nil but go to Highgate and Hampstead shopping with dear Emma, and home in a donkey-chaise in a biting easterly wind which gave the dear a cold....

5th.—To Hendon—paid grocer, and bought flowers and watering-pot. After dinner tried to work, but could not get up the steam, so drew at the design of Work. This I have ever found is the way: when everything one can desire favours one, the spirit fails. At other moments one thinks, “If this, that, and the other were so, how I should get on!”

6th.—Sunday. Worked at trying and arranging the boat, scoundrel,⁠[118] etc. Tried the boat green, but it was not encouraging.... Yesterday a letter from Seddon, to ask if I would give lessons to Sir John Slade’s daughter, and to say his Pyramids were kicked out. What a sell is art! I feel Haydonish and old and down in the mouth.

7th.—To town to see Seddon about lessons to be given to Lady Slade’s daughters.... Am to give the lessons.

8th.—Drew at the Blackguards and boat; and after went and got my watch and other things out of pawn.

9th.—Gave my first lesson for a guinea, and am no longer a gentleman....

10th.—Wasted the morning. Came home wet last night on foot. Answered Millais, who has kindly offered to patronize me, but shan’t. Told me that he had revolutionized the Academy, or nearly so. Worked a little at Blackguards and their mother.

11th.—Worked all day at designing the boy getting cabbages, and repainting sea.

12th.—Saw William Rossetti. The Academicians are setting up Leighton’s picture⁠[119] against Millais, it seems. Saw Millais, and he described to us with gesture his fight with the Academicians; shook his fist in their faces, etc. etc.; talked for one hour....

14th.—I wasted greater part of the day I don’t know how, and did little good after. Thomas Woolner here in the evening. Much politics, ending in gloomy apprehensions for the British Empire.

15th.—Began work after Woolner had left. Thought I would again alter the place of the boat. Did do an improvement, but meanwhile all seems in a disgusting mess....

19th.—... Met Emma at Seddon’s; Hunt’s father there perorating curiously, a comical brave old cock....

21st.—... In the evening the meeting.⁠[120] Halliday a sinecurist and gent; swell and hunchback and artist combined;⁠[121] known chiefly as a friend of Millais and Hunt. Not at all bashful. Martineau.... Arthur Hughes, young, handsome, and silent. Munro good-humoured and tritely talkative. William Rossetti, placid as wont. Cave Thomas.... Woolner fierce as ever. Burcham,⁠[122] a new artist and quondam apothecary—forty—nervous and modest.... Slept in Albany Street.⁠[123]

22nd.—To home to fetch Emma; ’bus to the R.A. Met William Rossetti by appointment. Millais’ picture more admirable than ever. Fireman perfect, children wonderful, but the mother ill-conceived; still as a whole wonderful. Leighton’s picture a mere daub as to execution, but finely conceived and composed, and the chiaro-scuro good; very difficult to judge how he will go on. So much discrepancy ’twixt execution and conception I have not yet seen—it is strange. Miss Boyce,⁠[124] the best head in the rooms. Martineau’s picture good⁠[125] as far as can be seen. Dyce pretty and mannered.⁠[126] Maclise, as usual, mannered.⁠[127] Herbert bad; the Cordelia beautiful however,⁠[128] but wrong in action. A lovely little picture by Inchbold high in the Architectural Room. No good sculpture....

24th.—Saw a poor wretch with a nose I thought would do for my scoundrel; worked at him the rest of the day till rain. Painted the fist.

25th.—Up at nine—shower-bath. Wretch again all day: painted-in the face and coat of the scoundrel.... I have quite forgotten how to paint, it would seem....

June 3rd, Sunday.—Painted all day at the sky, sea, steamer, etc.; changed the horizon; made it lower and level, instead of tilted. A good day.

4th.—Placed the veil on the umbrella, a tough job. Afterwards painted at it till six, when William and Maria Rossetti came.

5th.—Miss Rossetti still with us—walked out. Afternoon, veil. Heard of the death of my poor niece Helen⁠[129]—only seventeen.

6th.—To Lady Slade’s. To buy mourning, and to Helen Bromley’s; and made a sketch of her child in her coffin. Home by twelve night.

7th.—Veil again. I do it indoors; it would be impossible out.

8th.—Ditto, and then off to Gravesend.

9th.—While there heard of the death of Anna Jones,⁠[130] my cousin, two days after that of Helen—same hour; shocked. Brought Lucy back after the funeral....

13th.—Lady Slade’s. Called on Woolner; then to dine at William Rossetti’s, with Burcham, Chemist and Artist. Saw his very clever drawings of flowers, mosses, etc. With him to hear Monti’s Lectures;⁠[131] very interesting, with frightfully bad diagrams—poor man. Then back again, and met Cayley, the translator of Dante....

22nd.—To the Crystal Palace with whole family and one servant. Saw the glorious statue of the Florentine Captain,⁠[132] and much else.

27th.—Up latish. To work about twelve, after gardening a little; when in popped old White, and carried off The Brent for £10, the Carrying Corn for £12, the drawing or design for the British Poets⁠[133] which I made in Rome in ’45, and which I gave to Millais three years ago, and (he forgetting it) I have now sold for £8, and the sketch for The Last of England at £10; this last remains to be finished. In all, £40 sold to-day. Gloria in Excelsis. I take a three months’ bill for them.

28th.—Up at nine—shower-bath. Out in the garden for a few minutes, and came in with an apoplectic feeling, heat being intense. After, worked all day hard at the sketch of Last of England. Then in the garden about eight p.m., and came in with the same sensations as this morning. Lay on the sofa, with shirt unbuttoned and vinegar-compresses for about one hour. Felt numb at the left extremities.

29th.—Woke up still queer with apoplectic numbness about the left arm—had breakfast in bed....

30th.—Up at half-past nine—felt better—worked all day at the sketch for White. Seddon was married to Emmeline Bulford to-day at Paris.

1st July.—Breakfast in bed—read The Examiner, and up at half-past twelve. After dinner scraped out the woman’s face in the sketch, and repainted it. Made the picture look quite dull and faded, and I consequently unhappy.

2nd.—Emma began the day with quarrelling....

3rd.—... At the hand of the scoundrel in the picture, trying to make him with a glass of brandy and water in it; Lucy, sitting for it with a glass of beer, spilt the whole in her lap, being asleep. Divers touches.

4th.—Emma started off to London this morning, without letting me know, before I was up.... To-day I painted out the brandy and water, which in such a small hole did not do, and the colour of it would not harmonize. Put-in a black bottle, which every one knows is the acme of scoundrelism. Painted, or tried to paint, at the head and hand of the healthy ruffian drunk and grinning....

5th.—... Emma had gone out with Nolly and Katty.... As Emma was still not returned, I wrote a letter to her, the answer to which our fate seems now to hinge on. I am writing I don’t know what scarce, because the moment is heavy with dread thoughts, and I must occupy myself. When I was young, a disappointment in painting used to give me a dreadful pain in my throat; now other miseries take the place of these, and the nervous system feels most acutely about the heart and chest—no pain is like this. What would become of my children if I were to finish my wretched existence, and what is to become of me if I do not? O God! have mercy on me and save me.

6th.—Lucy brought an answer to last night’s note; Emma gives in, so we are all happy again. Thanks to God if He did it. Went out with Emma and the children to buy things at the draper’s....

7th.—Gave Lucy her music-lesson. Set to work about one at the ropes and about the boat’s davits; till eight at this....

12th.—Began painting the infant’s foot; and out with Emma, to buy the dear some jewelry with the money I got for the sketch I gave to J. Millais and sold to White. Went to call on old White, to get his promissory. He kept me so long that it was too late to take it to the bank, and I had scarce any money with me. However, we went and selected the things, and among them a bracelet in mosaic gold so beautiful that I could not resist it....

20th.—Finishing Windermere for Manchester Exhibition....

21st.—Looked out for landscapes this evening; but, although all around one is lovely, how little of it will work up into a picture! that is, without great additions and alterations, which is a work of too much time to suit my purpose just now. I want little subjects that will paint off at once. How despairing it is to view the loveliness of nature towards sunset, and know the impossibility of imitating it!—at least in a satisfactory manner, as one could do, would it only remain so long enough. Then one feels the want of a life’s study, such as Turner devoted to landscape; and even then what a botch is any attempt to render it! What wonderful effects I have seen this evening in the hayfields! the warmth of the uncut grass, the greeny greyness of the unmade hay in furrows or tufts with lovely violet shadows, and long shades of the trees thrown athwart all, and melting away one tint into another imperceptibly; and one moment more a cloud passes and all the magic is gone. Begin to-morrow morning, all is changed; the hay and the reapers are gone most likely, the sun too, or if not it is in quite the opposite quarter, and all that was loveliest is all that is tamest now, alas! It is better to be a poet; still better a mere lover of Nature, one who never dreams of possession....

26th.—Garden—and then to pay the visit to Seddon and his new wife. She is very sweet and beautiful, and he a lucky dog....

27th.—Saw in twilight what appeared a very lovely bit of scenery, with the full moon behind it just risen; determined to paint it.

28th.—Garden all the morning: then prepared my traps to go and do the landscape. Got there by five, and found it looking dreadfully prosaic. However, began it,⁠[134] and worked till half-past eight....

30th.—... Painted the sky of my little moon-piece....

3rd August.—... To work about twelve, at the hand, from my own in the glass, out in back yard: quite spoilt. Too disgusted to go out to moon-piece. Came to bed to poultice a boil; feel very queer, either from laziness, illness, or dejection—I don’t know which; but certain it is I have apoplectic symptoms imaginary or real. Had a mushroom for tea and thoughts about death, which, after all, seems to me a very natural consummation....

18th.—... The Newcomes is done. The end, though a disappointment to me as construction, is, for pathos and delineation of the “human ’art,” beyond anything he has yet done. No end of kerchiefs might be wetted over it; but I read it dry, being used to misery in its actual state. But the dénouement disappointed me, I own. Thackeray seems to have got them into a mess, and either to lack the skill or the courage to get them out of it. In my humble opinion, Ethel should have died just as Clive would have been enabled to marry her; after which he should have taken to art seriatim,⁠[135] and have achieved a position, and so have learned the value of suffering. Clive should have wept her, and then turned serious and virtuous, and married some one just to take care of boy; or his wife should not have died, and they should at length have loved each other, and been happy in the end. This would have been far more moral, more probable, and more satisfactory to me. But he is the great word-artist of now.—I long to hear about Sveaborg; but oh how hard is the fate of these poor Russians! and what a horrid thing it is for fleets at a distance to destroy a town without the loss of a man! How cowardly, one might say.

19th.—To work about twelve, at the man’s head till seven—the woman is now quite right.

20th.—Breakfast in bed—lazy.—To work about one till half-past seven, at the woman’s hand, from Emma and baby and my own hand—Emma holding it in the back yard. Nothing but rain, wind, and sun, alternately. In despair brought it into front parlour. No good done to-day at all.

21st.—The same as yesterday, only from feeling—no good at all.

22nd.—The same again to-day, out in the yard, Emma holding my hand; and my mouth and moustache in glass. No good.

23rd.—To work by two till seven, at filling up places where the oval of the frame has been enlarged; then at the sea again, and if anything spoiled it.—The picture looks worth half as much money again now that the sight of the frame is made larger....

27th.—To work by ten—worked at the man’s head, made it disgustingly bad; left off about four—quite ill. Shall not work to-morrow,—have been at it too close. Head bad.

31st.—Began work again to-day; intensely thick about the upper regions, but felt that I must begin again. Worked till dusk, from half-past one.—Scraped out the hand, but felt too stupid to venture to touch it again—did a lot of promiscuous touches. All this week I have been ill with a tired brain.... I think anxiety as well as work affects my head. Indeed, to see how things are going on with me is enough to drive any one mad. This is the last day of August, and the picture, which was to have been finished and exploité by this time, is still on the easel. At quarter-day we leave here; and till I know whether I go to India or not it is no use seeking a fresh abode, and till the picture is shown to some people I cannot decide upon going: and, now that the picture is nearly done, all the people will be out of town. I have as yet had no time to do White’s landscape in. This confounded picture takes up all the time that I might apply to more saleable works, and looks worth nothing now that it is done. I sometimes think it looks most execrable; but this week I am ill, and in such a state of nerves that everything looks distorted. What a miserable sad thing it is to be fit for painting only, and nothing, nothing else! no outlet, no hope! I have touched the sky and cliffs again however to advantage....

2nd September,—Sunday. To-day fortune seemed to favour me. It has been intensely cold—no sun, no rain, a high wind. But this seemed the sweetest weather possible, for it was the weather for my picture, and made my hand look blue with the cold, as I require it in the work. So I painted all day out in the yard, and made the man’s hand more what I want than it has looked yet. Afterwards tried to mend the scoundrel’s fist, but was not so successful at it however. After work, took a four miles’ walk to warm myself, in the dark. Came back and set to work; drew-in the mother’s hand holding the baby’s, in the drawing, which has never been done yet.—Then wrote my name on the picture.

3rd.—... Into London with Emma. Looked at several houses—not knowing if we should want one, or I have to seek my fortunes in “a far countrie.” Took a room at 33 Percy Street for one week, 10s., to show the picture in.

4th.—My last day at the picture, thank God.—Finished the man’s head, scoundrel’s hand, and sundries. At four took my moon-piece; the sky of which had cracked all over, through being painted on zinc white.—Scraped it and re-painted after five; foolish, for night caught me. After tea, pasted the drawing of Last of England into its frame, and nailed the picture into its ditto. Took down the Baa Lambs, the sketch of Justice, and drawing of Beauty, and by twelve got them ready for to-morrow.

5th.—Packed my five pictures in a cart, and at 10 a.m. started on my way to London, down the new Finchley Road—I driving, because it was too heavy to sit both of us in front, and perched up behind was anything but comfort. However, the pony, being a mettlesome beast, had no idea of going unless his own master thrashed him, and seemed to despise my attempts in that line; so we had to change seats. It is Barnet fair, and we were taken for return showmen on the road. As I got to the door in Percy Street, old White was knocking there. He looked at the picture for about one hour, and was most warm in his eulogium. I said last figure was £200 with copyright, or £150 without. I think he did not intend to buy when he came, but he seemed loth to leave it. At last he said: “I want you to give me copyright in, and will give you a bill at six months, for £150.” So I said, as it was him, I would take it; indeed, I would not have done so otherwise. Then he took the pencil-drawing for £7. He promises speedy fortune, and that in two years more I shall no longer sell my pictures to him, but command the highest prices in the art-market, and only give him a picture for remembrance of old times. Amen! say I.

9th.—Sunday. On Thursday I “guv a party,” to which Munro, Rossetti, Cayley, and Seddon came; so we⁠[136] are reviving slightly towards each other. Time of breaking up, half-past 1 a.m. Friday I worked a little at altering the seat (on which they are) to green, at the suggestion of old White. People all speak in high terms of the product. Last night I ... went for the first time to Munro’s, and saw Hughes’ picture of the Lover’s Quarrel.⁠[137] It is very beautiful indeed: the girl is lovely, draperies and all, but the greens of his foliage were so acid.... I breakfasted with Lowes Dickinson to-day; and he says that there is a fortune to be made in India, but he does not think me the man to do it. I shall not go, at present at any rate. Came home by 2 p.m. Am quite undecided what to do next. There is Work begun; then Cromwell;⁠[138] then subject of the “Commission” in Hyde Park.⁠[139]

15th.—All this week I have only worked one day, Tuesday; when I finished the green bench, bought a rope and painted it, put some rust on the boat and boat’s davit to please old White, touched and finished the veil, ditto the sky, and put a string to the man’s hat. Called on Seddon and on Lucy this week. Calotype of his Cromwell⁠[140] looks very well and full of individuality.... Sebastopol gone at last, all the south of it; but the French did it, not our soldiers. Since last winter, when all our real soldiers were destroyed by the rascally Government, it seems to me we have done nothing of note. Our army, I imagine, is disgusted and disorganized, morally if not physically.—Wednesday,—I packed up the picture carefully in a sheet, and took it to old White’s in a cab, at his request; and there got a six months’ bill for £157, I paying for the stamp. Then to the Bank, and drew £15. 10s. 10d. sent me by good Madame Casey⁠[141] in payment for my plate, which, being in their hands at the time of the Revolution ’48 (owing to its having been left at the Mont de Piété when, bringing poor Liz’s body⁠[142] to this country, I found myself without the requisite money in Paris), I requested them to have melted down if in need of money....

Wednesday.—Till yesterday [24th September] I was after houses, and took one opposite Fortess Terrace; ten rooms, £45, quite new. £50 if I have a glass studio put up in garden. Yesterday I had occasion to speak to a very rich man, the owner of half Fortess Terrace, and God knows how much more property. I am quite sure he had been a shopkeeper; but so bumptious, quite a caricature of the class. This evening an old gentleman warned us not to go down a certain path ’cross fields; it was all bog, said he, pointing to his boots. I said to Emma: “That man sure is either a nobleman or a very distinguished officer.” I don’t know who he was; but we met him afterwards going into the house Garrick had at Hendon, and three minutes after we had turned the corner we met him coming out of that property, and he crossed the road to Lord Annesley’s. I supposed it is he. [N.B.—It was not, but Mr. Weire.]

22nd October.—This month has passed without entries. After taking the last-mentioned house I fell out with the builder; so took this one in Fortess Terrace at £52. 10s. a year. Intended to let the first floor, but ... I think I must make it my painting-room. On the 8th I began work again at the Hendon Moon-piece, on Lord Tenterden’s property (by-the-by, it was he I meant when I said “Lord Annesley”). The weather has been most trying: however, I have stuck at it, sometimes walking fourteen miles and only getting two hours’ work: in all, with to-day, nine days or thirty-six hours. In two more I think I shall finish what I can do to it there. Thursday I went to Finchley, and slept two nights at the Queen’s Head, and to-day I took a cab; vigorous proceeding this. During this month (for notabilia) I have been to Sadler’s Wells and seen Miss Atkinson, a new actress whom I pronounce to be admirable and better than Miss Glyn. Then I called one night at the Howitts’, and saw William ditto, and Mrs. ditto, and Anna Mary ditto, all professing to believe much in dreams....

2nd December.—... I think I finished at Hendon on the 24th, after which I did not paint again till the 9th November, when I began a small King Lear from the drawing I had formerly made (for the etching which I have never finished) of the picture in John Seddon’s possession.⁠[143] This I work at till last Thursday, just three weeks, when I get tired of it; and, as the purple ran, and would not let me go on with it except in the horizontal position with the dust descending on it, I gave up, and began working up the foreground of my Hendon landscape. Yesterday I went to Cumberland Market, and sketched a hay-cart; afterwards put it in. During the time I did not work (that is, paint) I did much in the upholstery-line, and saved thereby (in two weeks) about 10s. It must be said in my excuse, however, that two men severally saw the sofa and chairs to cover; and the last, [who] was pale and thin by being out of work, declared that the things were in such a state that he would rather not undertake them. I have made them look splendid, and the drawing-room all equally so, although the things would not perhaps pass muster at Seddon’s or Gillow’s. Nolly has been christened since last entry, also the prizes at the Paris Exhibition have been disposed of. But the most important fact appertaining to this history is that White has at my instigation bought Chaucer (while at Paris) from Robert Dickinson for £50: this I consider a grand stroke achieved....

5th.—... At Jullien’s⁠[144] last night, where met old White in a half boozy state. Glad to find that the prize-giving at Paris has not damped his ardour, but he talks of doing great things with it. Find Windus has my Last of England....

12th.—... To the Olympic. English theatricals dooced slow, however; place felt headachy. Robson tremendous, but getting spoiled....

15th.—... Read the third volume of Carlyle’s Miscellanies. The glorious kind-hearted old chap! Boswell, Diderot, Cagliostro and the Necklace, are the best in the book, and among what he has ever done best. The Johnson, Göthe, Edward Irving, among (to me) the unsatisfactory ones; overdone, too many immensities, eternities, and such-like superfluities; sometimes whole pages of mere gilded wind-bladders, looking something like real nuggets, but not so. Seek to grasp them, and they bob off in most tantalizing fashion—(this is Carlylean, I hope). On the other hand, we must allow the great man his occasional weaknesses and caprices and flatulencies. Real gold and solid weight and a close-packed wisdom is not wanting in the general run of it; more indeed than is attainable in any other writing now published, I opine. As he said himself, Roland of Ronceval must himself have been constipated at times....

19th.—Worked at the sketch of Hampstead for Woolner:⁠[145] it is jolly.

20th.—Cuttle-fished the little landscape, and painted “ye moon” from nature. Called on Woolner, who declares we are more devil-worshipers than Christians. His reason for the great popularity of Lord Palmerston is that he is treacherous and pugnacious, which are the two chief characteristics of us English, and that therefore, being the most so of any, he by natural force or gravitation is the King of England. However, Prince Albert is our King—worse luck. John Cross told him that Monsieur Picot, who was president of the Royal Commission of Fine Arts at Paris, affirmed that it was entirely owing to the pressing solicitude of Lord Elcho that the prizes were given as they were; that the French jurors had awarded the chief medal to Mulready. McDowell⁠[146] voted for himself nineteen times; so they gave no medal to the sculpture....

24th.—... Spent the morning putting up holly and evergreens instead of working. I fear I have much to repent on the score of idleness. Read Carlyle’s Miscellanies....

1856, 1st January.—A dull foggy day. Disgusted with my landscape: stuck it up against the wall, and worked at it from a distance. Painted out all the easel, box, etc., in front, that took me so much time to paint from nature. Made the whole right again....

2nd.—... Seddon again called, with a letter he had just received from Hunt; who is on his return, I am glad to hear, but ill. I fear, a nature that works beyond its strength.

5th.—... Worked at the pencil King Lear, and finished it; my destiny being (as Novalis said of Göthe) “to finish whatever I may have begun.”

6th.—Spent the morning in a sort of luxury of idleness, tidying-up the painting-rooms, and hanging up two fresh pictures in them, viz.: the pencil King Lear, and a study of Major Freulick’s horse—painted at Ghent when I was fifteen or sixteen—at the time I painted my father’s portrait, and the head of the old woman⁠[147] I still value. At this time, when I first began art seriatim, and before I fell into any kind of mannerism, many of my studies are better than I was able to do for many years afterwards. This same horse, which is the facsimile of the one it portrayed, was the most unmilitary-looking brute I think I ever beheld, or at any rate ever saw Major mounted on. It fell under me one day as I was trotting it over one of the Flemish wooden drawbridges, and peeled the skin off my chin. However, with the loss of a saddle-girth, we were none the worse for it much, either of us.