In acknowledging the reception of the portrait, the Director of the Galleries wrote: “It represents one of the chiefs of the glorious movement which exercised such a salutory influence on the artistic life of the nineteenth century.”
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
THIS SECOND EDITION IS DEDICATED
TO THE
MEMORY OF THE PAINTER
WHOSE LIFE WAS DEVOTED TO THE SERVICE OF
NATURE, ART, AND IMAGINATION
“Thou, Nature, art my Goddess;
To thy law my services are
bound.”
“Lorenzo and Isabella,”
1848
I have to acknowledge my indebtedness to many friends for suggestions
and assistance in the completion of this history. I omit the names of these lest they
might be unfairly regarded as in any way responsible for the many deficiencies of the
book. I have also to thank those who have generously allowed me the loan of their pictures
for reproduction.
W.H.H.
The Editor of the Second Edition owes much to the kindness of the descendents of those
who are treated of in this book, for their help in procuring contemporary portraits, as
also to the publishers who have permitted her to make use of their illustrations.
M.E.H.-H.
1913.
I am but a single voice.Theocritus
Art is generally regarded as a light and irresponsible pursuit,
entailing for its misuse no penalty to the artist or to the nation of which he is a
citizen. It is further assumed that a being endowed with original taste may, after some
perfunctory essays, be happily inspired, and that he will then, with a few days of wrapt
energy, be able to convert his thought into a masterpiece.
In my boyhood a brilliant novel was based on this idea. At the end of the eighteenth century a young hero of romance, in easy circumstances, wandering about Europe to gratify his love of ancient art, found himself in the classical cities of Italy. He was surrounded by sympathetic friends, who recognised that he had been born with fine tastes and talents, who listened to him appreciatively as he discoursed of Raphael, Guido, Salvator Rosa, and other favourite Masters. After some less important artistic experiments criticised by an academic friend as wanting in orthodox arrangement; although interrupted by an engrossing love affair and by efforts to discover the true elixer of life, the amateur artist shut himself up in a weird chamber, and on the white walls he elaborated a composition representing the “Judgment of the Dead by the Living.” It was a masterpiece, as such a noble subject merited it should be.
Pictures are not produced thus. Long years are needed to train the eye and hand before a man can represent on a flat surface any forms under the simplest conditions; the difficulty grows in compound ratio with intricate design of moving figures, and the immature artist's illustration of so sublime a theme would tax more than the extreme indulgence of the most partial friends.
For the sculptor to arrive at a high perfection not less severe study is needful; but the use of calipers may so far cover ignorance of proportion, that the essays of a pretender may not be so pitiable in the eyes of the undiscriminating as they would be for similar attempts in painting. Marble, smoothly polished, is a beautiful material, and its purity of surface compensates for defects which disenchant even the superficial in looking on the ignorantly smudged canvas; excellence in either branch of art can be won only by incessant labour, such as no one will bestow who is not endowed with that passion for art which made him draw in infancy, a passion which ever leaves him unhappy when not wrestling with some besetting sin discovered in his own practice.
Burne-Jones, once conversing upon the shortness of human life for the attainment of maturity in art, impulsively said to me that at least 300 years were needed. This, though an unpremeditated explamation, was not a baseless guess. The Greeks, Romans, and Italians eked out their acquired wisdom to pupils, and so extended individual life, and thus more surely reached the goal of their ambition. I hope to convince my readers that every student of art in the past was loyal to his own nationality, and that in these days men of British blood, whether of insular birth, or of the homes beyond the seas, should not subject themselves to the influence of masters alien to the sentiments and principles of the great English thinkers and poets.
There was matter for caution even in the days when the sober high purposes of Continental masters ensured the cultivation of correctness and respect for questions of common-sense; but now that these qualities are ridiculed and put aside, there is the greater reason for regarding the foreign training as pernicious and to be shunned by students of the race to which Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton and the great fathers of our own art belonged.
In the hope of eradicating many mischievous prejudices which are thoughtlessly handed on as unquestioned truths, I abandon reserve more than otherwise I should do.
Regarding the character of a nation's art as immeasurably more important than it is ordinarily thought to be, both for its own people and for the whole world, I may at times be led to speak with solemnity; but at the outset I disclaim all pretensions to those graces of style and deft mingling of exquisitely selected words into variegated tints of meaning, which should grace a history across whose stage will pass many of the masters of thought of the latter half of the nineteenth century. I must rely simply upon the charm of my theme when treating of men who were searching out a new perfection in life and lovingly teaching it to others.
The manner in which our particular views were conceived, and the order in which
our coadjutors came together, the qualifications and the character of each, our
consultations and our resolves, will scarcely be intelligible until the conditions are
understood in which young artists found themselves a few years before the middle of the
nineteenth century, when the future members of the Pre-Raphaelite movement were boy
students. The system of apprenticeship under which was produced all of the great art of
past ages had died out in the early days of the century, perhaps as an inevitable sequence
of the establishment of art academies. Serious penalties, not generally considered,
followed the change. A student recieved indeed valuable advice from the visitors in the
Schools as to the accuracy of the studies he made in prosaic imitation; but the constant
paternal guidance of the master training the inventive faculties of a particular pupil
ceased to exist, and the latter could no longer see
To the casual cognoscenti of our youth the annual exhibitions contained all that British Art was required to display. The Press, it will be seen, testified to this judgment, as did also, in all societies, many of the representative men of the day. The general enthusiastic approbation was further indicated by the avidity with which all well-to-do homes were furnished with engravings of the favourite current pictures, and also by that repugnance to reform which the detestation of our innocent works provoked.
I can aver that we also saw much to admire in the art of the day, but for my own part there was great need to distinguish between feelings of passing enjoyment in an exhibition and the more critical judgment called for to guard one's art conscience. After some hours spent in a modern gallery I felt pride at the sensibility and skill of many British artists, yet each season I increasingly recognised that there could be no full satisfaction in merely carrying on our elders' ambitions, which had become weakened in their dire struggle for existence in those straitened days, by the need to compromise with the prejudices of social taste. Artists had to work mainly on a sort of charitable sufferance from the rich, who were not always more than fashionably refined; our predecessors, therefore, deserved the less blame for their faults and the more praise for their excellences.
It was not till later days that I learned that one of our forerunners had been mourning the expiring condition of British art.
Let the gentle Leslie's despairing tone over
1 that British art would disappear about 18521 See heading to Chapter III.
Our purpose was formed with deliberation, and we had such faith in our initial thought that we disdained caution in our plans. “Will you advance guardedly?” said General Morgan to his re-engaged Ironsides fighting to raise the siege of Dunkirk, “or will you go happy-go-lucky,” “Happy-go-lucky,” replied they. We were as reckless in the manner of our advance. Their impetuosity ensured the warriors immediate victory, but our victory was for many years threatened, and has, to say the least, been much retarded by our impulsive course.
The question, Who is truly an artist? is not a new one. Michael Angelo said that carrying a box of colours did not make a painter, and in our day to flaunt trivial fancies into a dainty form, cherished by idle patrons as the choicest example of taste, cannot be consistent with the high service which art is called upon to render. To lounge about from studio to studio and confer over the things that "go off" best, or to report the highest sum given in Paris for an approved piece of manipulation, executed to suit the whim of a star of the demi-monde, may be a step towards reaching vulgar favour and opulence, but the triumph is a miserable one. With no larger aspirations than this astir, how will a people be blessed as were those to whom the artist gave a national talisman for the conquest of ignorance and brutality? Art, as of old, should stamp a nation's individuality; it should be the witness of its life to future generations.
To whom but the artist is relegated the task of giving a tangible and worthy image of the national body and mind? who else may select and uphold the visible sign of that beauty in his Race which is most heroic physically and mentally? Who shall warn the people from the cramping distortions of the ephemeral tastes of the day? the fashion for such frivolity being the mark of corruption. In antique nations, it is true, deadly vanities, insidious as tares, were so cherished, supplanting the wheat and imperilling the viguour of the Race; tares spread by the hand of that Sower who never leaves those unvexed who are constant on a great perfection.
All development has its root in a desire. Man must have a revered image in his mind's
eye. The leading races of antiquity authorised art to stamp the national insignia on all
products. Happy is that nation that develops a true art of its own! Nations, when
feeble-spirited as to design, incapable of reflecting their own soul, have bowed to
classical supremacy, and by this tribute have escaped much lurking evil. Had China
accepted the teachings of Greek art the nation would have been incapable of hideously
laming its women; had late ages Europe cared for healthy art one hundredth part as much as
they professed to do, 1
1 “We may say roughly that the spectrum of white
light consists of 100 colours; since the colours of all cold natural bodies are those
they reflect to us when they can get it, if they can't get it they
must be colourless (dark night). I supplied the flowers with one colour only, yellow, or rather orange light. This was a hard
trial for the red roses and the green leaves, and, in short, they made a mess of it,
as you remember so well.”— Sir Norman
Lockyer, K.C.B., June 6, 1905.
This refers to a demonstration made by Sir Norman Lockyer several years since, to prove that bodies have no power of producing colour, but can only reflect a selection from amongst the colours of the light that falls upon them. The source of all colour is therefore light.
Story of my family—Infant instincts for Art—I make a
paint-brush—Warehouse in Alder-
manbury—My home
life—Visits to the City, and to a painter's studio—My father
takes
me from school and places me in a City warehouse—I obtain a post
in Mr. James's
office— Visit to John Varley—His
kindness—I take lessons from a portrait painter . 1
Freedom for a few weeks—Study violin and singing—Visit to the
National Gallery—
Hogarth's pictures—Richard Cobden's
office—Corn Law Reform agitation—My sister
tells me of
Millais—Harrison Ainsworth's
<xref doc="a.">St. Paul's</xref>
—My work
in the office —The litera-
ture I read—Mr Roger's and
landscape painting from nature—I visit the Royal
Academy—The
Duke of Wellington—Old Hannah, orange-seller—My father's
continued opposition to my pursuit of Art as a profession—I leave the
office—Student
at the British Museum—Academy
letters—Competitors' works—Entrance of Academi-
cians—Millais receives the first antique medal—My non-success for
probationership—
My father warns me again against my
course—Meeting with Millais . . . . 14
Fellow-students—B. R. Haydon—British art in the late
'forties—Prominent Academicians
and Associates—I decide on an
independent course—Dulwich gallery—Rossetti as pro-
bationer—Millais in the Antique school—Millais'
parents—I go to see Millais' picture—
I go through the
Academy schools—Give increasing attention to orginal work—My
parents
give me a room for a studio—I continue debate with Millais . . .
. . . 31
Description of Ewell—I attempt landscapes—Rev. George Glynn
engages me to paint the old
church—
Millais works for gold medal—Mr. George Jones as
President—Millais visits my studio—
“
The mysterious visitor—All night painting—Sir Charles
Bell—Chartist procession and
Fergus O'Connor—The Cyclographic
Club—Watts Phillips—Tom Mulock and his
sister
Dinah—D. G. Rossetti visit my studio disheartened at his
position—Leigh Hunt's
advice to him—He asks me to take him as
a pupil—I take to portrait painting again—
Begin
“
Pre-Raphaelitism not Pre-Raphaelism—Initiation of the
Brotherhood—Refusal of the term
of “Early
Christian”—Completion of the designs for
“
Millais' “
Rossetti and I in Paris—His verses—French
art—Gericault—Paul Delaroche—Ary
Scheffer—
Horace
Vernet—Delcroix—Flandrin—St. Germain des
Pres—Ingres—The Louvre—
Artist acquaintenaces in
Paris—Antwerp, Ghent, Bruges—The Works of John and
Hubert van
Eyck—My lodgings near Chelsea church—Rossetti's studio in
Newman
Street—
Millais' father and mother on the critics—William
Millais—Woolner competes for the monument
to Wordsworth in Westminster
Abbey—Decides to go to Australia—Madox Brown
conceives his
painting, “
Inferior places for our pictures this year—Quotations from
newspapers—Lord Macauley's and
Charles Kingsley's
scriptures—Collinson resigns the Brotherhood—Ruskin defends us in
phrenologist—Am driven to abandom plans
for art—Dyce's offer—Mr. and Mrs. Millais'
kindness—Millais and I go to Ewell—His background for
“
Visit of the brothers Doyle—System of painting over wet white ground
described—Millais'
disclosure of our system to Brown—First
conversazione of the Royal Academy—
Liverpool Exhibition—Attack on us by an eloquent lecturer in Liverpool—Liverpool
awards me the
£50 prize for my “
Chelsea—Painting “
Mr. Charles Maude and “
Paris and an old hotel—Journey to Malta—Talk with Indian
officials—Arrive in Egypt—
Nile
boat—Seddon—Description of Cairo—Encamp near the
Sphinx—A tent in stormy
weather—Remove to vacated
tomb—“Hippo” letter to Millais—Difficulty in
getting
models—Marriette's work—The pyramids—The
Consul-General and Frederick Lockwood—
Diabeyeh
life—“
Casa Nuova—Beamont—
Journey to Hebron—Henry Wentworth Monk—My friends leave
me—Sim and I tent under
Abraham's Oak—Visit the Mosque
covering the tombs of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, and
Jacob—Determine to
paint the “
I resume work on temple picture—Return alone to Oosdoom—The
fellahin in open revolt—
Mukary sulky and superstitions about effreets—Abou Daouk's encampment— My
servant,
Solieman—Choose place for painting
“
Solieman warns me of approaching robbers—Deeshmen
approach—They call for Solieman—
I announce intention of
departure—The goat dies—Taken prisoner—Confronted
by
sheik and followers—“I am an
Englishman”—Discover I am among friends—Prussian
doctor at quarantine—Sudden alarm—Join doctor for
defence—My homeward journey—
Marauding
fellahin—Bedouin rejoin me at Jerusalem—Battle of
Inkerman—Sim and I
invent a new gun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 332
Correggio
I have begun my book with my progenitors and with childhood, partly because order gives
all things view, partly because whatever we may assume, as we grow up, respecting the
dignities of manhood, we all feel that childhood was a period of great importance to us.
Leigh Hunt's
Bacon says of dramatic poetry that by means of it the results of
personal action may be made more conformable to human desires than they are found to be in
simple nature. In accordance with this dictum previous historians of Pre-Raphaelitism have
dramatically improved upon the facts they have undertaken to elucidate. My evidence is not
derived from outside suggestions bent to suit a pretty theory, it is drawn from the
records of my own memory, confirmed by the testimony left to us in the works of the active
members of our circle, by documents of the time referred to, and by spontaneous admissions
in the works published by the originators of the romances which I have to overturn.
I have read many volumes written upon the subject, and since I have undertaken the duties of a historian and feel myself responsible for the validity of the statements offered to the public, my narrative must conflict with most of those which have hitherto appeared on the purpose and progress of Pre-Raphaelitism.
I had long paused in writing these pages when the 1
Beyond the circle of Pre-Raphaelitism pure and simple it may be
1
VOL. I. B
Outside the reform struggle which made opposition the more acute, the experiences of the working members of our Body were very much those of other artists at the same period who were directing their energies to subject painting.
In view of this, I shall extend my observations of particular experiences to the more general facts of our profession.
What British artists have hitherto done has been dependent almost exclusively upon private patronage, and this often but of a very measured kind; yet the outcome is a glorious first-fruit of the exceptional artistic genius of the Race.
As chronicler of Pre-Raphaelitism, some personal element must have prominence; thus only can I unfold the circumstances which led me to the centre where those other youths were found who played their part in the Movement.
Having on my stage to present performers at first all inconspicuous, yet in fuller time made prominent enough by destiny to mingle with the distinguished of their age, it will be my privilege to add some little to the records of both. And this not as it were in Court attire, but in everyday dress; even kings and queens have sought distraction in putting aside the trappings of their royal state, and found ease in the garb of common subjects. As the records of such family life have been found pleasing by the world, so I trust that my story of the private life of these men of genius will glorify them not less than those more ceremonious histories, in which they appear as it were in stiff brocades and fine coats.
The history of my family claims a few words. Our earliest recorded ancestor had
taken part against King Charles, and at the Restoration had sought service in the
Protestant cause on the Continent. He returned with the army of William III., and busied
himself in an attempt to recover the paternal property, which had fallen into alien hands.
The law's delay drove him to engage in trade, and his children and grandchildren had to
accept this as their only patrimony. My father had no admiration for those of the family
“who continued hankering after the golden bird that had flown, and in
doing so neglected the brood at home.” One of his uncles at the
beginning of the French Revolution had, in a traditional view of freedom, made it his
business to go to Paris, where he got entangled, and was eventually lost in the political
maelstrom. This intensified my father's dread of vagabond courses, which, as will be seen,
did not fail to affect his attitude towards my passion for art. Yet he had not forsworn
his love of liberty; it was only the recognition of changed circumstances that actuated
his course and made him declare, “It is better to have the worst tyranny
of kings, priests, and nobles,
Down to the middle of last century most merchants still lived above their places
of business. My father, as manager of a warehouse, was living in Wood Street, Cheapside,
and there I was born on the 2nd of
Wm. Strudwick]
by W. H. H.]
Sir Giles
Overreach before our bewildered eyes and my astonished intelligence. Whether the love
of art went farther back in the family I know not. With my father it was early crushed,
except for its indulgence in the collecting of prints and the literature of art, and in
the seeking acquaintance with a few painters living in the City. From my earliest years a
great enjoyment to me on Sunday nights was the inspection of my father's scrap-books,
1
When I was about four years old we moved into the suburbs. Shortly
To this portrait of Holman-Hunt's father may fittingly be added the testimony borne
by his commonplace book, scrupulously collected from his varied reading, and as
carefully inscribed, together with the library (small in bulk though it was) of chosen
volumes in days before cheap reprints from the Classics had been dreamed of.
Nor should his mother be omitted in the parental portrait, for she was a person
never to be forgotten by those who had met her. Stately if somewhat imperious was she,
punctilious both as to receiving and bestowing due attention, with a lingering
unconscious instinct for the substantial family fortunes which had been ruined in the
days of her grandfather of stalwart horse-loving yeoman class. Punctilious also she
was as to order and propriety in her home and surroundings, a devoted wife and a queen
amongst her children. 1 In a Lecture to students late in his life Holman-Hunt said,
referring to his father's scrap-book, “I can aver that within its
simple covers were all the enchantments a child's mind was capable of receiving. It
was prepared by my father for the delectation of his children, and on Sunday
evening, after some chapter in the New Testament had been read, this scrap-book was
brought out. Then, with my father in the middle, all the little family thronged
around, every one eager for the best place, and page after page was turned over, not
without great reluctance in the company to part with each fading vision of beauty,
and perhaps, still more hard to have come to an end, was the running commentary made
by my father upon the different pictures, upon the characters represented, and upon
the artists who had been the authors of the original works. The whole continent of
Europe was illustrated, and the then recent history of the civilised world was
pictured with its great military heroes, their triumphs, their glories, and their
reverses; works of imagination also, and the faces of their authors were made
familiar to us, lineaments of kings who wore crowns, and of those anointed ones who had never
worn 'that hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king' were known to us
as our dearest friends. I can safely say that thus I learned more in a few hours
than in many months of schooling, and that all better feelings of sympathy for the
miserable and admiration for the noble, were first awakened in me by those
fascinating picture-stories.”
How I idolised the implements when they were in my possession! The camel-hair
pencil, with its translucent quill and rosy-coloured silk binding up its delicate hair at
the base, all embedded together as in amber, was an equal joy with the gem-like cakes of
paint. I carried them about with me in untiring love. A day or two of this joy had not
exhausted it, when, alas! alas! the brush was lost. Search proved to be all in vain. I
remember going around and over every track about the house and garden. Waking up from
sorrowing sleep, in which my continuing pain had been finally relieved by a dream of the
lost treasure lying ensconced in some quiet corner; I hurried to the spot, only to find it
vacant. The loss was the greater trouble because it was my first terrible secret. That my
father should ever forgive me for losing so beautiful an object was to my distracted mind
impossible. What could be done? My hair was straight, fine, and of camel-hair hue. I cut
off pieces to test its fitness for the office of paint brush, and as I held a little lock
I found that it would spread the tints fairly well, but what to do for a handle? Quill
pens were too big, and I could not see how they could be neatly shortened. A piece of
firewood carefully cut promised to make a more manageable stock; with my utmost skill I
shaped this, and with a little length of coloured cotton I bound a stubborn sprout of hair
upon the splint, but I was disconcerted to find that it formed a hollow tube. It seemed
perverse fate to ordain that just in the handle where it was needed to be hollow it should
be solid, and that the hair which should be solid would form an open pipe. Attempts to
drill the stick into a tube failed; but there was an expedient for making the tuft fuller.
Cutting a cross cleft in the bottom of the wood, I inserted a straight length of hair,
which I then rebound with its crimson thread, with gum I managed patiently to bind down
loose ends and to give an improving gloss to the whole. My fears grew apace, since every
hour there was a danger of inquiry for the lost pencil. Summoning up, therefore, an
assumption of assurance, trusting that my father would see no difference between my brush
and his, I went forward to him, holding the trophy very tenderly lest it should fall to
pieces. He turned his eyes; they became bewildered; his usual loving look made a frown
from him the more to be dreaded. I fortified my spirit, saying, “Thank
you very much, father, for your brush.” He took it with,
“What's this?” and turned it over. Breathless, I
sobbed; he burst out laughing, and so brought a torrent of tears to my eyes. He exclaimed,
“Oh, I see, it's my brush, is it?” caught me up and
tossed me aloft several
I cannot remember when, after, as indeed before this, I did not draw. I was as fond of noisy fun as other children, but in the intervals of play I always found a pencil to copy stray pictures within reach, or to represent what was in my memory or in my mind's eye.
My father's warehouse was now shifted to Dyer's Court, Aldermanbury. Its back looked on to Guildhall. It was one of the houses which had been built immediately after the great Fire, roomy, handsome, and meant to last till Doomsday. The space behind the ground floor had been covered to enlarge the storeroom for goods kept in stock. Beneath this ground level was a ramification of cellars which extended also beneath other houses. On the first floor the packing and ticketing of small parcels went on, and on two higher floors the stranger came upon the cause of a constant droning heard lower down. It was the rattling of a multitude of hand machines winding “Brooks'” cotton and thread into balls and on reels. When I was ascending to the upper floor my difficulty was to run through these apartments from the spring door at the top of the lower flight stealthily and swiftly enough to escape the toll of kissing which the young women winders always exacted when I was caught. The object of my quest was Henry Pinchers, of the velvet-binding room, whose wit sparkled and danced and thundered; so that I laughed, sang, and trembled in turns, all with equal delight. When I asked why he had no whiskers, he very gravely said he bit them off inside. He complained that Robin Badfellow came in the night and undid his work, and what he had to tell of him was as endless as his girth of velvet lengths that encircled twin rollers. Once I thought I had tracked him into a corner in asking if as he had stated that in walking along the slippery pavements that morning he had slid back two steps for every one he had advanced, how had he got to the warehouse at all? “Don't you see, you silly boy, I turned round and walked backwards,” was his reply.
My visits to the City generally had some special purpose; sometimes it was to see the exercise of the Honourable Artillery Company, Bartholomew Fair (held for the last time in 1855), the Lord Mayor's Show, or the Company going to a banquet at Guildhall. Whatever the attraction, the hours I thus passed furnished a highly valued treat. I was often allowed to go out with a porter, who, with knot on head, went sweating along under a weight of goods such as is never seen now on men's shoulders. Thus I learned to know the great City of London, and to love it enough to make me believe that I shall not be blamed for essaying to chronicle some phases of its picturesqueness which have since passed away: the images on the unblurred surface of a child's mind are clear and ineffaceable. Thus conducted, I saw and wondered at fascinating traces of what men who had lived in the days that were gone had put into solid form as their legacy to after time.
Wherever we turned there were new surprises, through narrow lanes and portalled walls. Here were plots of grassy land with garden beds, and trees swinging their green branches sweetly and happily, as though knowing that for them this oasis had been kept sacred from the builders' hands from the day when first it had been left by the narrowing Thames. There elms towered with swaying crowns above protected enclosures wherein rooks cawed with careless confidence as they built their nests, or brought food from afar for their young, perching awhile to scan the crowd below, as though with pride that they were the sign of the City's retention of rural memories.
Imprisoned below such a well-thronged rocketing canopy of foliage, there could still be seen at the corner of Wood Street a worthy successor of “The bird that sang loud,” who addressed his audience from his rostrum in a palace of wickerwork all the day long. My guide had no breath for answering questions by the way, so I restrained my curiosity until he made use of one of the then frequent porters' rests; when he had deposited his burden thereon, I fired off my inquiries about the objects of interest we had passed. But porters are not historians, and I learned but little from him. As with him, so with all in turn. Each left me with the conviction that much of my curiosity was only foolishness.
To be told that Temple Bar was thus called “because there was no other name,” that nobody knew whether St. Paul's Cathedral or the Tower of London was the older, and that the martyrs were burned at Smithfield “because they were martyrs,” was not satisfyingly instructive. Yet a tone of reproof could not be doubted, and it made me fear the exhausting of my mentor's patience, and value the more such facts as he could tell. Not only did I learn the streets, the public buildings, the churches, the open places, civic halls, and the tranquil oases of green courts, and look upon the last remaining buttresses of old London Bridge, but I entered the different warehouses with my guide, and so became familiar with the ins and outs on every floor of them, and I surmise it was in part to help me to acquire this knowledge that my father put me in charge of my stalwart companion.
One day a prize had come in my way in the form of lead pencils of different
degrees of blackness. Securing from the “ticketing room” a print of
Britannia seated, grasping in one hand her spear and in the other her shield, the British
lion at her feet, I chose a suitable piece of cartridge paper and took possession of my
favourite corner, one obscured from observation. The oaken counter made an excellent,
although in parts over granulous, drawing-board. Delighted with the unprecedented beauty
of my chiaroscuro work, I did not notice, until they were upon me, my father and a buyer
who was being taken round to see what part of a large order could be executed without the
delay of ten or twelve days' transit by canal from Manchester. The stranger asked,
“And is this little boy part of your stock in hand,
sir?” My father replied, “I cannot say, sir, that he
has qualities conducive to business, but he
There was one moment of the day full of awe for me. It was when all the busy noise had ceased, when each whirring wheel was dumb, when each workman, woman, and clerk had left their posts, and the floors below and above were in ghostly darkness, my father, armed with a bull's-eye, descended into the cellars, traversing each winding to its remotest corner, and, ascending, proceeded stage by stage, going slowly with every sense intent to make sure that nothing anywhere boded ill for the safety of the place. Every room, so lately palpitating with energy, lively conference, and the bandying of quick retort and laughter, was now silent as the void after a thunder-clap, and to my senses seemed as threatening; so that when my father, examining some newly arranged pile, shot a stream of glaring light into the distant mystery, it was to my awed mind like the flash of a searching eye from another world. I have known many rejoice that they were born in the green country, away from the haunts of men; I see reason to acknowledge many compensating enjoyments for any losses I may have suffered in my childish lot as a citizen.
One mid-day in the winter of 1834 my father took me with him to call upon an
artist who was painting for a modest commission a picture of Herne Bay for him, the money
for which he had already advanced. While the elders talked I stood enraptured before two
large canvases, the objects of the artist's highest devotion. One was of the burning of
the Houses of Parliament, and this was gorgeous in its display of regal flame, for the
glare was supreme over the dark, half-demolished buildings, the sky, the shining river,
the black barges, and the people. When my father's talk was over, I begged to be left
behind to watch the painter at work. It was a startling request, and could only be granted
on condition that I stayed on the stairs and looked through a little window to be opened
for me. I accepted the terms gratefully, and stood there until dark. In the meantime the
conflagration grew in volume to such an extent that two or three times the palette was put
down, and the painter set to work with the muller on the slab to grind a fresh supply of
vermilion and chrome yellow, an incendiary proceeding which I hailed, when once
understood, with special acclamation, for it was ever the prelude to a fresh outburst of
flame. His wife the while astounded me by her indifference to the magic of her husband's
work—going to the stove, tending the grate, filling the kettle, spreading the
tea-table, cutting the bread and butter, and summoning the children as though there was
nothing in the world to wonder at. Then the husband, with sleeves turned up, sat down in
turn like an ordinary mortal, taking his meal as though he had no more been in dreamland
than had his imperturbable spouse. I watched the favoured circle from above. It was the
family life of a poor artist, which I have since recognised in Dutch pictures representing
the painter's studio, and to my mind it seemed as W. H. H.]
From early years my father was explicit in his measured toleration of my passion
for art. He told me the story of Morland, and recounted many tales to illustrate the
unsatisfactory fortunes of the career when trusted to as a means of livelihood. A few
artists he knew of had won great renown, but even these were generally deep in debt; and
frequently, after a short period of favour from patrons, they ended their days in misery,
hastened by dissipation and drink. In Roman Catholic countries there had been a steady use
for painting and sculpture, he said, but here there was no settled demand for art. As a
profession, therefore, it was out of the question, but as a diversion after business
nothing could be more delightful. A man without a hobby was a poor
About this time it happened that a boy three years or so older than myself, who lived near us, was leaving his post of copying clerk to an estate agent. I ascertained full particulars of the duties, and persuaded my friend to take me to see his master. I set out with him to the office betimes one morning. While awaiting the master's arrival, I saw a good stock of tempting old-fashioned books, and a large Dutch painting of a furious battle—a formidable warrior bestriding a white horse, luminous against blackening smoke and sky.
After an hour's waiting, the arbiter of my fate arrived, and, inquiring who I was, said good-naturedly, “And what do you want?”
“I hear that William D—— is leaving your office, sir.”
“And so he is!”
“Well, sir, I have thought that you might, if you please, take me instead. I know what he does, and indeed I could do it. I could copy letters and papers, and I am really far on in arithmetic.”
“So you know addition, subtraction, and division?”
“Oh yes, sir! I am long past simple division and all that. I understand vulgar fractions, decimals, and algebra; I am right through the cyphering book, and I'm always at the head of the mental arithmetic class.”
“And so you want to go out into the world to seek your fortune? Does your father know of this?”
“He doesn't know I've come here, but he has taken me away from school to put me in a warehouse.”
“Well, why don't you wait?”
“Please, sir, I'd rather come here.”
“Humph! What age are you?”
“I'm nearly twelve and a half, sir.”
“Your name's William. Well, Willie Winkie, I'll tell you what I should do if I were you. I should go to the Life-guards' barracks; they want smart young fellows there. I should enrol myself in Her Majesty's service at once as a Grenadier. What do you say to that?”
Feeling my footing insecure, I replied, “I really should like your place better. Will you try me?”
“Well, show me how you can write.”
The result of trials in writing and arithmetic being satisfactory, I was set to read, and was then told that I might come on the following Monday, but only to fill the gap temporarily. My father was taken by surprise by my news, and went down to see my self-chosen master; liking him, it was agreed that affairs might take their course. After a trial of three weeks my principal fault was found to be in slowness of growth; and with a request that I would do my best to amend this, it was decided that I should stay with Mr. James.
In retrospect, it is remarkable that when circumstances outwardly seemed most unpromising, a special fate always kept open my artistic prospects. My employer, who on my introduction had made merry over my juvenility, later seemed to take more paternal interest in me on this very account. A shade had recently crossed his life which had made him kindly with his kind. Returning suddenly one day to the office, he saw me putting away a drawing in my desk. He asked about it, and examined my work approvingly. Fortunately, drawing turned out to be no crime in his eyes, and he pointed to a large cupboard, saying, “In there is a complete box of oil colours, brushes, palette, and everything necessary for painting, and some day we shall shut ourselves up and have a good day with them together, a thing I dearly love.” It was not long before we did so, and then Mr. James proved himself to be a landscapist of high poetic order, introducing on his canvas a range of mountains, a grand waterfall, an expansive lake, and, wherever trees would not hide the enchanting distance, scattered forestry in profusion. Eventually I had the box with its treasures made over to me. Some colours being wanted, my master explained how the crude pigments and oils could be bought and mixed. I soon ground these for myself, and put them in bladders; thus I was started as a painter in oil in true practical form.
Shortly afterwards I was allowed to attend a mechanics' institute in the evenings
to practise drawing; and my father, having an introduction to John Varley, took me one
Sunday to see this remarkable professor of water-colour landscape and “Zodiacal
Physiognomy.” He lived in a neat, spotlessly curtained, six-roomed house in the
Bayswater Road. He was not of grand stature, but somewhat obese; three or four very fat
King Charles' spaniels were about him, which Mrs. Varley petted. It was difficult at first
to get peace from the barking creatures, but spite of the noise, the artist's politeness
and cordiality were admirable. In receiving me, he said he hoped that I should become as
great an artist
He chatted about astrology, enthusiastically defending the science; adducing mythic histories, as explained by the rising and setting of heavenly bodies and their mutual influences. He mentioned particular animals born only at special seasons, and claimed that men appearing at the same junctures have similar characteristics. Abraham, he demonstrated, was born under Capricorn, and accordingly all Israelites had the features of this sign. Alexander the Great was born under Aries, and claimed to be the son of Jupiter Ammon, consequently he was represented by the ancients with a ram's horn. Thus our kind host talked himself out of breath. He showed us a copy of his book excellently illustrated by John Linnell and sent us away with drawings for me to copy, and with his pamphlet on the occult laws for both father and son to study, requesting my father for the exact moment of my nativity.
On our next visit, having studied the pamphlet, I recognised Mrs. Varley as the original of the profile, there given, of a native of the “House of Gemini.”
In showing Varley my copies from his originals, my father revealed that I took special interest in figure-drawing. Not a bit discouraged in well-doing, the old gentleman, born evidently with the sun in the ascendant, left his drawing of “
His cheerfulness was the more wonderful seeing that at that time he could not leave the house from fear of bailiffs except on Sundays. A friend met him one Sunday looking more than usually jolly, and on being challenged to explain, he said: “I never was in better trim in my life, for—what do you think?—I have now only three writs out against me that can actually take my person.” With a soul larger than his body, he was a man never to be forgotten.
The indulgence of these visits was only a step to the further leave granted me by
my father to spend my salary on weekly lessons from a portrait painter, Henry Rogers, a
pupil of Sharpe, who was himself a
Good Mr. James, when retiring from business, sought my father, and without any prompting from me, kindly pleaded his utmost that I should be allowed to become a painter. The arguments he advanced, and the independent interest shown, had weight for three or four weeks.
Learning taketh away all levity, temerity, and insolency by copious suggestion of all
doubts and difficulties, and acquainting the mind to balance reasons on both sides, and
to turn back the first offers and conceits of the mind, and to accept of nothing but
examined and tried.Bacon
I had commenced the study of music, both violin and singing, but as I
had no room of my own apart, the remonstrances of the family at my scraping seemed highly
reasonable. It was most undesirable to increase the trials caused by my intractability, so
I abandoned fiddling to earn more toleration for my special art. Before many days of my
freedom had passed, I gratified my desire to visit the National Gallery, to see with my
actual eyes the great Masters of whose glory I had read with longing fancy. When the mere
description of their beauties had given such delight, how wonderful, I thought, would be
the perfection of the works themselves when I stood before what every panegyrist declared
to be beyond the power of words to express! I went on a very cold day; the warmth of the
galleries acted as a welcome. I passed through the nearer rooms; the pictures seemed
appropriate enough for introductory examples; there were several that I should return to,
and so satisfy aroused curiosity, but I wanted to see the “real
masterpieces.” I found myself at last in a gallery apparently without exit.
Going back to its entrance, I found a small door to the left. I entered; it was empty, and
had no room beyond. Coming out, a tall and handsome official asked me what I was seeking.
“Oh,” said I, “you will be my guide. I am
wanting to find the really grand paintings of the great Masters; will you direct
me?” He looked suspiciously at me for a few seconds, and then said,
“Here they are around you.” I knew the man
afterwards. He was said to be a descendant of the Earl of Derwentwater, perhaps only
because he would have graced any noble house by his look and bearing! At this moment he
had slowly become convinced that I was quite serious. Yet he saw that I needed
humiliation. “Why,” he said, with extended arm turned to one
canvas after another, “that's the ‘Raising of Lazarus,’
by Sebastian del Piombo, with at least the principal figure designed by Michael Angelo.
The French nation made an offer for it, with payment to be made in gold coin to cover
the surface entirely. That tall picture is a Parmigiano, thought to be his finest work.
There are two very choice Murillos; them.”
I stood spellbound before the Titian, but not with sudden conversion of feeling. It was darker in tone than it is now. The dilettanti of the early century disliked bright pictures, and the dealers suited their taste with a liberal coating of tobacco decoction and other more damaging washes. About six years later the picture was cleaned, and every one was startled on seeing the difference, many declaring in the newspapers that the work, with others so treated, was absolutely ruined. I did not have to wait so long as this to know how great had been my boyish ignorance in judgment of the work of the Venetian master, for within this period I made a small study of it to discriminate the beauty of its tints and the principles of its coloration. The so-called head of Gevartius I wondered at and bowed before, and there were a few other heads that raised my interest and untrained admiration. “
I confessed my opinion of the old Masters to my drawing and painting master, Mr.
Rogers. Their merits (too deep in solemn dignity of magnificence to carry on their faces
the showy dazzle I had expected) before long convinced me that perfect taste can only be
earned by cultivation. The liberty which allowed me to visit the National Gallery at will
was soon to come to an end, for after this freedom my father's idea that the pursuit of
painting was a dangerous one revived. He told my mother than he would take immediate steps
to find me a berth in a strict house of business; not a day, not a moment was to be lost;
so I anticipated my father by again settling the matter myself. My engagement this time
was at the London agency of Richard Cobden's Manchester business. It was in the days of
the Corn Law agitation, and of Cobden's entrance into Parliament. I saw the great warrior
in the days of his prime. I read with attention all his pamphlets, speeches, and the works
of his friends on one side, and most of the leaders in the
About this time my sister told me that some friends of hers at Holloway had a young nephew who was a perfect wonder in his power of drawing; he was only about twelve, was already a student at the Royal Academy and four years before had won a medal at the Society of Arts. His name was Millais. The boy often came to his uncle's house and made drawings which all agreed were marvellous. What surprised me more than all else in this statement was that the boy's family were delighted at the prospect of his becoming an artist.
My faith in the future became at times very vague. It seemed as though I had done
little good by acting for myself, but suddenly it turned out that even in my unpromising
office I was not left without an unexpected aid to the forbidden pursuit. Before I had
become thoroughly established at my post—having no previous announcement of the
existence of such an habitué—a gentleman entered
the back office, and after my vainly suggesting that he had better go to the front room,
proceeded to take off his overcoat and hang it up. To my further question as to his
business he replied in north-country accent that I should see. He then unlocked drawers
in a table standing in the corner, and astonished me by revealing a drawing-board with
strained white paper, a mahogany box of superfine water-colours, a porcelain slab with
divided compartments, mathematical instruments, and a set of lead pencils, indiarubber,
and vessels for water. “What does all this mean?”
By Himself]
At this date VOL. I. C
In the front office for callers, I could not write other than business papers, nor
could I draw on any scale that would be noticed; but often I could read, and took
advantage of the opportunity, bringing a book from home. I thus read and re-read Sir
Joshua Reynolds's Lectures, his Notes on De Fresnoy, and
Library of Fine Arts, published ten years before, made me
well acquainted with British artists, and from articles by travelled architects and
artists I grew familiar with the appearance of the buildings of Italy, and with many of
the great pictures to be found there in churches and public galleries. I also extended my
knowledge in the varieties of style of the great Masters, and their relations to different
schools, which, with what I already knew—not a little of this from the
admirable 1
1 Published 1684 by John Daye, "with addition of persecutions up
to date."
Painting from outdoor nature without any preconception of treatment is not done
without self-conflict. I had endeavoured to make my transcript true, but I was not proud
of the result, so that it was not without hesitation that I showed it to Mr. Rogers.
“Oh, dear no, certainly not,” he exclaimed. “You
haven't any idea of the key in which nature has to be treated; you must not paint
foliage green like
While still in the City, I fulfilled all the duties required of me without stint
or complaint. In those days there were no Bank holidays, and no
I had completed nearly four years of servitude when an incident occurred which in
the end severed my connection with the City. In the autumn my master had been out of town
for some days, and I had merely to attend in the office at discretion. An old Jewess who
perambulated the warehouse offices selling oranges called and asked me to buy of her, if
only for a handsel to break her ill-luck of the morning. “I can't buy
your oranges, Hannah, but if you like to come into the back office I will paint your
portrait,” I said. She was delighted, and consented on condition that
I should give her a duplicate for herself. I set to work on a sheet of sized paper,
representing her as she walked about, with basket on head and oranges in hand. The
opportunities were broken and brief, but in a few days the portrait was advanced enough to
be recognisable. It was pinned up to dry one day when my master suddenly returned. After I
had explained the ordinary business to him, he pursued me into the back office with
questions, where old Hannah hung confronting him in all the beauty of new paint. The
surprise made him forget the matter in hand. He broke into loud laughter, and went out for
a few minutes, returning with friends from the nearest warehouse, who shared his merriment
in their recognition of old Hannah. They appealed to me to lend them the portrait for
their friends to see, and overruled my objection, taking with them my injunction not to
let my father see it. In the evening he told me of an extraordinary likeness of old Hannah
of which he had heard; he had not yet learned who the artist was, but he thought that I
ought to see it. When he discovered the author my father went to my employer complaining
1
2
W. H. H.]
1 It may here be interesting to add, as showing that art had its
patrons among City warehousemen sixty years ago, that some of Haydon's pictures were
hanging in the counting-house of Messrs. Bennoch and Twentyman, a firm long extinct.
Mr. Bennoch was a patron of the arts, a poet of no mean order, and was wont to relate
many stories of the unfortunate Haydon.2 It was only some years later that by the friendly business-like
help of Mr. Jacob Bell, Landseer became prosperous in his profession.
By Himself]
The contest with my father was a protracted one, and in the meantime my master
put in practice the severer discipline recommended; this I bore for a while with resolve
growing in my soul the stronger, until at last I said that I would wait only until
somebody had been found to fill my place. I refused increased salary and prospects, and I
countermined my father's caution to him not to receive my notice by saying firmly that I
would enlist for a soldier rather than stay. To
I was resolved, however, to convince them that henceforth they must look upon me as acting, rightly or wrongly, by my own deliberate will, and regard themselves as being without responsibility for the course I took. Considering the condition of affairs at the time, I did not think my father wrong in using all just authority to restrain me. My mother had, I know, wished to take my side, but she too was sure that I was rash, and that the outlook which I faced was a bad one.
In my father's day the view taken of the profession by well-informed people may be contrasted with the equally extreme notion of this day, that success, and even fortune, must attend the pursuit of the arts, a conviction whose consequences too often involve the adventurer in disaster.
My release seemed very long in coming, but at last I bade my sympathetic master, whose portrait I first painted, farewell. My father gave me a letter to Mr. E. Hawkins of the Sculpture Department of the British Museum, asking permission for me to draw there. In accordance with my declaration of self-reliance, a suitable room in the City was found to paint the portraits impulsively ordered from me by the admirers of the picture of old Hannah. Alas! the commissions nearly all proved to be empty words. Some of my promised patrons said that as I was now studying seriously for the profession, they would prefer to wait until I had made some advance. One betrothed gentleman had miniatures painted in oil of himself and his intended bride, but his only mark of true appreciation was in taking them away, leaving me unpaid. I modernised the costume of two portraits painted twenty years before, and corrected the too jovial expression of a likeness taken a decade back for another patron, who thought he had a right to look sober. For a third, I renovated the Sea of Galilee—which certainly was unduly bituminous—in a Dutch panel of Jesus stilling the waves, and for that I gained ten shillings. While waiting for other patronage I made oil copies of prints after Teniers, the dullest of a school which had noble members in its ranks. For disciples of Isaac Walton I did copies of “
I had by no means forgotten the wonderful young draughtsman of whom my sister had
spoken. There was no need of inquiry, for of all the students at the Royal Academy who
were looked up to as having already achieved distinction, at least amongst their
discriminating fellows, no name was so often mentioned as that of Millais. I was soon
W. H. H.]
I had not until now seen either the boy of whom I had heard so much, or his drawings; I had formed so exalted an idea of both, that it would have been a pain to me had either fallen short of my standard. In the conception of a yet unknown living hero the image cherished becomes so dear that too often the reality is a disenchantment. It was not so in this case; the boy Millais was exactly what I had pictured him, and his work just as accomplished as I had thought it to be.
About this date I sent in a drawing to gain admission as a probationer to the Royal Academy. When the names of the successful candidates were published, I searched through the odd twenty, and mine was not among them. This failure sadly humiliated me, but I found a means of lessening the bitterness of the defeat to my family by explaining that I had but half-time to work at simple drawing. In the schools there were fashions in drawing, as there are in all human affairs, and I had scarcely taken pains to consider the methods in vogue; my apology was not without reason. Sasse's school in particular was recommended by Academicians, and the drawings that issued from it, with their mechanical precision, were favoured by the examiners. Many students who worked there, shaded their drawings with the most regular cross hatching, putting a dot into every empty space; thus the figure was blocked out into flat angular surfaces, which ultimately blended by half-tints, produced the required modelling; for all such systems I had neither time nor inclination.
Among my fellow-students I had recognised that some were in advance of myself in power of drawing, and of these a few were not so old as I was. I tried hard to judge the question of my relative position impartially before I decided that others were behind me. Some of the students, by natural defect, could not by any chance ever become artists, and each fresh effort they made was a failure to all but themselves; but they were supremely content. Was it possible, I questioned, that unwittingly I was as blind as they? After six months of close work, which, however, was still in a great part on canvas with the brush, I tried again, without doubting that success would follow, but when I stood before the new list of probationers I had the bitterness of finding that my name was again absent. My father now spoke, with good right, very seriously. I was wasting my time and energy; he added that I could paint well enough to win admiration from friends, but to compete with genius, fostered by the best instruction and opportunities, was a very different matter. “Are you not yourself convinced?” he said in conclusion, and indeed his argument affected me strongly, for to be an artist only on sufferance was not my ambition; a student can scarcely judge his own position, and I had no one to tell me the truth. Ought I to conclude that want of success proved my want of ability? In less doleful mood I accounted for my failure by the fact that I had not developed the habit of methodical neatness.
It had appeared to me to be a waste of effort for an artist to rival the precision of engine-turning on a watch, and to spend days on the background of a study made to teach him beautiful form; but when I looked again on my rejected drawing, I could see that, although it might be free from slavish method, it was marked by slovenliness, and even an affectation of indifference to neatness and care, which might justly offend the eye of judges sitting on the works of candidates. It was on the strength of my determined reformation in handling, which should strike pitilessly at the root of an off-hand style, that I relied when I asked my father to delay for another six months the decision he asked from me to return to business life of some kind. If on the next competition at Trafalgar Square the verdict were against me, I promised to submit to his wish as final.
Henceforth I drew, not, indeed, on the geometric system, but with great care and
delicacy. It being late in the summer, my fellow-students were holiday-making. One day,
when absorbed in my work in the Sculpture Gallery, a boy who was going through the gallery
darted aside and stood for a few minutes attentively behind me. After close scrutiny he
went off as suddenly; observing that he had a black velvet tunic, a belt, and shining
bright brown hair curling over a white turned-down collar, I recognised that he was the
boy Millais whom I had seen receive the Academy antique medal. Later in the day I went
into the Elgin Room with the intention of glancing in passing over the student's shoulder;
he was drawing the Ilissus. As I approached he suddenly
“That is exactly my opinion,” I returned. “But unfortunately the Council have twice decided the other way.” “ You just send the drawing you are doing now, and you'll be in like a shot. You take my word for it; I ought to know; I've been there as a student, you know, five years. I got the first medal last year in the Antique, and it's not the first given me, I can tell you.” I asked him about the method of drawing most in fashion, explaining that I must not neglect any means of increasing my chance of acceptance. “Oh, the blocking-out system serves to make beginners understand the solidity of figures given by light and shade, modified by reflections and half-tints, and to get over muddling about with dirty chalk; you know all that. Very few fellows stick to it for long. I do sometimes use gray paper with white, but I like white paper just now. You see I sketch the lines in with charcoal, and when I go over with chalk I rub in the whole with wash leather, take out the lights with bread, and work up the shadows till it's finished; but I do sometimes work altogether with the point, and if either is done well it makes little or no difference to the Council. Don't you be afraid; you're all right. I say, tell me whether you have begun to paint? What? I'm never to tell; it is your deadly secret? Ah! ah! ah! that's a good joke. You'll be drawn and quartered without ever being respectably hung by the Council of ‘Forty’ if you are known to have painted before completing your full course in the Antique. Why, I'm as bad as you, for I've painted a long while. I say, do you ever sell what you do? So do I. I've often got ten pounds, and even double. Do you paint portraits?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I'm terribly behind you.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Well, I'm seventeen,” I replied.
“I'm only fifteen just struck, but don't you be afraid. Why, there are students of the Academy just fifty and more. There's old Pickering; he once got a picture into the Exhibition, and he quite counts upon making a sensation when he has finished his course, but he is very reluctant to force on his genius. Will you be here to-morrow?”
“No,” I whispered, “it's my portrait day, but don't betray me. Good-bye.”
“Don't you be down in the mouth,” he laughed out, as I walked away more light-hearted than I had been for many months, my unexpected conference with the prize student in whose personality I had so long passively felt interest having cheered me up. It was long ere I saw him again.
I gained a probationership at the next trial, and in due order a student's place.
It will be seen that I used to envy those who could work unremittingly only at drawing,
since this was prescribed as the proper course; but eventually, although my time at the
Antique and the Life
In the National Gallery I contrived to combine discipline with the need of providing means to purchase materials, for often I sold the copies I made, and sometimes I acted as journeyman for others, who, from want of a place on the oil list, or from the discovery of the difficulty of the task, could not do the commissions they had received. Once a shrewd fellow-student asked me to do for him a copy of all the figures in Rembrandt's “
The British Museum, where I had commenced the special study of the human figure,
was in many respects not the best drawing school for a tyro. The Pheidian marbles realise
the type of perfect human form, but the mutilations they have suffered make few of them of
complete educational value for the practice of a novice who has not a beginners in slavish reproduction of the injured
surfaces of the 1
Notwithstanding all the disadvantages suffered at the Museum, it provided the opportunity essential to every student of art to trace the growth of Sculpture from Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Rome, with their national characteristics.
The Print Room supplied those links in the history of painting which the picture
galleries gave only in broken chain. There, could be traced the pious uprising of a meek
spirit of Christian faith in Italy, in loving reliance upon the Poetry of the Story, and
pride of championship, beginning with Giotto's childlike earnestness at Assisi and
From these great Masters descended the Flemish School, which in homely and convincing individuality atones for a want of that ideal grandeur which, indeed, it nearly attained in the hands of the peerless, consummate Vandyck. Side by side of this pattern of courtly grace were painters of boorish rudeness, some of whom, together with a never surpassed power of representing homely life, had profound perception of the dignity and pathos of the human face as seen in the works of the home-staying Rembrandt.
Related to these last, although of Latin parentage, rose Spanish art, as perfect in external observation as that of the Low Countries, but without evidence of the barest breath of design, for which reason it fell like a tower of cards when the hand of Velasquez, its arch-builder, was withdrawn.
Further, we had the opportunity of comparing with earlier men and with one
another the compositions of Hogarth, Reynolds, Gainsborough, Flaxman, and other English
workers, and summing up these observations we were led to ponder on the lesson of
transmutation from stage to stage in all art of the past. It declared that, where men in
humility strove against their worst nature and diligently wrestled to express
1 In referring to the pedimental figures I use the names in use
in my student days.
Seeing thus before one's eyes manifold proofs of rise, decline, and death, but never of the renovation of art except with the infusion of new blood, I felt that the need soon arose of deciding in what respect I could accept the verdict of the world about the old Masters, and what was the position of the British School which had been in its course so highly endowed with genius in individuals, but which had proved itself unable to hand on its teaching, and from the first had been impatient of submitting to that course of strict and childlike training which in earlier history had always preceded the greatest art. Day by day I tried to settle these questions, I carried them about with me, and weighed them in the galleries of modern art, that I might decide among the living whether there was any master to set up as a model, and, if so, with what reservation.
In the year 1822 Constable wrote, “The Art will go out, there will be no
genuine painting in England in thirty years.” And it is remarkable that
within a few months of the date thus specified Turner should have died, almost literally
fulfilling, as some of his admirers may think, Constable's prophecy.
Since virtuous superstructions have commonly generous foundations, dive into thy
intentions and early discover what nature bids thee be, or tells thee what thou mayst
be.
Sir Thomas Browne
For over a year the British Museum had been my main school for drawing,
and in the Academy vacation it was so still. In the old days of apprenticeship there was
ever the watchful master at hand to save the boy from the penalty of rash judgment, and to
give him the results of a wisdom which nothing but a lifetime of experience can furnish.
In retrospect, the substitution for it of the self-guided system shows much to deplore;
and I certainly did not escape evils from misdirected impulse. Together with other
students I organised a designing club, which at least put our original faculties to the
test. Sometimes one of the older generation appeared at the Museum, Mr. Henning, with
specimens of his reproductions of the frieze of the Parthenon, or Mr. Corbould with plates
from drawings of the pediment, and these old artists talked to their friends loudly enough
for the student to profit by the information passing between them. Two models of the
Parthenon were being made, one as it was when in perfect condition, another as it is now.
However unequal these were to the exactness of modern elucidations, they were highly
explanatory to the uninitiated. Occasionally the officials entered with visitors of State.
H.R.H. Prince Albert was once the august and honoured guest; on another day Samuel Rogers
was making an inspection of some new acquisitions, or again Sir Charles Fellowes was the
attended stranger; on every such occasion there was matter of importance communicated,
more or less audible to us students.
At the time I speak of, no gallery in the Museum on public days could be seen with
less than thirty or forty visitors interested in the collection. In these days I note
greatly diminished attendance and less interest in the visitors both here and at South
Kensington Museum. “The better education of the masses” in this
respect is disappointing. Sixty years ago working men read the
When I was copying one day, Thomas Phillips, the portrait painter, who had looked on the faces of Blake, Napoleon, Byron and Sir Walter Scott, examined my drawing, making encouraging observations. (His son, Henry Phillips, was my good friend, ten years later, and I was proud to tell him of the attention which his father had given me.) The father of one of the students had as a painter stored up useful knowledge of the preparations of grounds and the methods of Gainsborough which he had derived from this great master himself, and the son showed us examples of his own done in obedience to the tradition. They were studies on a tempera ground commenced and carried far in water-colours, and finished in oil. An old gentleman who came to delight his heart with his youthful studies whenever the occupation of portrait painting allowed him, took me much into his confidence, telling me that he made a living going from village inn to town and city hostel with specimens of his skill in his paint-box, which he exhibited and so obtained employment. He let me into the secret of finding panels well-seasoned at old coach brokers, and taught me much that proved of great value to me. I cite these facts to show how the want of a master could be made up in some sort to a youth studying in public galleries, when the traditions of preparatory work had not been altogether lost.
Amongst the students, examples of early failure were frequent, as in the case of a senior who came one morning and offered his drawing-board for sale at a very reduced price, declaring that he had found out too late the miserable chances of the profession, and was determined to waste no more precious time upon it. He was not by any means the only one who repented of his devotion to art. Many turned their steps towards photography and business connected therewith, and thus found a much more tranquil career and ofttimes ampler fortune. One day, I chanced to run against a dandy fellow-student whom I had not seen for several months; when I asked what had kept him away from his accustomed haunts so long, he announced that he had finally given up painting; he could endure it no longer, “because carrying a paint-box revealed to all the world that you were only a poor devil of an artist.” Others, electing between dandyism and art in favour of the latter, were not, alas! acknowledged by her. Their rejection did not always result from glaring indolence, but they were not sufficiently passionate seekers after their chosen mistress.
In every assembly of art students the self-satisfied devotee is always liberally
represented; he is generally distinguishable by a more artistic mien and dress than his
fellows display, and he makes a loud profession of familiarity with the abstruse questions
of his art. For the passing day such beings may be amusing enough, but the young artist
will be wise to recognise that his idling compeer is not an artist by nature, and will
never understand more than the slang and cant of the pursuit, being only destined to be
one of the many parasites who
Many of the best painters had had a hard struggle to keep their art and themselves alive during the days of poverty that followed the Napoleonic wars. Of these the bravest and yet the most unfortunate was Haydon, who, beginning without a master, and with paternal aid continuing only for a few seasons, devoted himself to the “grand style.” It was not long before he was crippled by heavy debts, by the seizure of his works, and by all the harassing consequences of unsubmissive poverty, so that opportunity for leisurely consideration of his primal deficiencies never came to him. The grandeur which he aimed at needed the breath of grace and beauty to sanctify its force; the sensuousness which impels Nature's interpreters to combine the stray riches of her hues into concord and sweetness was never his, to control the manly and ambitious designs he executed. With small and ill-lit studios, and without means to pay models, he could never do justice to his intellectual conceptions. It was probably because he felt the loss consequent upon having no master himself that he gathered about him a School. He was a profound anatomist, with advanced theories of comparison of lower and higher forms of life, and in all respects must have been a fascinating teacher; he bore his troubles with abounding spirit until he imagined there could be no hope while he lived, either for his art or his family. He committed suicide in 1846, soon after I had embarked as an artist, and the gloom of his failure increased the anxiety of all the friends of young painters. This artist was the last who tried to revive the old Masters' system of apprenticeship, yet those who had become famous under his instruction did so in ways as different from his own as could well be conceived. It is to his courageous pen that England owes the retention in our country of the once-despised Elgin marbles, which Payne Knight, the authoritative critic who led the fashionable amateurs of his day, denounced as the work of a provincial Greek mason or of a Roman copyist.
It was owing to Haydon's energetic pleading that the Government of the day invited
British artists to compete for employment in the decoration of the Houses of Parliament.
It was he who originated the idea of the establishment of Schools of Design to improve the
deteriorated taste of our manufactures; yet he received no sort of recompense, although
rewards were given to his adversaries. His first literary biographer, Tom Taylor,
summarises the artist's character in these words: “Haydon was
self-willed to obstinacy. He rarely asked advice, and never took it unless it approved
itself to him, without reference to the sagacity of information of the adviser. He was
indefatigable in labour during his periods of application, but he was often
diverted from his art by professional polemics, by fits of reading, and by moods
of discomfort and disgust.” With his wasted blood, let all such
bitter condemnation be lost in mother-earth, and let us do honour to VOL. I. D1
It behoves us now to consider the general state of British Art at this time. Landscape till quite recently had been almost the only branch of painting, in addition to portraiture, which had obtained patronage in England, and the pursuit of open-air nature had forced artists to depart from the conventional system which allowed only a small proportion of light to have place on the general surface of what otherwise was only partially modified darkness.
The example which these landscapists then set, gradually encouraged in a few of the boldest figure painters the desire for more daylight effect in their paintings. It was thus, perhaps, that the English School was led to differentiate itself timidly, but yet recognisably, from the Schools which had not been attracted by Nature's teaching. Still, cases of daylight effect in subject paintings, not sophisticated by Academic rule, were rare. I was still searching for a perfect guide. Although I looked upon many artists with unbounded wonder and admiration, and never dared to measure myself prospectively with the least of them, yet I could see no one who stirred my complete sympathy in a manner that led me to covet his tutelage. The greater number were trite and affected; their most frequent offence in my eyes was the substitution of inane prettiness for beauty, and the want of vigorous health in the type of it. Pictured waxworks playing the part of human beings provoked me, and hackneyed conventionality often turned me from masters whose powers I otherwise valued. What I sought was the power of undying appeal to the hearts of living men.
I was one of the public in admiration of Landseer's facility, but as an aspiring artist my feeling towards him was very reserved. He ofttimes did works of real point and poetry. His picture of “
Etty, after twenty years of failure and irrepressible effort, had in his full prime become the rage. His “
1 His son, on reading my remarks in the
Leslie, in the front rank of subject painters, was to me the most thoroughly
inspired by the breath of Nature. His sweet simplicity, the taste for restrained colour,
and the power of unaffected expression, placed him on the level of the great; but he had
developed out of amateur training, and was a painter only, not an
all-round artist; he saw things only from one side, not as though he could model them. The
insufficiency of his early teaching was evident in a flatness of detail which would not
have sufficed for large work: the two scales of work need independent apprenticeship.
William Collins at the last did some admirable pictures, with rustic, Crabbe-like realism;
but he had become a figure painter gradually rather than by primal intent, his men and
women having been originally but accessories in landscape, and life sufficed not for his
fuller aims. William Dyce was the most profoundly trained and cultured of all the painters
of the time. He had for several years been driven from the profession altogether by the
critics, and had to be searched for at the advice of the painter Cornelius, who had known
him in Rome, the German master giving testimony to the Englishman's powers
when—to the lasting honour of his nation—he declined to accept the
proposed commission to paint the Houses of Parliament—which, with true British
prejudice, he alone was thought worthy to execute—saying,
“You have an artist in England equal to any known to
me.” Dyce, when too late to find a fair field for his genius, had thus
recommenced his career. He was elected a member of the Royal Academy so suddenly that the
outside world said it was “by command.” Had he had a better chance,
he might have influenced the English School more than he did, for although
William Dyce]
Turner was rapidly sinking like a glorious sun in clouds of night that could not
yet obscure his brightness, but rather increased his magnificence. The works of his
meridian day were shut up in their possessors'
Augustus Egg, although of this school, was of robuster mind, in being more frankly historic than the rank and file of the younger generation. He had sterling invention and remarkable power of dignified colour; the individuality he imported to his heads was not usual then, if indeed it is now. Frith—another of the band—had already made his mark.
The majority of my compeers and immediate elders were worshippers of Etty, and
inquired not at all of the beginning of his greatness, nor indeed of its noonday, but
strove to emulate the looser design and execution which he cultivated at the end of his
career. Some followed other masters, but it amused me to observe that all alike adduced
Pheidias and Raphael as the prophets to sanctify their course, and all revolted at any
suggestion that the solid ground beneath their feet was the foundation on which sincere
workers must stand. There was then no suspicion among artists, or the public, that Guido,
Giulio Romano, Baroccio, Guercino, Murillo, Le Brun, and others of the same flock were
birds of a different feather to Jove's bird, so the name of the princely Urbinite was made
to cover all conventional art. We knew less of Michael Angelo in England then than now,
when we have the
Altogether it was evident that I had to be my own master, getting dumb direction from the great of other ages, and correction of defects in my daily work from intelligent elder fellow-students and the paternal-minded Keeper of the Academy, Mr. George Jones, who was always eager to give extra attention to persevering students.
These confessions give my estimate of art instruction in England at the date when I was a student at the Academy, the National Gallery, the British Museum, and British Institution. The first surprising illumination which I received, and one, moreover, which in some ways determined a great change in the course of my artistic life, came about in this wise. While engaged in copying “
For better understanding of the principles upon which the Venetians arranged
their scheme of colour, I made
abbozzi
of a few of their greatest works—Titian's “
Dulwich Gallery was one of my haunts. There I observed that an early portrait of his mother by Rubens had surprisingly the characteristics of care and humility; and a portrait of a man with a stubbly white beard by Holbein fascinated me with its delicate painting. It is now over half a century since I first saw these, but more notable examples of early practice have confirmed the conclusions they forced upon me, that in Art, as in other pursuits, it is a loss in the end both for Schools and for individuals to begin as masters.
It was incumbent upon me now to find out a path for my own feet. By nature, and the encouragement of my early painting-master, slovenliness was my besetting sin, through too great impatience to reach the result. To root out off-handedness is not to be done at a stroke. Once having decided what was my danger, I had continuing proofs of the need of self-restraint. What might even be profitable as a course for other students, I forbad myself; I sought in every direction for further guidance, and left others to follow their own light. This was the state of my mind in the full height of my studentship days, when I had somehow or other to support myself by my brush in the intervals of regular study.
D. G. Rossetti had entered the Academy as a probationer about the same time as myself, but I did not know of him till later. As he went abroad for a time, he did not complete his three probationary drawings in the term allowed. He gained special permission to continue the task in the next season, and with this further term the finished drawings were approved.
Millais, after some interval, came again to the Antique School to
W. H. H]
A small window at the end looked on to grim walls and tiles, but Millais had painted its panes with Gothic figures and patterns in imitation of stained glass, and signs of taste and order were seen inside the painting-room. With his picture of “
On the occasion of my first visit to Millais, his mother, whose usual place in
the studio was indicated by the presence of a lady's work-table, was in earnest
conversation with her son Clement and his young wife, but with a friendly salutation they
considerately walked out to continue the talk elsewhere. Millais told me that his brother
had resolved to go to Australia, that the debate was about the necessary arrangements;
further, that his mother and father were also saddened over the marriage and departure of
their only daughter, a handsome girl of about twenty. While we chatted he said,
“I find you know some friends of my uncle; 1
The picture he was now employed upon was in every respect remarkable for a young painter, looking more like the work of an artist in his prime; indeed, had he been judged by this production alone, its maturity of style might have seemed discouraging to the hope of development. Through life a happy characteristic of Millais in all his different modes of work was, that there were no disorderly scrapings and blotches about the surface such as often cause untidy painters to leave their works in unpresentable guise; parts were obviously unfinished, and others only in a stage of preparation; but all, like his room, was in perfect readiness to be shown to the chance visitor. Millais was unaffectedly eager to hear my appreciation, and led me on to the points with which he was himself best content; yet he invariably challenged candour, and ended with, “You'll see I'll make my next much better!” Tea was sent into the room, and before it was over the mother returned. I was referred to as the “student who drew so well,” and “Johnnie” emphasised his compliment by asking her whether he had not spoken thus of me to her before. She was dressed in black, and was of slight build for a matron; she had quick eyes, with a shrewd but happy expression; these features were surmounted by a brow of vertical build, the nose being slightly arched at the bridge. The hair was brought forward in curls kept in form by small combs at the side, as was usual at the time. She entered at once with great zest into the merits of Johnnie's picture. It was impossible for me not to regard as truly enviable the hearty pride with which Millais' work was looked upon by all the members of his family.
Between my portrait painting and copying at the National Gallery and the British Institution, I had managed to find time to go through the course at the Royal Academy to get into the Life School. With this achieved, I discontinued my day attendance at the Antique, only satisfying my school ambition by working each evening from the living model. One night after this change I encountered my new student-friend in the hall; he, with that fascinating mixture of child-like impulsiveness and the highest manly purpose, said—
“Look here, you know I'm painting a picture as big as Raphael's cartoons, nine feet one way by sixteen feet the other. That's no end of a job, I can tell you. Twenty figures and more, all the size of life;” and coming close, he added confidingly, “ It's ‘
1 As time went on Holman-Hunt became a singularly enthusiastic
and proficient dancer. He used to be amused to find some of his admirers a little
shocked at this in one whose mission they thought to be solely that of a painter of
sacred pictures.
At the appointed time I went. The father and mother were both present; the son came forward to receive me warmly, and turned to the elders repeating his previous compliments, and referring to my picture at the British Institution. The mother was busy with crochet work, which did not absorb all her thoughts, for she at once began telling me of “important visitors” who had come to see Johnnie's picture, and who had said it was “truly wonderful.” She pointed out what had been most admired. The father I scarcely had known before. He excused himself for walking about the room putting things that had been disarranged back into their places—by which one saw how it was that things were never allowed to remain in confusion.
He was perhaps a little above five feet ten in height, and slightly inclined to burliness. The son had inherited some lineaments from him, but his spirited expression came from his mother. The fresh colour and blue eyes, with an apparently unguarded manner, were all his father's; the latter's full forehead appeared rounder from an inclination to baldness already showing itself. His thorough-hearted interest in the passing moment dissipated all my feelings of shyness which his presence might have aroused. To make the introduction more complete, the son put one hand on his father's shoulder and the other on his mother's chair, and said—
“They both help me, I can tell you. He's really capital, and does a lot of useful things. Look what a good head he has. I have painted several of the old doctors from him. By making a little alteration in each, and putting on different kinds of beards, he does splendidly. Couldn't be better, could he? And he sits for hands and draperies too. And as for mamma, she reads to me and finds me subjects. She gets me all I want in the way of dresses, and makes them up for me, and searches out difficult questions for me at the British Museum—in the library, you know. She's very clever, I can tell you.” He stooped down and rubbed his curly head against her forehead, and then patted the “old daddy,” as he called him, on the back. The father was then only about forty-seven.
In the meantime the tea-tray was brought in, and while the mother prepared the meal, I was invited to look more closely at the painting. It was undoubtedly a most masterly performance for such a boy. I unreservedly expressed my admiration. The youthful painter pointed out what had taxed him most, and what he still felt were tough knots to undo; but he had a most serviceable sanguine temperament, which was never overcome and but seldom overclouded, and which would not admit a doubt of his being able to master all difficulties.
“
Here the father joined in: “He has a broad-brimmed hat, wears his hair long, and steps in such a stately manner that he seems as though he had walked out of an old frame;” he added in laughing mood, as if in apology, “but he's a perfect gentleman.”
“I was going to tell Hunt,” the mother added, “that Johnnie is still tempted to work on the Saviour's head.”
“I shall make it much better, you see, now,” said the boy painter.
“Well, Johnnie was passing a door in Bedford Square when a gentleman was being let out. The servant was behind, and he struck Johnnie as being the very model for the head, for he is singularly handsome and superior-looking. We've seen his master and he's quite pleased; he has been to see the picture,—he asked to be allowed to come,—and the man is to sit the day after to-morrow,” said the mother.
“Yes,” added the boy, “it is really a lucky find. No trouble is too great to try and improve upon the Saviour's head.”
Noticing my interest in a youthful head belonging to the principal group, he went on, “That's my brother Bill, you don't know him; he just suits, doesn't he? It's for St. John, the beloved disciple, and he's always made young.” After further talk, he unexpectedly turned to his father and mother in pleading tone, saying, “I've been working very hard now for a long while, and I really feel thoroughly fagged; I am sure it would do me good to have a holiday, indeed it would.” Then in a playfully lachrymose tone he proceeded, “You know they'll be sure to be playing cricket on Saturday at Holloway, and I should like to have a good day at it.” Then he turned to me, inquiring, “Do you play cricket?” Meanwhile, his father and mother vied with one another in applauding his plan, and it was arranged that he should take the last day of the week for recreation.
When we left the house, Millais wanted me to talk about his parents. “They are dear old creatures—aren't they?”
I returned, honestly, “They are particularly delightful, all the more so because I had rather expected from your name to find that your father would be a foreigner, but he's a thorough Englishman.”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “we belong to
Jersey, where all regard themselves as more English than Englishmen are, because they
are Normans pure and simple, who kept to their earlier home. My great-grandfather lost
his property because at the beginning of the French Revolution he got infatuated with
the principles of the Republicans and was thought to be compromised in the French
attempt on the island, but the name is preserved as attached to old castles and
buildings that once belonged to the family.” Variable still as a
child, he burst out: “Now, I say, do you think I'm growing? I want to be
tall. Daddy is a good height,
He did not now attend at the Life School at all, and, except for curiosity, he
never came to the painting school. Neither did I attend this last school for practice, for
I had done quite as much copying as I felt to be desirable, except for the secrets of
composition which I executed on a series of rapid sketches on a white ground. Millais
never spent any time in copying old Masters, yet in furnishing pictures from memory for a
doll's house National Gallery, which he and his brother formed in their early teens, he
had made himself practically acquainted with the characteristics of all the great
painters. Seeing that I had altogether burnt my boats for retreat, my family had, with
kind consideration for me, removed to Holborn, where, in the upper part of a large house,
I could have a room for a studio. Here I could not paint pictures of ambitious character,
but I chose a subject from Woodstock, because it belonged to the class
of pictures most popular, and so offered a fair chance of sale, as well as due exercise in
serious inventiveness. When I was bringing this to an end, my father, who had not failed
to realise how much at the best I was checked for want of ampler opportunities, when we
were one night returning home together, referred to the matter, and explained that he had
been hampered in means for the last six years by having to pay off a mortgage on some
house property, which the surplus of a legacy from his aunt would not entirely purchase.
He had now, however, just redeemed the debt, and should be more at ease in the future. He
mentioned the fact that I might consider in what respect he could now be most helpful to
me.
This generous determination served only to accentuate his benevolent disposition.
Soon afterwards one morning at breakfast I saw him open a letter, which he read and
re-read, turned over and over, and with studied reserve put carefully into his pocket. It
transpired that before he had purchased the houses, the head clerk of a solictor's firm,
who had examined the title and prepared the deeds for the transfer of the property, had
accepted the vendor's statement that his son—to whom, when under age, the
property had been left—was dead. This son proved to be living, and now claimed
not only the houses, but all the back rents. When the son was reminded that his father
would be heavily punished and disgraced as a consequence of the threatened litigation, the
aggrieved heir—who, it was proved, had known of the fraud and received great
part of the proceeds—declared that he hoped his father would be transported.
After advice from many quarters, and much consultation, with frequent veering round on my
father's part from one point to another, he resolved to avoid the uncertainty of the law
by making a compromise which compelled him to raise a further heavy mortgage, the burden
of which he had to bear for the rest of his
A prospect of room for me in the exhibition world now seemed to dawn; even though the painting of portraits might have somewhat reduced the strain on the family purse. I painted only those which came uninvited. In going on with pictures I may have appeared perverse, for so far they had been only an expense to me, without the sign of a purchaser.
On a visit to Millais' house when he was away, the father talked about the
Academy school, and the treatment Johnnie had formerly experienced there.
“Being so young,” he said, “ Johnnie became the
sport of some of the rough, elder students, and he came home at times complaining and
bearing marks of their coarse behaviour. They lifted him up above their heads and
twirled him about, affecting to be acrobats. One brutal fellow,
H—— (you must know him), carried the child up a ladder that
happened to be in the school, encouraged the more by the poor little fellow's cries; and
once he held him up by the ankles and marched with him head downwards around the school,
his hair sweeping the ground. What could I do? It would not have done to make a scandal
of it, but I told Johnnie to invite this burly fellow here to give advice on some design
in hand. When he came I received him in friendly manner, and soon spoke of Johnnie's
fragile form, saying that some rough students in the Academy were thoughtless about the
delicacy of the young boy, that I felt sure he was a good, sensible
fellow, but that some young men were without reflection and needed to be opposed, and
that I would trust him always to protect Johnnie and save him from such horseplay. After
that Johnnie was left unmolested, and we had every reason to rejoice in the effect of my
appeal to H——'s better feelings.” This
restraint, however, was but of transient or partial value, for the man had at bottom a
cruel nature. Millais with true instinct, although not at the time admitting to himself
the reason, painted him in his “
When I went again to Gower Street, Millais was painting “
There were at that time so many varied objects I had to keep in mind, and Millais was so intent upon his work, that I saw little of him till the next season, when he asked me to come and see his new picture of “
Our increasing intimacy induced confidential talk whenever we met; we discussed
many theories of art and practice as seen both in old and modern painters, and I found him
by no means bound to dogmas
At the conclusion of one of my visits to Gower Street, I explained, as a reason for deferring his coming to see my new work, that I was going to spend a month in the country. “Where are you going?” his mother inquired. “To Ewell,” I said. “Why, that's where Johnnie's going in the autumn,” said she, and we had a talk about Captain Lemprière, Sir John Reid, Sir George Glynn, and all the notables of the place, and of the country's sweetness and charm.
Give me quickly the cold water flowing forth from the Lake of Memory.Gilbert Murray
Ewell—Ye well—in Surrey, at the time I speak of,
had a true claim to be a home of repose. The fount in its slab-formed cradle at the
entrance of the village was, in fact, only the public appearance of the newly-born stream,
the true
fons
being hidden by a garden wall. When the pedestrian, a-dust, athirst, and sun-dazed,
stepped within the surrounding rails of the crystal well, his eyes rested on the bubbling
waters ere he raised them to his parched lips. The wide earth's thank-offering of a spring
of water outpouring in its sparkling purity is ever a delight to man. The village itself
had no sense of modern bustling or hurry; all was arranged spaciously, all work executed
with deliberation, and with such unostentation that externally there was but little to
distinguish the chemist's shop from the baker's, or any other tradesman's house from that
of his neighbour. On the outskirts of the trading centre there were gentlemen's homes and
farmsteads; and Nonsuch Park, of Elizabethan fame, still gave a stately grace farther
afield, although the quaint palace had long since gone from sight. Banstead and Epsom
Downs formed the horizon to the south. The water from the spring bore itself away in an
opposite direction, first carolling along a pebble-strewed channel into a shallow pool
crossed by a flat bridge, whence by the quiet searcher might be seen red-spotted trout
poised in mid-water, and casting their sleeping sun-shadows on to the mossy gravel below,
steady as though painted there. In the region beyond, the stream expanded bordered by
well-tended lawns, and patterned with gaily flowered garden beds; between these widened
borders lay an islet with weeping willows kissing the surface of the water.
A. Hughes]
VOL. I. E
Our little river below had to narrow itself to pass under the span of a
brick-built arch made for neat-booted lasses and swains; it then deepened and passed
between banks, husbanding the current's force for man's further will; it rippled along,
circling in dimples as it was driven under sheltering willows, its banks strewn with
long-disused mill-stones, discarded roller-beams, and ruined timber cog-wheels. Soon
All this lucious and lonely charm of dell and meadow had very early a fascination
for me, and it was natural that I should attempt to register some of its mystery by my
art. Accordingly, I began a painting of the pool above one of the first mills, with the
sun glistening down and penetrating through every nook of the landscape. The
A dear uncle and aunt who then lived at the Rectory Farm were my hosts in this pleasant place of retreat. Sometimes a cousin who was also a visitor, had a riding cob kept in the stables, and with this we made excursions, travelling ride and tie. Sometimes, with an extra mount for myself, we scampered over Banstead Downs to Epsom racecourse and to Ashted Park, and so I saw every variety of the country within miles of the weeping “eyne” of the valley.
It will easily be understood how the delights of this region afterwards became a frequent theme of enthusiastic appreciation beween Millais and myself.
The old church was condemned to demolition, and the Rev. Sir George Glynn, the Rector, engaged me to make a painting of it. While I was doing this, an Art Union prizewinner wrote offering me for my “
The picture had been well placed at the Academy, although under the line. While
touching it on varnishing day, it was not left unnoticed by established artists; one,
still young even to boyish eyes, stayed before it for several minutes, and I was
afterwards told it was Frith who that year had an interesting illustration from Saracen's Head, in which the painter, doing reverence to the Lord of the
Manor, had painted him as an appropriate model for the ferocious Turk. When the exhibition
opened many gracious words were said to me by my fellow-artists.
The money I received for this picture I determined to apply to the painting of a work nearer in spirit to my personal ambition; all previous subjects had of necessity been chosen from consideration of their small expenditure on models and accessories and their saleability in the end.
But while I was deciding on a subject, an event of the greatest importance
occurred to me. One student—Telfer—with whom, wherever he wanders,
be everlasting peace!—spoke to me of
Up to that day I had been compelled to think that the sober modern world
tolerated art only as a sort of vagabondish cleverness, that in
J. E. Millais]
Shortly before this time Millais contracted a standing engagement with Ralph
Thomas, the Chartist barrister, who lived in Stratford Place, and had turned
picture-dealer, to paint for him, at a remuneration of one guinea per diem, every day or
two a picture being finished for the employer. The young painter stayed to dinner, and
during the meal the patron and his wife discussed the subject to be treated on the morrow.
This was essentially of simple character, a mountebank showing his tricks, girls gathering
fruit in an orchard, a shepherd driving sheep, a tired tramp having water given to him by
children at a cottage door, and such-like. The preliminary business was to decide what
models and objects would be needed in the morning, and these
One evening Millais, accompanying me to my studio, started talk at once with: “You know I always want you to speak to me candidly; well, I'll do the same with you. I've no fear, I can tell you. I know what you can do.”
I had grown dissatisfied with the principal figure in my picture of “
After talking to Millais of Keats, I one day took occasion to show him my deisgn
for “
W. H. H.]
Christ was completed towards the end of the nineteenth century.)
After this visit to my studio we became unreserved friends, and the father and
mother treated me with great cordiality in my frequent visits to their house. He was now a
tall youth; his bronze-coloured locks stood up, twisting and curling so thickly that the
parting itself was lost; he dressed with exact conventionality so as to avoid in any 1
My first attempt to communicate to Millais my enthusiasm for Keats was for the
moment a ludicrous failure. Going to his studio, I took the volume of
Although perhaps a little nettled, I laughed. “I'll lend you the
volumes, and you'll find the poems will bear a wonderful deal of spoiling.
He had now undertaken his picture of “Cymon and Iphigenia,” and during its early stage he made a change in the treatment of his family, which required persistent strength of will to carry through.
When on one of my visits to Gower Street as soon as the street door was opened to me, there was no time to make an inquiry before the parlour door suddenly opened and revealed the mother, who was full of fire, and eagerly conjured me to listen.
“Johnnie is behaving abominably,” she said. “I want you, Hunt, to hear; you would not believe it; he shuts us out of the studio altogether; he is there now all alone. For twelve days now neither his father nor I have been allowed to enter the room. I appeal to you; is that the way to treat parents? He cannot expect to prosper; can he, now? I hope you will tell him so. It is quite unnatural. Isn't it disgraceful?”
Before the dear lady had got thus far I saw the studio door at the end of the passage open, and Johnnie inquired whether it was not Hunt. Recognising me, he cut short the argument by calling out, “Don't mind what they say, but come here.”
And so, making the best assurance I could that they would find that there was some important reason for the suddenly adopted course, I joined the provoker of this discontent.
As he shut the door he said, “I'm sorry for my dear old mother,
but the time has come when I can't have my studio made into the general sitting-room,
and there's no way of making the change gradually. It must be done abruptly and firmly.
Now how are you getting
1 With regard to conversations with Millais, I cannot pretend
to have recorded every exact word. But the illustrations and criticisms used, and
the names of the works of art cited, are as fresh in my memory as if they had been
spoken only yesterday, and therefore a revival of the conversatonal form of the
interview seems to me the best way in which to convey an idea of what passed, and
in our boyish talk I am sure we were characteristically profuse.
“Not, I hope, finally,” I said; “but you
see I'm obliged to paint portraits to get money. I shall spend less on ‘
We then talked about his own work. He had committed himself to a great undertaking, but he had already drawn in the whole composition and had painted in a few of the heads very much as they were finally left. They had been painted almost or entirely at once, and to my eager eyes they seemed to have gained an immaculate freshness and precision and a nervous vitality which put them on a higher footing than his previous work. Suddenly he again reverted to the picture of mine he had last seen, inquiring what it was that prevented me from going on with it. If doubtful about the treatment of our Lord, why not look, for example, at some of the old Masters to be found in the Print Room?
I replied: “My dear fellow, my difficulties arise from whims in
my own mind, which may be debatable, as to the whole treatment of the Saviour's figure,
for when one phase of the question seems settled, another as formidable presents itself.
My four years in the City deprived me of many opportunities for art, but I had time for
reading and reflecting, through which notions have grown in my head which I find it not
easy to resolve. Some of my cogitations may lead me to see lions in the path which are
only phantoms, but until I have faced them I can't be satisfied; I have investigated
current theories both within art and outside it, and have found many of them altogether
unacceptable. What, you ask, are my scruples? Well, they are nothing less than
irreverent, heretical, and revolutionary”—my two years' seniority
gave me courage to reveal what was at the bottom of my heart at the time.
“When art has arrived at facile proficiency of execution, a spirit of easy
satisfaction takes possession of its masters, encouraging them to regard it with the
paralysing content of the lotus-eaters; it has in their eyes become perfect, and they
live in its realm of settled law; under this miasma no young man has the faintest chance
of developing his art into living power, unless he investigates the dogmas of his elders
with critical mind, and dares to face the idea of revolt from their authority. The
question arises whether we are not in such a position now? Of course, we have got some
deucedly gifted masters, and I love many of the old boys, and know they could teach me
much; but I think they suffer from the fact that the English School began the last
century without the discipline of exact manipulation. Sir Joshua Reynolds thought it
expedient to take the Italian School at its proudest climax as a starting-point for
English art; he
“I quite agree with what you say; for as to
Reynolds,” replied Millais,
1 Reynolds urged Benjamin West, when painting “The
Death of General Wolfe,” to represent him in a toga as appropriate.1
I added: “With form so lacking in nervousness as his, finish of
detail is wasted labour. But about the question of precedent. I would say that the
course of previous generations of artists which led to excellence cannot be too
studiously followed by us, but their treatment of subjects, perfect as they were for
their time, should not be repeated. If we do only what they did so perfectly, I don't
see much good in our work. The language they used was then a living one, now it is dead:
though their work has in it humanly and artistically such marvellous perfection that for
us to repeat their treatment of sacred or historic subjects is mere affectation. In my
picture of the risen Christ, for instance, the old painters would have placed a flag in
His hand to represent His victory over Death; their public had been taught that this
symbol was a part of the alphabet of their faith; they accepted it, as they received all
the legends painted at the order of the Church. Many of these were poetic and affecting;
but with the New Testament in our hands we have new suggestions to make. If I were to
put a flag with a cross on it in Christ's hand, the art-galvanising revivalists might be
pleased, but unaffected people would regard the work as lacking living interest for
them. I have been trying for some treatment that might make them see this Christ with
something of the surprise that the Maries themselves felt on meeting Him as One who has
come out of the grave, but I must for every reason put it by for the present. In the
meanwhile, the story in Keats'
I blundered through this argument, not without many ejaculations from my
companion; but here, laughing, I turned upon him with— “You
see what a dangerous rebel I am, but you are every bit as bad as myself! Here are you
painting a poetic subject in which you know all authorities would insist upon
conventional treatment, and you cannot pretend that this work of yours is academic. If
Howard or Frost undertook the subject, you know perfectly well that while they would
certainly have made some of the nymphs fair, and some dark to give contrast, every care
would be taken that the nymphs should rather be waxen effigies than living creatures. It
would be in their several manners the same with Mulready, Eastlake, Maclise; such
conventionalism is surely the sign of a declining Art, yet all the cognoscenti say,
‘How classically refined, how entirely this conception
1 I never knew what particular picture he had in his mind;
certainly in later years he dwelt enthusiastically upon the excellences of the great
portrait painter; the self-sufficiency of youth must be remembered in the case of us
both.
“I know,” he said, half apologetically; “but the more attentively I look at Nature the more I detect in it unexpected delights: it's so infinitely better than anything I could compose, that I can't help following it whatever the consequences may be.”
“Well, neither of us is sophisticated enough to appreciate the
system in vogue, and not to feel that it ends in an insufferable mannerism and sameness
of feature that soon pall upon the senses beyond toleration. All great artists have
founded their beauty upon selection, and not upon the falsifying of
Nature,” said I. “What gave the charm
David Wilkie]
Millais continued his rattling commentary as I went on, often endorsing the convictions I hazarded, and so encouraging me to be bolder, and many works ancient and modern were summoned to justify our argument.
In the midst of our earnest talk a timid knock came at the door. “Who's there?” asked my companion.
“I have brought you the tea myself,” said the mother. I was hurrying forward, when Millais stopped me with his hand, and a silent shake of the head.
“I really can't let you in, mamma,” he returned; “please put the tray down at the door, and I'll take it in myself.”
1 Wilkie's “
I spoke then. “We are debating matters, Mrs. Millais, that would really be very dull to all but artists up to their necks in paint, and our talk is the deepest treason against our betters.”
She knocked again. “I call on you, Hunt, as a witness of this bad behaviour to his mother.”
Millais' only apology was, “You'll see in time how right I am;” and when his mother left he waited a minute ere he went for our tea.
We resumed our talk, reverting to the difference between vigorous and moribund
art. I continued: “I had great delight in skimming over a book,
In the midst of my talk Millais continually expressed eagerness to get away altogether from the conventions we denounced, and adduced examples of what he agreed were absurdities, declaring that often he had wondered whether something very interesting could not be done in definance of them. “You shall see in my next picture if I don't paint something much better than ‘
We had had our talk out for the night. He was putting things away, and collecting his brushes and otherwise making signs of departure. I held out my hand to say “Good-bye. ”
“Oh no! ” he said, “you must come in and see the old people,” which brought to my mind the prospect of a terrible quarter of an hour.
The parlour comes to my sight now. Over the fireplace was the oval portrait of Johnnie, painted when he was thirteen by Phillip—it had been done in return for sittings given for the head of Bruce in a picture representing that hero—below this portrait on either side were the small likenesses of the father and mother by their son; above the entrance door was Millais' admirable chalk-drawing of the Apollo's head. The mother sat in an armchair near the window and the father on the other side of the fire.
Johnnie burst into the sitting-room; I followed. “Now we've come to have a nice time with you, mamma and papa.”
“We don't wish, ” said the mother, “to tax your precious time at all; we have our own occupations to divert us and engage our attention,” and the crochet needles were most intently plied.
“Hoity-toity, what's all this? Put down your worsted work at once. I'm going to play backgammon with you directly;” and he straightway fetched the board from its corner and laid in on the table.
“You know, Hunt, how shamefully he has been behaving, and I appeal to you to say whether it is not barefacedness to come in and treat us as though nothing had occurred,” appealed the mother.
The us was chosen because at the time Johnnie had gone to his
father with the guitar, placing it in his hand, and remarking, as he put his arms round
the paternal shoulders: “Now, as we are too busy in the day to see one
another, it's more jolly that we should do so after work, so just you be a dear old
papa, and now prove to Hunt what a splendid musician you are. Hunt used to practise the
violin once, but his family didn't like it, and he could not be annoying them in music
and painting too, so he gave up his fiddling, but he's very fond of music. You play that
exquisite air out of Rigoletto.” And then turning to me he added,
“There's no one in England has such an exact touch as he
has;” while to him he railingly said, “You want
pressing like a shy young lady.”
His father was, however, already tuning the strings, when the son went over to the still irreconcilable mother, took her needles away, kissed her, and wheeled her in the chair round to the table where the opened chess-board was arranged awaiting her. The father had already commenced the air, which at my solicitation he repeated, and afterwards played “
After an hour of this renewed good understanding I left, without
Since I had become a student in the Life School, which was held only in the evening, I had felt justified in giving more of my daylight to original work at home, but at the appointed hour I hurried away to the little “pepper-box” at the top of the building in Trafalgar Square.
It was here that the gods were seen in actual flesh. One evening in the past
summer, running up the spiral staircase three steps at a time to secure my place before
the model posed, I was brought to sudden sobriety of pace by overtaking Etty, that veteran
master of colour in his generation, who was labouring to reach the top. It was with a
W. H. H.]
He painted on a sized but unprimed mill-board; he made the outline hastily with
charcoal, dusted this out slightly, then took out his prepared palette and fastened it to
the left-hand end of his board. His colours were set in order from white through reds,
browns, blues, and greens to black. He began using them by rubbing in the darks with
His choice of paints was not beneficial as an example to the young, for while at first he seemed to have brought certain vivid pigments for the background only, they all came gradually into the vortex of his sweeping hand, and before he had painted half-an-hour, emerald green and Prussian blue often were made to do service in flesh. He was intoxicated with the delight of painting, and when, after a careful reloading of his brush, he drove the tool upwards in frequent bouts before his half-closed eyes, I don't think that, had he been asked suddenly, he could have told his name.
We did not always have as instructors the members whose deserved renown made them
coveted teachers, but in midsummer on one occasion—regarded as a fortunate one
by all the students—Mr. Mulready was the visitor. It seemed he treated me with
more than average favour, and perhaps it was reliance upon this apparent partiality that
led me one evening, when the class had broken up, to follow him down the steps. Hearing
me, he halted and turned round. I apologised for my intrusion by explaining that I sought
information which would enable me to acquit myself of a duty delayed for some years. I
then referred to Mr. Varley's loan of a crayon drawing, which he called a Rembrandt. While
I spoke I could not but observe the visitor's features darkly clouding over, but I
perservered, suspecting no evil. Suddenly he compelled a pause, and burst out with,
“And how dare you, sir, assume that this affects me
in any way?”
“May I explain, sir,” I went on, “that Mr. Varley once spoke of being in some manner a connection of yours; remembering this, I thought you might direct me how to find his son, to whom I might return the drawing.” Here the annoyance to which I was unconsciously subjecting Mr. Mulready was beyond toleration.
“I am astounded at your temerity, sir, in addressing me on such a matter!” he exclaimed. “He had no right to make the statement you speak of, and you, sir, have no excuse for taxing my attention with it.”
I stammered out, “I fear, sir, that I have made some great mistake, but pray believe me that I had no idea I should vex you.”
“You have, sir, made a great mistake, a very great mistake indeed, one that I cannot at all understand.” And so he turned and went down the steps, still storming as he went, while I stood dumbfoundered. The next night, when he came his round, I stood up, bowing respectfully as I offered him my place at the drawing, but he only glared at me with his face set like a mask, saying, as he went round me, “Oh, it's you, is it?” I had most innocently made him my declared enemy. Yet I heard that he always inquired as to what I was doing at home, adding, “Ah! you'll see, he will do something one day.”
Some years later I heard what accounted for his ill-humour. He had married at seventeen a sister of John Varley of the same age; it proved to be a most unhappy union, and before the prime of life they had separated for ever, each thinking the other to blame, so that intimates refrained from mentioning the relationship. He probably assumed that I ought to have known of this.
Whenever you have to do a favour, do not, as some are tempted to do, dwell upon the
greatness of the sacrifice you make; but on receiving a kindness do not omit to
recognise your benefactor's generosity.
At twenty, one may not only be happy in a garret, but all the
opportunities of life come more richly and the hours for effort last longer than in later
days. Backward as I was with my intended contribution to the academy of “
I was still pinched both for want of time and money, and I had to sacrifice some days in each week to paint portraits.
A visitor was brought occasionally to my studio by a friend; who sat by the fire without giving any sign that he cared for my work. His discourse was of country places, of old churches, of brasses, monuments, and other antiquarian matters of real interest to me. Yet it seemed unaccountable that he should find pleasure in coming to warm and air his memory at my glow-worm of a hearth; but blind as his choice seemed, it was impelled by kind Fate, as the sequel in time showed. The date for sending in works came alarmingly near. Millais had progressed more bravely than I, but he had yet more to do, and we agreed that neither of us could finish without working through the last nights. For company's sake, he invited me to bring my picture to his studio; his parents also urged this, and so we worked, encouraging one another hour by hour. Becoming fatigued, he suddenly, with boyish whim, conceived a prejudice against the task of painting some drapery about the figures which had still to be done, and entreated me to relieve him. “Do, like a dear fellow, work out this drapery for me; you shan't lose time, for I'll do one of the heads of your revellers for you.” His father was called in as his model, and I can to this day distinguish the part he did for me, adapting his handling to my manipulation by precise touch, while I did a part of the drapery of the Iphigenia for him.
When all were sleeping we were steadily working. Occasionally
There was, perhaps, much boyish folly in our verdicts upon the old art, and in our aspirations for the new, but we wrought out the reason for each question, intending that it should be tried in the fire. We revealed all our innermost thoughts to each other, and used our conclusions to form ardent resolves for the future. It is on quiet and confidential occasions such as this that burning convictions are tested and refined, and ours at this time were beaten upon the anvil of what experience we had already had.
Our pictures were forwarded to the Academy, literally at the eleventh hour of the night, and very glad each of us was to go to his long-neglected bed.
Often when standing before them we had talked over Raphael's cartoons; at this period we again reviewed our judgment of these noble designs. We did so fearlessly, but even when most daring we never forgot their claim to be honoured. We condemned “
1 “Two of our greatest painters, Raphael and
Domenichino, have painted demoniacal boys. In the convent of Grotto Ferraba, in the
neighbourhood of Rome, Domenichino has represented St. Nilus in the act of relieving a
lad possessed. The Saint, an old man, is on his knees in prayer; the lad is raised and
held up by an aged man, the mother with a child is waiting the consummation of the
miracle. Convulsions have seized the lad; he is rigidly bent back, the lower limbs
spasmodically extended so that only his toes rest on the ground; the eyes are
distorted; the pupils turned up under the eyelids. This would be the position of
Opisthotonos, were not the hands spread abroad, the palms and fingers open, and the jaw
fallen. Had the representation been perfectly true to nature, the jaws would have been
clenched and the teeth grinding. But then the miracle could not have been represented,
for one, under the direction of the Saint, has the finger of his left hand in the
boy's mouth, and the other holds a vessel of oil with which the tongue is to be
touched, and the grandeur of the old man makes this one of the most admired paintings
in Italy.
“I have here given a sketch of the true Opisthotonos, where it is seen that all the muscles are rigidly contracted, the more powerful flexors prevailing over the extensors. Were the painter to represent every circumstance faithfully, the effect might be too painful, and something must be left to the taste and imagination. The original sketch is in the College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. I took it from soldiers wounded in the head at the battle of Corunna. Three men were similarly hurt, and in short successive intervals similarly affected, so that the character could not be mistaken.
“In the same painter's great picture of ‘
The first use which Millais and I made of our release from the pressure of work,
was on a succeeding morning to accompany the Chartist procession; it marched from Russell
Square across Blackfriars Bridge to Kennington Common; we did not venture onto the grass
with the agitators, but, standing up on the cross rails outside the enclosure, we could
see the gesticulations of the orators as they came forward on the van drawn up in the
centre of the green. When the address was
W. H. H.]
On re-ascending the van, he advised the law-abiding people to disperse, which they
did without delay. We essayed to return by the W. H. H.]
“
“And she sat among the reapers, and he reached her parched corn so she
did not eat.”
Neither of us lost time. Millais, with his ready power of drawing, was impatient to produce some new composition. We were each of us members of the Cyclographic Club; according to the rules, a design had to be furnished about once every month, together with a criticism upon the drawings of other members; this criticism was taken out by the artist with his drawing when the portfolio came back for a further contribution. For some reason I never went to any meetings.
William Rossetti, however, speaks of a meeting which he attended with his
brother. I know that at about this date, when the portfolio
Millais had now become as ardent an admirer of Keats as myself, and we soon
resolved to begin a series of illustrations in slightly shaded outline; we worked these
with a fine brush in line in preference to a pen for the sake of greater freedom. The
drawings were to be preparations W. H. H.]
Living near the British Museum, I went there whenever I could; I was now advanced
enough to make a riper use of it than when I
When, after the lapse of fifty years, I walk again among the unchangeable masterpieces of antiquity, the old familiar faces of my fellow-students are close around me. I see them still with their imagined futures unopened; and then a second scroll unrolls with those of them whom I have known in later days, in which the circumstances of each life appear, and the younger and the older man seem strangers to one another.
One fellow-pupil in Rogers' studio was a youth, a year or two my senior; he had
large prominent eyes, full features, swarthy complexion, and was of Semitic type. He
talked proudly of his privileges behind the scenes of theatres with a somewhat precocious
manliness. His name has since become known as the author of
When the Academy Hanging Committee had completed their work I was surprised and distresed to learn that Millais' painting of “
On the opening day of the Royal Academy Rossetti came up to me, repeating his
praise, and declaring that my picture of “1
d.”2
Rossetti proposed to come and see me; before this I had been only on nodding
terms with him in the schools, to which he came but rarely
1 G. F. Watts had quoted some lines of Keats to his exquisite
figure of “Echo.”2 In the
—“HE KNEW WHOSE GENTLE HAND WAS AT THE LATCH
BEFORE THE DOOR HAD GIVEN HER TO HIS EYES”KEATS.
1
A few days more, and Rossetti was in my studio. I showed him all my pictures and
studies, even those I had put aside for the nonce, which, at the stage I had entered upon
of advance by leaps and bounds, often involved final abandonment; for in youth a month,
and even a day in some cases, is an age in which, for all inventive purposes, the past
acts as a sepulchre to its idea. My last designs and experiments I rejoiced to display
before a man of his poetic instinct; and it was pleasant to hear him repeat my propositions
and theories in his own richer phrase. I showed him my new picture of
“
I justified the doing of this thoroughly as the only sure means of eradicating the stereotyped tricks of decadent Schools, and of any conventions not recommended by experienced personal judgment.
While engaged on the question of the practice of painting, he confessed to me that he was disheartened about his position.
He then told me the circumstance connected with his asking Brown, by letter, to
take him as a pupil, and of the amusing belligerent spirit in which Brown responded by
coming to his house with a big stick! This ended with a happy life friendship for both of
them, and honourable
1 A later recurrence to this manner of drawing may be found on
page 81.
Shortly before Brown's visit to Rossetti, the former met Overbeck
1
It was from a kindred source that Rossetti derived his “Early Christian” manner in design. The copy he finished not without some avowed impatience.
1 Page 149.
In accordance with all sound precedent, the master had set him to make a study of still
life from a group of bottles and other objects which happened to be lying about in the
studio. This discipline Rossetti had found so abhorrent that it had 1
2
For many reasons it was then impossible to agree to this proposal, one being that I had already a professed painting pupil, whose family had urged me to help him, and it would have been too hampering to do my work with two pupils together. But I offered to come to him, and explain all from time to time as he progressed.
My studio was now in a house, the lower part of which was an upholsterer's
show-room. The furniture and hangings there displayed could not but challenge observation
as wanting in artistic taste to a degree greater than could be found in any previous age
or country whatever. With my youthful experience in designing patterns, I regarded
decorative design as part of an artist's ambition, and I declared that furniture and
costume would remain as bad as for the last fifty years they had been if we continued to
leave the designing of them to tradesmen. The
1 “Brown had a system of education which he would
gladly apply to me. He set me to fag at some still life—drawing and
painting both; but I could not stand that kind of thing, and after a time or two gave
it up.”—Letter from D. G. Rossetti to W. B.
Geoff.2 William Rossetti wrote: “I think it was more
especially Holman who after a while considered that the Society was of little use,
being weighted with too many ‘muffs’; he, Millais and Gabriel
dropped it, and I fancy it survived not for long.”W. H. H.]
In the intervals of chat upon questions of our profession Rossetti produced a
manuscript copy of his own poems, amongst others
He urged that I should give him my frank opinion of them and drew from me the confession that I wrote verses, which indeed I did only to record impressions of Nature, in simple couplets, or at the most in the Spenserian stanza. These would not here be mentioned except as prelude to the confession that his proficiency effectually discouraged any further indulgence by me in verse of any form whatever.
To provide funds, I had again to apply myself to portrait painting, but when the
list of Art Union prize-holders was published, I saw that my fireside visitor during the
progress of “
My uncle having generously refused to accept repayment of the money he had provided for the frame of the Keats picture, I now had funds with which to make a start in life.
I had already painted part of my new picture of “
I had now determined to quit my father's house, so as to feel freer for my work.
Immediately Rossetti heard of my resolution he again broached the project of working under
me for my hourly superintendence and instruction in painting. He had, so far, made no way
in the new plan of work. This he accounted for by his want of confidence in himself; he
did not believe that my proposed daily visits to his house
W. H. H.]
While we were giving orders for the prepartion of the room, Rossetti, whose
enthusiasm for our principles grew with greater familiarity, talked much of Woolner as one
of whom he had explained the resolution of Millais and myself to turn more devotedly to
Nature as the one means of purifying modern art. He said that Woolner had declared the
system to be the only one that could reform sculpture, and that therefore he wished to be
enrolled with us. Woolner occupied the next studio to that of Hancock, the young sculptor
who had allowed Rossetti to paint in
He was then carving in marble for a fashionable bust-maker; he divided the studio
with another sculptor, Bernard Smith, whose massive size formed a great contrast to the
small bas-reliefs he was designing. Woolner, on the other hand, had erected a giant figure
ten feet high D. G. Rossetti ]
My new quarters had to be put in order. The whitewashing not being completed by
the expected date, Gabriel and I spent one day in a visit to Rochester Castle, and on the
morrow we went down the Thames to Greenwich (reading
While waiting on the barge pier for the returning steamboat Gabriel, full of
poetic fire and murmurings, seeing a gaping boy staring at him, turned upon the puzzled
lad, who retreated step by step before the advancing poet as he exclaimed interrogatively
with solemn gesture, “Do you believe that—
The boy by this time had backed to the edge of the barge and was in danger of
falling into the river when an old boatman broke out,
Then the steamboat came to the rescue of the question and answer.
After this holiday I resumed work in the renovated studio at the end of August 1848, with Rossetti as my painting pupil and companion.
The subject for my new picture was suggested by Bulwer's romance, which gives,
with but little garnishing, the facts of Rienzi's early life. Like most young men, I was
stirred by the spirit of freedom of the passing revolutionary time, the appeal to Heaven
against the tyranny exercised over the poor and helpless appealed to me. “How
long, O Lord!” many bleeding souls were crying at that time. The composition of
the picture necessitated patient working out of parts in separate studies. The costumes
and armour needed research, and this made the task longer and more costly than many that
might have been undertaken. My good friend who had lent me bloodhounds for my last
picture, now VOL. I. GW. H. H. ]
Before Rossetti had well got to work in my studio, I once returned from the Academy class at dusk and found him with Thomas Woolner in possession.
Woolner, who had lately returned from a brief visit to Paris, produced a case of
brown wood bound with bright brass, containing an elegant clay pipe, stamped on the bowl
46, a number held sacred by student smokers in the French capital. Of Caparal tobacco he
had still a precious remnant; he took out the prized calument with a dainty care such as a
lady displays in handling a fragile jewel; his flexible fingers and thumbs were affected
by habit of delicate manipulation as a sculptor. To the Westminster Hall competition, when
quite a youngster, he had sent a small model of Queen Eleanor sucking the poison from the
king's arm, and this had given him an opportunity of making acquaintance with some
distinguished men, who were of great interest to young artists like ourselves. From the
first there could be no doubt of Wooner's gifts as a
raconteur
, he told stories which brought these stars into our atmosphere, but his telescopic
powers reached even further, and the illumination he shed on the heroes more remote from
our ken equally delighted us. Of his master Behnes he expressed the highest appreciation
as an artist, an opinion which he justified by reference to early work, such as the bust
of the Queen as a child. While Woolner was still a boy in Behnes' studio, Haydon was
leaving after a visit, and the pupil reverently hastened to hold the door open to him as
an honoured guest; the painter, not satisfied at simply acknowledging this courtesy,
turned and examined the boy's cranium, with words of encouragement as to his future
possibilities. Beyond doubt our new friend was an entertaining reporter of the
professional opinions of the time, while the unswerving faith he expressed in his own
intended purpose did not fail to impress us with confidence in his future.
Rossetti had chosen his subject for painting from three prepared designs:
“
In general terms he denounced the science, and objected strongly to each result of its application, declaring that what is proved to be wrong was obviously better. He brought weighty tomes from home on which the vase with its lily stood.
The aureoled dove representing the Holy Ghost, and the seven cypresses typifying
the “seven sorrowful mysteries,” are all of arbitrary authority.
Where I could I induced him while my pupil to take natural D. G. Rossetti]
When a little advance was made, I advised him, ere the season grew too late, to paint the vine, and for this part of his work he was absent about a week. He brought the painting back with foliage too crudely emerald green, but it was resolved that this should stand unmodified for a time, and so far the plan of work promised all that we had hoped.
To Rossetti's occasional expressions of unbounded enthusiasm for Brown's past
works I could not always give unmodified approval. I had not time to visit exhibitions to
follow up his works, but somewhere I saw his earlier large painting of “
The surface had what, at the time, marked the Baron Wappers School—an
unpleasant sheen rather than the
In the British institution, where I also exhibited, I next saw Brown's picture of
“
From his Flemish manner he turned to that then flourishing in Munich, and lastly, to the opposite of his Antwerpian mode, to the Overbeck School called Nazarene, which set itself to affect the childlike immaturities and limitations of the German and Italian quattrocentists.
Brown, however, added quaintnesses which marked his strong vitality, but sometimes without calm judgment, which left many of his true appreciators to wonder if he were not mocking them; it was certainly not notable at that time, that he had become a seeker after fresh paths in Art.
It will thus be seen that I had to form an estimate of his work from much more
meagre data than that which connaisseurs have at hand in our day. Rossetti's outbursts of
enthusiasm, tempered as they were 1
The studio was down a mews, and had originally been a carpenter's workshop. The
painting in hand was “
Brown's deliberate manner of speech and the reserve of his demeanour at this first interview suggested to me that he was offended at the manner of my intrusion between him and his former pupil. He had spoken generously to Rossetti of exhibited works of mine, so that I knew he had no former prejudice against me. I was too bashful to attempt to explain how unsought for on my part was my position as teacher of one whose pupilage under him had proved to be of but short duration, but Brown's growing cordiality soon made it clear that no unfriendliness was intended.
That I systematically examined the pretensions of my elders may appear presumptuous. That I should dare at first introduciton to sit in judgment on an artist who had made such profitable use of his advantages may indeed savour of irreverence. I am obliged, therefore, to repeat that the first principal of Pre-Raphaelitism was to eschew all that was conventional in contemporary art, and this compelled me to scrutinise every artist's productions critically. Impressed as I felt by his work as the product of individual genius, I found but little indicative of a childlike reversion from existing schools to Nature herself.
The striking characteristic of Madox Brown's design in his large painting is, to
use his own word, its architectonic construction. Had the composition he was then employed
upon been for a wall divided into a triptych with spandrils on the side panels, the device
for filling the spaces might have been approved, and would have defended him from the
charge of artificiality of treatment; and the resemblance in the
1 Mrs. W. M. Rossetti.Ford Madox Brown ]
In Brown's last cabinet picture the same prevalent symmetrical fashion was adopted, as was conspicuous in engravings of Bendemann's “
While I was silently revolving this judgment, Rossetti began a sweeping tirade,
against Brown's choice of poets in the side designs; growing quite warm, he declared that
Shelley and Keats should have been whole-length figures instead of Pope and Burns, and the
introduction of Kirke White's name, he said, was ridiculous. Brown combated the
criticism as unreasonable and new-fangled, but Gabriel urged his point with great power
until we took our leave. On our departure the young poet justified himself, saying that he
knew “Bruno” would respect his opinion, because shortly before, when
he had read his own poem of “
By Brown's early return visit to my studio I was glad to find that my new acquaintance was not in any way offended with either of us. When he had finished his criticism on his old pupil, I was careful to ask him to give me the advantage of his impressions on my work. Frankly and kindly he made his comments; and as he enlarged upon the theme, he cited certain artists as unappreciated whom he championed earnestly and humorously in turns, meanwhile indulging in playful irony upon what he termed my “microscopic detail.” He was the sincerest knight-errant that ever braved adventure in the search after rectification of vulgar opinion. As a critic he always gave weighty counsel, urged by careful reasoning and naïve anecdote.
As Woolner was a proposed new member of our Brotherhood (the story of the
foundation of which has yet to be told), I went with the two Rossettis on a visit to his
studio in Stanhope Street, where Bernard Smith remained of the party. Woolner with his
work certainly filled more than his equal share of the chamber, which by night looked vast
and boundless; he guided us through the labyrinth of modelling-stools, pails of clay,
plaster moulds, and casts on our way to the stove. On
The many indications of Woolner's energy and his burning ambition to do work of excelling truthfulness and strong poetic spirit expressed in his energetic talk were enough to persuade me that Rossetti's suggestion that he should be made one of our number was a fully reasonable one; in due course, therefore, Millais having known him at the Academy, he was approved as a member.
The talk at my studio was often on the further extension of our number. In
Gabriel's Life School he was joined by his brother William, who applied himself at night
in a steady manner to the pursuit of drawing, and regularly executed conscientious,
although rigid, transcripts of the nude. Gabriel was soon persuaded that, in spite of
William's lateness in taking up Art, he would shortly become proficient enough to be
justified in throwing up his appointment at the Inland Revenue Office and taking to
painting, and with this prospect he proposed that we should make room for him in our Body.
In addition to this proposal, I agreed to consider with Millais the question of the
acceptance of James Collinson, who had already distinguished himself by paintings of the
genre kind, but was now writing poetry in the High Church spirit. He
promised now to paint in the severe style, declaring himself a convert to our views. The
idea of extending our numbers so trustfully was thus originated by Gabriel. Youth is
sanguine, and I offered no opposition to the experiment; and when the enthusiastic desire
of these fellow-students was declared to be a sure earnest of future zeal and power, I
introduced to my friends F. G. Stephens, who had not yet achieved anything as an artist. I
urged that he also, with the whirl of enthusiasm in operation and 1
When on Millais' return to town I went to his studio, he shouted out,
“Where is your flock? I expected to see them behind you. Tell me all
about it. I can't understand so far what you are after. Are you getting up a regiment to
take the Academy by storm? I can quite see why Gabriel Rossetti, if he can paint, should
join us, but I didn't know his brother was a painter. Tell me. And then there's Woolner.
Collinson 'll certainly make a stalwart leader of a forlorn hope, won't
1 Mr. William Rossetti informs me that he did not understand
that “any such assumption amounted to a
condition.”
“Well,” I replied, “in order I'll tell
you. Gabriel urged me to let him share my studio that I might teach him to paint, and
he's such an eager fellow that my only doubt as to his success is that he may be ever
beginning and never finishing. He is now working in my studio on a little picture of
‘forlorn-hoper; it appears that the Rossettis are much
attached to him, and Gabriel, having taken possession of him, declares he can attain a
higher kind of work than he has yet accomplished, and Collinson himself has been
pressing me to get him accepted. I like the meek little chap. All I can say is that
there was an initial good idea in his ‘
Millais' rejoinder was, “Yes; but all this is a heavy undertaking.”
“It looks serious, certainly,” I said, “but then there is this to be considered. If they fail, I don't see how they can interfere with us; and if they make truly good artists, our Body will become the stronger, and we may the more perfectly revolutionise taste. Remember, however, that the whole question now rests with us, and I have said I can agree to nothing finally till your return to town.”
The conference was ended by Millais proposing to ask them all to his studio one evening that he might see how things look, for he, no more than I, foresaw harm in the plan proposed.
At the meeting at Millais' we had much to entertain us. First, there was a set of
outlines of Führich in the Retzsch manner, but of much larger style. The
misfortune of Germans as artists had been that, from the days of Winckelmann, writers had
theorised and made systems, as orders, to be carried out by future practitioners in
ambitious painting. The result was an art sublimely intellectual in intention, but devoid
of personal instinct and often bloodless and dead; but many book illustrators had in
varying degrees dared to follow their own fancies, and
The innocent spirit which had directed the invention of the painter was traced point after point with emulation by each of us who were the workers, with the determination that a kindred simplicity should regulate our own ambition, and we insisted that the naïve traits of frank expression and unaffected grace were what had made Italian art so essentially vigorous and progressive, until the showy successors of Michael Angelo had grafted their Dead Sea fruit onto the vital tree just when it was bearing its choicest autumnal ripeness.
Every circle of students has its fringe of members who are the most earnest of the
whole body in all but actual work, and in lieu of this they offer such liberal substitute
in assurances, that it is only in the light of later experience that the thought of their
being practical allies is abandoned. Together with these are some who exhibit an
enchanting gift which may be likened to “
Putting aside the question of the thorough purgation of Rossetti from his adopted
Revivalism, Woolner had as yet given little power beyond that of subtlety in his
worksmanship as a modeller and a carver of marble. In design we trusted most to his
enthusiastic anticipations of sublime conceptions yet to be elaborated. Collinson had done
work which proved capacity in painting; but this stopped short of severity of either
invention or treatment. After him in preparedness came Stephens, who had been through the
first drawing school of the R.A., but so far had done no practical painting or designing.
William Rossetti as yet had not designed at all. For all decificiencies, however, we
accepted hopes for the future, and persuaded ourselves that our colleagues would represent
our aims with enthusiasm and diligence. Millais would not ratify the initial acceptance of
the four candidates without check on their understanding of our purpose, for he feared the
distortion of our original doctrine of childlike submission to Nature. The danger we
feared at the time arose from the vigour of the fashionable revival of Gothic art rather
than from any similar tendency towards imitation of classicalism the power of which was fast
waning. For the last thirty or forty years architecture had become mainly
mediæval in character,
This modern Gothic spirit had at first declared itself in Architecture in an incongruous and clumsy copying of the most obvious characteristics, gathered together from examples of differing ages and styles, but the more advanced architects had gradually become more discriminating, and had led connaisseurs to accept Early English as the “perfect style” before or after which nothing was worthy of attention. Indeed, Gothic revivalism was so popular throughout England at this time, that graduates of the Universities, whether clergy or squires, fostered it eagerly, demolishing old and putting up with new churches in the “correct style” with mechanically-reproduced stained-glass designs in startling colours caricaturing the harmonious splendours of Gothic traceries.
The design of the Palace at Westminster had been adopted under the inspiration of the first revivalists, while faults of proportion in human form were regarded as merits to be imitated unreasoningly. Moreover, German revivalism was adopted in the interior-painted decorations.
Had all the artists here employed been mere resurrectionists they could have misled only the whimsical, but in fact some of the masters employed at St. Stephen's were men of such elevated capacity that they gave more than a passing charm to their Mediæval imitations, by unwonted brilliance of effect and by touches of individual genius, and this made their example a greater snare to the young and timid, who always need the support of precedent.
As we turned over the prints of the
Yet we did not curb our amusement at the immature perspective, the undeveloped power of drawing, the feebleness of light and shade, the ignorance of any but mere black and white differences in the types of men, the stinted varieties of flora, and their geometrical forms in the landscape; these simplicities, already out of date in the painter's day, we noted as belonging altogether to the past and to the dead revivalists, with whom we had determined to have neither part nor lot. That Millais was in accord with this conviction was clear from his latest designs and from every utterance that came from him with unmistakable heartiness as to his future purpose, and may be understood now from all his after-work.
Rossetti's concurrence in these views was witnessed to, not by his painting in
hand (which was from a design made earlier, when he was 1
1 The endeavor held in view throughout the writings on art will be
to encourage and enforce an entire adherence to the simplicity of Nature, and also to
direct attention, as an auxiliary medium, to the comparatively few works which art has
yet produced in this spirit. It need scarcely be added that the chief object of the
etched designs will be to illustrate this aim practically, as far as the method of
execution will permit, in which purpose they will be produced with the utmost care and
completeness.—Preface to
L. da Vinci
I believe it is no wrong observation that persons of genius, and those who are capable
of art, are always most fond of Nature, as such are chiefly sensible that art consists
in the imitation and study of Nature. On the contrary, people of the common level of
understanding are principally delighted with the niceties and fantastic operations of
art, and constantly think that finest which is least natural.Pope
Not alone was the work that we were bent on producing to be
persistently derived from Nature, not simply were our productions to establish a frank
study of Creation as their initial intention, but the name adopted by us negatived the
suspicion of any servile antiquarianism. Pre-Raphaelitism is not Pre-Raphaelism. Raphael
in his prime was an artist of the most independent and daring course as to convention. He
had adopted his principle, it is true, from the store of wisdom gained by the long years
of toil, experiment, renunciation of used-up thoughts, and repeated efforts of artists,
his immediate predecessors and contemporaries. What had cost Perugino, Fra Bartolomeo,
Leonardo da Vinci, and Michael Angelo more years to develop than Raphael lived, he seized
in a day—nay, in one single inspection of his precursors' achievements. His
rapacity was atoned for by his never-stinted acknowledgments of his indebtedness, and by
the reverent and philosophical use in his work of the prizes that he seized. He inherited
the booty like a prince, and, like Prince Hal, he retained it against all disputants; his
plagiarism was the wielding of power in order to be royally free. Secrets and tricks were
not what he made his own; he accepted the lessons that either predecessors or
contemporaries had to teach, and they suffered no hardship at his hands. What he gained
beyond personal enfranchisement, was his master's use of enfranchisement, the power to
prove that the human figure is of nobler proportion, and has grander capabilities of
action than is seen by the casual eye, and that for large work, expression must mainly
depend upon movement of the body rather than upon marks of facial emotion. He tacitly
demonstrated that there is no fast rule of composition to trammel the arrangement dictated
to the artist's will. Yet, indeed, it may be questioned whether,
They caricatured the turns of his heads and the lines of his limbs, designed their figures in patterns; and they built up their groups into formal pyramids. The master himself, at the last, in the “
It is needless to trace in other Schools the fall which followed pride; the Roman
case is typical. At the present day it is sometimes remarked that with such simple aims we
ought to have used no other designation than that of art naturalists. I see no reason,
however, to regret our choice of a name. Every art adventurer, however immature he may be
in art lore, or however tortuous his theory, declares that Nature is the inspirer of his
principles. All who call themselves self-taught are either barbarians,
or else are ignoring indirect teaching. Life is not long enough for any one who starts in
Art from the beginning, to arrive beyond the wide outposts. Wise students accept the
mastership of the great of earlier ages. True judgment directed us to choose an
educational outflow from a channel where the stream had no trace of the pollution of
egoism, and was innocent of pandering to corrupt thoughts and passions. We drew from this
fountain source, and strove to add strength to its further meanderings by the inflow of
new streams from Nature and scientific knowledge. Our work was condemned by established
artists for its daring innovation. Now, unobservant critics, seeing that
certain afterworks of our elders possess the characteristics which these elders originally
cavilled at, call them our teachers. At
In the ages intervening between the great Italian triumvirate of Art and our own there had been many attempts—some with noble results—to get down again, Antæus-like, to the solid earth; but the profit had not extended beyond their individual efforts. The marriage between Gothic and the Renaissance occurred while Art was still of one household; there had been emulations in each family, but these were as the rivalries of brethren; what each gained in strength and riches was added to the parental store. This happy unity was gradually dissolved, and never since in any nation has there existed a perfect system of handing on to the young the wisdom of the elder.
Millais and I had thought at first of husbanding only our own fields, but the outspoken zeal of our companions raised the prospect of winning waste lands and of gaining for English Art a new realm from the wilds, such as should be worthy of the Race; for, manly and poetic as individual painters had been, the means had been lacking of handing on their lifelong experience to their successors. The system of apprenticeship became doomed by Academy teaching, which superseded the private “Maestro,” so each young artist had begun his struggle without the guidance of affectionate initiation, and therefore without an advanced starting-point.
To those who look upon Art as a pretty toy, the earnestness of the notes which I recall as passing through the minds of some of us may seem out of place even as sacred music at a ball. Such objection reveals that idle regard for art which is a natural outcome of the fitful and unnational ambition of our disunited forerunners. Our impetuous hope was to replace this mere egotistical whim for art by a patriotic enthusiasm, and by accumulated effort to counteract the curse of the national tendency to extol every other country's art above its own.
Millais was the best trained of all of us; he had a precocious capacity for both drawing and colouring, and his parents had not allowed an hour of his life to be lost to his purpose of being a painter. The need of groping after systems by philosophic research and deductions was superseded in him by a quick instinct which enabled him to pounce as an eagle upon the prize he searched for. Favoured and young as he was, he had passed through an early tempering which left him firmer in will than many men ever become. This steadfastness was softened by generous enthusiasm, a sweet reasonableness, and a strong sense of the ridiculous. It was strange how from behind his practical qualities an inspiration to convey a poetic meaning would take possession of him, which was not less mystic genius because he could give no logical reason for it, or because no type of it could be found in earlier art.
He felt the fire of his message; it seemed to make his face glow, and Rossetti,
justifying an expression of his in “E. Landseer]
VOL. I. H
In my own studio soon after the initiation of the Brotherhood, when I was talking with Rossetti about our ideal intention, I noticed that he still retained the habit he had contracted with Ford Madox Brown of speaking of our aspirations as “Early Christian.” I objected to the term as attached to a School called by the Germans “Nazarene,” and as far from vitality as was modern classicalism, and I insisted that the designation “Pre-Raphaelite” was more radically exact, and best expressed what we had agreed should be our principle. The second question, what our corporation itself should be called, was raised by the increase of our company. Gabriel improved upon previous suggestion with the word Brotherhood, overruling the objection that it savoured of clericalism. When we agreed to use the letters P.R.B. as our insignia, we made each member solemnly promise to keep its meaning strictly secret, foreseeing the danger of offending the reigning powers of the time. The name of our Body was meant to keep in our minds our determination ever to do battle against the volatile art of the day, which had for its ambition “Monkeyana,” frivolities, “Books of Beauty,” Chorister Boys, whose forms were those of melted wax with drapery of no tangible texture; and the illustrations to Holy Writ feeble enough to incline a sensible public to revulsion of sentiment.
Equally shallow were the approved imitations of the Greeks, and paintings which would ape Michael Angelo and Titian, together with designs (the latest innovation from Germany) that affected without sincerity the naïveté of Perugino and the early Flemings.
The designs for
I had already painted the face of Rienzi in my picture from a fellow-student with a fine head, but soon I became convinced that the racial character would be more satisfying if Gabriel would serve as my model. This he good-naturedly did, and accordingly I cleaned the canvas and made the new head a portrait of him, as far as the character of the strong man of action I had to represent would warrant.
W. H. H.]
One enduring pleasure and advantage I enjoyed at this time was in the crystallising of my friendship with William Rossetti, a man of highest integrity of character, and ever ready to serve us while spending his spare time in our studio. He sat to me for the “youth” with hand on his breast in my picture “Rienzi.”
Monthly meetings held in turn at the studios of the members were our means of considering the progress of affairs and the manner of extending our operations. In my notebook of the time I come upon a scribble of the six other members when they happened to have arranged themselves in a form that seemed worth impressing upon the memory.
To no one at this period did Gabriel reveal himself with less reserve than to me.
It is with his art career that I am concerned to deal, and if I am ever led outside the
margin of this interest, with him as with other
Sitting, from left to right: Millais, Woolner, Collinson.
Philip van Artevelde,
1
came out at this time, and nowhere was its scorn more profoundly echoed than
round our hearth.
Gabriel told me the story of his parentage, which, as far as I can remember, ran
thus. His father, Gabriele Rossetti, was born in the Abruzzi about the time of the first
French Republic; in his early years he went to Naples when one of the many revolts under
the Bourbon kings broke out. He had come as a young poet, writing songs for the people of
inflammatory discontent and roseate promise in reform.
W. H. H.]
1 This portrait of D. G. Rossetti, attributed to his pen by Rossetti of Volterra]
The father had written a commentary on the
Native disposition had not led Gabriel to profess respect for natural science; never would he evince any regard for the remote stages of creative development or the early steps of human progress. He regarded questions on such points as altogether foreign to poetry. The language used in early times to describe the appearances of Nature he accepted as the sanctified and ever-sufficient formulæ. Modern scientific discoveries had no charm for him; neither had the changed conditions of the people who were to be touched by Art any claim for special consideration; for when men were different from the cultured of mediæval days they were not poetic in his eyes.
I have no intention of criticising this philosophy. It was inherent in him; the character of the literature he had most dwelt upon had fostered it, and Brown's recent indulgence in quaint mediævalism had confirmed the predilection. It was impossible then to decide whether the determination he expressed was altogether final, for at the same time he agreed that the radical want in modern art was a stricter study of Nature. Our estimate of the genius he already showed and our confidence in the leading of the new inspiration had removed any doubt of his fitness for combination with us.
We often trenched on scientific and historic grounds, for my previous reading and cogitations, without making me profound, had led me to love these interests and to regard them as of the greatest poetic and pictorial importance; I argued that the appeal we made could be strengthened by adopting the knowledge which human penetration had acquired.
In my boyhood, when first opening the volume of Shakespeare with misgiving of my
ability to understand the reasonings of the master, I was astonished at the condescension
of his mind, and it gave me infinite encouragement to find that many of his fancies had
passed through my own young brain, and had so moved me that I had feebly attempted to
express them to my intimates with but scant encouragement. I realised that he was no
dramatic teacher to despise the groundlings; indeed I concluded that the large measure of
welcome awarded to this kingly genius was but a just response to his own great-hearted
sympathy with his fellows of every class; he catered for the unlearned not less than for
the profoundest philosopher. In
While Rossetti often agreed with me in this view, Dantesque shapes of imagery
became his habitual alphabet, and in his designs, as in his poems, his mind expressed
itself in a form independent of new life and joy in Nature. This partiality had never been
counterbalanced by
We yearn most for what seems denied to us. Long and bitter to me had been the days when, turning eyes from book visions of the renowned cities of Greece, of Italy, and of Egypt, I saw only blank walls, unchangeable summer and winter, and the threat thereon written large, that my fate was to know only through others of the sky-piercing mountains, of the sea calm and wild by turns, and of adventures by flood and field. The trial had been borne sadly; my father had endured it before me, and still retained delight in the wonders of the world; neither then nor since have I met many men keener than he was on such matters, they had a real fascination for him. A prison many a time has become a study and a workshop; in my old office I had found some geometrical and mathematical books, and my master had helped me with the problems; he had also set me to do geological and astronomical diagrams, and these studies seemed to me full of poetic suggestion. But Rossetti despised such inquiries; what could it matter, he said, whether the earth moved round the sun or the sun circled about the earth, and in the question of the origin and antiquity of man he refused to be interested.
This was coupled with the view which he maintained that attention to chronological costume, to the types of different races of men, to climatic features and influences, were of no value in painter's work, and that therefore oriental properties in the treatment of scriptural subjects were calculated to destroy the poetic nature of a design. He instanced Horace Vernet's Bible pictures treated orientally, “
Despite differences, we both agreed that a man's work must be the reflex of a
living image in his own mind, and not the icy double of the facts themselves, for we were never “Realists.” I think Art would have ceased
to have the slightest interest for either of us had the object been only to make a
representation, elaborate or unelaborate, of a fact in nature. Independently of the
conviction that such a system would put out of operation the faculty most Godlike in man,
it was apparent
It is now high time to correct one important misapprehension. In agreeing to use the utmost elaboration in painting our first pictures, we never meant more than to insist that the practice was essential for training the eye and hand of the young artist; we should not have admitted that the relinquishment of this habit of work by a matured painter would make him an apostate Pre-Raphaelite. I am the freer to say this as I have retained later than did either of my companions, the restrained handling of a student.
My original account of Rossetti, published soon after his death, was dictated by a desire to treat the memory of my early friend with liberal appreciation, but this has not been met by equivalent recognition of what was due to Rossetti's fellows. My tributes to his honour have been too often interpreted as an acknowledgment of a “leadership” in him, though this was far from my intention. With no limitation of my tribute I now add other facts essential to the correct balance of the story; this would be but of trivial importance if the issue were merely a personal one, to determine whether Millais, Rossetti, or I most had the responsibility of Pre-Raphaelitism, but it involves the question as to the exact purpose of the Movement, and this is so vital in my eyes that if it were decided to mean what the Brown-Rossetti circle and critics, native and foreign, quoting them, continually ascribe to it, Pre-Raphaelitism should certainly not engage my unprofessional pen.
My criticisms upon the base and vulgar forms and incoherent curves in contemporary furniture, to which I drew Rossetti's attention on his first visit to me, encouraged visions of reform in these particulars, and we speculated on improvement in all household objects, furniture, and fabrics. Nor did we pause till Rossetti enlarged upon the devising of ladies' dresses and the improvement of man's costume, determining to follow the example of early artists not in one branch of taste only, but in all.
For sculpture Gabriel expressed little passion; he professed admiration of many
men engaged in plastic work, but he could not understand their devotion to what in those
days rarely rose to the height of human interest. The reason of this baldness lay in
neglect of drawing and painting, by exercise in which the great sculptors of old made
themselves subtle designers and masters of form, light, shade, and colour. We agreed that
architecture also came within the proper work of a
All these castles in the air were pleasing visions; only when Rossetti in bandying hopes extended the grandeur of the dream of our fortunes, I expressed some curiosity to know how due appreciation could be counted on from a people so committed to the idea of subdivision of labour, and so self-complacent in their tastes as were our contemporaries, who had none of that far-seeing spirit which made Locke profess his ignorance in order to learn more. Rossetti dismissed such fears to the winds, asking me if I could not understand that there were hundreds of young aristocrats and millionaires growing up who would be only too glad to get due direction how to make the country as glorious as Greece and Italy had been. I was fain to hope that this view was the correct one, as with his father's experience as a professor among persons of high degree I assumed they had met more than one modern Mæcenas; I was glad to encourage in myself the belief that the rich would in time know how to use their influence and to spend their money worthily.
There remain now but a few more personal particulars of the interests of that time to be recorded. Our combination had much of happiness in it. Gabriel had progressed greatly with his picture, and had painted St. Joachim and the draperies of the principal figures.
There were frequent days when he would leave his appointed task to engage himself
with some other invention in form or in words that had taken possession of his fancy. When
he had once sat down, and was engaged in the effort to chase his errant thoughts into an
orderly road, and the spectral fancies had all to be kept in his mind's eye, his tongue
was hushed, he remained fixed and inattentive to all that went on about him, he rocked
himself to and fro, and at times he moaned lowly, or hummed for a brief minute, as though
telling off some idea. All this while he peered intently before him, looking hungry and
eager, and passing by in his regard any who came before him, as if not seen at all. Then
he would often get up and walk out of the room without saying a word. Years afterwards,
when he became stout, and people, with some faint reason, found a resemblance in him to
the bust of Shakespeare at Stratford-on-Avon, and, later still, when he had outgrown this
resemblance, it seemed to me that it was in his early days mostly that the soul within had
been truly seen in his face. In those days he worthily rejoiced in the poetic atmosphere
of sacred and spiritual
Soon after Gabriel came to my studio, I was invited by the Rossettis to dine with
them, when the old gentleman was then relinquishing the use of English. He was beginning
to be an invalid whose sight needed protection by a projecting shade. Gabriel has left an
excellent
The father arose from a group of foreigners around the fire to receive me. All
were escaped revolutionists from the Continent, and some bore names made glorious in
history. He addressed me in English in a few words of welcome as “Mr. Madox
Brown,” a slip on which his eldest daughter rated him pleasantly. He was so
engrossed in a warm discussion going on that some minutes afterwards he again made the
same mistake. The conversation was in Italian, but occasionally merged into French, with
the obvious purpose of taking into the heat of the conference refugees unfamiliar with the
former language. The tragic passions of the group around the fire did not in the slightest
degree involve either the mother, the daughters, or the sons, except when the latter
explained that the objects of the severest denunciations were Bomba, Pio Nono, and
Metternich, or, in turn, Count Rosso and his memory; with these execrated names were
uttered in different tones those of Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Louis Napoleon, who as a
refugee had once been their visitor. The hearth guests took it in turn to discourse, and
no one had delivered many phrases ere the excitement of speaking made him rise from his
chair, advance to the centre of the group, and there gesticulate as I had never seen
people do except upon the stage. What I knew then of French was only by reading, and I was
surprised to discover that it helped me scarcely at all to follow it when spoken excitedly
and quickly. Each orator evidently found difficulty in expressing his full anger, but when
passion had done its measure in work and gesture, so that I as a stranger felt pained at
not being able to join in practical sympathy, the declaimer went back to his chair, and
while another was taking up the words of mourning and appeal to the too tardy heavens, the
predecessor kept up the refrain of sighs and groans. When it was impossible for me to
ignore the distress of the alien company, Gabriel and William shrugged their shoulders,
the latter with a languid sign of commiseration, saying it was generally so. As the dinner
was being put on the table some of the strangers persisted, despite invitation, in going;
some still stayed round the fire declaring solemnly that they had dined. At the conclusion
of the meal the
We de facto members were anxious to see what the probationary ones
were preparing for future work to justify our expectation of them. William Rossetti could
not yet give up his Inland Revenue clerkship, but he showed us some of his extremely
painstaking outlines from the life, and these were a proof that he kept in mind our
understanding of his obligation as a P.R.B. to become an artist. Other probationers from
whom we expected work, appeared with neither work nor apology, an omission which we tried
to construe into evidence that extensive designs were being prepared as a surprise in
store.
Let her hang me. He that is well hanged in this world need fear no
colours.
As iron sharpeneth iron, so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his
friend.”
At the beginning of the autumn of 1848 Millais had still some
panels of the series of decorative designs in monochrome for Leeds to bring to completion,
and these occupied him so late in the season that there seemed a danger that the first
essay in our new manner would suffer. Once free of his contract he painted a small
portrait of Mr. Fenn, so strong in form and finish, and so rich in well-justified colour,
that it resembled a perfect Van Eyck or Holbein, and yet its excellence was in no way mere
truth at second-hand. This was the earnest of what his picture would be, but in that he
would have to ride not a single horse but to drive a team. It was towards the end of
October 1848 that his new canvas was installed on the easel. Any fresh design must have
been undertaken with the disadvantage of not having been re-judged after the heat and
prejudice of the original drawing had died away; he therefore settled upon the composition
made for our intended series of etchings for
Once in a studio conclave, some of us drew up a declaration that there was no
immortality for humanity except in reputation gained by man's own genius or heroism. We
had not yet balanced our belief in
Where these dreams were too profound for us to fathom, our new iconoclasm dictated at least a suspended judgment, if not distrust; for of spiritual powers we for the moment felt we knew nothing, and we saw no profit in relying upon visions, however beautiful they might be.
Arguing thus, Gabriel wrote out the following manifesto of our absence of faith in immortality, save in that perennial influence exercised by great thinkers and workers—
William Rossetti quotes from Canon Dixon and W. B. Scott expressions of Gabriel's
astonishment made in his last years that men should assume that he denied an after life,
seeing that what he had painted and written ought to convince them of his belief in
immortality, and not many weeks after the signing of this document I was designing my
“
He must, we said, be above all, and on this account we extended our purpose, and placed four stars after the name of Jesus Christ, that He might stand supreme above all others.
Some twenty years ago I came upon my copy of this document in an old desk, and
tore it up when making a clearance, from no horror of the practical atheism it professed;
a man should come face to face with himself on all momentous questions. The list included
further names than those in the present copy, amongst them many contemporaries now utterly
forgotten.
Sic transit gloria mundi
. My good father had copied the first draft carefully, and it is from this copy of
his that I have printed the list.
James Collinson had been an amiable fellow-student, painstaking in all his drawings, and accurate in a sense, but in his own person tame and sleepy, and so were all the figures he drew. “
Whether we were at Collinson's in the Polygon, where a dragoness of a landlady, six feet in height, provided quite a conventional entertainment—for he still had a liberal allowance from home—or at our Bohemian repasts in Cleveland Street, he invariably fell asleep at the beginning, and had to be waked up at the conclusion of the noisy evening to receive our salutations. He could but rarely see the fun of anything, although he sometimes laughed in a lachrymose manner, and I fear our attempts to enliven him were but futile. Once, concluding a meeting at my studio, on going to the door with him near midnight, we discovered that it was a magnificent moonlight night, and we resolved that, instead of going to bed, we would take a long walk in the country. He pleaded that he must go home to bed, and when we pointed out that for a real change, which might be of great permanent benefit to him, he should consider that he had had enough sleeping, he insisted that he must really go back to change his boots; and eventually we let him depart with the promise that he would be ready for us when we should call in half an hour. We arrived punctually, but knocked for a time in vain. In ten minutes a voice from the second-floor window thundered out to ask why we went on knocking when we knew Mr. Collinson had long since been in bed. It was the conclusion that he was asleep which had made us knock so loudly, we said, and we hoped the landlady would take no further notice while we continued the same measures to wake him; on which she invited the aid of a passing policeman, who, however, was persuaded that we were strictly within the law in insisting upon seeing the gentleman himself. Collinson came to his window sleepily entreating to be left alone; but when we explained that we had chosen a northerly course solely on his account, and that he must not now disappoint us, he gave in, and came with us on our walk.
The long night stands out in my memory ever clear, precious, and surprising,
although many midnight skies have since in distant lands revolved above my wandering
steps. Passing through streets which were fast emptying, some of them echoing to our ears
the footsteps of Keats, we climbed the hill that shut us off from the true country. Above
and beyond lay moonlight and moon-shaded heath and common land, decked with drowsy trees
against the unchanging and unclouded heavens. Walking down the vale we saw a settlement of
haze, level as water sleeping in the hollow, broad as the ancient river must have been
which scored it out, and this vapour gradually immersed the trees on the descending slope
from roots to topmost branches. As we reached its margin we played with the phantom water
and descended step by step, until, breast deep, we reached out our arms feigning to swim;
lower and lower we went under chill thick mist; arriving at the little bridge VOL. I. I
On our return journey, moonlight was slowly exchanged for ever-increasing dawn
and sunrise, with London, seen from Hampstead Heath, offering its first incense to the
waking day. Frequently our poor Collinson dozed on the way, leaning on one or other of us,
and we aided him with gentle support, but I must confess that no treatment adopted
thoughtfully for his good either on this journey or elsewhere seemed permanently to
relieve his prevailing tendency to sleep. When Gabriel had got fairly entangled in a new
design he would refuse the attraction of home, meals, out-of-door engagements, or bed, and
sit through the night, sleeping where he sat for an hour at a time, recommencing his work
when he woke. He ate whatever was at hand when hunger suggested, and when time came for
bed on the second night he would ask me to leave him; in the morning I would find him
still at his engrossing task. “
If this history may appear to be a revelation of personal events disconnected
with professional efforts, it is because I feel myself under pledge to recount faithfully
the individual trials of an artist's career in those days, and therefore I am led to
reveal the burden brought to me in a dark hour when I was altogether beaten down. On the
way back from the Life School one night, I chanced to run against my old friend and
master, who told me that he was anxious to understand what I had been about since leaving
my father's house. I explained that it had seemed better to defer invitation for him to
see my work until all was completed, but that if he were free then, the picture was not
too much out of order for him to understand it; and, as there was but a fortnight to the
sending-in day, his frank opinion would be of use to me. Entering the studio, I brought my
picture to the light, and explained its subject,
I remounted to the room; a chill had come over my spirit, it trickled between my shoulder blades. I shut the door, turning the key, and sank doubled-up in a chair to hear this accusation formulating against myself: “Why, when with only enough means to do your appointed task with undisturbed leisure, did you hamper your hopes by subjection to daily hindrances? Now, you see your time is nearly spent, most of your money gone, your health reduced, and a sensible friend comes and laughs at the calculation that you can finish your work in time, and you know that you had before dreaded that it might be as he thinks; at the best, you see the work is incapable of making any impression. What is the good of struggling? your chances in life are overweighted, and you have not the sense to make the burdens less.” After having sat for a time frozen through listening to these fancied reproaches, a step ascended the stairs; it stopped on the landing, and a hand was put familiarly upon the door knob, turning it without effect. At first I did not feel inclined to move, but on Gabriel shouting out twice or thrice I opened the door; he came in, peered about and said, “Who's here? I heard some one talking to you. Who the devil was it?” “It was the devil,” I replied. “Whatever is the matter? Why is your picture put endways up? Isn't there some one else here? The fire is out, you haven't had your coffee yet. I say, bring it out and let's have the stove alight at once.”
Soon we were seated at a comforting meal, and gradually I was drawn on to tell and act my friend's visit; Gabriel enjoyed it as a screaming joke, and ended in a burst of laughter, exclaiming, “But the man's a born fool.” “No, Gabriel, he's not, he is a really superior man; I have a true affection for him and quite a considerable respect for his opinion as an index of the intelligence of the public that has a little knowledge of art; his verdict seems only a forecast of theirs, and gives a dismal enough outlook for me.”
“Tell me,” Gabriel next asked, “do you really believe in the devil?” And then followed a talk (at intervals somewhat rollicking) on spiritual mysteries, which are now quite beside the mark.
In sober moments we had agreed that orthodox religionists made such claims to
entrammel judgment, conscience, and will, that they drove thinking men to the extreme
alternative of throwing away all faith in divine over-rule; yet on whichever side we
argued we were merely testing how far our theories would bear the strain of life. Each
position that we held was a sincere one for the time, whatever was the standpoint assumed.
I felt debarred from painting subjects not in accordance with my position, as much as I
should have been in making declarations against my conscience. For Rossetti, the fact that
so many modern
F. Madox Brown]
About mid-winter Madox Brown had commenced his cabinet picture of “
Exciting rumours of Millais' picture came towards the sending-in day, and then
Brown went to Gower Street with the stream of visitors. I assure, you, Hunt, I never was so astonished in my
whole life. Millais is no longer merely a very satisfactory fulfiller of the
sanguine expectations of his prejudiced friends, he is a master of the most exalted
proficiency; no one since Titian has ever painted a picture with such exquisite passages
of handling and colour, and these charms, with a rare naïveté of character of his own, make the work astonishingly enchanting.” He went from point to
point of the picture, dwelling much on the drawing of the foremost figures and on the
design of the hounds, discriminating with exquisite pleasure on the colour of the majolica
plates and fruit, and on the pure tints of the costumes; coming slowly to a climax, he at
last well-nigh closed his eyes in rhapsody on the perfection of modelling and tone of a
white napkin hanging over a servant's arm. Brown, spite of his original prejudice against
the painter's pretensions, was too true an artist to count the cost of his praise of a
noble performance.
The earliest work by Madox Brown reproduced in this volume, necessary to show his
development, is a picture illustrating an episode in
One scarcely expressed purpose in our Reform, left unsaid by reason of its fundamental necessity, was to make Art a handmaid in the cause of justice and truth. Millais in childish faith wrought out his fancies in this spirit. In the range of subjects then in my mind, eschewing all whose tenor I could not justify as according with my existing convictions, I had relinquished the painting of
My “
The course he thus took was not in accordance with our previous understanding. William Rossetti has since told me that one of the reasons for his brother's action was that he could “buy” a space on the walls of this gallery, which he did, rather than risk rejection by the Academy.
Millais and I might have been excused for taking a substantial rest on release from our tasks, but we had pressing reason for getting to new pictures. Millais went eagerly to paint landscape near Oxford; Gabriel came no more to my studio, but some weeks later sent a porter for his properties, explaining, to my surprise, that he had closed his partnership in the studio on the last Lady Day, and he remained designing in his father's house.
My tenancy of the extra room could not close till after a quarter's notice, but I made a compromise with the landlord, and at the earliest date dispensed with it. Very few sovereigns still remained in my purse, but I had a right to count as something my chance of sale at the Exhibition; so I encouraged myself to begin another picture in the hope of snatching a booty from jealous Fate, and, disregarding claims not yet due, I started on a new design.
The Royal Academy had for the forthcoming Gold Medal contest given as a subject
“An Act of Mercy,” and I was moved by ambition to compete for this.
I pondered over a design illustrating the conflicting influence going on when Druidism was
established in England and the energetic Apostles came to destroy the bloody creed. As I
worked out my
I therefore gave up the ambition to become the foremost student of the time, and enlarged my canvas so that the composition should have the landscape painted in accordance with our principles.
Notwithstanding that the Government had already committed itself after hard pressure to seek painters and sculptors for the embellishment of the New Houses of Parliament, and thinking men had revealed admiration for the work exhibited for competition in Westminster Hall for this purpose, a very respectable proportion of the community still looked askance upon Art as an untrustworthy exponent of moral ideas, remarking that taste for it had ever been the precursor of a nation's decline, not considering what degree of estimation the nation would have lost had she failed to register worthy Art amongst her honours.
Under existing baneful prejudice the artistic career was not strictly considered as a profession any more than that of the ne'er-do-well who chalked the pavement or of the strolling player disguised in motley. The statement that sublime truths could be brought to mind by the Art of such professors would have been denounced as absurd.
While our pictures were shut up for another week at the Royal Academy, Rossetti's
was open to public view, and we heard that he was spoken of as the precursor of a new
School; this was somewhat trying. In fact, when Rossetti had made selection from his three
designs of the subject he should paint under my guidance, he chose that which was most
“Overbeckian” in manner. This I had regarded as of but little
moment, thinking the painting would serve as an exercise, possibly
Antiquarianism in its historic sense was being instructively pursued in connection with Art, and in its proper place it did good service, leading to the presentation of ancient story in a strictly historic mould. In determining the character of costume and accessories in historical pictures it was of modern introduction and great value towards the realisation of the story, and with intelligent people this tended to break down some of the prejudice against modern Art, but antiquarianism as to manner of design and painting was quite foreign to our purpose.
At the Hyde Park Gallery Rossetti's picture, “
The notice in the
It is pleasant to turn from the mass of commonplace to a manifestation of true
mental power in which art is made the exponent of some high aim; and what is of the
earth, earthy, and of the art material, is lost sight of in a dignified and intellectual
purpose. Such a work will be found here, not from a long-practised hand, but from one
young in experience, new to fame, Mr. D. G. Rossetti. He has painted “
On the first Monday in May, outside artists were admitted to the Royal Academy to
touch up their pictures from 7 a.m. till 12, when the galleries were given to the public.
Millais and I had heard that our works were hung as pendants in the large room just above
the line in honourable places. Millais sold his “
“There is so much ability and spirit in two works by men young in age and
in fame, mixed up with so much that is obsolete and dead in practice, that some remark
is demanded on a system whose tendency may be hurtful to our growing artists and to
our School. The ‘ “In classing together these two works it should be understood that
reference is made merely to the correspondence of views which has actuated both
artists. In their several elaborations there is a marked difference. Mr. Millais has
manifested the larger amount of resource. There is excellent action, painting, and
character in the several heads of his picture (well distinguished in age and sex), and
in certain occasional passages of incident and of form, but the picture is injured by
the utter want of rationality in the action of a prominent figure carried almost to
the verge of caricature. This figure extends his unwieldy legs to the immediate front
of the picture so as not merely to divide attention with, but to appropriate all
attention from the lovesick Lorenzo and the fair Isabel, who 1
1 The review in the
In addition to this absurd piece of mannerism there is in the picture that
inlaid look, thatJ. E. Millais]
An encouraging circumstance indeed occurred in the appearance of one, Mr. Nockalls Cottingham. He was an architect about thirty-five years of age; his father had been a celebrated restorer and builder of Gothic churches and cathedrals. The object of this visitor was to declare his great admiration for my picture and for the character of the work of all our School. The Reformation we had inaugurated was exactly what was wanted in England, he said, and in his position he would be able to find us an abundance of employment; later he would give us choice of really important paintings to undertake; for the moment he had to offer a humble commission to me; it was to paint four spandrils, illustrating in light decorative manner Morn, Noon, Evening, and Night, for a house which he was then decorating; he could afford just fifty guineas for each work. I accepted the commission, whereupon he gave me an order upon a colourman for a tube of gold to be employed on the paintings. On the expression of his desire to know all our Brotherhood, I wrote for him introductions to Gabriel and Woolner. To the first he gave commissions for small designs; from the sculptor he bought at a very much reduced price—in consideration of future commissions from millionaires—a statuette of a female figure just modelled and cast ready for the marble reproduction.
Our whole party was invited by this stylish and much-bescented appreciator to his house in the Waterloo Bridge Road. There, after surveying Gothic treasures in other chambers of the house, we were led to a magnificent balustraded fourteenth-century flight of steps, with pillars and groined roofing leading down to what had originally been the coal cellar, now occupied by canopied tombs, statues, family effigies, and brasses, and in what must have been further excavations were columns and arches of a chapel crypt, while in places where light could be gained was stained glass in casements of the choicest rarity, all of which his father and he had improved off the face of the sacred edifices which the firm had been called upon to "restore in the correct style."
In those days this form of iconoclasm was regarded as meritorious hard monotony of contour and absence of shadow which are due to the causes
before stated. In Mr. Hunt's picture it is the intention or design alone which can be
estimated, and there are force of thought and concentration of purpose, though
expressed in such affected language.”—
While my patron was conferring with his principal, and I was making my designs, he one morning brought a lady with a request that I should at once begin a portrait of her. This I immediately set myself to do, and he took it away with him shortly after, together with my first sketches of two designs. These he was greatly delighted with. Not hearing from him for a week or so, I wrote saying that it would be a kindness to me if he would, when speaking to his principal, say that while I was bringing the paintings to an end, I trusted he would think it right to make me an advance of half the money on each picture. This I said it was the more necessary to apply for, since I had determined, with a view to greater economy, as also to gain fresh experience, to paint them in Paris. The following were the terms of his letters in reply—
43, Waterloo Bridge Road,,
Lambeth
11th .August, 1849
, Dear SirMy patron declines advancing without security and I regret your making the request as regards limit of price, and giving you a positive letter, as though my word were insufficient.
The commission, however, I have to offer as you desire to have it stated in strict terms as follows—
To paint the two pictures of night and morning on panels finding all materials of the best description for the sum of Fifty Pounds to be paid on their completion within six months of the date of this. The pictures to be both painted to my satisfaction in every respect and if they are not so, my fulfilment of this offer to be optional....
You are at perfect liberty to decline the commission if you please as I am acquainted with plenty of men with first-rate ability, who will readily undertake it.
Sir,
You will find hereafter in life that a man may be too grasping and greedy, and so overreach himself. I have consulted my patron. At his request I now return you your sketches, as he will not avail himself of your services, and I have to beg that you will by return restore to me the order I wrote for the gold paint.Yours obediently,
. Nockalls Cottingham
I was never paid for either portrait or designs. Woolner soon afterwards saw his
statuette exhibited in a shop window repeated in Minton ware, and on going in was informed
that it was an exquisite design by the rising sculptor Nockalls Cottingham, from whom the
firm had purchased the copyright. Not long after it turned out that the gifted genius had
left his native shores for America, and we then found on comparing notes that, although he
had been too clever for others, Rossetti had proved his match by exacting some money in
advance for drawings never The President) was never heard of. The whole
business wasted precious time, and reduced my nearly emptied purse, but had the business
gone on, it might have been worse.
In the first week of August I went to fetch away my unsold
“
I had received the following gracious letter after the opening of the Exhibition—
, SirAllow me to say how much I was pleased and struck by your picture from Rienzi. I appreciate the compliment you have paid my work.
The Picture is full of genius and high promise.
Your obliged and admiringly,
. E. Bulwer Lytton
Charles Street,
. Monday,1st June
Although Rossetti had ceased his attendance at my studio his friends
In a few days my new friend came again. This time he assured me he had to beg a great favour. A friend of his, an invalid, had been sincerely disappointed at not having been able to get to the Exhibition, where he had wished particularly to see this work. Egg's desire now was that I should send it to his own house to be seen by his friend, accordingly one evening I delivered it at Bayswater.
The next morning my landlord came in very irate, and seized all my sketches, the marketable furniture, and most of my books; I was ejected, and had to go back to my father's house.
Although I was received with kindness at home, my vacation was not a cheering
one, but in two days a note came from Egg asking me to call. He told me that his friend
Mr. Gibbons, the well-known collector, had bought the picture of
“
With replenished purse I went off to the Lea marshes for a month; the river and
the meadows were pure and beautiful at that date, the lucid streams were stocked with
innumerable roach and dace and other silvery fish, and the gorgeously panoplied
dragonflies, preying upon the careless butterfly, darted with lightning speed over the
water. The region was well appreciated by anglers, but appeared to be out of the route of
the landscape painter. All, all, alas! have now disappeared; the actors have gone, and the
stage itself has sadly changed, but then it was not difficult to find a rich landscape for
my “
The anti-classicists did not rise in France until about 1827; and in consequence, up to
that period, we have here the old classical faith in full vigour. There is Brutus,
having chopped his son's head off with all the agony of a father, and then calling
number two; there is Eneas carrying old Anchises; there are Paris and Venus, as naked as
two Hottentots; and many more such choice subjects from Lemprière. But the
chief specimens of the sublime are in the way of murders, with which the catalogue
swarms....I don't know why the merriest people in the world should please themselves
with such grim representation and varieties of murder, or why murder itself should be
considered so eminently sublime and poetical.—Thackeray.
(In this picture, two cavaliers and an undraped woman are seated in the grass, with
musical instruments, while another woman dips a vase into a well hard by, for water.)
Such an important event as the opportunity of examining the works in
the Louvre, to which our National Gallery then compared less favourably than it does now,
and of seeing what the artists of France—so much more favoured than those of
England—were doing, was, to two students eager to track the way leading to
poetic art, of vital import. It was regarded by us with great seriousness, and some of
Rossetti's sonnets will prove how far he was moved by all examples of art that had the
ring of the romantic age. He wrote one on Ingres' “1
2
1
(It is necessary to mention, that this picture would appear to have been in the
artist's mind an allegory, which the modern spectator may seek vainly to interpret.)
may be2
The Germ,
VOL. I. K
“
The one man still in full force, who had often soared grandly above the mechanical level, was undoubtedly Paul Delaroche. He had, it is true, indulged a taste for bloodshed and murder unworthy of a man of genius, but in “
It was the mode in England, as on the Continent, to rate Ary Scheffer among the greatest of painters. He had doubtless exhibited some capable works, then in private collections. Of these we knew by engravings “
On our return F. Madox Brown, still retaining his prejudice of earlier days, was outraged when Gabriel and I declared our verdict on Ary Scheffer. The younger man proclaimed his rebellious opinion too abruptly to convert the elder, and perhaps the suspicion that the heresy had begun with me made Brown the more disconcerted.
Delacroix was the master in greatest vogue among the French students we met, and Rossetti declared an admiration for him which I could not endorse. We differed most about a work at Versailles, “
Flandrin's paintings in the church of
Full evidence existed that the masters drilled their pupils to their own
proficiency, but it seemed to us that the type of ideal art was stilted and stagey, and
that the revolt against this was coarse and ugly. Naturalism was, in fact, a repudiation,
rather than a purgation, of art.
The same.
1
1
The Germ
,
One reason for sober men approving of the French School for students, was derived from the fact that John Cross had recently astonished the Art world with a fine, although melodramatic painting of “
The collection in the Louvre enchanted us. Fra Angelico's “
“
We made several interesting acquaintances in Paris through an introduction we had
to a young artist studying there; native artists,
laiterie
at which we breakfasted, trusted these impecunious and reckless painters. One
morning their places were vacant, and Madame whispered that the police had been making
inquiries about them on account of proceedings of theirs in the last outbreak, which all
had vainly hoped were forgotten. We were sorry to be debarred thus from the society of
such truly
bons garçons
as they were. Thinking of our friends thus under a cloud one morning, we were
stopped by a particularly good-looking smart man, scrupulously shaven; we wondered whether
we were under police surveillance ourselves, till suddenly, as we were staring hard, he
put up his finger to suggest caution, saying, “Don't you know me? I am
glad of this opportunity to say good-bye. I am on my way to the
country.” It was one of the whilom bearded fellows, who evidently
better deserved to be trusted by Madame Charles than by Monsieur le Président.
When we had stayed our full time and spent three-quarters of our money, we
started for 1
(In these and others of the Flemish Towns, the “Carrillon,” or chimes, which have a most fantastic and delicate music, are played almost continually. The custom is very ancient.)
Our estimate of Rubens at Antwerp was not so much heightened as we had hoped it would be. The magnificent “
We studied attentively the works of John and Hubert Van Eyck;
October 1849
An example of the confusion into which posthumous chroniclers may be betrayed is Mr. Hueffer's treatment of old papers which he finds in the handwriting of Rossetti and myself, entitling the find as a journal of our tour in France and Belgium.
According to these historic MSS., we were able to dismiss the whole Louvre with the one word “slosh” and to apply the term “filthy slosh” to all painters “from Rembrandt to Rubens.”
These papers were evidently intended as an extravagance without a thought that they
would serve any purpose beyond raising a laugh at the passing moment. The words were
indeed part of such slang as characterised Rossetti's somewhat reckless talk at the
time of his studentship, and which he indulged in for several years. The paper, it is
said, was intended for the
the exquisite delicacy of the workmanship and the unpretending
character of the invention made us feel we could not overestimate the perfection of the
painting, at least that of John van Eyck. “
Rossetti was a perfect travelling companion, ever in the best of temper, and our
journey was overbrimming with delight in the beauties both of nature and art. We came back
with richer minds, but without change of purpose. It was now desirable to resume active
life in the house near the church on Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, with a front room for studio
facing the mid-day sun, essential for my “1
The business of starting
My “
“I refer to an incident which took place in Rossetti's studio in
Newman Street, and which, from its literary interest, you might deem worthy of
reference in your book. “At the time W. M. Rossetti was writing in “On the night referred to, a large group of art and literary men
had assembled at Rossetti's. I was of the number. After long waiting, when the clock
indicated nearly midnight, there was a ring at the bell, and footsteps on the stair
intensified expectation, until William burst into the room, waving the little brown
cloth book over his head in triumph. It was “I spoke in recent years of the incident to a friend of Tennyson,
who was then still living. My friend repeated my story to Tennyson, who, as I
afterwards learnt, broke out into enthusiastic pleasure in knowing thus how his work
had affected a group of young men all under thirty years of age. I can understand
how the incident must have touched his inner sympathies.” As the frontispiece of one number of 1 On going to press I receive the following interesting
information from my friend Mr. John R. Clayton—W. H. H.]
Edward Burne Jones
Woolner's co-operation in our joint ambition was for the time retarded by his
ordinary occupation of carving marble for others, yet the meetings at his studio had a
most romantic character. Wreaths of tobacco smoke environed our circle, and seemed to
elevate us above immediate cares. The world was then too agitated with discontent not to
call forth all our political views; those of our host were strong, and decidedly
complicated. “I loathe from my very soul,” he said,
“all money grubbers, all who grovel to scrape up filthy
lucre.” Most severe was his disdain for our governing and wealthy
classes. This he justified by truly terrible stories of how dishonourably some had gained
their exalted positions and wealth. He was taken by some for a democrat, but he disproved
this by carrying menacingly a handsome shoot of an ash tree which he called the antipleb, and also by frequent indignant outbursts against the people. These scornful sentiments might be traced to an unquestioning
adoration of Shelley's wildest poetry. He wisely took occasion to seek Gabriel's and
William's opinions in turn on disputed judgments of standard poems, inquiring also about
metres, and rhymes, and differences of verse, bringing forward efforts of his own, a
sonnet on M. Angelo being one, and the first verses of
When
Walter Deverell had been a fellow-student with us all at the Academy, and being a son of the Secretary at the School of Design, he had received encouragement and some instruction from the masters there which had enabled him to make essays in original painting. He was an eager reader, and had contracted the prevailing taste among the young of that day, which Carlyle had inaugurated and Charles Kingsley had accentuated, of dwelling on the miseries of the poor, the friendless, and the fallen; together with Art he indulged a taste for writing verse, and he took important parts on suburban stages; doubtless his good looks had been his best introduction to theatre managers.
A constant buoyancy of disposition, even after heavy and increasingly threatening
troubles were breaking like thunder clouds about him, might W. H. H.]
Rossetti at that date had the habit of coming to me with a drawing folio, and
sitting with it designing while I was painting at a further part of the room. One evening
Deverell broke in upon our peaceful labours; he had not been seated many minutes, talking
in a somewhat absent manner, when he bounded up, marching to and fro about the room, and,
stopping, he whispered emphatically, “You fellows can't tell what a
I could not accept Deverell's confiding invitation, but Gabriel was less pressed for time, and on the morrow came back with no diminished account of Miss Siddal's beauty, and with the announcement that he had prevailed upon her to sit to him. I had the idea of making the young woman tending the priest in my picture of a fair Celt with red hair, and as I had no one who would serve as a model, I asked Rossetti whether he thought I could ask Miss Siddal to sit. He advised me to write to her, with the happy result that she agreed to come. With my desire to give a rude character to the figure, and my haste to finish, certainly the head bore no resemblance to her in grace and refinement. Rossetti, although he expressed great admiration from the beginning, did not for a year or two profess any strong personal feeling for the lady.
He was painting his “imputed hostility to this master we had put ourselves outside the pale of
toleration. We knew that some one of our Body had revealed the meaning of our mystic
letters and at the next meeting, when we insisted
J. E. Millais]
Our prospects with
Late in the evening the van arrived, and my kindly landlord and his wife asked leave to look on while I was putting the final touches of loving anxiety. At this juncture Millais came, bringing as a new visitor Charles Collins. I had no time but for my picture. While I confided it to the men, taking care that the covering did not touch wet paint, I could hear the most amusing cross assumptions going on between the old couple and Collins, whom I had known before only at the Academy schools and who said tenderly—
Charles Collins]
“It is an unspeakable gratification to me, believe me, to have the privilege of seeing such a noble picture as this by my old fellow-student. You must, I am sure, understand what reason you have for pride in it, and you must really permit me to congratulate both of you, as well as himself, upon its production.”
“Indeed we are, sir,” replied the old gentleman, “thoroughly proud. I shall be so, sir, to the day of my death at the remembrance of its development under my own roof. The artist is young, sir, young, but he is most industrious, morning, noon, and night; I assure you it is all the same to him.”
“You have been so wise in encouraging him,” said Collins, “and now there can be no doubt you will be rewarded.”
“Well, sir, it's very little that we could do. I am sure had we been called upon to do more we should have been only too glad; we are indeed more than recompensed.”
“Just stop Collins,” I said to Millais, in passing; ”he thinks the good old couple are my father and mother!”
What a relief it is to send off a picture at which one has been working for months! It seems like cutting a cord binding one to a millstone. When we sat down we each compared our feelings, which in my case were complicated by the fact that I had not once seen Millais' picture, and that now it was out of sight for a month. Collins had sent in a picture of “Berengaria seeing the Girdle of Richard offered for Sale in Rome.” Under the influence of Millais he had in this work discarded his early manner, and striven to carry out our principles.
I was curious to gather from Millais the character of his own work, and I noticed that while he never wavered in confidence in the excellence of that part of the painting which had been completed long enough for him to exercise impartial judgment upon it, he spoke with less certainty when dwelling on those portions which he had done last. This would impel him to say, “Well, I don't know; I tell you frankly sometimes I thought it all splendid, and at others I was much out of spirits with it.”
As week by week flowed by the doubt about his work was healed, discontent visibly diminished, and his enthusiasm grew quite confident. “I declare to you,” he exclaimed, “and this is no exaggeration, that when painting the body of the little St. John, as I finished it and turned my eyes from the boy who stood for me, back to my painting, so thoroughly in relief did it appear that on looking again to the model I could not at the moment tell which was which. As for the St. Joseph,” he went on, “I would not have a lazy model who had never done any work in his life. I was determined to choose a real carpenter, whose frame and muscles had been formed by the very exercise that had been the toil of the Virgin's husband, and for the background I went to an actual carpenter's shop in Oxford Street where they had some planks of real cedar; there I worked for days,” and then, mimicking in the most inimitable manner, he rehearsed the chatter that went on among the workmen, with the sound of centre bits and sawing, enacting the arrival of an artisan caller who exclaimed, “What! having a picture made of your shop?”
He wished to be present when I first saw his picture in the Exhibition that he
might gather my instinctive impression; accordingly I slept at his house on the Sunday to
be in good time on the morrow, when artists were able to see and retouch their works until
twelve o'clock. We knew that our pictures were again pendant in the first large room. By
seven o'clock we were admitted at the students' entrance, and, bounding up the steps
quickly, stood before Millais' picture. Between my admiration of the exquisite painting of
all, the beauty of some of the figures, the
“My dear fellow,” I returned, “the
picture is truly marvellous. It J. E. Millais]
In the first edition, the date of Millais' drawing written on it by me some years
afterwards was 1851; this was a mistake, it is now corrected to 1850.—W.H.H.
I had scarcely arrested the impatient self-judge when two tall fellow-students of
vainglorious mien rollicked into the room, and, seeing us standing there, walked between
the picture and ourselves, courting our regard as they looked at Millais' work, and then
turned and laughed in our faces. Before they moved another step, Millais had advanced, and
putting his hand on the shoulder of the least imbecile, said to him, Don't you see that if you were to live to the age of Methuselah, both of you, and you
were to improve every day of your lives more than you will in the whole course of them
you would never be able to achieve any work fit to compare with that
picture?”
“But we did not say anything,” they each pleaded with a pitiable affectation of innocence.
“No, but you did this, you laughed at my painting, and you did so defiantly to my face, so that you should not be surprised at my telling you that you were egregious fools.”
They slunk away crestfallen.
Millais came back with me early from the Academy to Chelsea on the first day of the Exhibition, and there he took up a pen and sketched the scene representing our rivals' wrath at our pictures, with others engaged in touching up their own work.
Gabriel's picture of “
1
1 “We have already in the course of our
Exhibition notices of this year come in contact with the doings of a school of
artists whose younger members unconsciously write its condemnation in the very title
which they adopt (that of Pre-Raphaelite), and we would not have troubled ourselves
or our readers with any further remarks on the subject were it not that
eccentricities of any kind have a sort of seduction for minds that are intellectual
without belonging to the better orders of intellect. It is difficult in the present
day of improved taste and information to apprehend any large worship of an Art Idol
set up with visible deformity as its attributes, but it is always well to guard
against the influence of ostentatious example and fascination of paradox. The idea
of an association of artists whose objects are the following out of their art in a
spirit of improved purity, making sentiment and expression the great ends, and
subordinating to these all technical consideration, is not new. The difference
between the proceedings of a band of German painters who in the early part of the
present century commenced such an undertaking in Rome and those of these English
Pre-Raphaelites is nevertheless striking. The Germans in question (who had each
tested the difficulties of composition in his own several style, each encountered
the struggle of pictorial principle in his own studio) yearned to throw off the yoke
of conventionalism which, commencing with the eclectic ages before, had brought the
art in their time in Italy down to its lowest level, etc., etc. With all their good
taste and acquirements their formal recurrence to amend art has been repressive of
the first great condition of success (originality of thinking). That a body of young
painters (untravelled, without experience, and below these Germans in intelligence,
going back for revival to a yet earlier period from a yet later) should fail far
more signally and find that they have arrived at an absurdity might have been
expected beforehand from the mere conditions of the case. This school of English
youths has, it may be granted, ambition, but not of that well-regulated order which,
measuring the object to be attained by the resources possessed, qualifies itself for
achievement. Their ambition is an unhealthy thirst which seeks notoriety by means of
mere conceit. Abruptness, singularity, uncouthness are the counters by which they
play for game. Their trick is to defy the principles of beauty and the recognised
axioms of taste. Again these young artists are mistaken if they imagine that they
have reverted to any early period of art for their type of
pictorial expression....In all these painters the absence of structural knowledge
never resulted in positive deformity. The disgusting incidents of unwashed bodies
were not presented in loathsome reality, and flesh with its accidents of putridity
was not made the affected medium of religious sentiment in tasteless revelation.
Purity of presentment inspired by
It is just to speak of his onslaught as upon the whole of us. Although he did not attack my picture, the prejudice excited was more practically damaging to me, as Millais had sold his work, while mine still waited a buyer before I could take up new work.
The difference was very marked in the reception of our pictures by members of the Academy from that of last year; not one complimented me in any way, but those I saw turned away as though I had committed a crime. Yet I can remember some kind words from independent artists, Robert Hannah amongst these, who thereupon became my friend.
Three hundred pounds was the sum for which Millais told me he had sold his picture, therefore I had concluded that the same sum would not be excessive for my larger one. Millais, as I have intimated before, was unwilling to dwell upon reverses, but I gathered later that to prevent Farrer, the dealer, from suffering loss by the fulfilment of his engagement in paying for “Christ in the House of His Parents,” the terms had been made easier to him, so I decided to abandon my first price, as will be seen later.
Sometimes I went timidly to the Exhibition, hoping to hear some unprejudiced
opinion expressed, but as soon as the public arrived at my picture they invariably said,
“Oh, this is one of those preposterous Pre-Raphaelite works,” and
went on to the next without looking again upon devotional enthusiasm marked the works of these old rude masters....Let us
conjure these young gentlemen to believe that Raphael may be received as no mean
authority for soundness of view and excellence in practice. They stand convicted of
insincerity by the very cleverness of some of their pictures. What a wilful
misapplication of powers is that which affects to treat the human form in the
primitive and artless manner of the Middle Ages, while minor accessories are
elaborated to a refinement of imitation which belongs to the latest days of
executive art! By the side of their affected simplicity and rudeness they write the
condemnation of the same, saying ‘You see by the skill with which we can
produce a shaving that we could joint and round these limbs if we would. We show you
that which some of us could, if we chose, do as well as they who use the enlarged
means and appliances of art; we can also do and choose to do as ill as they who
wanted our knowledge. We desire you to understand that it is not for want of knowing
what nature is that we fly to affectation.’ In point of religious
sentiment Rossetti stands the chief of this little band. Mr. Hunt stands next in his
picture of ‘
One gain my picture brought was a note from Mr. Dyce asking me to W. H. H.]
Some distraction is needed under stress of weariness, and this we felt when one sunny afternoon Charlie Collins visited me and I tempted him to come out for an hour or two boating. We went to one Graves, a boat-builder above Chelsea Bridge, who at once approached us to learn our business, but seeing a sailing craft arrive on shore and an old gentleman stumbling out of the boat, Graves abruptly hastened away to his habitual customer, whom he carefully helped up the inclined slope.
Collins was vexed at the neglect we suffered and said, “Had we belonged to any of the recognised professions, the church, the law, the army, or medicine we should not have been left to wait here to the advantage of that antiquated fogey.” I surveyed the ill-fitted back—the only part visible of this interloper—with wonder as to which of the learned pursuits its owner might belong.
I followed him with my eyes up and across the narrow road and
The elfin sprites were doubtless grinning at us that afternoon as we pulled our boat to and from Hammersmith, for few knew who the strange figure was until on his death, a year and a half later, it was known that the mysterious occupant of the little house with the railing at its upper window was William Mallard Turner, the most consummate of landscape painters either past or present, the ancient friend of Charlie Collins' home, who had dandled him on his knee as a baby.
What Walter Thornbury says about the artist having degraded habits is simply
evidence of the
1
I had seen, only at intervals, Rossetti's last picture, “
1 Page 149
Gabriel about this time was indefatigable in beating up literary contributors to
Millais had completed an etching for the June issue as an illustration to Rossetti's story, but the other needful contributions could not be collected, and all further hopes of continuing the publication had to be abandoned.
Gabriel offered his picture of “
When my earnings on the copy from Dyce's picture were exhausted I was again in the direst impecuniosity, for I would not return to my father's house. On one occasion I had written a letter and had no stamp for post. I threw myself back in my arm-chair with the feeling of being defeated; thrusting my hands deep down between the seat and the back, my fingers came in contact with an evasive disk, which I drew up, with the happy discovery that it was half-a-crown! It was like one of Robinson Crusoe's surprises, from an unseen Providence.
Still I knew not how to get a picture ready for next year. My two companions were using the summer profitably; I was losing mine.
To one chance I was now impelled to trust. When the elder members Copy by D. G. Rossetti from Ford Madox Brown]
I walked to my patron's house in time to catch him as he rose from breakfast. I had not then seen him for many months, and apologised for my delay in having the designs ready for submission to him, and announced that I had at last brought them. To my consternation he declared that he had never proposed anything of the kind, and that he had always disliked my work too much to have thought of such a request. Watching the effect of this repudiation, he condescendingly added that since I had the drawings with me he should like to look at them. To escape showing signs of resentment I opened my parcel. Not less abruptly than before he burst out, indignantly, “Had I ever wished to have a picture of yours the sight of these designs with their affectation would have cured me of such desire.” I knew that, at bottom, this man was not an altogether bad-hearted fellow, but the whole circumstance was an example how prejudice may warp judgment, memory, and good breeding.
I went away, and for a few minutes I felt too giddy and bewildered to take any course.
My good friend Augustus Egg lived near by. Had he also gone over to our enemies? It would be well, I thought, to see him, so I went at once to his cottage in Queen's Road.
I found the painter still at the breakfast table. I told him my tale, and said
that it was no affectation to declare that for me to judge of the designs I had with me
was impossible, that I was tired and disheartened for the time, and that perhaps the
inventions I had been busy upon lacked the spirit which my reading of the author's meaning
had made me determined to see in them. Would he therefore tell me quite candidly his exact
opinion? He had been somewhat extra-critical lately, but I had none the less reason to
believe in his kindliness. A keen reader and renderer of human expression, he had
distinguished himself from his
I went away rejoicing to commence the picture. Permission being gained to paint inside the Lollard prison at Lambeth Place, I went in a few days, very much outdone in smartness by a man whom I had engaged to carry some of my traps, so that I doubt not he was taken for the master and I for the man. Several important parts beyond the mere interior I painted there; and afterwards at home I advanced the work sufficiently to make a well-established beginning.
When the master of the horse rides abroad, the dogs in the village bark, but he rides
on his way all the same.—Carlyle.
We are told much of the tyranny of the strong over the weak, but believe me this is far
exceeded by the tyranny of the weak over the strong.—Arthur
Helps.
Millais, with keen remembrance of the sacred earnestness and the
high aspiration with which he had designed and painted his picture of “
We had hoped in our eager enthusiasm to arouse an unexpected joy in men who had grown apathetic to Art because, in those respects most dear in their regard, it was uninterpretive, and because—formed in a mould unchanged for centuries—it had become monotonous and exhausted. But affluent connaisseurs, whatever their independent instincts might be, did not in modern England decide upon art by their own judgment, but were guided by the voice of critics and dealers. We had been deceived in our hope, yet we knew we were not deluded; many artists had quite modestly set themselves to follow our example.
The reform with which we were identified was not, as I have already insisted, resolved upon without a recognition of the greatness of much work done under the conventions in vogue. Our daring had been rather in the decision that these conventions had now served their purpose as swaddling clothes, our new start was childlike in its impulse.
It was at his home when he was absent that the cruelty of the attack on Millais
was most apparent. There the mother, taking the different papers and journals tremblingly
in her hand, having had that Rossetti.”
“Poor Rossetti, how is he to blame in the matter?” I urged. “Jack had quite agreed upon his new course long before Rossetti came here, when in fact Rossetti had not begun to paint pictures. In the Academy Schools I am pretty certain they never spoke ten words together.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Millais, “I don't like the look of him; he's a sly Italian, and his forestalling you by sending his first picture to an exhibition, where it was seen with your joint initials upon it, a week before the pictures by you and Jack would appear, was quite un-English and unpardonable, when you had taught him and treated him with great generosity.”
When the outraged old lady ceased the father began: “I don't admire his behaviour; he loudly indulges in insulting denunciation of persons who have the right to be treated with respect, and asserts himself generally so as to offend people quite unnecessarily. Moreover, I agree with my wife, his forestalling you in the exhibition of your first pictures, and his letting out of the P.R.B. secret, was quite unpardonable, and most injurious. I am convinced that he makes you many enemies.”
“Well,” I said, “his conduct with Munro was certainly wrong, but I persuade myself that Rossetti did not steal a march upon us designedly.”
The father continued: “Mrs. Millais does not of course mean that
Rossetti influenced you or Jack, who had painted for years, to change your styles; she
thinks really that he goes about stirring up ill-feeling towards your principles of art,
without doing his part to justify the reform you attempt. If Jack and you had gone on
your courses quietly no one would have been offended; now, all the Associate brood are
stirred up as in a death struggle. Dickens is their friend, and out of good comradeship
has adopted their interests. You see how effectively he uses the revelation of the
meaning of P.R.B. Dickens has committed a great wrong, and that's what I would tell him
if I met him. He was treated kindly on his first appearance, and he
should have remembered that fact.” Growing warmer as he thought of
the whole phalanx of enemies, he walked about the room bursting forth with,
“But there's one question I would ask: What is the
purpose of this Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood? I thought there were to be seven of you; why
should the fight be left only to you and Jack? Rossetti's picture of ‘
I replied that his mediævalism certainly needed explanation, but this
I found in the fact that the “
“Ah! that accords with my reading of his character,” said Mr. Millais, shaking his head. “What's the good of an ally who keeps out of the fight, disowning his friends if they are beaten, and claiming part of the conquest if they win? Then what are the others about? Was not Collinson to have done wonders? Is it a sham to all but you and Jack? The fact is they make the tumult, and raise up the whole country to destroy you. They have all the pleasure of making a fuss and playing the important, while you get the wounds.”
During all this expression of the parent's honest indignation, as an
accompaniment from above, a magnificent tenor voice could be heard singing to the strains
of a pianoforte snatches of operas, principally
“You've come in the very nick of time,” I said,
“to help in our discussion. Your father thinks all should help to do the
fighting, but, you see, Woolner has not been able to exhibit, Rossetti shirks the public
struggle, Collinson's picture goes for nothing one way or the
Woolner as an established P.R.B. early made sign that he would, as opportunities offered, strive to strengthen our Body. There was a monument to be put up to Wordsworth in Westminster Abbey, and a public competition was invited by the Committee. Woolner put aside all other work to make a clay model, showing the poet seated on a chair raised above side-supporting groups; on his right was a father coercing and reproving a stubborn boy, and on the other side was a mother with a daughter in charge who was being led by example to pray. The boy was writhing in obstinate temper to get free from the father, whose pose and expression excellently portrayed determination to exercise authority and to teach submission, and the mother as obviously taught her precept. All was admirably conceived and worked for a rough design, and as no well-established sculptors would jeopardise their reputations and positions by submitting their work to the judgment of a Committee, probably incompetent to tell the difference between good and bad, our friend had every right to count upon his prospects as substantial. Woolner sent in his model, and we all waited for the result with eagerness. On the date for the judgment it was announced that the award was postponed, and this delay was repeated, very tiresomely. In the end the decision was in favour of Thrupp, but certain of the Council insisted that an expression of their appreciation of Woolner's design should be given him, with the avowal that the delay in the arbitration had arisen from doubt whether it would not be more just to give the commission to him, instead of to his older competitor.
This decision made a cruel difference to Woolner's immediate future. Rossetti
urged him to abandon sculpture as a hopeless career, recommending painting instead.
Accordingly Woolner made an essay in oil colours of a lady floating upon a
cloud—the title by me forgotten—much in the manner of the eighteenth
century, but as Bernard Smith had mooted the plan of going with the ever-increasing flow
of gold-diggers to Australia, he adopted the idea, pressing me to join the small artistic
company emigrating in the hope of acquiring enough to return and pursue art without check
and anxiety for “that eternal want of pence.” The prospect had no
temptation for me, but Woolner broke up his
Ford Madox Brown was much moved with commiseration by Woolner's discouraging
defeat, and went with him on board the Australian ship; while there he stored up memories
for his touching picture “
Brown's enthusiastic acknowledgment of the perfection of Millais'
“
It was not long before Doyle became our warm supporter, and discriminated, as an increasingly few others did, between our aspirations and those of the German Revivalists.
A story has gained currency, that we invited F. M. Brown to be one of our Body, and that he refused. William Rossetti writes—
“
1
1 Another reason alleged for the asserted refusal of F. M. Brown
to join us is that the experiment of young artists combining in fellowship had been
tried in Germany and failed. Certainly the coterie he referred to was more respected
by him than by us.
Had the proposal been brought to the vote, it would certainly have evoked from us
the outspoken declaration that the P.R. Brotherhood had become a thing of the past.
1
While I was doing my utmost to advance the “
After a few weeks' delay Mr. Dyce was invited to go and decide as to what more
was needful to be done; he insisted that the whole should be retouched by me, as the flues
had in some places burnt away the paintings, and damp had done other injuries; but as
there was then but a very restricted time, I stipulated that I should have two guineas per
diem, and a guinea for an assistant to do the flat shadings, and Mr. F. G. Stephens
accepted the post. Mr. Dyce took me back with him to the House of Lords, where he was
working. He talked then of the rigour of the Press against his attempts of thirty years
before to introduce a severer taste in art. It was when Wilkie, Hilton, and indeed all
figure painters, competent or incompetent, were drowning
1 Page 175.
My work now was fine fun. Father Thames, like London Bridge in the old nursery
song, had to be built up again, and he had to be brought out of a fog too. I stood on a
springy plank dashing away at him with large brushes, and when he had a new suit of paint
from
When I was working at Chelsea, Gabriel brought W. B. Scott with him to my studio;
I had seen him before in Cleveland Street, but in a more casual manner. This visitor from
the North was a man of about forty, and in height fully five feet ten. He had brown hair,
flowing, although not long. His regard, when talking to a new friend, was singularly
penetrating and deliberate, while his speech was entertainingly measured and
naïve, so that all the mischief that might be imagined in his Mephistophelian
expression was dissipated in a breath, and I was at once hail-fellow-well-met with the
newcomer. That which contributed to the arch-fiend expression was the angle formed by his
eyebrows, which from their parting centre ascended sharply, and ere they deflected shot
off a handsome tuft, some of the hairs of which curled downwards like young moustaches.
Gabriel did a careful water-D. G. Rossetti]
VOL. I. MSingleton Fontenoy, was not such a man as could be found every day, for
he was of inexhaustible spirits and had a fund of recollections of ever-living words from
the lips of men who had gone otherwhere. The Queen Anne and Georgian writers he quoted
with unceasing zest. John Tupper and sociable Blanchard Jerrold were sometimes of the
crew. Contributors to
My “
The wisest course that I could follow at the time was to work at a few details,
incomplete before, with intention to send my picture to the Liverpool Exhibition.
Indulgent Fate, however, had in store for me a means of relief from further buffetings
that season. Millais and W. H. H.]
At the Clarendon Press they became acquainted with Mrs. Combe's uncle, Mr.
Bennett. He was a gentleman of very mature years, rich and not inconsequently inclined to
indulge the caprices of old age. As
black-frocked gentlemen still in the room, and, beckoning to the remaining guests,
addressed them thus: “Look ye, I don't like your priests after the order
of Melchisedek, they don't suit me, and if this fashion of leaving guests alone after
dinner didn't take away the priests too, I should the more dislike it. My niece's
husband ought to stay to hand round the wine, but, by Jove, it is good of him to go, if
otherwise the High Priests and the Levites would have to stay with
him.” With a deaf talker's “Eh! eh!” he
went on, “Wine does a man good; it never did me any harm, you see, and I'm
getting on in years. Ah, I've known lots of friends disappear because they did not put
good port wine under their waistcoats. Take my advice, follow the right sort, be good
fellows. Take a glass with me now. I drink to ye, gentlemen.” After such
avowals once he went on: “Now I tell you what, I will trust you. I want a
little advice about a very delicate business. Well, ye know, I've been here several
weeks, and Pat's (Mrs. Combe's pet name) husband has been very kind, although he leaves
me a good deal alone, well, well, he's a busy man. Now I have given them a deal of
trouble, and I want to make them a handsome present. Now what d'ye think they'd like?
That's the question. Eh?”
“Why, my dear Mr. Bennett,” said Millais, “I will tell you the very thing of all others. It's Hunt's picture in the Academy. You've heard them talking about it, for they saw it at the Exhibition, and they admired it, and they've said often in your hearing they wanted to see it again. Is it not the very thing, Charlie?” and Collins endorsed the opinion warmly in judicious tone. “Why,” continued the first, “Hunt only wants 160 guineas, and in a few years I will undertake to say it will be worth ten or twenty times the sum.”
“Do you really think so? Eh? eh?” said the old gentleman.
“I am sure of it,” said Millais.
“But now the Exhibition is over, our friends can't see it again. What can we do? Eh? eh?”
“Why,” returned Millais, “I will write to Hunt, and he'll send the picture here, and you shall see it yourself.”
“Capital,” nodded the old gentleman, “but don't let them know yet; keep it a secret till the painting comes,” he said chuckling.
After this momentous conference the next post brought a letter from my friend with the urgent request that the picture should be sent off immediately, accordingly I had it packed and forwarded. On its arrival in Oxford all was determined so speedily, that in a day or two I received a letter containing a cheque for 160 guineas.
What an act of practical generosity it was that my brotherly rival thus
performed! I was at the time helpless and without the prospect C. A. Collins]
My receipt of the 160 guineas brought to a conclusion for the time a period of sore trouble, and I revelled in the peace obtained for further work. I had already made a design for “The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” for the painting of which it was necessary to find a background in nature. I settled upon this in a preliminary visit to Knole Park, and as the season was getting near “the sere and yellow leaf” it was desirable without loss of a day to take my canvas down there and begin. Rossetti had promised to use any such opportunity to work out of doors; accordingly we took a lodging together in Sevenoaks. He had to paint a boscage as a background to a design illustrating a passage in Dante, and he found what he wanted conveniently near to my own place of work. I ran up occasionally to see him, and found him nearly always engaged in a mortal quarrel with some particular leaf which would perversely shake about and get torn off its branch when he was half way in its representation. Having been served thus repeatedly, he would put up with no more of such treatment, and left canvas, box, and easel for the man to collect when at dusk the barrow came for my picture, he stalking back to the lodgings to write and to try designs, in one of these making use of a song in Philip van Artevelde as motto. He did not succeed in satisfying himself, and so abandoned it. He stayed on with me to the end of my work; this was protracted until dank and chilly October was far advanced, and during the time he was ever a good-humoured and pleasant companion.
When I returned to town I had to advance drawing from models, and it was necessary to energise and hurriedly get together my materials for the picture, for which there was bare breathing time in any respect. Mr. W. P. Frith kindly lent me some armour, which the “slavey” in my lodging announced as a “tin waistcoat and trousers,” although she had certainly not read Tom Hood, who jocularly makes a somewhat similar description of a knight's panoply.
I was fortunate enough to obtain as the model for Valentine, James Lennox Hannay, then a young barrister; for Proteus, James Aspinal, also a barrister and journalist, who eventually went to the Colonies and made a great position in the local parliament. I was at no loss for Sylvia; the beauty and grace of Miss Siddal would make her a perfect type for the duke's daughter, but I had not seen her for several months. I wrote doubtingly as to her ability to come, but one morning in the spring the lady appeared. I should have done more justice to my model had not circumstances occurred to hinder my work beyond all expectation.
X was a fellow-student whom circumstances had at frequent intervals thrown much
with me; he had doubtless many merits; but devotion to W. H. H.]
X had one day brought his splendid friend, who was well featured in a way, and
finely dressed. He made the greatest show of openheartedness, and was overflowing with
professions of admiration and desire for my friendship, so that I felt disarmed of every
captious reservation. He was glad I boated at times, and hoped that I would often come out
with him and try his outrigger, a cranky one that made him laugh now when he thought of
the duckings it had given many too self-confident greenhorns. Individuality of view he
proclaimed on many general subjects. Poetry, he declared, in modern days did not exist.
What could be more unpoetic than the jingle of counted rhymes? Painting, on the other
hand, with the glorious vista that our School was making for it, was quite a different
thing. “We have indeed a grand prospect in that” (and
the “We” was quite royal). He enlarged on all his achievements,
laughing very much at the disconcertion of the “governor” and of the heads of the different establishments he had been
in, and on his disregard of their admonition as to his mad pranks. An invitation followed
to come over to Clapham two hours early for dinner, for practise during daylight in his
garden with duelling pistols of exquisite make. To an intending traveller like myself the
exercise was appropriate enough, but it was not thoroughly approved the article was not in their
line. Eventually in the Borough, with abated pride, I felt quite dishonest at
closing with a rash admirer who advanced 8s. 6d. for
the custody of the despised thing, and with but little more I at once took flight to
“the Sea, the Sea, the open Sea.” It would be outside my theme to
tell the adventures of the journey, but they were amusing enough to make the intimacy
between myself and Warwick more unreserved.
On my return, while advancing with “sell out,
but the matter will be settled this week, and he has asked me for five pounds just for a
day or two, and I should be sorry not to oblige him, so I want you, like a good fellow,
to lend it to me.” It would have seemed brutal to refuse, but I asked
him if he was quite sure of the facts, and his reply was, “As if I
didn't know!” So I took out the sum from my diminishing store, urging
him not to allow Warwick to forget to return it within a few weeks at most, and worked on
unsuspectingly.
In another ten days Warwick came to see me, radiant with affection.
I confess the request disturbed me. I decided upon candour.
“Warwick,” I began, “that desk in the corner is
my bank; it still has in it thirty pounds. For paying models, my framemaker, and the
rent it will last me to the end of my task, and leave perhaps one or two pounds over for
my pocket. If you took fifteen pounds out of it, and you did not return the amount five
weeks before the sending-in day, I should be obliged to stop work, and should lose not
the five weeks only, but all the cream of my back year's labour. If you can't be certain to bring the money again in three weeks, you ought not to ask me
for it, if you can be quite certain you shall have
it.”
“Three weeks! In less than ten days you shall have it, my dear boy. Why, how can you doubt that I would sell every stick in my house rather than you should be kept an hour beyond the date I fix?”
Then I counted out the sovereigns. They shone more peerlessly than gold had ever appeared before, for they signified freedom to finish my picture, and he went away boisterously happy, which I responded to but feebly, although I quite hoped the best. Ten days were told off by me. Neither Warwick nor letter came. Three weeks wound themselves off the roll of time without the much-needed repayment, and then I wrote to my gorgeous friend telling him of my astonishment; still there was no answer. I had to put off models and paint only still life.
X had no money, and now had no confidence about the termination of the legacy
business. I was in desperation, but one sunny morning when, after a sleepless night, I was
staring at my canvas, which looked like a half-arranged puzzle for which the further
pieces could not be found, Warwick mounted the stairs and burst into the room. He was
“Well then,” I said, “give me the money and let me write to my models at once.”
“All right, you have truly obliged me,” but he went on talking until I had to explain that lost time had to be made up, and I must be left to work alone.
“Well, put on your hat and come with me.”
“Come where?”
“Come to the City.”
“But I can't; I must not leave my work.”
“Oh, it won't take an hour; we'll go by the steamboat, and you can come back at once; otherwise I can't give it you.” This decided me.
At Temple Bar he turned into a confectioner's, and there supplied himself with
pen and ink and wrote what seemed like a cheque. Turning it over to me he said,
“You'll have to endorse this.” Uplifting it I read,
“I promise to pay three months after date sixty pounds, etc.,
etc.” When I glared at Warwick he was perfectly self-possessed, and to
my inquiry he returned, “The simplest thing in the world, my dear boy;
it would never do for me to raise the wind for fifteen pounds. Don't you see how
unreasonable you are? X doesn't bother me like this. You want the money, and I'm willing
to oblige you. You'll get that bill cashed, and I can hand you the fifteen pounds, and
you can go back to Chelsea at once. It is to save time for you. It's
hard upon me, for I have an appointment in the City.”
It was clear that he had me in his clutches, and there was no one to save me. If I tore up the bill I should return home, as it seemed ruined; if I cashed it there might be ruin still, but not for three months. “Where am I to take the accursed thing?” I asked.
“Oh, Solomon, an old rogue in Chancery Lane, will do it. He has made thousands out of me.”
I went to the narrow-windowed, misery-begrimed house, up a steep staircase to the
second floor, where stood a posse of shabby men. Surveying these for a
few moments while I waited, I heard a door opened, and from a room behind came a short,
bloated, dirty, satin-waistcoated Jew of about forty. “Wha'
d'ye-want?” said he as he snatched paper after paper out of the hands
of the company. I followed him into the office, where sat clerks behind a screen.
“What d'ye-com'-for?” he said to me.
“I've brought a promise to pay from Mr.
Warwick, whom you know.”
“Don'-know-'im. Shixty pounds,” and, turning the paper over, he asked, “What is dis name?”
“It is mine. I've endorsed it,” I replied.
“Whad-ar-you?”
“An artist.”
“Ged some other name,” and he smartly gave
the bill back, and turned to a further client. Returning to the confectioner's I found
Warwick, furious at the ingratitude of the man. Resignedly, he took the
bill from me, put it in his pocket-book and told me not to mind, he would come with the
money before the day was out.
In the evening my father came to see me, being anxious to know how my chance of completing the picture stood. I avowed all my folly to him, and declared uncertainty as to the possibility of getting done in any way for the Exhibition. He had too many difficulties himself then to spare money help, but he gave me advice which was worth more than money. “Do not ever count upon getting back Mr. Warwick's debt,” he said deliberately. “He has no legacy coming to him, I feel sure. Your object now should be to recover the bill, otherwise he will negotiate it for something, and at the end of the term the holder will come upon you for the full sixty pounds, which they will soon make mount up to whatever in any way you might be sold up for.” Then I saw that my trouble of yesterday had been made ten times worse to-day, and I set to work at a persistent badgering of Warwick by letter; at first this seemed to be in vain, but eventually, on opening an envelope, I breathed what seemed sweet peace again at finding the “kite” enclosed, with many feeling reproaches at my mistrust of the intended flyer.
The fifteen pounds I never recovered, but I heard of the great descendant of the King-maker working an invention for an improved system of snuffing candles, another for a new form of advertising, and pursuing any wild scheme for making a lucky coup, particularly in West End gambling hells. As all these failed, he professed engineering, went to Australia to manage a mine, whose reports henceforth were of the most promising kind, till the shareholders in time grew dissatisfied and superseded him, and then he became lost to public history.
How I managed to bring my picture to conclusion it would be difficult to explain. I only know that I determined not to yield to my evil star, and with the aid of an idler, for whose services I had to pay dearly, in the end I completed the figure of Proteus, and delivered the work at the Academy not an hour too soon.
My content was marred because of the shifts I had been obliged to make, in
finishing the picture, through Warwick's dishonesty. Perhaps a fevered sensitiveness made
me see these out of due balance. At least this was my hope after I had read the generous
letter which here follows from Ford Madox Brown. I had left my easel for an hour to see
Millais' pictures, and in the interval Brown had arrived and my landlady had allowed him
to go up to my studio. The personal compliment in this letter would have been a reason for
hesitation in publishing it, but
17, Newman Street.
— My Dear HuntI could not pass this evening in peace if I did not write to tell you how noble I think your picture. I went up to see it after some resistance on the part of your landlady. I can scarcely describe the emotions I felt on finding myself alone with your beautiful work (quite finished and you out,
thatwas something of a triumph), but certainly your picture makes me feel shame that I have not done more in all the years I have worked. You will now have one long course of triumph, I believe—well you deserve it. Your picture seems to me without fault and beautiful to its minutest detail, and I do not think that there is a man in England that could do a finer work; it is fine all over. I have been to see Millais. His pictures are wonders in colour and truth; in fine, admirable for all they intend, but I like yours better for my own use, although there are qualities in Millais which never have been attained, and perhaps never again will be. If Rossetti will only work, you will form a trio which will play a great part in English art, in spite of Egg's predictions. I mean to be much more careful in future, and try next time tosatisfy myself. I wish I had seen you to-night, for I am full of your picture, and should like to shake you by the hand. I have had serious thoughts of joining (sic) P.R.B. on my pictures this year, but in the first place I am rather old to play the fool, or at least what would be thought to be doing so; in the next place I do not feel confident enough how the picture will look, and unless very much liked I would not do it; but the best reason against it is that we may be of more service to each other as we are than openly bound together. I wish you all the success you deserve.Yours sincerely, Ford M. Brown.
In 1851 Millais had painted “
Our pictures this year had less good places than before; they were separated, and all suffered as to their key of colour and effect by want of support. The wrath against us now was of triumphant tone, our enemies spoke as though we must see that we were defeated. Yet there were painters who stood attentive, before the pictures, and in the end turned and shook our hands heartily saying, “Do not heed all this clamour.“ No sooner had the Exhibition opened than we found that the storm of abuse of last year was now turned into a hurricane. The following quotations will illustrate the studied determination to destroy us altogether—
“We cannot censure at present as amply or as strongly as we
desire to do, that strange disorder of the mind or the eyes which continues to rage with
unabated absurdity among a class of juvenile artists who style themselves P.R.B., which,
being interpreted, means Pre-Raphael-brethren. Their faith seems to
consist in an absolute contempt for perspective and the known laws of light and shade,
an aversion to beauty in every shape, and a singular devotion to the minute accidents of
their subjects, including, or rather seeking out, every excess of sharpness and
deformity. Mr. Millais, Mr. Hunt, Mr. Collins and—in some
degree—Mr. Brown, the author of a huge picture of W. H. H.]
VOL. I. N
In the North Room will be found, too, Mr. Millais' picture of “
Of the Pre-Raphaelite brethren little need now be said, since what has been already said was said in vain. Mr. Charles Collins is this year the most prominent among this band in “
Not satisfied yet, one critic wrote that although the Academy had been too
indulgent to such folly as ours, it was a matter for congratulation that no gentleman of
taste who valued his reputation would purchase such atrocious examples of art. There was
only one paper in England that did not join in the hue and cry. This exception was
1 Millais, with characteristic optimism, wrote to Mr. Combe:
“I have designed a frame for Charles' painting of Lilies, which I
expect will be regarded as the best frame in England.”C. A. Collins]
1
Their appreciation would have cheered us at this time of stress and its influence with the public would have been great; as it now is, their words are of value in the example they afford of great men's minds suffering from stagnation where an art with which they are not conversant is concerned, rendering them incapable of understanding the reforms of younger men, vital though they be.
In the first month of this year Collinson, who was assumed to be deep in
hibernation, had suddenly waked up and sent in his formal renunciation of the Brotherhood.
At the same time he sold his easel, painting materials, and lay figure by forced sale, and
went to Stonyhurst to study for the priesthood. He was an amiable fellow and in a year or
so he was convinced that after all his true vocation was Art, and he retired from
conventual life. He then gained a footing in the Society of British Artists, and there
exhibited paintings of genre and ecclesiastical type. Certainly he had
more reason to feel the pure and sweet peace of an innocent life than many more daring men
may enjoy at the end of their days. If I have dwelt too exclusively upon his weaknesses I
must plead that it was necessary to explain how the nominal extension of our number to
seven had now become a means of weakness, of confusion, and of serious mischief to our
cause. Collinson had been by no means our least effective probationary member, but his
qualities were not those of a vanguard soldier in a reforming army.
During all the humiliation which we now suffered, my good father most unfairly had
a share in the disgrace; he was met in the City by acquaintances not too sympathetic to
laugh and quote the Press comments, offering to bet ten pounds that the pictures would be
sent back within a week. He asked sadly whether I thought the suggestion
“The result was he had caricatured every wrinkle, as his friend has
in those horrible knuckles of Shem's wife....The only possible method of fulfilling
the Pre-Raphaelite ideal would be to set a petrified Cyclops to paint his petrified
brother....A picture is worth nothing, you say, unless you copy Nature. But you
can't copy her. She is ten times more gorgeous than any man can dare represent
her.”—(1 “Pre-Raphaelitism is spreading, I am glad to
see; glad, because it is by spreading that such affectations
perish.” —(
Another relative, with the kindest feelings of friendship, said that to show
talent enough to please partial friends was one thing, and not W. H. H.]
Indeed, the case every day grew worse. I had been asked to do illustrations for
an edition of Longfellow, and I did three drawings; but when I sent them the publisher
declined them, saying he had made arrangements with another artist. No one would have his
portrait painted by me while my name was treated as a proverb of ignorance and
wrong-headedness little short of criminality. The conclusive fact could not be overlooked
that I was now altogether worse off than ever; that there was, indeed, no further prospect
for me. I was losing the season for my most important work, and the loss threatened
failure to appear in the next Exhibition. Rossetti had ceased to exhibit, and
Many of our literary friends expressed their sympathy with us, and declared indignation at the treatment we had received. Patmore said he knew of no such organised conspiracy at any date against young men, and David Masson wished that he had sufficient art knowledge to be of use to us.
One chance, however, seemed to offer. The post of draughtsman to the Mosul exploration under Layard was vacant and I applied for it to Sir R. Westmacott, in whose hands the appointment rested. He answered that had I not been one day too late he would have given it to me.
In the midst of this helplessness came thunder as out of a dark sky—a
letter from Ruskin in the
“Putting aside the small Mulready, and the works of Thorburn and Sir W. Ross, there is not a single study of drapery, be it in large works or small, which for perfect truth, power, and finish, could be compared for an instant with the black sleeve of the Julia, or with the velvet on the breast and chain mail of the Valentine of Mr. Hunt's picture; or with the white draperies on the table of Mr. Millais' ‘
In a second letter to the
“—is unhappily also the most
prominent—the commonness of feature in many of the principal figures. In Mr.
Hunt's ‘
Nor is it, perhaps, less to be regretted that while in Shakespeare's play there
are nominally ‘Two Gentlemen,’ in Mr. Hunt's picture there should
only be one, at least the kneeling figure on the right has by no means the look of a
gentleman. But this may be on purpose, for any one who remembers the conduct of Proteus
throughout the previous scenes will, I think, be disposed to consider that the error
lies more in Shakespeare's nomenclature than in Mr. Hunt's ideal....And so I wish them
all, heartily, good speed, believing, in sincerity, that if they
temper the courage and energy which they have shown in the adoption of their system with
patience and discretion in framing it, and if they do not suffer themselves to be driven
by harsh or careless criticism into rejection of the ordinary means of obtaining
influence over the minds of others, they may, as they gain experience, lay in our
England the foundations of a school of Art nobler than the world has seen for three
hundred years.”
Ruskin's letter detected a weak point in my picture; Sylvia's head had suffered most from the Warwick torment. I afterwards rectified this important centre of the work.
After leaving a sufficient interval to follow Ruskin's last letter in the
Ruskin and his guest held independent views about particular examples of art, but
they did not the less become friends; some of Turner's work Millais especially refused to
approve. The pen-and-ink designs of modern episodes which my companion had made were
highly appreciated by both Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin, and Millais' exuberant interest in human
experience, as well as his childlike impulsiveness in conversation, made him in a few days
like an intimate of many years' duration. The literary circle was in a flutter about the
success of Mr. Donovan, a phrenologist practising in King William Street, Strand.
Tennyson, who had walked into the oracle's temple quite unknown to the High Priest of
Craniology, was, after attentive examination, declared his own
particular satisfaction, and asked to pay the fee. In the end Millais yielded, and the
next morning sallied out, dressed as usual in the most correct style, neatly folded
umbrella in hand. As he entered the establishment the phrenologist himself was busy
dusting the effigies
“I have come to have my bumps examined,” said Millais.
“Certainly, sir,” replied Mr. Donovan. “You shall not be delayed more than a few minutes by my present task, which I cannot trust another to perform. Excuse me, you will perceive that these heads are almost unique; they could not be replaced. Here, for instance, is the mask taken from life of Oliver Cromwell; that is Henry VII, from his tomb; that is Lord Bacon; you see the great depth of his skull. We have all kinds, you will find. That head is from the notorious murderer Greenacre, while here we have John Keats, and at the side Daniel Maclise.”
“All murderers, I assume,” said Millais.
“Oh dear no, sir. Keats was a poet, and Maclise is a celebrated artist still living, greatly admired in his work, although otherwise not quite exemplary, you understand! All denoted by the form of his head, sir.”
“Poor fellows,” said the imperturbable visitor, and pointing with his umbrella, “Who may that old lady be?”
“Which, sir? That? Why, that is Dante Alighieri, the great Italian poet.”
“Not of a very cheery sort, I should imagine.”
“No, sir; not often gay, it is true, but now I rejoice to say,” tucking up his wristbands, “I am quite prepared to examine your developments, and pronounce on your natural qualities.”
As the Professor with his investigating fingers searched about the cockatoo tuft of his patient's cranium he made encouraging comments:
“Not bad, not bad at all; good indeed,” he murmured;
“the perceptive
“But what are you driving at?” said the client.
“I'll explain, sir,” said Mr. Donovan. “Many young gentlemen on leaving college, and indeed before, often wish to be guided as to the career they should pursue; you possibly wish for such direction. Now I feel grave responsibility with youthful visitors like yourself, and I must be very candid; in a business career I feel strongly you have all the organs to secure you success; you should rise to great prosperity. On the other hand, there are pursuits in which encouragement from me would be misleading, for in them there would be no prospect of your rising; in the Church, for example, although you have religious instincts; and at the Bar, I give you caution, you would fail, for you have not the power of eloquence; and in Poetry, Literature, or in Painting, Sculpture, or Architecture you would be fighting against fate.”
“But I do draw a little,” said the amused incognito.
“Possibly it may be a pleasant accomplishment as an amateur, but you have no organ of form, none of colour, and you are deficient in ideality; for the guinea fee, however, I must apprise you that a paper will be drawn up and all your developments scientifically balanced one with the other; in the concluding remarks the general suggestions of our examination will be carefully balanced, and this may be studied much more advantageously at leisure than any words I might impulsively use now could be. If you will kindly furnish me with your name and address, I will undertake to deliver this to-morrow morning.”
“Oh!” said Millais, “I won't trouble you. I shall be passing here to-morrow at the same time, and I will call for it.”
On the morrow Millais presented himself at the shop; all was ready, and the paper, folded up, was handed over to him by the phrenologist.
The recipient made a show of opening it. “Pardon me, sir,” said the master; “to perform my duty justly, I have had to draw attention to personal characteristics which should only be studied in private and with deliberation. I would rather, therefore, that you deferred reading it until you return home in quiet.”
Millais put the paper deep into his pocket.
“Now I have one favour to beg,” said Mr. Donovan. “I keep in this book, you will see, a list of all my clients, with their addresses; it is an interesting and valuable record, and I should be glad that you should write your name and address in it.”
“Certainly,” said Millais, and he took the pen and wrote “John Everett Millais, 83, Gower Street. ”
The Professor turned the book towards him and read with undisguised attention. “Tell me, sir, are you the son of the artist who painted a picture which attracted great attention last year, and of another this year which has excited violent discussion?”
“Oh no,” said Millais.
“Perhaps you are his brother, sir?”
“No,” said the young client, “I am the painter himself.”
“Indeed, indeed, ” he said; “well then, I must ask you to let me have the paper again.”
“No, ” said the other, “I have paid for it, and I can't have it altered.”
“Yes, ” said Mr. Donovan, “but there are some extraordinary exceptions to the rules of our art, and you, I assure you, are one of the most remarkable, and I merely want to note it on your paper.”
“I would not part with it, ” said Millais, “for a thousand pounds,” as he walked out of the shop.
For a while Millais told this story with great relish, but when he came to reflect, as Carlyle had done, that there are many millions of people in the world, and that these are mostly fools, his prudence counselled him to hide the paper, and enforce silence for the time on his own tongue and on those of his friends concerning the oracle's pronouncement. I give it now because the “fools” have nearly all been silenced in their noisy disparagement of Millais' wonderfully poetic and artistic powers.
Rossetti soon after paid a visit to Mr. Donovan to see certain busts of those celebrities which he did not know. “To what particular faculties,” he asked of the High Priest, “do you attribute the poetic genius in Keats?”
Donovan replied, “I trace his poetic strain fundamentally to scrofula.”
Rossetti laughed irreverently, and inquired further how he accounted for Dante's poetic faculty.
“To scrofula too,” said Donovan, “which, provoking an irritability in the brain, often produces the longing for poetic expression.” Thus our knowledge of this great phrenologist came to an end.
The “Oxford Graduate's” generous championship was most gratifying to us all, but the Exhibition went by without sign of the mending of my fortune in the least.
I now felt that delay for me would be supreme folly, so I came to the resolution
to give up the artistic career, an idea which I had already falteringly entertained;
earlier it would have seemed like a timid admission of defeat in the struggle, but now I
could retreat like many better men who had not found the world they desired to influence
ready for them. I had the offer of an appointment as assistant-painter to Dyce.
But my companion, Millais, would by no means take so gloomy a view of my prospects as I had done; he was sure I should succeed, and he announced that he had paid off five hundred pounds to liquidate a claim due to his parents, that he had some other money in hand, and that I should have every farthing of that if necessary, little by little, as I wanted it. I was surprised and overcome, appreciating but not tempted to accept such impetuous liberality. My reply was, “What do you suppose your father and mother would think of me?” As we parted he reminded me that I had engaged to come to him in the morning. I said, “Mind you don't say a word to them of your proposal”; but the next day at his home, when the door was opened, the good couple burst out of the sitting-room crying, “Is that Hunt? Come in here! Jack has been telling us all about his plan, and he has our fullest concurrence.” I had quite made up my mind not to give in, but it seemed impossible in the face of such goodness to refuse further. I am as proud now to acknowledge my indebtedness as my friend was ever shy of having his generosity published; it is a joyous act of friendship to record, and was greater then than may now be readily conceived, for there was still great risk of our double defeat, and he had only in the last week or two gained freedom from personal straits himself.
Millais agreed with me that for the subject of “
Millais was eager to see how I should place upon the canvas the features of the
landscape I had chosen. He relinquished his work an hour earlier than usual to satisfy
himself, and I was no less impatient
For the sake of avoiding the contamination of hue resulting from the use of palettes only partially cleansed, we used white porcelain tablets which would betray any remains of dried paint that would otherwise work up into tints that had need to be of pristine purity. We knew how impossible it was to give the purity and variety of nature's hues if we allowed our pigments to get sullied. The inconvenient weight of porcelain palettes induced us afterwards to use for such purposes papier-mâché.
In walking to and fro we often discussed matters of interest belonging to our position.
On one occasion Millais referred to our rejection of Charles Collins, when
proposed for election as a P.R.B., adding that it had cut Collins W. H. H.]
Millais replied: “What Rossetti does at the present time I know very little about except from your report; even when I see him in town he seems little desirous to court intimacy, but I can quite believe that, as you say, the designs he does are full of excellence; his drawings were always remarkably interesting, but I want to see in them a freshness, the sign of enjoyment of Nature direct, instead of quaintness derived from the works of the past. I hoped Pre-Raphaelitism would give him this, but I don't see much sign of it.”
“At best we can but count three working
members,” said I. “Woolner at the Antipodes is lost
to us, Deverell is an unknown W. H. H.]
On which Millais said: “But you see he is as good a little chap as ever lived, with no nonsense about him, except perhaps his new inclination to confession and fasting, and he does not let strangers see his asceticism, which is only the result of his being hipped in love.”
“Yes,” I returned, “but Deverell was
known to all of us. The real conclusion that I am driven to is, that we must let the
nominal Body drift, and while we are working we must hope that the right men will
collect, and with these we may make a genuine artistic brotherhood, if discreetly
chosen. Collins is happier, I think, in being left for this future combination rather
than he would be in Collinson's place. His
We often discussed such matters in the morning, on our road, and as Millais left me at the stile where we parted on our ways to work, whistling an air according to his mood, I could trace his distance by the diminuendo of the notes, and on returning to our trysting place in the evening his approach was announced by the wafting of sounds graduated in crescendo as he came over the fields.
The monotony of our meals was somewhat more than we had calculated upon; we had bargained with our landlady that we should require only plain food, such as chops and potatoes for our dinner, and chops and potatoes were what we had, without variation from Monday to Monday. My father came one evening, and after dinner, when the tobacco followed, he handed the jar to Millais.
“No, thank you, I don't smoke,” said he.
“No!” said my father. “I have always been told by artists that a pipe is of incalculable comfort to the nerves, and that when harassed by the difficulties of a problem it is a solace.”
“That is the very reason, it seems to me, for not smoking. A man ought to get relief only by solving his problem,” said Millais.
1
In a few weeks we changed our lodgings to Worcester Park Farm, a house built originally as a hunting box for one of Charles II's courtesans. There a glorious avenue of elms still flourished, seen for many miles as the dispersing and attracting point of a noisy brood of rooks, who wended their long flights to and fro in the drowsy morning and evening.
We were not allowed to go on together uninterrupted in our single-minded
labours. Millais had begun in town a portrait of a lady, to be finished at future leisure;
but the husband was impatient, and wrote saying that the opportunity should not be lost to
complete the picture. To break away from his present task of completing the group of wild
flowers, some in blossom, would entail a very serious penalty, and Millais, after grave
talk with me, wrote frankly to our friend, stating his reasons for postponing his return
for the present, but the reply was, that if delayed, the completion of the likeness could
never be so satisfactorily performed, and the husband pressed the painter not to delay on
any account to return and do what he so much desired. This strain was continued in
frequent letters, till at last Millais, in no good temper, decided to depart at once. He
was away for four or five days, and came back impatient to secure freshness of verdure for
the remaining foliage ere the advancing autumn should have worked irreparable ravage. He
spoke with but stinted contentment of his forced labour
1 Millais died August 13, 1896.
When in town Millais casually met John Lewis, the painter of Egyptian social scenes. He was of particular interest to us because he had recently declared to Leslie, in Millais' presence, that on his return to England after seven years in Egypt he had found English art in the woefullest condition, its only hope being in the reform which we were conducting, and he had told Millais to speak to me of his appreciation of my work. Millais assured our new champion that when he brought his work to town he hoped he would come and see the background he was now painting in the country. Lewis exclaimed, “I shall frankly tell you what I don't like in it.” Millais said he should expect him to do so, and then Lewis, who betrayed to his companion the uncertain temper he was reputed to have at times, added, “You should know that although I think your painting much better than that of most of the artists exhibiting, I am sure that oil painting could be made more delicate than either of you make it; not sufficient pains are taken to make the surface absolutely level. Why should it ever be more piled up than in water colour? But stop, I must have a cigar; come in here.” Being furnished with his usual sedative, he walked on, resuming his diatribe: “I intend to take to oil colours myself, and, damme, I'll show you how it ought to be done. The illusion of all modern painting is destroyed by its inequality of surface. Hang it, this cigar won't draw!” and he stopped to give it attention with his penknife. “Holbein's art and Janet's paintings are as smooth as plate-glass. Why should not yours be equally even?” And then denouncing his cigar as atrocious, he went on, “Parts of your painting are level enough, I admit, but in your deep tints there is a great deal of unseemly loading.” Stopping still, he then broke out into an unmodified oath, and threw the roll of tobacco into the road, adding, “Everything goes wrong to-day. Good-bye, good-bye.”
Charles Collins now joined our party at Worcester Park Farm. He was the son of
William Collins, R.A., the younger of two brothers, the elder being Wilkie, who became the
novelist. Charles, while still a child, had shown a talent which had induced Sir David
Wilkie, a great friend of his parents, to declare that he must be a painter. I had known
him at the British Museum. He was then a remarkable looking boy with statuesquely formed
features, of aquiline type, and strong blue eyes. The characteristic that marked him out
to casual observers was his brilliant bushy red hair, which was not of golden splendour,
but yet had an attractive beauty in it. He had also a graceful figure. While still a youth
he imparted to me his discomfort at the striking colour of his locks, and was anxious to
find out any From an early portrait by himself]
Millais and I being one day in town, and walking together from the Academy
School, encountered
1
1 Since writing this I have come upon a note of invitation from
this lovable man to W. H.-H. which, simple as it is, illustrates his modest courtesy
to one of the young generation.
“Hampton, Middlesex,
“16th September, 1852.
...“I
hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you without hurrying you in the picture you
are engaged upon, we have no temptation to offer you at all worth putting you to any
extra trouble, but shall be delighted to see you...with no inconvenience to
yourself.” VOL. I. O
To me it was interesting that at his age—nigh sixty—when
staying with his family at Hampton Court, he should have set himself to school again in
making a copy, and this of life size, of the two heads of boys
At this party, amongst several other artistic and literary people, I met our once
critical champion, John Lewis, who had exhibited at “The Old Water Colour
Society” a picture of the introduction of a new slave into the harem. I also
met the unique and delightful
1
1
1
1 (I) In the left-hand corner will be seen W.H.H. standing over a
portfolio of drawings of the East.
(2) Professor Owen.
(3) Livingstone.
“Men do not throw stones at trees which do not bear
fruit.”
When we had again got into harness for our work in the country,
we were delighted by the visit of Richard and Henry Doyle. We showed them the originals of
our landscapes, we walked about the lovely meads, and returned to a repast at our farm.
Among the matters of interest they retailed was a story of Thackeray being in the
smoking-room of his club when the first few numbers of
While Millais and I had been conferring about systems of painting, we had dwelt upon the great value of a plan we had both independently adopted of painting over a ground of wet white, which gave special delicacy of colour and tone. Millais in earlier works had relied upon the system to produce the effect of sunlight on flesh and brilliantly lit drapery. The head of the boy in “The Woodman's Daughter” may be taken as example of what my friend had done before. I, quite independently, had practised this novel system. The heads of Valentine and of Proteus, the hands of these figures, and the brighter costumes in the same painting had been executed in this way. In earlier pictures the method had been adopted by me to less extent. In the country we had used it, so far, mainly for blossoms of flowers, for which it was singularly valuable.
The process may be described thus. Select a prepared ground originally for its
brightness, and renovate it, if necessary, with fresh white when first it comes into the
studio, white to be mixed with a very little
Ford Madox Brown's manner of work, as I have said, had up to this time often changed in style; he had, when we first knew him, left behind him the example of Baron Wappers, and gradually, step by step, abandoned the practice of the Munich mural painters, taking to a closer following of natural composition and intense study of out-of-door effect. In his then more sympathetic mood towards us he took no pains to conceal the source of this influence. The tracing of Brown's early stages of work will always be the more difficult by reason of the habit he indulged of repainting and changing the original character of his design, in part and in whole. He never did this without improvement, or without greater reference to our manner of work. The stages of his conversion are, however, illustrated by his best known pictures. That of “
1
1 Hueffer
Brown expressed unbounded astonishment and pressed to master exact particulars.
When this was done in detail, he became enthusiastic, and enlarged on the mystery as
nothing less than the secret of the old Masters, who thus secured the transparency and
solidity together which they had valued so much in fresco, the wet white half dry forming
an equivalent to the moist intonaco grounds upon which the master had to do his painting
of that day while the surface was still humid. The practical effect of this communication
upon Brown, and an instance of his generous feeling towards ourselves at this period, is
illustrated by the following 1
In 2
When Millais, pointing to it, said, “That's Brown,” I demurred, “But Brown wasn't there,” to which Millais replied, “Oh! That doesn't matter, it's quite fair to put him in as one of the unconverted.” This revelation of the temper which Brown was indulging towards our School in May of that year furnishes a link in the evidence of our relative positions at the time.
The first Conversazione held by the Royal Academy was assembled this year; it was
an experiment; we as exhibitors were invited, and as we had not left our posts before, we
determined to spend the evening in town. Linnell and some other elders in the profession
sought us out and expressed admiration for our past works, and this hospitality
1 “As to the pure white ground, you had better adopt
that at once, as I can assure you you will be forced to do so ultimately, for Hunt and
Millais, whose works already kill everything in the exhibition for brilliancy, will in
a few years force every one who will not drop behind them to use their methods. Apropos of these young men, you must be strangely puzzled to know what
to think of them if you see many of the English papers on the present exhibition. For
the amount of abuse that has been lavished on them has been such as to impart dignity
to a name which used to be looked on more as a subject of mirth than anything else.
You will remember that with all of us, whatever used to be thought of Rossetti's,
Hunt's, and Millais' talents, the words Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, or the letters
P.R.B., used to be looked upon as the childish or ridiculous part of the business. But
now, I can assure you, that I pronounce the words without hesitation as an ordinary
term in the everyday of art. The term will now remain with them, and, in the course of
time, gain a dignity which cannot fail to attach to whatever is connected with what
they do. For my own opinion, I think Millais' pictures, as small pictures, more
wonderful than any I have yet seen, and Hunt's picture is a truly noble one. This is
my sincere opinion. I also know that Mulready, Maclise, and Dyce think most highly of
them; so that, after these opinions, backed by old Linnell, who told Anthony that he
thought them the finest pictures in the Academy, I cannot put much reliance on the
invectives of Frith and such a lot. As to newspapers, you know how much we value them,
but I think I see more than usual spleen in their effusions, and I have no doubt but
that Stone and Hart, and other disgusting muffs of influence, are at the bottom of it.
I have just heard from Marshall that Ruskin has written a letter to the Times in defence of them.”2 Page 143.
Going down on the morrow of the Conversazione by an early train, we hurried from
the Malden station to our respective al fresco studios. I discovered
that two powder-mill houses contiguous and several treetops had disappeared near the shed
where my canvas case was stored; there had been a “blow” during the
night, but my belongings had altogether escaped injury.
At the beginning of August we had again to return to town for a few days, to
receive our works back from the Exhibition. Millais had but little to do beyond
distributing his pictures to their respective owners, but my “
When the Liverpool Exhibition opened I almost daily received anonymous letters
and newspapers from the Mersey city with every variety of abuse of my picture, both in
prose and doggerel. There happened to be a painter employed in Liverpool at the time who
was the son of a diplomaed celebrity, who delivered lectures on the infamies of our
heretical sect; his paintings were so patently incompetent that we concluded he must be a
supremely entertaining lecturer, since it was said he drew large audiences. His
denunciations of my unfortunate work were sent to me, with the assurance that the
diatribes were largely appreciated in the town. The whole attack was a bear-baiting in
which I had to play the diverting part of poor Bruin; and whether the baited be Ursus
Major or Ursus Minor, he is not unnaturally liable to irritation if the game be long
continued, and to make a blind rush at the onlookers. I became, perhaps, unreasonably so
when I arrived at the conclusion that the Council of the Institute of Liverpool
countenanced my assailants. I took Millais into my confidence, in what I confess was an
audacious project, and declared that I would not allow any one to assume that I had become
broken spirited by the attacks upon me. It had been announced that a fifty-pound prize
would be awarded at the opening of the Exhibition to the most approved painting. This had
not been allotted, although several weeks had elapsed since the day fixed for the
decision. I had not seriously entertained a hope that my much-abused painting would
receive the award, but I determined to write to the Committee stating that I had sent my
picture trusting to an announcement that the prize would be awarded on the opening day to
the best contribution, and that as many weeks had gone by since the date fixed, I had to
beg the favour of information why I had not received notice of the prize being given to
me! That 1
This award was greatly encouraging, not to me alone, but to the whole of our circle. It turned out that Mr. John Miller, the head of the Liverpool Council, was a passionate lover of art, some equally independent and enthusiastic artists and amateurs being with him. The storm, with all its noise, was directed at them in the hope of turning their minds from a suspected partiality for my work. It was strange that this favourable testimony to its character did not impress any purchaser who had seen the picture but a collector from Belfast, who had never seen it. He was not a rich man—then no rich person had the independent judgment to buy pictures from me—he told me of pictures he already possessed, saying that he hoped soon to get to Liverpool to judge of mine, so notorious as an apple of discord amongst amateurs. He asked if I would take part of the price, two hundred pounds, in pictures? Eventually I agreed to accept a landscape by young Danby in part payment, and the remaining money to be paid by monthly instalments of ten pounds.
Millais had now completed his background of “
“ I shall not enter into the vexed quæstion of
“pre-Raphaelism,” but merely treat of the picture on its own
individual merits, apart from any school. I will, however, just mention that it is
classed as pre-Raphaelite, and that, considering the overbearing obloquy with which
pre-Raphaelism has been assailed, it shows a high moral courage on the part of the
Liverpool Academy in having resisted the popular opinion, and giving their prize on
the abstract merit of Mr. Hunt's production. In my own opinion, there are more originality, meaning, accurate conception of
character and incident, truthfulness, and inspiration in this picture than in any
other in the exhibition. Compared with many other highly-finished and matured
productions there it is like the infant Hercules compared with full grown
pigmies.” The following very interesting Message “To the Frequenters of the Walker
Art Gallery, Liverpool,” was received from Mr. HOLMAN-HUNT on the Opening
Day, 1907— Perhaps what I have already said elsewhere of the service which the Liverpool
Academy, representing your City, in the year 1851, rendered to the Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood might seem sufficient; but I must not be deterred by fear of appearing
egotistical from acknowledging the great service Liverpool rendered our Body by
awarding me the annual prize. After a lapse of over half a century I gratefully bear
witness to the conscientious courage of the Council which incurred contemporary odium
by its championship of our efforts at Art reform.1 From a provincial newspaper of the date—
THE LIVERPOOL ACADEMY PRIZE PICTURE
To the Editor of the Albion.
Sir,—The award by the Liverpool Academy of
the fifty-pound prize to Mr. Holman Hunt, for his Circumstance, “
As we sat together one night revolving many matters he said to me: J. E. Millais]
TWO LOVERS WHISPERING BY A GARDEN WALL
retroussé
nose, of a type the exact opposite to his own. When I had traced my counter ideal he
exclaimed, “Why, I say, that's a portrait of my pretty
cousin!” “Ah, then you have sadly neglected your duty
in not giving me the advantage of meeting her,” was my reply.
“Give me for my adoration a stately Rachel or Rebecca, and I will try
to charm her by laying all my extensive fortune at her feet. Item, one finished picture
much abused, one unfinished from
“Because,” I returned, “when I go to meet
my Rebecca or Rachel I shall not invite you to look on, and you will not require my
presence when you go to make love to your graceful charmer—
Seriously, I don't think that lovers should be pryed upon by painters. Pictures of
them always appear to me to be intrusive. Selfishness, Love's cousin, has its proper
place in life. Lovers appeal alone to Heaven as witness of their sacred pledges; a poet
may dwell upon their meetings as links in the chain of their story, and so pass on, but
not so the picture-maker. Tennyson, in the poem you are illustrating, makes it merely a
step in the progress of two lives. It may be a crochet of mine, but I have none but
passing interest in pictures of lovers, as lovers devoid of other interest, and, good
gracious! how they crowd on us on May Monday. If they are badly done I despise them, and
if they are well done I feel that I ought not to be there. In your hand I know the
subject will be treated with a manly vigour that will elevate it, so, as far as my
judgment affects your subject, regard it only as a whim of mine.”
“I understand your position now,” said Millais, “and I quite agree with you about the danger of maudlin sentiment. I feel some force too about the difference in the treatment of the matter by poets and artists, but I have my design finished, and the background of it advanced, and what remains will give me as much work as I can do before the end of the season. We've more than enough difficulty in fighting for our manner of work, without offending our enemies at present with theories of ”the higher purpose of Art.’”
Suddenly my companion's attention was arrested; he turned round and directed his
face to another point of the compass; inhaling the perfumes of the soft wind, he
exclaimed, “Is there any sensation more delicious than that awakened by
the odour of burning leaves? To me nothing brings back sweeter memories of the days that
are gone; it W. H. H.]
Further in our walk, Millais checked our pace and looked intently at a constable who had marched past us. “Whatever is it that makes you have such a sudden and absorbing interest in the policeman? He won't do for your lover,” said I.
“Look at him,” said Millais; “could any
one regard him as a boy;
“Yes,” I replied.
“That's it,” he said triumphantly; “that man has the nape of his neck clear, and it helps to make him look so sedate and respectable. I'll have my hair cut short directly I get to town,” and after I had laughed at him, he resumed his talk about old Mr. Drury.
T. Woolner]
On nearing Thames Ditton we looked at our watches, and Millais said,
“I hope this lady will give us tea. Old Drury was extremely strange in
manner, but very kind to me, and all the more entertaining from his eccentricity. He
died a short time ago, and his estate is in dispute. I don't know what this woman is
aiming at, but she wants to ask me some questions, and we shall see.”
Soon we found the house, and were received with great eagerness and with gentle thanks to
Millais for his visit. The lady had wished so much to have some information from him about
her singular relative, who had kept himself so strangely secluded from the family, but who
had been so well known to Mr. Millais. While she talked the maids prepared the tea-table,
and to our bewilderment carried in a child's chair with its occupant, whose strange
appearance could not but arrest our attention. He was no bigger than a boy of four, but
his face and figure marked him as stunted and deformed; it was impossible to make any
guess as to his
1
It was at about this time that William Allingham, the poet, became well known in our Circle.
The season was now already advanced autumn, and our evenings
1 “Holman-Hunt was heroically simple and constant in
his purpose of primarily serving religion by his Art, and had a Quixotic notion that
it was absolutely obligatory upon him to redress every wrong that came under his
notice. This mistake sometimes brought him into serious trouble, and more than once
into danger of his life.” —
“What a noble subject!” he cried. “But what is this small sketch at the side?”
“It is one,” I said, “that I want to talk
to you about as an example of what I meant by having an interest beyond that of the
initial one, when lovers are the theme of the design. You see the interest of the York
and Lancaster wars has never been drawn upon by painters, and it ought to be engrossing.
My design is to represent two lovers, the lady being the daughter of a Lancasterian.
They are seated on her father's castle walls; her dress will be white with red roses all
over it. He will be a Yorkist, with a jacket of red with white roses embossed upon it;
the castle walls will have shields in the entablatures with red roses painted upon them,
and upon the flag blown by the wind, to make the spectator more sure that she belongs to
the castle and that he is a stranger. I shall make him booted and spurred, and the rope
ladder
W. H. H.]
VOL. I. P
“What a splendid idea!” said he; “it will just do for the lovers in my picture. I will paint him a Yorkist, dressed as you say, and her a Lancasterian; it will do splendidly.”
“But,” I rejoined, “you can't do that;
the subject would be spoilt; W. H. H.]
“Well, that is true,” he added. “I'll make my man a Cavalier and my girl a Puritan, and I'll suggest that she has come to him by stealth in an old garden. That will do admirably.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I think the theme of the Cavalier and Roundhead has been rather worked to death in our day.”
He paused a moment. “I have got it,” he
said,—“the
“I have not worked it out yet, but I think it is a good subject. I should quote a passage out of the Proverbs, ‘The meeting of a friend with his friend is sweet, but far sweeter is the meeting of a man with his wife.’ I should make her in a tower with a flight of steps, such as I saw at Carisbrooke when I went that walking tour with Brown and Anthony. She would be working tapestry, glorifying the deeds of her husband, a Crusader; he has come up the steps unseen by her, and has caught her in his arms. A young son of five or six will be introduced, whom I have tried here as swinging on the gate; down below in the courtyard will be seen a body of soldiers, fresh from the war, boisterously saluting the old retainers and young girls. In the distance over the castle walls would be an arm of the sea, with a fleet of galleons anchored and pennons flying.”
“Why, you dog,” he said, “that would be as stupendous a subject as any of them; but you will begin with ‘Christ at the Door,’ won't you?”
“Yes, I shall send for a canvas for that immediately,” I answered.
“I will tell you what I'll do,” he added, with his
accustomed impetuosity; “I'll at once make a companion 1
I confess I felt somewhat staggered, but I paid little attention to this last remark, because often, if left to himself, he discovered reasons for not persevering in projects that had absorbed his attention at first; but two nights later he showed me a sketch he had made of “The Repentant Sinner,” and then I felt the necessity of protest.
“Sit down, my dear fellow, and consider. One strong interest in my design depends on the uncertainty as to whether the being within will respond; your picture would destroy all this. Besides, as you paint with greater facility than I do, your subject would be done first, and perhaps exhibited before mine, and thus the possible effect of Christ's appeal would be presented ere the cause of it were understood; this would be confusing, and would give the impression that I was developing your idea. In our Brotherhood each is independent; but your picture would encourage people to speak of me as your imitator. You won't mind my objecting to this. I must therefore ask you not to paint a companion picture, at least at present.”
He hastily said, “My dear fellow, I see you are perfectly right; I won't attempt it.”
He soon got the particulars of the
2
1 On the lines of this early design his later picture of
“Romans leaving Britain” was founded. 2 For the evolution of this picture, see Mr. J. Guille Millais'
report of it in
At this time, Collins, in his irresolute way, expressed an inclination to go one
Saturday afternoon to town and spend the Sunday with his mother. It was dread of the dark
path on his return at night along the lone road from Kingston station across the fields to
our farm that deterred him. “Nonsense,” said Millais;
“what do you fear most, ghosts or foot-pads?” The other
evasively replied, “Both, perhaps.”
“Now, really, Charley, you need not worry; we will meet you as the
train comes in, and walk back with you; we'll both go with you on the road at once, or
the dark will overtake you before you catch the train to-night.”
Stopping near the station, Millais shouted out, “Good-night, old
Timidity; hurry up or you'll have all Tam o' Shanter's troupe after
you.” And as a parting shot he added, “Give my love
to Harriet, and tell her that I shall soon want her to fix the day for the
wedding.” Harriet was no other than Collins's mother, whom in
rollicking way we pretended to court. The old lady, never failing in either wit or temper,
took the joke in good part with an amusing retort. Charley held up his hands deprecatingly
as we watched him advancing daintily, one foot before the other, in a straight line as
though he were walking on a tight-rope. Although slight, he was a very proper man, and his
blue eyes looked at a challenger without sign of quailing. “Why should
he be so fearsome?” we said one to the other as he gave a final
salute from the distance. “In some ways,” Millais said,
“the good fellow has the unflinching resolve of the conductor of a storming
party. When he left Oxford he got hipped about a fancied love affair, and becoming a
High Churchman, changed the subject of his picture from being an illustration of the
lady in
to a picture of a nun with a missal in her hand, studying the significance of the
passion flower. He can act on sudden resolve, and yet withal he is as fearful as a
mouse. He ought to be made to get over such folly.”
The next afternoon, to our delight, Millais' father appeared quite early; we took
him to our places of work, and to the shelters where our progressing pictures were housed,
and in every direction satisfied his pent-up curiosity, until the sun warned us to prepare
our visitor with refreshment for his return. We accompanied him to Maldon station, and
when the train moved away that evening, it bore a father justly happy in full proof of the
promise of a son who could bear the attacks of ignorance and malice, and surmount the
toils of detraction unruffled, without dread of the issue. Millais pirouetted smartly,
saying, “Now, isn't that a dear old Daddy? I am sure he enjoyed his
On our way we overtook two graceful damsels, servants at a house where Millais
visited. He at once called my attention to the fitness of one of these for the face of
But he was tired, and said, “I'm not going to humour him. Yesterday I didn't know the dear daddy was coming and that we should have to walk miles over rough fields. Let Charlie come and learn that illuminated turnips do not bite and that foot-pads are not now more numerous than policemen.” So I started alone, he shouting after me, “I know your little game; you want to cut me out with Harriet, but I'll be even with you!”
I was impatient while the lantern was being fitted up, for it was fully late.
At first, looking from the upland across the country, the furthest horizon of the
darkened earth could scarcely be distinguished from the lustreless sky, for the eyelids of
that day's wakefulness had closed. My outlook was soon altered, for in a few minutes I was
descending into a thick plantation, where the objects commanding my sight were only those
on which the spoke rays of the lantern were shed, the grass and pebbles on the road, the
ferns and weeds which swept my knees, the trunks of trees and network of their overhanging
branches against an indigo sky. Sometimes I stopped, not only to admire the tracery of
delicate leaves, but to observe exactly how far the light I carried brought objects before
me into visible being; it may have been my intrusion alone that made the twittering sentry
birds start away from their nests with alarmed cry, or that my light revealed some nearer
enemy which made the awakened guardian of a nest noisy in his alarm. My further steps led
me into a path at the side of the stream. Between me and the water was a hut long since
abandoned by gunpowder workers. With my new picture in view I had special reasons for
wishing to see the further side by night, and walked through the thick grass to explore
it. On the river side was a door locked up and overgrown with tendrils of ivy, its step
choked with weeds. I stood and dwelt upon the desolation of the scene, and pictured in
mind the darkness of that inner chamber, barred up by man and nature alike. When I had
regained the road and was making progress, a four-years
At that date, arriving by the last train from London at the Ewell station on the other side of the village, the stationmaster shut up his office and came out with a lantern to walk home. I accompanied him, being glad of his light. When we had entered under some heavy trees I cautioned him that some white animal was advancing towards us. “It will be sure to get out of our way,” he said, and walked on unfalteringly. Yet I kept my eyes riveted on the approaching being. When we had come nearer I interrupted our idle chat, saying, “But it is steadily coming towards us.” He turned up his gaze and was stopped by what he saw. The mysterious midnight roamer proved to be no brute, but had the semblance of a stately, tall man wrapped in white drapery round the head and down to the feet. Stopping within a few paces of us, he seemed to look through me with his solemn gaze. Would he speak? I wondered. Was his ghostly clothing merely vapour? I peered at it; it seemed too solid for this, and yet not solid enough for earthly garb. We both stood paralysed and expectant. Then the figure deliberately marched to our left, making a half-circle around us, till he regained the line he had been travelling upon, and paced majestically onward.
Clutching my companion's arm I exclaimed, “What is it?” He faltered, “It's a ghost.” “Let us follow it,” I said. “I have seen it more than enough,” said the stationmaster. “Lend me your lantern,” I urged, “that I may pursue and examine it.” But he refused. The figure was still visible striding towards Nonsuch Park in the thick darkness. Had I dared to follow it without a light, the striking of the church clock would have reminded me that I was already fully late for my uncle's demure household, and I left the mystery unsolved. At the point where our road met the village, we came upon two sober men, of whom we asked what person it was that had lately passed them. They said they had been standing there ten minutes, and nobody had gone by. Next day, and for long after, investigations were made by the stationmaster and his friends, but nothing more was heard to unravel the mystery.
Four years had gone since then. Being now alone, I tried whether by any stretch of imagination I could again conjure up the same apparition, but no effort of mine succeeded in resurrecting any spectre whatever.
Dismissing this mysterious recollection, I reached the main road, with its few
stragglers passing to their homes. The first was a solitary countryman, who returned my
salutation in cheerful manner; soon I heard a hilarious party coming along from afar in a
light cart who in passing joked me about Guy Fawkes and his lantern and continued their
loud chatter until, in intermittent gusts of merriment, they passed out of my hearing.
Then came a husband and wife with crying
After this I felt it questionable whether Charlie might not have missed me going by another path; but, afar on the other side of the road, there sounded the stirring of timid feet on the grassy footway. I crossed and stood in front of the person, the shadow of the lantern hiding my face, till with uplifted hand I discovered my friend, the picture of absolute terror. “All right, Charlie,” I said, putting my hand upon him to give him comfort. “Oh,” he gasped, “when I saw your lantern crossing the road and making for me so determinedly I gave up myself as lost, and as the light was raised and I could not see you, I did not know you till you spoke. What I have suffered on the road is beyond conception, and how I should get over the fields filled me with terror. How thankful I am to see you! Where's Millais?”
“His father came this afternoon, and after walking about a good deal he was too tired to come,” I said. “I've enjoyed my walk.”
We chatted on till Charlie gained breath and composure. “Now I want you to tell me about Wilkie and the other great artists,” I said. “Turner, Stodhard, Constable, Etty, and their like, whom you had, to me, the inconceivable luck of knowing in your earliest days.”
“Will it seem perversity to say that I think you were more to be envied than I?” said he. “You looked upon these men as lights in a distant temple that you were striving to reach. You saw the peril of becoming one of those who faint by the way, and you were prepared to encounter obstacles; you put out all your strength to arrive at your goal. In doing this you were forced to tread new ground, and you acquired the habit of doing so. The difference with me was that I was already enjoying the brightness and glory of the haven where they were resting, talking of the race they had run only as a part of their youth. I was dandled on their knees. I took to drawing from mere habit, and they all applauded my efforts. I looked upon their diadems as a part of manhood that must come, and now I begin to doubt and fear that was a mistake!”
“My dear Charlie,” said I, “learn
something from me. I have many times in my studio come to such a pass of humiliation
that I have felt that there was not one thing that I had thought I could do thoroughly
in which I was not altogether incapable. After I had drawn from the antique and life for
years, it has seemed to me that I was so incapable in the most elementary part of design
that I have set myself to practise making lines and curves of all kinds, like a
beginner. It has been the same with painting. There has on occasions appeared to me no
salvation but in working in black and white; in doing this I have affected being a
beginner. In our Pre-Raphaelitism, determination to eliminate all traditional
masterliness, when we design without Nature before us, makes us often draw less well
than we did before. However, it seems better thus to make sure of our footing in order
to sauter mieux.
Collins and I thus philosophised until we reached the farm, where night reigned supreme, and Millais was soundly sleeping.
It was continually interesting to note the differences between my two comrades, one fated to win honours, whatever the obstructions might be; the other, spite of original gifts and of strenuous yearnings, doomed to be turned back on the threshold of success by want of courageous confidence.
It was late in the autumn, but I had matured my preparations for “
I resumed my nocturnal work every full moon while people skated in the daytime in the valley two hundred feet below. After I had made my corrections in the night picture, I had still to apply myself to the sheep in my other canvas.
Late in the autumn Mr. and Mrs. Combe were in town, and they came down from
Oxford to visit us. This was my first introduction to two of the most unpretending
servants of goodness and nobility that their generation knew. They were surely
“the salt of the earth” to W. H. H.]
1
The worthy couple saw my pictures, and from that moment declared the greatest interest in the beginning of the “
Before returning permanently from Surrey I took the opportunity of being in town
late in the year to call on R. B. Martineau, who, having heard of my success with
Rossetti, had, through an old fellow-student, notified his wish to become my pupil in
painting. He had already been through the schools of the Academy, gaining some honours,
and wished at this point to train himself to paint subject pictures. Concluding
1 To whom Shakespeare bequeathed his sword. profession
at all, and advised, if he could reconcile himself to any other life, that he would
abandon the idea of becoming an artist. But to him the question of the lucrativeness of
the pursuit was not a vital matter, which fact removed W. H. H.]
The Old
Curiosity Shop, and this he painted in my studio, while I finished “
Gabriel Rossetti had not been to see us, although once or twice we had expected
him. William Millais came and stayed, painting a J. E. Millais]
Before we left, Millais' friends the Lemprières, Sir George Glynn, and many worthies of the neighbourhood came to see us.
My uncle at Ewell and his admirable wife were among our visitors. They were full
of deferred curiosity to see the pictures we three had been doing, and they drove over in
their light chaise to luncheon; they both highly enjoyed dwelling on the landscapes of our
paintings, but they caused us much laughter in their bewilderment about a water rat which
Millais had put in his “
With all our work done we took leave of the farm household and came up to town in December, parting from one another where the Waterloo Road and Strand met, thinking that we should often again enjoy such happy fellowship, but, alas! no two dreams are alike. Never did we live again together in such daily spirit-stirring emulation. I feel this deeply in my old age when I alone am left of the little band who painted together with so much mutual love and aspiration. I have dwelt much on homely details of the time; they carry with them a significance that no artist will deny.
Brown had now taken a studio at the back premises of a house
For God is Perfection, and whoever strives for Perfection strives for something that is
God-like.—Michael Angelo.
True painting can be learnt only in one school, and that is kept by
Nature.—Hogarth.
Naturally all my friends came to see the work done in the
country. Gabriel felicitated me upon the choice of my sacred subject, saying he had quite
recently read the whole Testament through from the first word to the last, in the hope of
finding some hitherto untreated circumstance suitable for painting, and he had not noticed
the text in Revelation. Miss Siddal kindly came to let me study the effect of the light
and shade on her beautiful copper-coloured locks. She told me that she had seen a small
print in a Catholic book shop illustrating “Behold, I stand at the door, and
knock,” which was in every particular exactly like my conception even to the
flitting bat, Christ crowned and robed, and carrying a lantern, as I had designed my
figure.
The statement was highly provocative of fear that at least some of my original thoughts had been anticipated. I therefore went at once to see the print, but the only resemblance was in the fact that the Saviour was standing and knocking at a door. In truth all the accessories which had given so much value in my eyes to the subject did not exist at all, but had been transplanted from my picture to the Overbeckian design by the imagination of the lady. One of my first duties was to design the lantern; the windows and openings had to be carefully studied in relation to the rays they would emit from the central light. It had to be made in metal; it seemed to me that tin might serve the purpose, which could be lacquered to represent gold. A metal worker agreed to make it for a small sum, but afterwards represented that the cost would scarcely be greater if made in brass, and as this seemed too trifling a consideration, I assented, but was not a little dismayed eventually at finding the price was over seven pounds.
On moonlight nights at Chelsea I was able, by some dried tendrils of
ivy—which I had brought from the door in Surrey and fastened to an old
board—to advance what I had done on the spot itself. In the daytime I worked on
“
As a pleasant and cheering distraction I occasionally dined with the Collins
family. Nothing could well exceed the jollity of these little dinners. Old Mrs. Collins
did not make our smoking after the meal a reason for absence from our company. We were all
hard-worked people enjoying one another's society, and we talked as only such can. Many of
the stories that were told were of artists and authors of the last generation. Verily a
man has not played his full part when he is buried. While yet his contemporaries old or
young have tongues wherewith to re-echo and reanimate his unforgettable personality, he is
still often called upon to come forth and repeat his rôle. David Wilkie, with his
simplicity, his absent-mindedness, and his strong Scotch accent; Turner, with his
unpolished exterior and his direct and piquant speech;
J. E. Millais]
MRS. COMBE
Amongst my studio visitors were Mr. and Mrs. Combe. They invited me to spend
Christmas with them and join in the Oxford festivities, particularly the celebration in
Magdalen Hall. I gladly availed myself of this pleasant opportunity; it was evident that
they overflowed with good thoughts for me, as for all their
protégés. Mr. Combe had, some W. H. H.]
VOL. I. Q
I had looked forward to my Oxford visit with no little nervousness. It seemed appalling to face the learned fellows and dignitaries of this University, and I knew that my introduction would be to them rather than to the undergraduates. The apprehension of their stiff exclusiveness made my experience of their genial and unaffected hospitality the more enjoyable. My estimable friends had won me favour, and on my presentation it seemed that every elder had put on his suit of youth, and had hidden away all his just claims to importance. I received a shower of invitations.
One morning at a college breakfast with many dons present, each of whom had soon
become warmly engaged in general conversation, my neighbour quietly asked me to reveal to
him the true purpose of Pre-Raphaelitism. I essayed it in confidential tones, charging
him to dismiss all explanations published in the Press, and went on to say that British
art when installed under George III was encouraged by what seemed the best judgment to
take the highest development of Italian art as the starting point of its own emulative
ambition. Reynolds in 1769, it must be remembered, was then the spokesman of the new
Academy just founded by the King; he declared his belief that the result of this school
would be so glorious that its work would soon eclipse that of all present art, and he was
thus prejudiced to look upon the one-eighth of
pure light and his seven-eighths of scientifically modulated
bituminous dark, but by the truths he gathered
anew from 1
While thus speaking I noticed that my other neighbour, having come to a break in
the chat with his gossip, turned to hear my treason, and then his companion joined our
little circle. From a lingering bashfulness of youth I felt the more need of hushed
privacy in my discourse, till suddenly there was a distinct turn all along the table, and
a doctor from afar in the most sedately polite manner asked whether I would have the
kindness to speak somewhat louder, as he was sure he was not alone in wishing to hear an
exposition of Pre-Raphaelitism. Oh! modest reader, did you ever in youth have such an
experience? If so, add to your own cause for trepidation that which I felt owing to the
irregularity of my education, and imagine my tremor
1 “When I was in Venice the method I took to avail
myself of their principle was this. When I observed an extraordinary effect of light
and shade in any picture, I took a leaf of my pocket-book and darkened every part of
it in the same gradation of light and shade as in the picture, leaving the white paper
untouched to represent the light, and this without any attention to the subject or to
the drawing of the figures. A few trials of this kind will be sufficient to give the
method of their conduct in the management of their lights. After a few experiments I
found the paper blotted nearly alike; their general practice appeared to be to allow
not above a quarter of the picture for the light, including in this portion both the
principal and the secondary lights; another quarter to be as dark as possible; and the
remaining half to be kept in mezzotint or half shadow.”—W. H. H.]
“Stop, pray,” said a don; “please tell us whom you quote?”
“I was quoting a passage from
“Tennyson!” was the chorus from several
voices. “You don't regard Tennyson as a poet,” and
some lines from the
I gave up that poem as poor, but justified my admiration by quoting others. The
digression went on warmly, and soon all the church clocks rang out our dismissal.
Throughout the whole of the gracious and pleasant converse with those whose friendship I
was happy enough to make in Oxford there was but one man, a fellow of Jesus, who endorsed
my enthusiastic defence of Tennyson. I was often invited to various college dinners, and
there continued my arguments as to the need of a reform in art. It is noteworthy that
there was less disposition to yield to me on the point of the excellence of the future
poet laureate and D.C.L. than on the reasonableness of the views of our new School of art.
How rarely new teachers find ready converts among their elders!
Before I left the University I had cordial invitations to visit my disputants at Commemoration, to which the Combes had also asked me to return.
I worked steadily at “
A certain amateur dealer came when these pictures were standing W. H. H.]
1
W. H. H.]
The next day Augustus Egg called saying that a friend of his had asked whether I would finish my original study of the “
1 “
“
The beautifully painted copper bowl will further elucidate the use of our
discovery of working over wet white. The picture was in Brown's
possession for several years, during which he frequently worked on it, and as frequently
improved it, 1
Brown's picture “
1 It was in the year 1856 that he took up this picture to cover
the body with drapery and make other changes. He did this to its manifest advantage,
as was always the case when he retouched his pictures. See Life of F. M. Brown, Chap. VII. p. 182.
My pupil Martineau had his picture of “Kit's Writing Lesson” very favourably placed for a first work in the Exhibition.
With these pictures of Brown and Martineau were many others evidencing the
influence of our School. Maclise had a painting of “King Alfred in the Danish
Camp,” in which the overhanging blossoms of a May tree were elaborated with the
utmost precision and delicacy. Arthur Hughes, who had been a steady disciple from the
beginning, had a painting of “R. B. Martineau]
wet white ground was tested afterwards throughout the profession. Frith
told me a few years later that he had tried it on a cap in the “
The opening day of the Academy went by without inquiries after the price of my
“ The robe worn in this portrait was that of Harvey, who discovered the circulation of the
blood. Sir R. Owen decreed that he should be buried in it.
It so happened on that afternoon there was another painter visiting the Professor. He was quite of the conventional faith; and spite of the fact that the battle over our principles had been raging for three years in the press, he at length, as we were assembled in the sunny little drawing-room, asked, as if it were quite a novel idea, whether I could explain on what grounds I put aside the canons of art which laid down the need of a restricted focus as the scheme of chiaroscuro in a picture, and why I disregarded other laws of effect discovered and composition practised by the greatest Masters. I had entered upon a preamble, when the host held up his hand as by a happy surprise, saying, “By the bye, I must now, while the sun still shines, be allowed to show Mr. Holman-Hunt my bees,” and he led me out to the end of the garden, where, with his large eyes turned on me, he said, “You know, Mr. Painter is a most excellent gentleman, and I am glad to see him here at times, but what he says about art cannot be of interest to any one whatever, and it is certainly not worth your answering, so you must excuse me for interrupting you,” on which he invited my pity for a poor bumble bee, hopelessly intoxicated in a canterbury bell.
The time for my Commemoration visit was now at hand, and I gladly went up to see my friends at Oxford. One of the Fellows of Christchurch, whose acquaintance I had been happy enough to make, was the Rev. J. Gordon, who had been the tutor of Ruskin. He gave me many interesting accounts of his pupil's time at the University; when Ruskin had temporarily lamed his ankle, he obtained permission from Ryman, the print-seller—who had a rich collection of Turner prints and drawings—to go into the back shop and make sketches from some of these. Mr. Ryman was intimate with Turner, and it happened that the latter, coming to Oxford at the time, entered the shop, and seeing the Gentleman Commoner engaged in copying one of his works, asked Ryman who the young man was thus wasting his time. Ryman replied that the stranger was a most enthusiastic admirer of Turner's work, and that nothing would delight him more than to be introduced, at which Turner went forward; thus began the personal friendship between the two.
I was at the very centre of the High Church party in Oxford; what they had done hitherto in introducing certain changes in the furniture of churches and in breaking down what may be called the beadledom of Church Service was altogether to my taste; but many serious men were anxious about the end these ecclesiastics had in view, and certainly there were utterances by them which seemed ominous of impending priestcraft. One of the new School, for example, deplored that “so beautiful” a monument as the Martyrs' Memorial should be erected in honour of such Protestants as Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer; yet in those days I found it difficult to believe that any Englishman would so far forget their national character as to desire in sober mind to suppress liberty of conscience. Two independent Movements were affecting the Universities.
The older of the innovations was directed to abolishing the taste for classical architecture, the first example of which was the porch of St. Mary's Church, built in 1637 under Laud's influence. The fashion then established in Oxford slowly degenerated in character to a style of architecture that might be called Hanoverian, without any grace of the Renaissance, bald and heavy, and constructed of stone doomed to unsightly decay. In London, from Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren to Adams and Chambers—with admirable ornamental designs in wood, stone, and metal, carrying out the architect's details—the choice of classicalism had fully justified itself. Although now nowhere in England had Classicalism vitality to claim admiration. In Oxford its heavy structures could only be tolerated as a foil to Gothic buildings. It was not wonderful that the revival of “Gothic” should have been hastily made under the influence of literary reversion to feudal poetry and the picturesque; and perhaps the revulsion was hastened by the memory that the lovely cloisters of Magdalen only escaped destruction in Queen Anne's time through lack of funds for completion of the projected quadrangle, of which the “New Buildings” was the commencement. Perhaps Blore's staircase at Christchurch was the first effort of the attempt at Gothic revivalism. The passion for classical taste died hard and, it may be said, not without a certain honour; in the erection of the Taylor Buildings by Cockerell.
By 1850 the University taste for modern Gothic was established beyond recall; and don and undergraduate indulged in a glossary of terms, despising all styles not of the “correct period.”
While the graduates spread all over the country as squires and parsons, churches
and mediæval buildings of “incorrect date” in whole or
part, were, under their influence, improved off the face of the earth, to make way for
restorations of the approved pattern, and more destruction was wrought than had been
suffered by the historical architecture of England since the havoc of Henry VIII or the
Puritans. With the dislike of all but one type of design for new buildings, every detail
was expected to conform with the approved pattern; and I could only conclude that
The second Movement, of later origin, was for the establishment of scientific teaching in the University. Dr. Acland was the chief representative of the proposed reform, and he worked with both discretion and courage. His artistic instincts made him love the picturesqueness of Gothic architecture. The danger from the blindness with which its champions had introduced it was not yet foreseen, and when the building of the Museum was canvassed he joined force with those who favoured one of mediæval design. When, shortly afterwards, the building by Woodward and Deane was in progress, many powerful elders expressed discontent in no measured terms.
The Literature and Art of an age are ever inspired by a kindred spirit, the latter faithfully following the former.
My championship of Tennyson was still challenged, but I have reason to believe
that had the name of the author of
The fashion for making robbers, regicides, corsairs, and betrayers of homes and innocence, into heroes of romance, which Byron, Schiller, Goethe, and Shelley had followed, still captivated the elder world. This rebellious fashion had been provoked in natural reaction from the hollowness of pious sentiment expressed in monotonous diction by previous rhymers, and the resultant outburst had found favour in the great genius of its reckless exponents. The prophets of disorder had commanded sonorous metre to their service, and made rivalry, in the race for outrageous liberty, fascinating. Thus while weak-minded readers were left to follow out the sentiment in practice, others of the elect in taste acquiesced that poetry should not be judged by standards of right morals or common sense, though when they put down the affecting volume and took up the newspaper, or engaged in their duties as members of society, they felt disgust at records of wickedness, the suffering of penalty for which had drawn tears on the perusal of the poet's verses. The young of the first years of the nineteenth century who had been enslaved by this bombastic heroism had grown venerable at the time I speak of, and still unquestioningly retained their taste, while a newer generation had found in Keats, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, the manly heroism of simple virtue which Tennyson and Browning followed, a basis on which Chaucer and the early English poets had founded our Verse. Yet a puerile display of false pathos and religion still lingered both in Literature and Painting.
It was high time for the winnowing of chaff from grain. Thackeray, most
uncompromising satirist of the mawkish authors who indulged in sickly pathos and fevered
sentimentality, had barely yet won general
Soon after my return from Oxford I had the pleasure of going to old Mr. and Mrs.
Millais and paying the remainder of my debt. Seeing that I was removed from the keen money
pressure which had made me agree to the repetition of a group in “
About this time Robert Martineau spoke to me of 1
Lear overflowed with geniality, and at the same time betrayed anxiety as we turned over the drawings, deploring that he had not the ability to carry out the subjects in oil; in some parts of them he had written in phonetic spelling comments which the outlines would not explain— “Rox,” “Korn,” “Ski,” indulging his love of fun with these vagaries.
When I was about to take leave he frankly inquired of me what I should do to make
use of such material,
1
Mr. Phillpotts writes: “Among the notes and sketches brought home
with me from my holiday in France and Italy, I find this little sonnet, written last
month. Edward Lear, the famous author of the
Edward Lear was born in the year 1812, and became a popular painter. The Earl of
Derby, who was his patron, sent him to Italy and Greece, where he painted many
landscapes which were exhibited in the Royal Academy. His
“To speak candidly,” I said, “I could not attempt to paint pictures in a studio from such mere skeleton outlines.”
He looked dejected and said, “What can I do?”
“Let us consider a particular one,” I said, and took up a drawing of “
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I will do this at once, but I should want you to help me.”
“Well,” I said, “I am going to begin a picture at Fairlight, and I am going down to take a lodging in some farmhouse. Will you come with me?”
He said, “Let me save you the trouble. I will go down and find
The Martineaus, who lived close by, had a large Newfoundland dog called Cæsar.
To Lear, a man of six feet, with shoulders in width as of Odysseus, the freaks of this dog were truly exasperating. “How can the family,” said he, “ask me to call upon them when they keep a raging animal like that, who has ever his jaws wide open and his teeth ready to tear helpless strangers to pieces? They say it is only his play. Why, in the paper I lately read of a poor old woman who was set on by just such a beast! It was only his play, they said; yes, but the poor old creature died of it nevertheless; such monsters should not be allowed to go at large. In Albania and Greece the shepherds have dogs for guarding their sheep from wild beasts, and when one is in such countries one cannot wonder if these ferocious creatures sometimes attack strangers, but to keep them as family pets is not to be borne.” In the early morning he occupied himself in an extensive correspondence; sometimes he would write as many as thirty letters before breakfast. For the first ten days he accompanied me to the cliffs. Thus he obtained acquaintance and watched my manner of work; professing himself satisfied with this, he found some limestone rocks, which served exactly for his “
Lear, on account of his health, had made Rome his home for thirteen years. He was
twenty years my senior, but this did not VOL. I R
Certainly fate could not have sent me a more agreeable or helpful companion to prepare me for my settled purpose of painting in the East. While we were at work out of doors he would tell stories of the incidents of his many wanderings, thorough Calabria, Albania, and Greece, of which he had hundreds of drawings. He surprised me by revealing that he was uncombative as a tender girl, while at the same time the most indomitable being in encountering danger and hardship. Nothing daunted him, and yet no one could be more fearful than he of certain difficulties he had to face as the fixed conditions of travelling. He would rather be killed than fire a pistol, horses he regarded as savage griffins; revolutionists, who were plentiful just then, he looked upon as demons, and Custom officers were of the army of Beelzebub. On the other hand, he had the most unquenchable love of the humorous wherever it was found. Recognition of the ridiculous made him a declared enemy to cant and pretension, and an entire disbeliever in posturers and apers of genius either in mien or in the cut of the coat or affectation of manners. He kept what he called “Ye Booke of Hunte,” in which he wrote down my answers to inquiries as to pigments and systems of painting, and he exercised me with funny sentences in Italian of every variety.
While the singer of nonsense rhymes and I were busy working, a letter from Millais announced that he would come down on Saturday night and spend Sunday with us. Lear had not seen him, but he was anxious to know what manner of man this already widely renowned one was. I had described him so glowingly that Lear remarked he was indeed a fit being to bring in the “Millaisnuem” of art, but he inquired, “Is he disposed to lord it over others?” “Well,” I replied, “you know there are men who are good-nature itself, but who have a knack of always making others carry their parcels.” “Oh, but I won't carry his!” said Lear. “Yes, you will,” I returned; “you won't be able to refuse.”
When the visitor arrived good comradeship was quickly established. The next day
we started early to reach Winchelsea and Rye, and take our chance for luncheon at the inn.
We descended to the beach by Fairlight Cliffs, where we walked between pools of water left
by the receding tide. These had been undisturbed and clear as crystal to the bottom where
families of crabs were basking in the sun. On our approach they began to burrow into the
sand, raising little mounds behind them; we had not walked far when we came upon
cuttlefish bones lying about, clean and unbroken. Millais, when he had picked up a few,
declared that he would take them home. The argument that they could be bought at any
chemist's in London availed nothing, neither did the remark that with our system of
painting they were scarcely wanted. Millais said he had never before seen such good ones,
and
We were all delighted with the place we had walked to see. We examined the church and the country round about, which made such an impression upon Millais that two years later he returned with Mike Halliday as his pupil, and painted “
At the end of a fortnight the heavenly weather we began with was broken up by a great storm, and although this disturbance passed away, the interval was followed by a succession of rainy days, causing woeful interruption to out-of-door work.
One calm morning, on arriving at my cliff, there was so thick a sea mist that I
could not see the distance. Leaving my picture-case still closed, I spread my rug and took
out a book to read. I was disturbed by advancing footsteps, and, on looking up, a
visitor—proved by canvas and portentous easel in hand to be a
painter—was close upon me. As I did not wish to encourage interruption, I
resumed my study. Soon my brother of the brush stood behind, challenging me with
“A fine morning!” I said, somewhat curtly, that it
was not much to my taste; but my visitor remained. He inquired whether I was making a
sketch of the spot in oil- or water-colour, and chattered on that many distinguished
artists had been working in the neighbourhood lately. Clint had only left last week. Did I
know him? Tom Danby had also been sketching there. “Do you know him?” “Yes; indeed, in my small and
choice collection, I am happy in being the possessor of a picture by
him,” I said. At this his opinion of me seemed to grow, and he talked
of other celebrated artists and of what they were doing, not at all discouraged by my show
of desire to continue my reading. At last I hazarded the remark that painters of late
appeared to make a great point of working direct from Nature.
“Yes,” he responded, “all but the W. H. H.]
THE CITY GATE, WINCHELSEA
The “
Lear now had to move his place of painting to the other side of Hastings. He found a spot with an abundance of fig branches rooted in the fissures of the rocks, with rooks in hundreds. Thus he obtained all the materials for his picture, which became an impressive work.
The Christian Religion under every theory of it, in the believing or the unbelieving
mind, must ever be regarded as the crowning glory, or rather the life and soul of our
own modern culture. How did Christianity arise and spread among men? It arose in the
mystic deeps of man's soul; and was spread abroad by the preaching of the word; by
simple altogether natural and individual efforts; and flew, like hallowed fire, from
heart to heart till all were purified and illuminated by it, and its heavenly light
shone, as it still shines and (as sun or star) will ever shine through the whole dark
destinies of man.—Carlyle
Altogether I was in low spirits when I returned to town, and I
dreaded to look at my work lest it should be disappointing, but after some three or four
days I opened the case, and was relieved to find how far it represented my intention. I
then wrote to Mr. Charles Maude, telling him that I had given the additional inches to the
canvas solely for my own satisfaction; that I had intended to say nothing whatever about
it, but finding that it had resulted in so much extra work, and in causing a substantial
increase of value to the picture, I trusted he would not be shocked at my proposing that
after all I should make the repetition of the group of sheep in “
I worked steadily throughout the winter on “
1 (From a letter of Charles Collins congratulating W. H. H. on
the sale of “
“Those obstinate, fervid, often wrong-headed Pre-Raphaelites, who will set
us wrangling with their enthusiastic, ascetic crotchets and poetic extravagances, are
strongly represented here....Perhaps the most beautiful and magical picture in the
room is that by their Coryphæus, Mr. W. H. H., “Fairlight
Downs.”—Oct. 30, 1858
My earliest professional champion and friend, Augustus L. Egg, had watched the “
We had continual signs that there was a division in the camp of our enemies. Every exhibition contained examples of attempts to work from Nature, in avowed, and still more often in unavowed, accordance with our principles, and the efforts made by professed adversaries to appear confident of our defeat were not always very impressive. Neither was their curiosity to see our last production indicative of contempt.
After we had sent in our pictures to the Exhibition we gave up a full day to a
task which proved that we had not forgotten our bond of good fellowship. Woolner had in
his letters explained his want of fortune in the gold-fields, and had again made art his
profession by establishing himself as a portraitist in medallions and busts, and it seemed
that his practice in this branch of work was improving. He informed us further that as our
names appeared so often in the home newspapers it would be an advantage to him with the
colonists to have visible evidence of our friendship. We therefore all met one morning at
Millais' studio, and set to work to complete a collection of our portraits, in pencil,
chalk, or pastel. Millais did William Rossetti and Stephens. William, if I am not
mistaken, did make a beginning with some one, but gave up his purpose. Stephens abstained
from any attempt. Gabriel chose me for his subject, and I managed to get Millais and
Rossetti done, although the slowness of Gabriel, with his appeals for special posings from
me gave the dusk the opportunity of overtaking us before I had quite finished Millais.
Rossetti's tendency in sketching a face was to convert the features of his sitter to his
favourite ideal type, and if he finished on these lines, the drawing was extremely
charming, even if you had to make-believe a good deal to see the likeness, while if the
sitter's features would not lend themselves to the pre-ordained form, he went through a
stage of reluctant twisting of lines and quantities to make the drawing satisfactory. With
unlimited time his work became eminently true and artistic too. On this occasion he had to
leave off when my likeness stood between the two stages, so that the verdict given was
that it made me twenty years older than I could claim to be, and William Rossetti
suggested that it resembled Rush, a notorious murderer of the day. However, the drawings
all went as they were left that evening, and they were framed together to hang in
Woolner's W. H. H.]
1
On the Sunday before opening day, Augustus Egg came to tell me that “
I ought here to add that a few nights after my interview with the Academician who
had originally given me a commission and had then withdrawn it, in Egg's presence he
boasted, “Young Hunt called on me the other morning, asserting that I had given
him a commission for fifty guineas, but I soon told him that I had never done so; and he
showed me some designs, which I declared to him candidly were odious and full of
affectation.” At this Egg said, “Stop!” From each at
table he asked, “Were you not at Foster's two years ago with Charles
Reade?” When all had remembered, he went on, “Did or did not
—— come in boasting that he had asked Hunt to paint a picture of one or two
figures for fifty guineas?” Egg would have no evasions, and every one
remembered the circumstances. “As for the rest,” he added,
“Hunt brought
1 The collection some twenty years after was broken up, some of
the portraits being sold at Christie's. The pastel of Rossetti, much rubbed, and in
danger of obliteration, was obtained by his brother William, who kindly lent it to me
to make an oil painting of it, which I still possess.2 This he kept at hand to enjoy its mysterious colours.W. H. H.]
—— was silenced, but he never forgave me; men rarely do if they have done you an injustice.
Tom Taylor, who had made an impression of liberality by his enthusiastic article on
“
With such experience as we had, it was amusing to read references to painters as
generally leading a lazy, cigar-smoking life. The only artists I ever knew who achieved
work of note in any sense whatever, went first through a steady training of several years,
and afterwards entered their studios with as unvarying a punctuality as business men
About the end of 1852 I had the happiness to be chosen as one of the original members of the Cosmopolitan Club; its meetings in Charles Street were in continuation of less formal ones held there when G. F. Watts used the room as a studio. When he relinquished it, his artistic and other friends had taken steps to keep together and extend the circle of remarkable men of differing intellectual activities whose association had represented the talking clubs of Dr. Johnson's time.
One large wall of the room was covered by the masterly composition painted in the Villa Careggi, Italy, by the late occupant, and then called, “
There was ever a throng in the room of the true working men of the time; English
literary men, artists, statesmen, and noblemen met together in a spirit of unreserve truly
enjoyable. Thackeray was a member of this club, and it was here that I first set eyes
upon this wondrous delineator of the hidden impulses of humanity. I had read all of his
books I could lay hands on. Of all modern authors he was the one to whom I felt most
reason for gratitude, in that in place of general moralising he interpreted into
contemporary and personal language the passions of life. I looked at him with hardly
concealed G.F. Watts]
Another opportunity specially appreciated by me at this time was my
Proceeding with my painting on “
Once when I was riding on the omnibus to Chelsea, the driver—talkative about the characters of an eccentric kind peculiar to the neighbourhood—having spoken with amusement of Carlyle, of his staid aspect, his broad-brimmed hat, and his slow gait, added he had been told “as how he got his living by teaching people to write,” and he mentioned other odd characters who were unknown to me. “But I'll show you another queer cove if you're coming round the corner,” he went on. “You can see him well from the 'bus; he is in the first floor, and seemingly is a-drawing of somethink. He does not go to bed like other folks, but stays long after the last 'bus has come in; and, as the perlice tells us, when the clock strikes four, out goes the gas, down comes the gemman, opens the street door, runs down Cheyne Walk as hard as he can pelt, and when he gets to the end he turns and runs back again, opens his door, goes in, and nobody sees no more of him.” But that night the “cove” was not there, as it turned out, and the driver said, with disappointment, “Ah! it is unlucky; this ain't one o' his nights.”
I had modelled a head for the Christ, taxing my friends in turn from whose
features anything could be gained. Appreciating the gravity and sweetness of expression
possessed by Miss Christina Rossetti, I felt she might make a valuable sitter for the
painting of the head for which my plaster model but in parts served. She kindly agreed,
and Mrs. Rossetti brought her. I decided to use the opportunity afforded by the sitting to
work direct on the canvas rather than make an independent drawing of her, otherwise I
might now have a memento of her of great interest; but for me the practice of making
separate studies of vital parts of a picture does not always bring a gain commensurate
with the loss entailed by it; on the canvas itself the surrounding forms and lines often
suggest improvement of the initial idea which brings the
When my picture was near completion, Augustus Egg came concerning a design of
“
At this point my good friend Egg urged me carefully to reconsider my resolution
to go abroad; he insisted that it was only after a continuously bitter struggle that I had
succeeded in getting recognition; that now I had secured an excellent prospect; that the
world must be taken as it is, and demands that a painter should identify himself with one
class of subject, adhering to that so as to be readily recognised. It was conducive also
to a man's fortune to be
en evidence
, he said. He knew of cases where men, changing their subjects, and being away for a
time, had had to begin the battle all over again. “How do you
know,” he said, “that your patrons will follow you on new ground,
and that is assuming that the untried difficulties alone would not prevent you from
making a success of your experiment?”
I insisted that the fashion he spoke of appeared to me an unwholesome one in its
influence on art, and that hitherto I had ignored it, as I had already painted pictures of
very varying subjects; that an artist should not be limited in his interests; that it was
for him to find in the world the overflowing garners of beauty, and to reveal these
unconsidered graces to his less-observant fellows. To Egg's argument that I should go only
for a few months to make sketches, and come back to paint from them, I demurred that
others had done this; Roberts, for example, and Wilkie had intended to do so, that I was
convinced the sketches by the latter would have had no great service for pictures had he
lived to make use of them. I revealed that my dream of going to Syria had originated when
I was a boy at school when the lessons from the New Testament were read, and Art had given
my childish project more distinctive purpose, since by means of it I might illustrate the
life of Jesus Christ, and truth, wherever it leads, being above price, must increase the
beauty of the story of the Divine Man. Art of the highest, illustrating it, has mostly
dwelt upon the supernatural and ignored the human aspect, and I contended
“every generation should contribute its quota of knowledge, so I wish
to do my poor part, and in pursuing it, I ought not surely to serve art the
It was not alone the jeopardy of my professional prosperity that was urged upon my attention as connected with my project. From many quarters came remonstrances more or less similar to those Rossetti had already advanced. Patmore urged graphically that the flora I should find would be only that of overgrown weeds, and that no natural beauty could be found that might not be gained in tenfold degree at home. Ruskin refused to admit that any additional vitality could be gained by designing and painting in Syria and argued that my true function in life was to establish and train a new School of Art, and that this important service would be sacrificed by my wild venture. Friends with a simple personal feeling pressed me to remember the fate of Wilkie, and hesitate before taking a course which would probably end either in an ocean grave, or in the whirlwind of the desert, or in a fever-freighted life to the end of it. While “
I may say that any occult meaning in the details of my design was not based upon
ecclesiastical or archaic symbolism, but derived from obvious reflectiveness. Naturally
figures such as language had originally employed to express transcendental ideas typified
my meaning, and I found by experience that they proved no distraction from the main
purpose. In making a night scene, lit mainly by the lantern carried by Christ, I had
followed metaphorical explanation in the Psalms, “Thy word is a lamp unto my
feet, and a light unto my path,” with also the accordant allusions by St. Paul
to the sleeping soul, “The night is far spent, the day is at hand.”
The symbolism was designed to elucidate, not to mystify, truth; and as I gave no
explanation of my underlying meaning, and the purpose was in the main interpreted truly,
the strictures upon my typical presentment of the subject are surely not founded on
reason. My first visitors were interested in the mystic treatment, although they were not
on that account prevented from
Living at Chelsea, I was near to the house of the philosopher who had from his
genius pure and simple won worship of such degree that it was treason at the time I write
of to limit the adoration offered at his shrine. Although Thomas Carlyle was strangely
deficient in gladsomeness of soul for a prophet who was to regenerate the beaten-down
children of men, the reading of any chapter of his could not leave any reflecting man
reluctant to acknowledge the wealth of his sturdy genius. How the revulsion of feeling
that has grown up about him since his death can be maintained while his books are within
reach, it is difficult for me to understand; it has arisen perhaps from the fact that the
clever wife, having no one in her household to whom she could tell her real and imaginary
vexations, committed a statement of these to her diary as a confidant that would never
speak the secrets to others. What a difference this has made in his reputation from the
days when young authors such as James Hannay left my bachelor gatherings for a quarter of
an hour, only to look up at the dark house of the great sage, and to distinguish the room
he was sitting in by the light in his window! I had read all his books that I had been
able to buy or borrow, and with all the reverence of my nature I had seen the living
prophet rambling along the streets of the neighbourhood, bent down, as it seemed, with the
weight of sad wisdom—for joy it never seemed to have brought. Curious as his
aspect was in his slow perambulations, it was noticeable that never did the rudest boor or
the most impudent gutter-boy fail to be chilled into dumb propriety when he passed; they
were silenced in their noisy idleness by his outer grotesqueness and inner grandeur. It
was noticeable to me that none of the thousand entertaining incidents of childish caprice
and character, nor the endless surprises of whim in the grown-up children of men, ever
made him pause or turn his head; his eyes were at all times turned inwards. Despite this
habit of mental absorption, he could at unexpected disturbance awaken to reality. One day
walking on a narrow pavement, passing a lady girded with crinoline hoops, he was well-nigh
thrown to the ground; disentangling his foot, he recovered his balance of limb and temper,
and, unruffled, turned ceremoniously to the lady, raised his hat and made his bow,
revealing neither annoyance nor sarcasm. Before this period a visitor, in leaving the
Carlyles' to come to me, had told Mrs. Carlyle of his intention, and the lady asked with
interest about me and my work, a curiosity in which her husband somewhat participated.
This induced me, when I had some pictures finished, to ask my friend to ascertain from her
whether the prophet would honour VOL. I. S
5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea,
13 th April.
Dear Mr. Hunt,Will you oblige me by letting Mr. Watson see the Picture? Having raised his curiosity about it to a pitch, I feel myself responsible for the gratification thereof!
Mr. Carlyle says “it is a really grand Picture! The greatest Picture that he has seen painted by any modern man!” And Mr. Carlyle being notorious for never praising except in negations (“
nota bad Picture”—“a picturenotwholly without a certain merit,” etc., etc.), the present outburst ofpositivepraise evinces an appreciation of your Picture not to be exceeded by “any modern man!”Please recollect that you settled with him to come here some evening soon.
Yours very sincerely,
Jane W. Carlyle.
This naturally encouraged me to repeat my invitation to him to see my pictures.
Mrs. Carlyle had often in chatting to my friends let them know that she had been
a noted beauty in her youth and an heiress, and that her friends were much averse to her
marriage with Carlyle, but that she would not give him up. She also revealed the same to
me. It seemed absurd that the lady who had by her marriage become one of the most renowned
wives of her time—instead of being the wife of a respectable
mediocrity—e.g. of his inconsiderate demand for buttons for his clothes by return
post, when the letter arrived after the shops were shut—I think she was one
It was Carlyle's second visit to my studio that best revealed the inner nature of the man, when “
He vouchsafed but passing notice of my defence. “It's a' wilful
blindness, ye persuade yourself that ye do believe, but it's high time that ye gave up
the habit of deluding yourself.” I tried again to say that his own
teaching was of the spirit of truth coming to men, who are bound to listen, and that no
Spirit of Truth was so candid as that which Christ represents; but he would not stop, and
his good wife more vehemently beckoned silence. “I'll tell ye what my
interest in the matter is,” he said; “I have a screen at home, and
on it I have put portraits, the best I can anyhow get—often enough I have to
be content with very poor ones—of all the men that ever were on earth who
have helped to make us something better than wild beasts of rapine and havoc; of all the
brave-hearted creatures whose deeds and words have made life a term of years to bear
with patience and faith, and I see what manner of men most of these were; Socrates and
Plato, Alexander, Pompey, Cæsar, aye, and Brutus, and many another man of the
old time who won or lost in the struggle to do what they deemed the justest and wisest
thing. By the help of these effigies I can conjure each up to my eyes as though the
ancients were old acquaintances and I can call up more or less vividly many a man of the
time that has come since; but that grandest of all beings, that Jesus of heavenly omens,
I have no means whatever of raising up to my sight with any accredited
form.” Taking a long breath here, he proceeded as if to a new chapter:
“I am only a poor man, but I can say in serious truth that I'd
thankfully give one third of all the little store of money saved for my wife and old
age, for
“Look back a moment at what this school of Pre-Raphaelites has done
already. If their principles had in them anything of truth, they knew that
condemnation, misconstruction—oblivion, if you will, would not quench its
light for ever; some day it would burn through with consuming fire. The beginnings,
therefore, were among the lowly things of the earth, ‘whatsoever things
are lovely, whatsoever things are pure;’ ever mounting upwards to one
end; the running stream becoming a great river, and the quiet light a burning torch;
teaching lessons of purity, singing legends of heroism, wakening into horror the
fickle cruelty of unholy love, startling into alarm and remorse whatever is cold,
cruel, and inconstant, finding at last a consummation and happy fellowship in such
thoughts as realised the ‘W. H. H.]
1
1 For later investigation see “Sir Wyke Bayliss on
the Likeness of Jesus Christ.”1
1 “Once more art has renewed itself, done
battle for itself, like a little Hercules has crushed its serpents, the first of
many labours; laid the foundation of a new renaissance, amidst scorn and derision,
as ill-fated as the laugh that Remus laughed over the building of the great city
when the death-stroke met him; above all, has linked itself again to faith and
religion, its natural home and source of inspiration....
His Head, and the royal robes enfolding Him, starred with jewels; so are we bowed down with awe before the Judge of quick and dead; yet are there signs of comfort, making the God whom we worship, and the Brother whom we love, one; and these are the crown of thorns budding with new leaves, and the pierced hands....And while the heart is bowed downwards yet in silence, filled through and through with its glory, that wondrously lovely background, earth and sky together, comes upon one like a soft wind, when the brain is overwrought and fevered; the orchard, too, and fruit trees, till one remembers the written words of the wise king: ‘As the apple-tree among the trees of the wood, so is my Beloved among the sons.’ Have we not seen it many a time, that strange pale colour in the sky at night, so bright along the east that we know the day is coming? The stars up in heaven are very bright, piercing through the boughts till they seem to hang like white blossoms among the leaves, but above the Head is one, very bright and large and dazzling, and we know it for His star that led the wise men westwards, and think perhaps of the time when that star shone above Him, in the lowly stable of Bethlehem.
“I believe that every man, to whom God has granted truthfulness,
veneration, and earnestness, will come from the diligent reading of this book with a
spirit of deep solemnity upon him.”—Edward Burne
Jones
The dark weather delayed my finishing “
While I was still delayed, Mr. Agnew came saying that he had heard of my project, and had so much admiration of it that he had determined to offer me five hundred guineas for the first figure picture I should paint in the East. It was a liberal proposal, but I felt obliged to say that it would be so uncertain what I should have the opportunity to do, that it would be wiser for neither of us to be bound, and that instead I would propose to give him the refusal of the first picture I could finish at the price that should then suggest itself to be fair. He could not understand my rejection of so handsome a commission, and these proposals came to nothing.
Thomas Seddon was an amateur friend of our circle. He had for years desired to convert his furtive indulgence in art into a professional pursuit of it, but being of value in his father's business, he had been indefinitely chained to it. He was about thirty-three years of age when, hearing of my Eastern project, he asked to join me, and thus by novelty of subject and my instruction make up in a measure for his tardy commencement. As I was not yet ready to start, he elected to go on before me to Cairo, in fear that otherwise he might further lose his freedom. One evening we met at Brown's studio, to take leave of our common friend. I found our host full of enthusiasm about my Egyptian and Syrian project, and in his warmth he said that had he not been married he would certainly have come too.
Millais came back from Scotland before my start. He had been J. E. Millais]
J. E. Millais]
1
I was waiting for one bright day to finish “
I took a cab and made a round of calls on my friends to say good-bye.
J. E. MILLAIS
My thoughts in connection with the past were led to the Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood, from which we had hoped so much, and which, it could not be ignored, was now,
at least in part, a failure. The old comradeship was kept up as far as possible by letter,
and renewed on my return. I for long cherished the hope that again as old men, with all
the fever of distracting life abated, we might have other Pre-Raphaelite
1 In doing this he indulged the ambition, which we had
entertained from the beginning, to combine architectural design with picture painting
as part of the work of a cultivated artist.D. G. Rossetti]
From D. G. R.
Remember thirty centuries look down upon you.
Arriving in Paris on the 14th of January, I made a halt to visit the
Louvre and beat up Brodie, the English student. He had not yet given his coup
de grace to his picture of “
I took the train to Châlon and got on board the Saone steamer. Ice was about everywhere and the deck slippery, the fog-horn continually sounding all the way to Lyons, where we landed. The next morning we descended the Rhone, and before noon crossed the border-line of extreme climates, which all passengers recognised as a sudden command to put aside greatcoats. The boat occasionally got aground, but the fixed stem was treated as a pivot; the force of the current acted on the floating stern with such a swing, that when the half-circle was described the whole hull was free to continue down the stream, and so to go ahead till another sandbank gave a fresh opportunity for the manœuvre. At Valence we slept. Romance and charm were in the air, and after dinner at the old-fashioned inn, as I turned to the broad hearth with a welcoming log ablaze, I thought fondly of Deverell, who had often enacted imaginary adventures of dramatic character which we were to enjoy together in our later life. His ill-fortune sapped the large promise of his genius.
The next morning we reached never-to-be-forgotten Avignon, and from thence
Marseilles, where the P. and O. steamer was still getting
AVIGNON
M. E. H.-H.]
I became friendly with many of the Indian officials on board, who invited me to
come and see them in India, but after three years I was pained to read of some of them as
having come to their end in the Mutiny. These men were a visible illustration of the
greatness of the British Empire and of the vast trusts it held towards the advancement of
the world. How such a surpassing nation could be indifferent in its governmental
recognition to the expression of the people's soul by Art could not but be a puzzle to me,
and I reflected that its decline must be precipitated, if there were not that
recognition—which had distinguished all dominant nations of the
past—that Art must take her part in the national life, for if left merely to the
patronage of a few rich men, moved hither and thither by the whim of the day in the
current in which they swim, it must decline; and although individual triumphs of British
genius will survive, no National taste will remain, no stamp such as that which makes men
say of an exhumed antiquity, while there is any form to be deciphered, that it is
Egyptian, Etruscan, Greek or Italian. There must be a real necessity for design felt in
the nation; it must be a want; food to the intellectual and sensuous hunger of the people;
it must be an adjunct to religion, or—if you quarrel about names—what
men accept in the place of religion; in its highest form it must be in their temples; it will not be found in after days if it serves only to flatter the rich;
it should be a freemason's sign to all; one which must declare itself to strangers as well
as to ourselves, and it must have a growth, gradual and steady, to perfection. Such were
my solitary musings while I paced the deck.
It was a delightful voyage, with porpoises racing the vessel and flying-fish shooting through the prismatic arcs of the waves even on to the deck. How sweet, too, it was to look over the gunwale into the lapis-lazuli water, dense as in a dyer's vat, marbled all through with engulfing veins.
Egypt showed itself very unimposing with its low sand dunes, and for landmarks only the lighthouses, Pompey's Pillar, and the many windmills which owed their origin to Napoleon. Alexandria still bore trace of the sleep from which Lieutenant Waghorn, the pioneer of the Overland Route, had aroused it only some ten years before. When landed, the passengers got as best they could to a house called a hotel, where people sat on their luggage and clamoured, much in vain, for refreshment and attention. Our steamboat in the canal was captained by a native, and the crew were uncontrolled and unmannerly, to which the ship bore witness in its untidiness.
A full hour before sunrise we were landed at Boulak, and then franghi
VOL. I Tkurbashing
doséh
Sitting in the hotel, busy with my correspondence, I had frequent occasion to sympathise with a gentle-minded buffalo suckling her calf, which was stabled in front of the window. She was head to head with a truculent ass, who brayed all the day long. It was evident the noise caused her sore affliction. It was enough, even at a distance, to stun the ears, but she, poor thing, turned away, putting her head down, that the din might be more easily endured. Unlimited patience is only provocative of greater injury to the habitually vicious. Alas! some donkeys are not amenable to gentleness or conversion, and the more this beast was endured in his unreasonable trumpetings the more frequent and the louder they were. He heard other jackasses and she-asses in the distance applauding his observations as sapient and enlightening, and so he evidently gloried in the affliction he caused his neighbour, and having but a moment since ended one utterance which was like the call of doom, he turned his nose more directly towards the bearer of Juno's soft regard, and raised up his voice to justify his previous homily. The strain growing in volume, the cow bent her head away to the extremest limits, but this proving futile, she suddenly made a fresh resolve, inclined her head, and directed her sturdy horn into his open mouth, and, making one rush, sent him over, giving him a lesson against bad manners which lasted for several days.
This poor milch-cow was a perfect type of modern English Art, harried, hindered, and driven to despair by blatant criticism, and at the time I could only wish for some penalty that would follow out the sequel of the Usbeykia contest, and that the arrogant and self-exalted umpires might meet as sharp and sudden retribution for their self-satisfied clamour.
When I took my walks abroad, and looked upon what passed before my eyes, whether of woe or weal, I found I had escaped from the affectations of civilised life to Nature herself in unsophisticated and simple grace, and life reappeared as in primitive days.
The interior of the bazaars, the streets, the mosques, the fountains, the tombs
of the Caliphs, the view from the citadel, the avenues of lebek, the gates, old Cairo,
each in turn offered a perfect subject for a painter of contemporary phases of Eastern
life. But for this I had noW. H. H.]
I enjoyed this
artistic or literary means. I have registered the fact, however, in both arts, and my
conscience is relieved. Before concluding my notice of our nomadic
pray append one line of news to each letter, particularly if you have anything at
hand about Cairo, for as I am here I am naturally anxious to know what has passed
besides the everlasting donkeys, which, by the bye, are the only steeds one can get
here without expending enough to purchase a horse completely; so you may see I do not
enjoy the luxury nor endanger my valuable life by running after the hounds. Appended
you see an example of the ordinary load an ass has to carry in this country. I intend
sending a letter to Gabriel by this post; he wished to learn about the expenses of
living here, so I will leave the subject entirely for his perusal. I wish my attempt
to get models had been encouraging in the result. Bedouin may be had in twenties and
thirties merely by paying them a little more than their exceedingly low rate of wages,
and these are undoubtedly the finest men in the place; but when one requires the men
of the city or the women, the patience of an omnibus man going up Piccadilly with two
jibbing horses on an Exhibition day is required. I have made the attempt to get women
to sit, until at the end of a fortnight or three weeks I have reaped nothing but
despair, although I have spared no pains to achieve my purpose. One chance my servant
discovered and told me of exultingly, so I went with him without question into a house
where I was followed by scrutinising eyes through windows and door-cracks on each
storey. Going up the outside staircase, I found myself at last at the top of the house
entering the guest-room. This was a small chamber without much furniture, but
surrounded by divan seats in front of a rich lattice-work
villeggiatura generally about three weeks at a
time, and I found it always beneficial to my health. Sometimes at Ghizeh W. H. H.]
1
1 The following letter was written at the time—
Williams' Indian Family Hotel,
Cairo, Egypt,
March 16, 1854.
My Dear Millais,—ménage, it may not be uncalled for to explain the figure to the
right of the composition above. In the year 1820-25-30-35-40—it is very
difficult to compute his age—the subject of our biography was born in India,
of a family of the most ancient descent. Indeed, in this respect one may venture to
state that no European family, not even that of Hannay, would venture to compete with
this remarkable being; for even by his own computation 360 generations of ancestors
have continuously pursued one vocation (and one may reasonably conclude that such a
family could not have risen in a day, and that therefore there must have been some
founders which tradition cannot reach). The most profound investigation fails to
discover the events of his earliest youth, as he chooses to discountenance all
impertinent curiosity by a broad grin and a repetition of his compendious English
vocabulary, “Vare kood, ser!” When this gentleman had arrived at
the age of discretion in the year 1850, he was appointed by the Pacha's officer in
charge of the hippopotamus as sub-guardian of that interesting infant, in which
capacity he accompanied it to England, and together with it formed the attractive
exhibition in the Zoological Gardens for several months. At the end of that period he
returned to the Nile country, and has remained here ever since; his vocation is that
of serpent charmer, in which he is undoubtedly possessed of the highest talent. This
recommended him to Seddon's attention, who has such an unqualified love for the
inhabitants of this quarter of the globe as to covet specimens of all the noxious
reptiles that dwell here. At the moment illustrated above, I am bound to confess that
Hippopotamus (for his charge stood sponsor to him and gave his own name to his
affectionate use) did not stand thus classically entwined by serpents in the spot
where he is depicted; but as since his sudden appearance here some three weeks since,
with nearly all the most venomous creatures of Egypt in his bosom, which he had
captured for his admiring master, he has always been present to my most nervous
imagination as I have represented, so I have thought it well to adopt an abstract
manner of treatment of the design. Seddon returned with me from Ghizeh, but after two
or three days, as the delightful weather of this season was restored, he again took up
quarters in the tent; he intends to paint there. I stay in Cairo to commence a little
subject which I witnessed in the street. If it were not for the hope of employing my
time until our start in April for Sinai with this town subject, I think I should be
inclined to leave at once and go to Syria; for the country offers nothing with more
than antiquarian interest as landscape; the Pyramids themselves are extremely ugly
blocks, as one always knew, and arranged with most unpicturesque taste. . . . There
are palm trees about, which attract my passing admiration, but for all else one might
as well sketch in Hackney Marsh. The desert is beautiful; but as I have said I could
not settle down there, I find a good deal of difficulty in doing so here, for there
are four or five other Englishmen in the hotel, and it is impossible to feel secluded
enough to study, even when Seddon is away. . . . I must say Seddon's good-nature and
ability for useful arrangements go much beyond my expectations.Thursday Morning.—The mail came in yesterday, and this
morning the letters have been delivered. I have received yours and two or three in one
from my family. . . . God help poor Deverell! I was prepared for the fatal news, but
not the less affected by it. The longer I live the less certainty I feel as to the
course to be taken, and I almost determine to do nothing. I am ashamed at the little
enthusiasm I feel, even with the novelty of my present life. I hope you will come out
in the autumn. Seddon will have gone back by then, and I will have made some way with
the language if possible. I am very likely to remain abroad for a year or two; it is
impossible to do any good in merely passing through a country, particularly when one
has so many prejudices to overcome towards the annoyances which exist here. I wish we
could meet abroad and travel and work together for a good while, with occasionally
another or two for companions (Halliday for one). The country offers nothing to me but
landscapes and buildings of antiquarian interest; you know I want figures. I don't
feel certain as to the best place to remain in; this may be the most convenient and
practicable, but my last information points to Beyrout, where one might think and work
without vexatious interruption.. . . I am glad to have your full letter before me
again and to learn that Inchbold is likely to get on. Your proposition to entertain my
little sister at tea with your cousin gratifies me beyond any other that could be made.
. . . Certainly cultivate a beard. I am persuaded to overcome my Anglican prejudice in
favour of a clean chin. I should not do so, however, if I found it disguised my
nationality, for that is worth every other pretension one travels with; it finds one
in cringing obedience and fear from every native, even a dog when told one is an
Englishman runs away yelping. With this nationality, indeed, and a fist I would
undertake to knock down any two Arabs in the Usbeykia and walk away unmolested. The
Russians one hears of occasionally, but only from England, when the news is so old as
to have gained admission into the Appendix of abbias
mushrebeeah,
Ya bint.
backshish
W. H. H.]
FELLA CHILDREN, GHIZEH
1
“May 8, 1854.
1“ I never had any great admiration for the Pyramids such as most people
manifest, and this, and perhaps a desire to appear superior to the cockney visitors, had
made me leave
W. H. H.]
the duty of particular examination to the last. . . . I wish I could give you any idea of the event. It was a hot day, and when we reached the entrance I was glad to stop a few minutes in the shade before commencing my inner researches; when we started it was
One day when I was mooning about the bazaars, I had my attention attracted to a
young tradesman courting a girl; she had come duly along an alley descending at an angle of 35°, without sufficient room to
allow us to walk upright. It was a difficult matter to proceed down this slippery
pavement and reach out far enough in each stride to come upon a rudely broken step
which perhaps had been made at first for the use of visitors or workmen. I managed,
however, here without the assistance of either the Arab before or the one behind. At
the end of fifty yards we came upon a halting-place, where they stayed and lighted the
candles they had each brought. Behind and upwards we looked on the long cool passage
with the hot white sky at the end; for our further passage we had to turn on one side
and along a low tunnel requiring one to stoop double: here my guides were divided as
before, each holding their candle towards me. I heard through their monotonous
chanting shrill and sharp sounds as of creatures frightened; but there was no
opportunity for inquiry, the men had chosen a pace and there was no interrupting it,
and when we stopped at last it was at such a strange W. H. H.]
moush, araf-fein;
W. H. H.]
burko
. To raise up the veil was an act for which there could be no toleration; to press it
close so as to see the outline of the face, the mouth, and the chin, was the utmost that
propriety could allow. There was more than a superficial custom in the incident; I seized
upon this symbol of human interest in the unknown as a good theme with which W. H. H.]
FELLA GIRL, EGYPT (GHIZEH)
By this attempt I was not encouraged to despise the difficulty of my task, the
young man I found to sit as the lover had questioned me during the day as to my object,
but went away apparently quite at his
neither all they that go down into silence. But we will praise the Lord : from
this time forth for evermore. Praise the Lord.' And before the sound had settled I
got up to go out again, when I was startled by an echo clear as a reply: 'The dead
praise not thee, O Lord : neither all they that go down into silence. But we will
praise the Lord : from this time forth for evermore. Praise the Lord.
‘”W. H. H.]
W. H. H.]
Moalim
W. H. H.]
My work permitted, but to a limited degree, the pleasures of society, but the
Consul-General, Frederick Bruce, and the attaché, Frederick W. H. H.]
At Damietta we found our coasting vessel waiting a fair wind to cross the bar;
but when we boarded her in the dark, instead of having, as I had expected, cabins and
passenger comforts, she was a smack of about forty tons' burden, laden with bags of rice
nearly up to the gunwale, and without a deck of any kind. For four or five days the W. H. H.]
The town had some pleasantly arranged houses on the harbour, with courtyards
looking on the water, reminding one of Holland or Venice. In the city there were some
buildings and a mosque with marble inlaid work that seemed to belong to the time of Haroun
al W. H. H.]
Being out at sea in calm weather, I began a sketch of the stern of the boat with
the Reis
W. H. H.]
W. H. H.]
In Egypt, patterned dresses are of brown, red, or green and pink, or blue and
orange, combinations which at a little distance neutralise one another; here in Syria,
they were of azure and pink, or indigo and W. H. H.]
The city of Jaffa and its neighbourhood are as rich in classic legend as in
scriptured story, from our house-tops we could see the remains Cæsarea, and the
sea coast towards Acre, Tyre, and Sidon, and in the VOL. I UW. H. H.]
In the morning we started before the full day had come; the cornfields were being
reaped; the first sight of a Palestine harvest can scarcely fail to make a traveller
linger and watch reapers and gleaners. Three hours brought us to the opening of the hills
called Bab-el-wad. We dismounted in sight of Koobab to sketch the primitive-looking
village. There were no sort of roads then, and no cafés of any kind, but we
rested under a sycamore tree; got water, and ate our dried fruit with the bread which we
had brought. From this point our track was as bad as it could anyhow be, in climbing the
hillside and W. H. H.]
Long desire and constant disappointment had dulled interest in the scenes we
passed, and the eagerness of expectation was blunted. The hot stagnant air encouraged a
mood in which all further calculation of being within sight of the end of our journey
seemed futile; every step seemed to take us further from prospect of another city and more
into the wild away from any place of human life. We climbed up with sight
The afternoon sun was already beginning to glow with the softness of amber, the breeze from the sea had awakened the birds, and the windmills turned with a music as of new life. This, then, was the stage on which the dramas were enacted which have stirred the blood of the greatest Races on the face of the earth, and turned the current of all their purpose. There was an unspeakable spirit of secrecy in the air, while an appropriate beauty that breathed in the scene raised in my mind the image of some beautiful queen mute and dead, but with eyes open and staring to the heavens, as though not even yet to be at peace. The sense of pity made responsiveness a need. I turned to my companion, and he, habitually jocose, was now leaning forward with clenched hands upon the pommel of his saddle, swaying his shoulders to and fro, while copious tears trickled down his cheeks, his satisfied eyes overflowing spite of, or unknown to himself.
Descriptions of scenery are seldom desired, but I speak of this impressive view of the City of Sacrifice as it appeared in 1854 from the western approach, because now it is destroyed by ungainly constructions disfiguring a spot whose memories are for ever linked with the story of Calvary.
Jerusalem is a city compact in itself. Psalm cxxii. 3.
We granted you increase of wealth and children, and we made you a more numerous people,
saying, If ye do well, ye will do well to your own souls; and if ye do evil, ye will do
it unto the same.
Slowly we stirred and moved on to the Jaffa Gate; as we entered about 4
p.m., wild music was being beaten within the city, followed by a measured shout, thrice
repeated, the triumphant cry for the Turkish Sultan out of the mouths of his conquered
Arab soldiers.
We threaded our way to the Casa Nuova, the home of hospitality before hotels were
established, where we were to be entertained for a fortnight. The good frati and the
Superior received us pleasantly W. H. H.]
With letters from home came the criticisms on my pictures in the Academy, which
were not calculated to encourage me. I quote from three most important journals examples
of the criticism Family Herald—
“Mr. W. H. Hunt's “
“Mr. Hunt, one of the most eminent of the Pre-Raphaelites, is indeed materially present in the gallery, but his spirit is most inadequately represented by the figure of the Redeemer, entitled “
“Mr. Holman-Hunt and Collins are left to sustain the reputation of the
Pre-Raphaelites, unaided by their powerful colleague Millais, now an Associate of the
Academy. . . . This absence from the Exhibition is the more powerfully felt from the
unfortunate circumstance that both Hunt and Collins appear to have retrograded during the
past year. Their pictures have more of their particular mannerism and less of their
intrinsic excellences than heretofore. This is a turn in their artistic career much to be
lamented. What we had
When I began to determine the composition of my picture, I was continually checked by discovery of my ignorance of Jewish ordinances, and I had to turn to Exodus, Leviticus, and the accounts of the building of the Temple; this led on to the Talmud, Josephus, and books of the New Testament; the more I read the greater appeared the responsibility of my undertaking, and the more I felt disposed to reject unconvincing tradition, religious as well as artistic. My course necessitated increasing independence of will, and I could not escape the fear that with my fast diminishing purse I might be unable to overcome all the difficulties. Already much of my little all was spent, and I had no work yet of mercantile value to represent it. Before settling upon the incidents of my picture, it was essential that I should make myself familiar with the ceremonies prevailing in the Temple at the time of Christ. My reading had explained the nature of the principal feasts and fasts, but careful observation soon proved that many features of these ceremonies had been changed by the time of Christ. For instance, in the Passover institution it is ordained that the feast should be eaten with loins girded, standing and prepared as for a journey, whereas in Christ's time it is apparent that the same feast was taken lying at meat as if resting from a journey. This change had, as the Talmud explains, been ordained on the entrance into Canaan after the wandering in the wilderness.
What was the more pressingly important to me was the understanding of the Jewish
youth's initiation into adult responsibility. I had also to determine who were those
celebrated Rabbis whose teaching made Christ's visit to Jerusalem of so great importance,
as also to discover what stage the rebuilding of the Temple of Herod had reached as this
period. The Israelitish court of the Temple having been designed and built by Levites
especially instructed under Herod's directions, was of necessity of archaic and oriental
construction, and as I had to give a
The doctor of the Mission took me with him on his visits to the most important Jewish families, and in one I saw a grandmother, a mother, and a girl of about nine, all singularly beautiful, the ages of the three embraced in forty years. He thought that some of these might be persuaded to sit to me, as he had rendered valued services to their families, and he counted upon some of them proving their oft-professed gratitude by yielding to his solicitations on my behalf; he did not realise the strength of their prejudice; they were polite in all but compliance.
W. H. H.]
As my time at the Casa Nuova drew to an end, I hired a furnished house, with two
men-servants, an Abyssinian and a Tripoli Jew. One evening, when settled in my new home,
as the moon was shining splendidly, I raised myself to look over the high wall on my roof,
and stood gazing on the impressive view of the Mosque As Sakrah, the swaying dark
cypresses, the arcades and eastern wall standing back-grounded by the Mount of Olives. It
was a poetic and absorbing scene, and watching it from hour to hour, the moonlight effect
enchanted me, and I proceeded to make a drawing. The next house to me was lower down the
hill than mine; so much so that I scarcely noticed it, until suddenly I heard an indignant
male voice demanding why I peered over into my neighbour's premises. My arabic was just
sufficient to enable me to understand and respond that I was not looking over into his
garden or house at all. “Why then are you putting your head over
W. H. H.]
Every Saturday and on grand days I went to the synagogues, and watched the
ceremonies and peculiar traits of Jewish character, thus I was able to discriminate
between the Sephardi and the Ashkenazi Jews. One model I had was a Cairite, of the sect
acknowledging only the books of the Bible before the Captivity, and repudiating the rest.
He was a centenarian; and more tractable than the orthodox Jews, but, poor old fellow, he
was far gone in childishness, getting up often saying he must go back to his daughter who
took care of him. I found it wise to be very peremptory, and explain that when I have such
a large sum as seven francs a day, with coffee and tobacco, he must do what I told him and
sit down quietly. At such an assertion of authority he collapsed, and sat down mumbling,
“Sono orfano, non ce ni padre ni madre, nessuno.
My household was not without its anxiety. I would clap my hands W. H. H.]
Hindered in my town work, I determined to explore the suburbs. The fellahin at
that time were not at all broken in; they believed that all Christians were legitimate
victims of Moslems, and that they were bound to assert their power whenever they could
find a giaour
Solitude, however, was not to be obtained, for wherever I wandered I was followed
not alone by boys and girls demanding backshish,
From that day the character of the men of Siloam towards the
franghi
When I returned to the house I went into the garden to fire my pistol, too long
undischarged; although the weapon was a cheap one, so far it had worked well enough, but
to my consternation, when I pulled the trigger, the hammer was only raised half an inch,
and then no strength of finger would stir it. Had all means of overawing my adversary
failed, what a miserable position mine would have been. When indoors I began to take the
weapon to pieces, and as the chamber was loosened, in some quite unforeseen manner the
hammer got released and discharged the bullet between my fingers, which were, however, but
slightly burnt. After this experience I sought a mechanic who could put my pistol in
order. I was told that there was a German, known as Frederic, who had come to Jerusalem
with a friend as a journeyman locksmith and had given up further wanderings owing to a
tragedy in which he had been concerned. He was now established in a workshop and was much
employed; he was reserved in mood, and when he looked at the pistol with attention and I
cautioned him that some of the barrels were loaded, he gazed at me with sad eyes, and
resumed his examination until he decided that he would undertake the work. As I came away
I inquired of my conductor the fuller history of Frederic; he told me that his journeyman
friend was the brother of the girl he was engaged to in Germany, and that they had agreed
to include the Holy City in their “
Their curiosity about its mechanism was not easily satisfied, and it was handed from one to the other, not without frequent admonitions of danger from the monks standing around. His friend passed the revolver to Frederic, who was fingering the lock, when it exploded, and he saw his friend jump and fall to the ground dead. The miserable man went mad, called upon his dear victim, conjured up the beloved sister, cursed himself, and tried to snatch the pistol that he might follow his friend; for a few days he was beside himself, but when the judicial inquiry had been held he grew calm, but, smitten with an enduring melancholy, said, “I will never leave Jerusalem, but will stay till I die as my friend died, and I will be buried here with him.” This was the secret of his sorrowful glance, and was all that could yet be known of him.
The post now brought me Ruskin's two letters in defence of my pictures—
“I trust that, with your usual kindness and liberality, you
will give me room in your columns for a few words respecting the principal
Pre-Raphaelite
“Mr. Hunt has never explained his work to me. I give what
appears to me its palpable interpretation. The legend beneath it is the beautiful verse:
‘Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open
the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me” (Rev.
iii. 20)
. On the left-hand side of the picture is seen this door of the human soul. It
is fast barred, its bars and nails are rusty; it is knitted and bound to its stanchions
by creeping tendrils of ivy, showing that it has never been opened. A bat hovers about
it; its threshold is overgrown with brambles, nettles, and fruitless corn,—the
wild grass ‘whereof the mower filleth not his hands, nor he that bindeth
sheaves his bosom.’
Christ approaches it in the night time—Christ
in His everlasting offices of prophet, priest, and king. He wears the white robe,
representing the power of the Spirit upon Him; the jewelled robe and breastplate,
representing the sacerdotal investiture; the rayed crown of gold inwoven with the crown
of thorns—not dead thorns, but now bearing soft leaves for the healing of the
nations. Now when Christ enters any human heart, He bears with him a twofold light.
First the light of conscience, which displays past sin; and afterwards the light of
peace, the hope of salvation. The lantern, carried in Christ's left hand, is this light
of conscience. Its fire is red and fierce; it falls only on the closed door, on the
weeds which encumber it, and on an apple shaken from one of the trees of the orchard,
thus marking that the entire awakening of the conscience is not merely to committed, but
to hereditary, guilt. This light is suspended by a chain, wrapped about the wrist of the
figure, showing that the light which reveals sin appears to the sinner also to chain the
hand of Christ. The light which proceeds from the head of the figure, on the contrary,
is that of the hope of salvation; it springs from the crown of thorns, and though itself
sad, subdued and full of softness, is yet so powerful that it entirely melts with the
glow of it the forms of the leaves and boughs, which it crosses, showing that every
earthly object must be hidden by this light, where its sphere extends.
“I believe there are very few persons on whom the picture thus
justly understood will not produce a deep impression. For my own part, I think it one of
the very noblest works of sacred art ever produced in this or any other age. It may
perhaps be answered that works of art ought not to stand in need of interpretation of
the kind. Indeed, we have been so long accustomed to see pictures painted without any
purpose of intention whatsoever, that the unexpected existence of meaning in a work of
art may very naturally at first
“As far as regards the technical qualities of Mr. Hunt's
painting I would only ask the spectator to observe this difference between true
Pre-Raphaelite work and its imitation. The true work represents all objects exactly as
they would appear in Nature in the positions and at distances which the arrangement of
the picture supposes. The false work represents them with all their details as if seen
through a microscope. Examine closely the ivy on the door in Mr. Hunt's picture, and
there will not be found in it a single clear outline. All is the most exquisite mystery
of colour; becoming reality at its due distance. In like manner, examine the small gems
on the robe of the figure. Not one will be made out in form, yet there is not one of all
those minute points of green colour but it has two or three distinctly varied shades of
green in it, giving it mysterious value and lustre. The spurious imitations of
Pre-Raphaelite work represent the most minute leaves and other objects with sharp
outlines, but with no variety of colour, and with none of the concealment, none of the
infinity of Nature.”—Letter to
“Your kind insertion of my notes on Mr. Hunt's principal
picture encourages me to hope that you may yet allow me room in your columns for a few
words respecting his second work in the Royal Academy—‘
“I suppose that no one possessing the slightest knowledge of
expression could remain untouched by
1
1 The face of the girl is not the same in intensity of expression as when first
painted. Sir Thomas Fairbairn, on living with it day by day, found it to be so
distressful that he persuaded me to reconsider it, but before I could satisfy myself
with any modifications I fell ill and, the picture being required somewhat suddenly
for a family gathering, I sent it away counting upon a later opportunity for final
treatment, and I can only hope that what I did was with due judgment.W. H. H.]
“Even to the mere spectator a strange interest exalts the accessories of
a scene in which he bears witness to human sorrow. There is not a single object in all
that room, common, modern, vulgar (in the vulgar sense, as it may be), but it becomes
tragical, if rightly read. That furniture, so carefully painted even to the last vein of
the rosewood—is there nothing to be learnt from that terrible lustre of it,
from its fatal newness; nothing there that has the old thoughts of home upon it, or that
is ever to become a part of home? Those embossed books, vain and useless—they
also new—marked with no happy wearing of beloved leaves; the torn and dying
bird upon the floor; the gilded tapestry, with the fowls of the air feeding on the
ripened corn; 1
I surely need not go on. Examine the whole range of the walls of the Academy; nay,
examine those of all our public and private galleries, and while pictures will be met
with by the thousand which literally tempt to evil, by the thousand which are devoted to
the meanest trivialities of incident or emotion, by the thousand to the delicate fancies
of inactive religion, there will not be found one powerful as this to meet full in the
front the moral evil of the age in which it is painted, to waken into mercy the cruel
thoughtlessness of youth, and subdue the severities of judgment into the sanctity of
compassion.” —Letter to
It was unspeakably gratifying and encouraging to me to read these words of high appreciation.
We were awaiting with the greatest anxiety news of the negotiations between the Allies and Russia. The quarrel had begun in Jerusalem between the Greek and Latin Churches, as to which of them had the right to repair the ruined roof of the Church of the Sepulchre. When the Russian demands increased, the Allies wished to persuade the world that Turkey, under the guidance of Europe, would henceforth adopt a policy of extensive reform. Russia defied remonstrance by rapacity, and war broke out. Till now I had believed that the Prussians and other Germans had kindred interests with the English, but it soon became evident that in Jerusalem they were inspired with ill-feeling towards us, not excluding those in English pay, such as the Bishop and missionaries.
For one of the figures in my picture I thought I had hit upon a man of singularly
suitable condition. He had been attracted to the English mission, and had professed so
seriously his wish to study the credentials of Christianity that, in accordance with a
system happily now
1 The framed print only shows in part, and obscure by reflection in the glass; but it
was painted from an engraving of another picture than the one Mr. Ruskin suggests.
The next day he came, but he was sullen, fidgety, and impatient, getting up
often, and declaring sulkily that he could not really stay any longer; he was so tiresome
that it was only with difficulty I could bring myself to the effort of keeping him by
enticements of sweetmeats, Webb]
But he did not appear, and I went with my Mission friend to call upon him. The
“Inquirer” talked Russian, and my companion, after listening with
evident sympathy for him, pleaded seriously that the Jewish convert found it made his back
ache to sit all day in one position. I was not commiserating in my reply, for I spoke of
the trying effect the man's lazy behaviour had on me, and I added that I knew many who to
gain an honest livelihood endured back, hand, eye, and head ache at times; but at this the
“Inquirer” became more mysterious, declaring that he had another
reason also for keeping away, to which my friend listened, repeating it sedately. He said
that I had assured the Jew that the picture being painted was of a company of rabbis, and
that VOL. I Xperfectly unconverted Jews.
This was too much for me, I burst into a profane laugh, and told my friend that the man was an impudent hypocrite. This uncharity on my part was not, I think, unfortunate in its result, for the man was persuaded that he must come again, and accordingly, after some further days' struggle, I was able, with many vexatious delays, to advance the figure.
The future career of this man was an illustration of the difficulty which was often experienced by the Mission.
This fellow gradually professed himself convinced, but made excuses for many
months to defer his baptism; when at last the man openly adopted Christianity, a salary
was secured to him as a Bible merchant at Jaffa, and there he remained for many years,
sitting smoking day by day on his shop bench in front of a store of Old and New
Testaments, of
Through my fight at Siloam I had obtained the advantage of much more respect not
only outside the city, where I was able to walk about without any further molestation, but
in the city itself I was frequently pointed out by the native shopkeepers, and asked by
them whether I was not the franghi who had beaten the fellah. The
townsmen, although Moslems, approved, for they knew that he had brought it upon himself by
threatened violence and attempted robbery. A greater gain than this ensued in the lifelong
friendship of a young surgeon, Dr. Sim, whose servant, a brother of the man of the fight,
many years later entered my service and died in it. Patriarchal ideas of relation between
master and servant still obtain in the East; my servant, who died during my absence in
England, appointed his son in his place, and I retained him until I sold my property in
Syria.
There was heart-beating for me when the post arrived every ten days. All my best
friends were in the throes of anxiety, private and public. The Russian war was reddening
the world with blood, and in the loneliness of Syria the circumstances of the contest
loomed portentously huge and cruel; so that when tidings came from home of the usual
succession of social events, dinner-parties, balls, courtings, and
All this time the trials I endured in Jersualem with models for my
“Temple” picture were increasing and well-nigh insurmountable. It
occurred to me that I might find in Bethlehem some one willing to sit who would satisfy my
conception. Early one morning, therefore, I rode W. H. H.]
I met one Jew in the Synagogue who listened favourably to my application and
came, posing quite amiably. While at work I asked W. H. H.]
With Seddon and two Jerusalem friends I started for a journey to
Hebron, stopping on the way to Artass.
Among the dwellers there, was one Henry Wentworth Monk, who was regarded by
Jerusalem church folks as an impious babbler, his
W. H. H.]
Our journey was attended with many incidents of no great import, although of
continuous interest to ourselves. Arrived at Hebron, we rode round the city and visited
what little the Moslems would show of the mosque over the tomb of Abraham, while we felt
tantalised at the restrictions imposed. Under this mosque lies the tomb of Sarah, Abraham,
Jacob, and perhaps also Joseph, and in it may be the answer to that scepticism as to the
early history of the Hebrews some nineteen centuries ago, expressed by Apion, which is
entertained by many learned theologians to this day. It is here rather than on the borders
of the Nile that we have the best hope of finding a clue to the genuineness of the story
that Joseph was taken down to Egypt as a slave and rose to be sub-ruler of the country,
and such proof would carry with it support
It is unlikely that the tomb was desecrated during the centuries after the burial,
since that district was held by other children of Abraham until the Jews came, during
whose fourteen hundred years it was certainly jealously guarded, and ever since by
Christian or Ishmaelite it
After a journey of some days we arrived again at the Jaffa Gate; my indefatigable friend Graham mildly pointed out that it would be an excellent opportunity to ride round the city together, that he might confer with me about the best points of view for his photographic enterprise. He was quite serious, and pleaded further, but when I looked in his face and deferred the business he very pleasantly said, “Well, as you like, as you like.”
James Graham was absolutely imperturbable in temper, and so often the contretemps that he occasioned brought about experience of lasting interest, that I never for long felt a grudge against him for his unmethodical system of travel.
On our return from our Hebron expedition I was the better able to judge how far my picture fulfilled my original expectations. On Sundays I often compared my past week's work with what I had planned to do, and I had to recognise that while each day I had been on the stretch from morn to eve to overcome the lagging fortune that had pursued me, I had but little to show that was calculated to give me satisfaction as an adequate return for my labours, and I was convinced of the urgency of taking some step that might prepare me for appearance in future exhibitions. I saw now no hope of having the Temple picture ready for next year's Academy, and this led me to consider the more seriously whether I should not return to England at once, and take up home work, the progress of which I could better control. In this frame of mind I bethought me of the subject of “The Scapegoat.” I found out particulars to enable me to decide what landscape would be suitable to it, and set to work to prepare for the new picture. A white goat in a flock is rare, but I discovered one, and bought it from the goat-herd, agreeing to pay for its care until I could use it.
It happened at this time that Mr. Porter, the writer of Murray's
On the day of departure the mukary
Reaching the first height beyond Hinnom, I addressed my company to the effect
that I would go on to Hebron as fast as possible with Issa, who was Graham's man, sent as
servant to the expedition, to get accommodation at the Quarantine building, while the rest
should come on as fast as was convenient; but the whole of my baggage company were
horrified, as they professed, at the danger to myself, as well as to themselves. I laughed
at their fear, and began to trot, pumping the rain
W. H. H.]
ghouls
effreets,
Beyond Mar Elyas the road descended into the deep valley. I could see the path
only by pools of water in the worn limestone. mukary
The storm was leaving us with sullen murmurings; the lightning occasionally opened up the whole landscape, but left us momentarily blind. From our height we had a wide range of view, being as we were on the upper tableland of Judea; to our left, deep down, was the Dead Sea; to our right was the Philistine plain, ending in the Mediterranean.
The lightning was kindled in the east, and played along the gamut of the cloud-clavier as if with the touch of an almighty hand, advancing note by note along the extending range, until in the west it closed like an angry fist, and descended on the plain as though to single out the object of its wrath.
Towards the small hours of the night we heard the dogs of the village on the heights noisy in their announcement that strangers were on the road below; their barking filled up the intervals of the thunder's reverberation. As we proceeded I agreed that we should avoid the harder parts of the interlacing tracts of the road to escape the clatter of our horses' hoofs. Our course led us into a dwarf forest and over rocks that rang like metal, to a higher level, and then again into the plain studded with villages on the left, whose fire and smoke we could see against the sky. No caution could here still the noise of our movements, and it was not wonderful, considering the disturbed state of the country, that our men feared attack. When we came into a district with soft earth skirting our way, the dubiousness of the road made me glad that I had not trusted ourselves without experienced guidance. Thinking this, I searched aside to trace the step-worn limestone; none was to be seen. I put it to the muleteer whether we had not wandered from the road; he admitted that we had been lost for the last quarter of an hour, and advised that we should make the best of our lot, and wait where we were till dawn came to reveal the true way to Hebron. Issa faintly seconded this advice, but I knew he was of firm nerve, and I told him that I had a better plan. I turned my horse's head towards the Mount, whose height was defined against the sky by fires and glowing smoke, and called out that all should keep close.
The dogs grew madder as we approached and discovered men sleeping around fires made in the corners of walls. They all started up at the ringing of our horses' hoofs. Women and even children were among the number all looking both dismayed and fierce. The dogs were so wild with excitement that two at a time jumped up into my saddle, from which I had to dislodge them with the butt-end of my gun. I had instructed my man to ask for the sheik, while I played the part of the mysterious stranger. The scared fellahin watched, and followed to see the action of the sheik, than whom, whatever his motive, no one could have behaved better. He called a man out from the crowd and ordered him to go with us over the hill to a point from which we could see Hebron, and descend by it into the road; thus I had good reason to approve my confidence in him. We followed the road from this elevation to the outskirts of the town of the “Friend of God,” and, passing between the walled vineyards, we reached it at about two o'clock. We turned aside to the right towards the Quarantine building. My man had come up abreast, and we were talking as tired guards will after an anxious march, when I noticed that his foot-track had gradually led him to a level already overtopping my head. The slope was slippery and I searched for a place where there might be firm footing for my horse. In the shadowy dimness I discerned a mass of white rock leading to the higher platform. I set my horse to climb and grip it, and heeled him to waken up his full strength. The mass proved to be loose, and the stones began to rattle down. I could feel the poor beast overbalancing, and as the one chance for both of us, I threw myself off as best I could on the upper slope to the right. I pushed my gun away in a safe direction, for it was loaded and still half-cocked. The horse overbalanced and rolled heavily down the incline. I found myself safely landed half-way up, but with my leg badly bruised; my gun had happily not exploded; but when we got to the poor horse he was only just able to get up. We hobbled to the porch of the Quarantine building, and there, after in vain knocking and explaining my claim for admissions as a friend of the master, I had some of the luggage put under the portico, and choosing dry matting, threw myself on it with bags for a pillow, and soon fell asleep.
Two or three hours later I was sitting up, staring and being stared at by a crowd of men, women, and children, feeling much as a gipsy might if caught located in a place not intended for vagabonds. My object was attained, however, in being near Doora, with the plain and Beersheba beyond; and accordingly, after a hasty cup of coffee, I mounted my man's horse and rode off alone, to work on a sketch begun on the previous expedition.
I continued at my drawing and returned to Abraham's Oak, where the tent was
pitched, expecting to find the party arrived, but no signs of them had been seen. Making a
meal off grapes and bread, I lay down to read at leisure some letters from Millais and
Halliday which I had
The wind rushed past Abraham's Oak like massive waters, but so far my tent was sheltered by the enormous girth of the tree. When I crept out I perceived that the stars were shining through a deep blood-red sky. I was now in the place where Abraham had received the promise of the future greatness of his race. The storm brought this vividly to mind, and in the comparative lull I lay down again and fell into a sound sleep. The non-arrival of my friends bewildered me and drove me to conclude that I must return to Jerusalem to get money.
However, before I had given orders to strike the tent, the muleteer's boy rushed
forward saying that the khowaghein
While making purchases for our canteen in Hebron, we were approached by some
Jehalin Arabs, who, having heard of our intended journey, had come to guide us to their
encampment. We halted on the way at a well, and reached the Bedouin tents near sundown.
The sheik was not in camp, and I was able to go with sketch-book and gun up to the summit
of the neighbouring hill, the apex of which was crater-formed. Had a good geologist been
there he might have explained a fact which puzzled me: in the cup, well defined in shape
up to about twelve feet of the rim, all the stones lying on the surface were dark maroon
colour; this discoloration reached a line absolutely level, and suggested the agency of
liquid fire, for the same sized fragments of rock, but with acuter angles, were strewn on
the surface above, all of
The sheik was fetched from afar, the arrangement with him which took place in the morning brought before us an interesting display of Bedouin life, the bargain ended successfully, and about midday the next morning we started over tracts of wilderness, which, except in some dried-up fields and near the watercourse which we mostly followed, seemed as though man could never have trod its surface before.
Pitching our tents by the way and following the shores of the Dead Sea, we
arrived at the region of Oosdoom. I scrutinised all the shores we passed in going and
returning; the whole scene was a vision of desolation and deceitful phantasy. Before the
sun rose every rock had appeared like a weird monster, in the cave itself were white
stalactites A. Hughes, from a sketch by W. H. H.]
It was a journey of inconceivable delights; its daring nature only added zest to
the adventure. We continued our route to Sebbieh, encamping on the shore of the lake. An
hour before dawn on the morrow we set off and traversed the plain through amazing
illusions. Mounting our horses and looking round on the awful solitude with the heavy mist
blanketing the uprising shore and the Dantesque desolation about us, the words of the
English poet arose in my mind, and I uttered them aloud—
As we approached nearer, dark massive forms towered above the vapour, and through intervals of the grey clouding below which was dreamily raising itself. On longer and closer observation we discarded the notion that this background was merely a blacker cloud, or indeed of any stuff that could not brave the wind for seasons and for years; as we pressed forward, it proved to be a mass of stratified rock fantastically shaped, appearing like edifices of a vast city, with crenellated walls bastioned by towers. It needed little straining of the fancy to conceive that we stood before buildings of human architecture, for domes, topes, high-storeyed palaces, and temple pediments, theatres with tiers of seats and rows of columns, but no spectators, all reared themselves aloft, representing a many-platformed regal city.
The ringing of our horses' hoofs on the broken shingle, and the resistance of
solid walls to our slashing whips increased the illusion and awakened a chilly awe. We
continued our way through the inner labyrinth of roads as we surveyed the dream city that
wanted nothing but sign of life. No water lay in the hollows, no lights glimmered in the
buildings, no voices but our own broke the silence. Feeling this want, we affected to be
wizard awakeners of the slumbering guardians of the place and shouted out,
“O Seneschal, come forth and take our message of peace to the
prince.” The only answer was our words returning by the echoing walls.
As we were amusing our minds with somewhat mocking comparisons and speculations, the
vapour showed A. Hughes, from a design by W. H. H.]
W. H. H.]
NATURAL ARCHITECTURE, WADY ZUARA TAHTEH
W. H. H.]
VOL. I. Y
Our climb to the summit of the cliffs of Masada was both difficult and dangerous; we were one of the two or three parties that had visited the place in modern days. Entering the gate, we gazed with wonder upon the ruins of this mausoleum of Jewish heroism and despair, the stronghold they defended against the Romans in their last struggle. We continued our journey to the Engedi plain, where I remained behind to sketch.
In our next day's journey we came to the tents of a Bedouin tribe; here the sheik, a tall, handsome fellow, demanded so preposterous a sum for passing through his territory that we determined to avoid it altogether. Before leaving I made a sketch of the comely but covetous fellow smoking his chibouque. All along the coast I had scrutinised the shore, and had determined that no place was so suitable for “
I have only glanced at our experiences upon the later part of this journey,
because Beamont wrote 1
1 “For more than a mile, as we proceeded up the ravine, with no light but the
stars, its appearance struck us with wonder and surprise. Its lower stratum of rocks was
of the dark ironstone we had seen yesterday; its upper layer was invariably the white
chalky clay which we had noticed in the Wady Zuara; and Nature, who, in her playful
moods, creates objects which man may imitate but cannot surpass, had carved this friable
and plastic material into the resemblance of a great city. As we rode through its silent
and apparently deserted streets there were detached altars, spacious squares, domed
temples, battlemented forts, palaces decorated with friezes, cornices, and pilasters,
and theatres with tiers of seats and rows of columns, but no spectators. There reigned
the most profound silence, and the city appeared wrapped in slumber, or, like the court
of King Arthur and Guinevere, fast bound in the enchanted cave waiting in a trance for
the enchanter, and presently He came, for as we passed the last portal the first rays of
the sun struck it, and the magic city, without a rustle, a whisper, or a sound, then
vanished and was gone.” —
While detained in Jerusalem with some renewed hope of getting my
“mukary
All the way the
1
1 In answer to an inquiry from Mr. Morland Agnew concerning the difference between the
large picture (in which the goat is white) and the small picture (now in the
Manchester Fine Art Gallery, in which the goat is black, and a rainbow is introduced),
Holman-Hunt replied, “On the first of my visits to the Dead Sea, as
I stood on the spot which finally I selected for my picture, a magnificent rainbow
spanned the whole landscape, and this suggested to me the question whether I should
incorporate this in my large picture. Before my return to Oosdoom I made the rainbow
experiment on the small picture you now possess, passing consideration determined me
to represent a black goat as ‘Azazeel,’ but eventually for the
large picture I thought it best to adopt a white goat and omit the rainbow. It was
not until after my second return from Oosdoom that I completed the small
picture.”effreets,
We were winding between low trees on the slippery road, when I noticed the yelling of Nicola, mixing itself with the bleatings of the goat. His reply to my cheer was so lachrymose, that I had to ride back; he was in tears like a baby, although a well-grown man, five years older than myself, and to see him behaving thus made me angry. “What is the matter with you, O madman?” I said. “There are robbers,” was his reply. “Where?” “All about us; do shoot, I pray, Khowagha.” “I am not such a fool; I will ride behind you to look after you,” was my reply. I had already taken up my place of rearguard over the stair-like rocks, when I was struck with stones in two or three places at once, and my horse swerved from a blow. “Ah! now I see what is the matter,” said I. The trees enshrouded men who were following and pelting us. I held up my gun against the sky, cocked the two triggers, brought round my revolver, and shouted, “Now for the first man who shows his head.” Our enemies held their hands, and Nicola grew less terrified, saying aloud, “Now shoot to show you have a gun with two souls, and a pistol with many.” “When I see where to shoot, I won't fail,” I replied. When a good quarter of an hour had passed in freedom from the continually looked-for attack, I heard a great clatter ahead. I spurred on fast, and found no robber, but our head mule was down again, I had to keep on the alert while the men busied themselves in unpacking and raising the poor beast, which was effected without molestation, but in starting again, until we had got out of the shelter of trees, we could not give up the closest vigilance. I suspected my muleteer, and even my man, of having intentionally misguided us, as it was nearly the same spot at which the road had been lost on the former journey.
We were toiling on, long past midnight, when I discovered that the
mukary
backshish.
Every fresh hill brow drafted us lower into the wilderness of Ziph, nowhere was there a trace of landmark, road, or any sign of life. As the sun rose towards the zenith, the shadows of the rocks disappeared, and the want of even their shelter made the wanderer feel more of an outcast; the bare earth grew wilder as though new from the Creator's hand; and yet I felt a novel joy in life. I looked around to account for my exhilaration of spirit, but there was only a sweet purity in the very barrenness of the scene before me; it was a pleasure to inhale the living breeze wafted from the distant Mediterranean, perfumed by forty miles of aromatic hillside and plain.
In the afternoon I arrived at the encampment of Abou Daouk, the sheik of whom I
was in search. His long face with large projecting teeth and a long but retiring chin made
me think how like a mule he was. I had to adopt a tone of preoccupation with Nicola, to
make sure that he should not expect me to fall on his dirty person and in Arab fashion
embrace him. When he was seated on a raised mat at my door, I delivered greetings from
the Consul, and made Nicola unwrap the parcel containing a
jabbah
Surely this is the abomination which maketh
desolate.
”
I explained that the English Consul, Effendi Finn, had charged me to bring this coat to him as a mark of his esteem. He adopted the bearing of utter unconcern, folding the garment under him, as though he were accustomed to have a new coat every day, and certainly nothing seemed to me more likely than that he would by to-morrow make it but little distinguishable from his other raiment. Meanwhile men formed themselves into a circle about him, and veiled women peered from tent doors to watch their sheik in his new glory. After repeated assurance that we were respectively “well and happy,” I ventured to introduce the business question. I said that I should like to go down to Oosdoom for some weeks to make a picture; that I wanted some of his men with me as guides and caterers, and that two or three would be enough. I left the number to him, what should I pay him? Oh, for his part the whole place was mine. He said he hoped I should always stay; but pressed further he said, “By Allah!” what I asked was “no light matter,” it filled him with anxiety, he must send down at least a hundred of his most trusted men, for the place was dangerous, being in the road of various tribes, and without a large party how could he guard me if I stayed there day after day? He would do his best to persuade his men to be satisfied with five hundred English pounds. And the men within hearing said, “No, no! Never! never! Impossible!”
The tongues of the rank and file being loosened, all declared eagerly that it was
out of hope that more than a few could ever return to their families. When they had talked
themselves out, they asked for my reply. I said, “We will talk of it no
more. It is, I see, a foolish fancy of mine. I will return to-morrow and go to Masada,
En Gedi, Marsaba, or Jericho instead. I can understand that you think me mad to return
to a place which few travellers visit and none revisit. England is a beautiful country,
a garden with a wide river like that in Egypt, and trees bearing lovely fruits, and
there are cattle, sheep, and birds in abundance, and perfect roads; whereas the plain of
the Dead Sea which you treat as if it were a paradise, is stricken with a curse. Five
hundred pounds! Well, perhaps a lord would give some large sum to stay in a blessed
place, but not a para
frangat
An hour later the sheik came again. It was dark. The noises of sheep being folded
and of clamorous children had ceased; barking dogs and braying asses alone broke the
resonant silence. He had been persuading his men to take one hundred pounds; would I say
“finished,” he asked. “No! only eight hundred
piastres,” I said, and before leaving the tent the sheik had come
slowly to my terms. “But,” he asked, “when are you
intending to conclude the business?” “What
business?” I said. “What, as sheik, am I to have? The eight hundred piastres all go to the men; but for all my trouble
in making them friendly to you, surely I ought to have a handsome
sum,” he whined. After some talk I was glad to abate his demands to
three hundred piastres.
Nicola had put aside the animals bought for us with their legs tied; around
these, hideous boys, black and naked, with crowns shaven save for one central tuft of
matted hair, were jumping about and screeching corbash,
Next morning we mounted and turned towards Oosdoom. My irritation of last night only
slowly subsided at sight of the marvels of the scene around us. As I rode ahead a young
Arab of about twenty came up and kissed my hand, saying that he hoped I was not angry with
him. His appeal, with an affectation of unblemished guilelessness, made me feel favourably
towards him, and I asked his name. It was “Soleiman.” Would I let
him be my son? he asked. He had a pleasant face, and I could not retain my scowl when he
asked my name. “Hunt” he declared to be no name, and Holman he
regarded as but very little better, but “Wullaum,” he found very
good. I agreed to take him with me to the sea, where I should do my writing each day. He walked at my horse's head till we arrived somewhat abruptly at
a precipitous descent, with ruined fortress below; it was at the foot of this fortress
that I was to live with my troop. Taking the picture-case mounted on a donkey, Soleiman
and I made our way to the margin of the sea; not a sign of humanity was before us. Leaving
him to guard the ass, I strode about the hard drifts of the salt-encrusted ridges to find
the best site, but soon found myself sinking into the mire. As I struggled, a story of my
mother's cousin told me in childhood came into my mind. He had seen the veritable pillar
of salt into which Lot's wife had been turned! and in escaping from some terrible danger
had nearly got swallowed up in a slime pit, but had saved himself by falling prostrate. I
threw myself down to secure a wider support, and crawled to the firm ridge.
With a few large stones I made a solid foundation for my picture-case, and placing another for a seat, I began work. Soleiman sat down in front of me in utter bewilderment, staring intently into my face with open mouth.
It was a most appropriate scene for my subject, the mountains became more gorgeous with the preciousness of jewels, and each minute I rejoiced more in my work.
When the stars were beginning to appear, I removed the ban of silence from the head of my
“son,” who was almost in desperation by this time; together we
balanced the case on the donkey's back, and trudged away, not without a trace of
ill-humour in my companion. But an Arab soon forgets discontent if you tell him a tale,
and soon we were the best of friends. It was a necessary precaution to talk low and to
prevent our donkey from braying as we approached nearer to the
All looked homelike on my return to the tent, the light of the grate, where dinner was
being prepared, was rivalled by a dead tree brought up by the Arabs, and set alight for
their comfort. While I was having dinner I could hear Soleiman recounting my perplexing
proceedings down on the beach, together with murmuring, which convinced me that I should
have to use all my tact to make the men stay a sufficient time for me to do my work. I was
impressed by the solemn silence reigning around, broken only by the cries of wild
creatures scared by our fires. Before retiring to sleep I sallied out with my gun to scale
the nearer heights. The moon was still low, but bright, and as I looked
W. H. H.]
As the sun was going down Soleiman fervently urged my departure, but I was unyielding. At
dusk, when grudgingly I gave the sign and we lifted the case on to the ass's back, the
animal proved to be full of fun, and when he found both our hands engaged he slipped out
of the way, leaving us with our burden in the air, and when at last the packing had been
done, I felt the dews of evening menacingly chilly. It was not a place in which to
disregard such admonitions, so I put no restraint W. H. H.]
are one. Can you do
it again?” “Yes, my ‘brother,’” I
said, and away I went a second and a third time, indeed often on the way back until I felt
no more chill. During my dinner I could hear Soleiman recounting my exploits as a dervish,
and there were frequent yells of delight. When coffee was brought Nicola told me that the
Arabs desired to have an interview with me, and I invited them in. Sitting down at the
door with the customary salutations, after I had given them tobacco, the elder repeated
what Soleiman had said and then asked me if I would do them the favour to come out and
dance. I felt obliged to decline, and I could see they retired greatly disappointed.
Some of these men had the most perfect crania, one was worthy of Melanchthon, another equalled Bacon, but I found that the only manner in which they had exhibited superior intelligence during their fortnight's stay with us was in stealing the sugar from our canteen. I sometimes provided them with ammunition that they might procure game for me and themselves, but they preferred starvation to personal exertion.
The next day my “brother” was full of excitement about the simple
event of last evening. “Ya Wullaum,” he said, “the sheik
has no son, I am his nephew, and on his death I shall be sheik. Let Nicola go back to
Jerusalem, he is no good, but you stay with us always. The sheik has a daughter, you shall
marry her, and you shall be sheik before me. You shall lead us in our raids and battles,
and when we are in peace and encamped you shall be our dervish and dance. We have arranged
it; so let it be.” I wished to avoid wounding the poor fellow's feelings, and
said, “My ‘brother,’ I have a father and a mother in
England, how can I make their hearts sad by staying here?”
“But,” he returned “you can make the paper speak; write
to say that we want you to be our sheik and let Nicola take the picture to England, he is
no good. London, where you say you were born, is that a mountain or a plain? Not a city,
not like Jerusalem with walls and gates and shops. Never, my brother, I
will never believe that you are a belladi
One morning on my way to the place of work we traversed a new path, and in this track I
was surprised at finding a circular aperture in the earth about eight feet in diameter;
had the hole been perfectly vertical I should have concluded that it had been made for a
well, but the aperture was oblique at an angle of about forty-five. My guide declared that
a star had made it, and that some Bedouin on the height had seen it fall. His explanation
obtained little attention from me, but on further examination, I found that the alluvium,
on which we
E l' occhio riposato intorno mossi, Dritto levato, e fiso riguardai, Per conoscer lo loco dove io fossi. Vero è, che in su la proda mi trovai Della valle d' abisso dolorosa, Che tuono accoglie d' infiniti guai. Oscura, profunda era e nebulosa Tanto, che, per ficcar lo viso al fondo, Io non vi discernea veruna cosa. Or Discendiam quaggiù nel cieco mondo Incominciò il Poeta tutto smorto: Io sarò primo, e tu sarai secondo.
To my surprise one day I beheld a man in the shallows scraping up salt, and he astonished me when he calmly maintained that he had an established right to take it from the spot, but we persuaded him to accept a few piastres and go elsewhere, which he did quietly. We never saw him again.
Before starting in the morning, I used with content to observe my goat searching out the dry grass and stalks in the water-courses and clefts of the rock. At this point I found myself becoming seriously unwell. I could not leave off work and must eat what there was. I determined therefore to rely upon my stock of arrack—the only strong drink we had—as a night potion, and I slept profoundly; I usually made a trap with the tent door to prevent any one entering without disturbing me; on awakening one morning the door was down and all inside was in disorder. I was quite restored in health and jumped up to search about, I found by the marks in the sand that the intruder had been the greedy goat, who was not disposed to do his fair share of the fasting.
The mountains, the sea, and the middle distance on my canvas were now
completed, and I was beginning to feel the more indifferent to the grumblings of the men,
when Soleiman appeared, looking more impressive than usual, he crouched down beside me,
put his hand out to the cliffs of Masada, and whispered, “There are robbers;
they are coming this way—three on horseback, and four on foot. They have not
yet seen us, soon they will be behind Oosdoom, and we shall be able safely to move. You
must put down your umbrella, shut up your picture and cover it with stones. They will not
be here for an hour. We will go up in the mountain, and we will come back to the picture
when they have gone by.” I could see the party very far away, and asked,
“How do you know they are robbers?” “They are always
robbers when the others are feeble. Quick,” he said.
“Come.” “No,” I said, “I shall
stay.” He implored me to listen, and finally stamped, saying, “Your
blood be on your own head; as for me I shall go to the mountain and hide
myself”; he was like a man at his wits' end. I saw him run to the mountain,
and, with the ass he disappeared. I worked on steadily, but as time wore away I grew
anxious for the climax, and it was a relief to me to be able at last to hear the
approaching Arabs talking, and their horses' hoofs among the shingle. I suspended my
painting and looked from beneath my umbrella, until suddenly the deeshmen
kufeyiahs,
Eventually the whole party drew up in a half-circle. The leader thundered out, “Give me some water.” I turned and looked at him from his head to his horse's feet, and then very deliberately at the others, and resumed my task without saying a word. He stormed again, “Do you hear? Give us some water.” After turning to him once more with a little pause, extending my right hand on my breast, I said, “I am an Englishman; you are an Arab. Englishmen are not the servants of Arabs; I am employing Arabs for servants. You are thirsty—it is hot—the water is there—I will out of kindness let you have some, but you must help one another; I have something else to do,” and I turned again quietly to work.
They chattered a little in a low but excited tone. Presently the leader again spoke,
“Are you here alone?” “No,” I said,
“I have Arabs of the tribe of Abou Daouk waiting upon me.”
“Where are they?” “Well, some are with my tent and
animals in the Wady Zuara, but one comes with me to stay all day.” They looked
about while they handed the bottle from one to another and drank. And then again the
speaker said, “We should see him were he here.”
”But,” I said, “he saw you coming when you were at a
distance, and, being afraid, he went to the mountains to hide himself.” At
which my questioner said, “Call him.” I looked at him very gravely,
and said in a convincing tone, “But I don't want
him.” The reply was, “We want him.”
“Well,” I added, “then you call him;
his name is Soleiman.” After a little discussion the strangers seemed to see
reason in the argument; and the plain echoed with the name, familiar to Arabs as that of
the imperial wizard over nature, but no response came. “There,” they
said, “there is no one, or he would answer.”
“I told you he was afraid,” I said; “you best know what, under the circumstances, it is needful to do;” accordingly “Soleiman” was again shouted with solemn pledges of amity. Presently a voice was heard demanding further assurances of safety, then my “brother” stood up from behind a rock, and slowly he came down, bringing the donkey with him. He advanced with salutations. First, he kissed the leader, and then addressed himself to the others, who returned his salutation and began to talk, when this ceremony was over the horsemen dismounted, formed a circle and lit pipes.
I heard Soleiman say that the tent was guarded by one hundred of his tribe, that I had
bargained with the sheik to stay a month or two, that I had been on the spot twelve days.
“What does he come here for?” was asked. “He
comes,” said Soleiman, “each day from the tent at sunrise, and stays
till sunset writing on that paper with his frangis
1 “Tell us,” they clamoured; and Soleiman commenced giving
my history of the wickedness of the people of the four cities of the plain. After a pause
he went on to say that I talked to him about Mahomet, and was myself a dervish, and he
described my dancing. These mysterious particulars so dear to Arabs gave them many weighty
problems to revolve.
Silence was broken by a new speaker, who said, in a smothered voice, “I want to talk. The khowagha is a magician; he has books in his own
country like other Franks, which tell him all things. He has learnt about the four cities;
they were of course, full of silver and gold. He has come with that large paper and on it
he writes, the sky, the mountains, the plain, the sea and even the salt. He had the white
goat led over the ground in order to charm it, he will take the paper to England, and with
a sponge he will wipe out the coloured inks and at the bottom he will find the
‘four cities,’ and he will become possessed of all the
treasures.” The suspended breathing was resumed with a groan. “It
must be so,” all said. Then they questioned how many days I should remain. I
had not yet said a word to Soleiman that I thought of leaving before the stipulated term,
and what he said to the Arabs was calculated to make them think that I should stay at
least another week. Very low conference ensued until at last they resolved to leave me. I
gathered they were making calculations, but I went on with my work as though I gave no
heed to them.
Soleiman uttered an impressive “God be praised” when thedeeshmen
1 Sir Gray Hill, writing from Jerusalem in 1902, states that the water of the Dead Sea
has now risen several feet, and that the way by the sea on the eastern side of Oosdoom
where I painted, and upon which these Arabs were travelling, is now entirely
overflowed, so that the present road southward lies on the western side of Oosdoom.
Either the plain has sunk or the sea has risen. The exploration map registers the
state of the narrow southern extension of the lake as a marsh: this, again, can no
longer be.
Under the most favourable circumstances Nature exhibits her jealousy in frustrating all attempts of the artist to represent her, but in Syria it seemed that she obtained allies of such strength to fight her battles that it needed superhuman patience to continue the struggle against her.
I regard one who has not sojourned in a tent as not having thoroughly lived; for without
such experience how can a man feel what is his own relation to silent Nature, and to his
disorderly fellows? When slumber came I was no longer an outcast; the distance between
London and the remote wilderness of Judea was annulled. Sleep vanquished distance and
time. I was at home with my dear and true friends, the comrades of my highest ambition, we
were talking warmly and listening charmedly to ideas and plans beloved of both. I was with
the real working Brotherhood, and as I asked for unseen ones they appeared. I had much to
tell and not less to hear; many there were whom I took by the hand and grasped familiarly
by the shoulder. It was satisfaction almost to pain. While still eager in debate a force
of separation came between us, I held out my arms as it seemed, but I was torn backwards
across the round dark sea and over the wind-swept hills, and waking, I found myself again
in the lonely tent pitched in the desolate valley,
with the creatures of the wilderness screaming and howling from above
and below, aggrieved that our fires barred the way between them and the salt or water,
which it is their wont to visit by night.
When Soleiman continued to refer to the danger of the deeshmen
deeshmen
writing
would be of no use either to me or to them, and that they must not therefore return
prematurely. My “brother,” however, was ever increasingly anxious
for our departure. One evening after sunset I announced that I had finished, but I
cautioned secrecy towards strangers should any come. Sad at leaving the place, I consoled
myself with the promise that I would soon return from England and paint some of the
wonderful scenes about the wady. I led my horse up the difficult slope, full of thanksgiving at having so far been able to achieve my object in the expedition. It was a
blessing to get on the broad upland again, release from prison, where the sweet breezes of
the tropically scented plain welcomed me. The poor goat was suffering and too weak to
walk, so I had him lifted on to the picture-case and carried, but the sun soon distressed
him. Then we took the poor beast down, but it was of no use, the ominous vultures could be
spied from afar. I poured water into his mouth, but nothing availed to save him.
The night was so bitterly cold that I was obliged to have pity upon Nicola, and allow him to sleep half within the tent; still, both for me and my men the coverings we had were so insufficient that all grumbled at inability to sleep.
I was in hopeful spirits and eager to get back to civilisation again,
W. H. H.]
The war, ere I left Jerusalem, had awakened in me the deepest concern; never during my life had England been engaged in contest with a European power. I thought of the horrors of the struggle, but I felt that the inordinate claims of Russia had left us no choice.
As I advanced towards Hebron, firing and shouting could be heard. I saw a man advance, gesticulating wildly; he was followed by numbers of fellahin mad with excitement. The first man, pointing in my direction, shouted out, “Now go, seize them,” and fifty men ran fast down the slope behind us. Later came others from a crowd concealed beyond the brow of the hill. I looked to the heights on my right, where a group of fellahin appeared, who began to descend. As they reached the rear of my cavalcade they turned, and the foremost wheeled and ran up to me, I saw plainly that it was useless to resist, and I was as reconciled to my chances as if no danger threatened.
Three men seized my horse by the bridle, and others put their hands on my right arm. They were livid in the face, blackened with powder, with bloodshot eyes, worn with long watching and the strife and hatred of Cain. They shouted, “Dismount!” I had my leg lifted half over the horse, when a new arrival with evident authority said, “No; stop!” I reseated myself, and there was a babel of explanation and debate. The decision was expressed clearly, “Lead him on, and send him forward;” my horse was conducted some hundred yards, and left with the command that I should go straight on; but the screamings among the hinder party around my men, the glittering of swords, and the pushing and swaying about made me think that poor Nicola and the muleteers were being killed; I obeyed a sudden impulse and turned my horse, at which my captors were furious, but at the moment I saw the crowd open and my companions emerge; the Bedouin had disappeared. I was instinctively pausing a few moments to make sure of my course before choosing a path for the mules to lead the way, when I perceived that the whistling of bullets was no longer distant, but screamed about my ears, and I saw from the rending of the ground on the bank beside me that the missiles had come from the forces in front of us.
There was nothing but the worst of danger in delay, so I jumped off my horse and
commanded Nicola to do as I did. The man was too much possessed with a violent paroxysm of
sobbing to do anything with alacrity; even his assurance that he knew I should be the
death of him was only uttered in gasps, while a party of horsemen zigzagged down the hill
to intercept our passage. “That is Abderrachman, and he hates the English
because the Consul once put him in prison. If he finds you are an Englishman he will have
no mercy. Pray, say you are an American or a German,” he groaned. This provoked
my patience, and I thought it wise to caution him: “If you dare say anything of
VOL. I Z
In the road were children and women huddling up in little groups with sheep, oxen, horses, and asses. There was a fire with cauldrons and the simple fare of men engaged in defending the town, and litters were at hand for carrying the wounded. I thus entered for the first time into the experiences of beleaguered townsmen.
My return to civilised life was preluded by a visit to my Hebron acquaintance, the
Prussian doctor in charge of the Quarantine. Our interchange of civilities on my former
visits made me feel sure of his friendly reception. When I arrived, and was seated in his
divan smoking a tchibouk,
In a minute more we were ready. There was a good stone parapet to a gallery above the
gateway, made doubtless in anticipating of such needs, and I crouched down with my gun
ready, as did the Prussian doctor and his servants. My man was again in paroxysms of
grief. I could hear him sobbing and stamping through all the din. The sun was still high
enough to shine on the men rushing downhill, sparkling with steel and rich colours as they
appeared in and out of the fruit trees. The cries and confusion, mixed with the firing,
made the meeting one on which I could look only with bated breath. In a few minutes the
new-comers carried all before them, and as they advanced further
I determined to take my chance of the road on the morrow. There were no surprises in the
night, and sleep under a solid roof was acceptable. Once on the way we had from the first
to be on the alert. I, being ahead, peered through every opening to discover figures. I
expected to find a force quite near on this side of Hebron, but we passed the ancient ruin
and reached the country without having seen a single mortal. But suddenly, against the
sky-line, there appeared a small band of fellahin coming towards us, some mounted. The
leader at once drew up and addressed his men, directing them to spread themselves out; he
then turned in a marked manner to confront me. Determined at once to avoid all appearance
of wishing to escape the contact, I turned directly towards him, and brought my horse's
head against his. Using the left hand to hold my gun by the barrel, with a slight switch
in my right I gently touched his animal on the nose, looking at him cheerfully, and saying
at the moment, “
When I had reached the city and changed some circular notes, I was prepared for all my Bedouin friends; their eagerness for the money overweighing their dread of entering city gates. My first care was to wash my picture free from the stains of travel, and I was rejoiced to see it had received no harm. While thus engaged I was summoned to attend at the Consulate without a moment's delay. I found the excellent Consul irate that I had not immediately on my return to Jerusalem reported the circumstances of my journey. It was not respectful, he pointed out, to leave these matters to be talked of all over the city by the muleteers and my servants, when he, established in his position to secure information, was left in ignorance. He now required me to draw up a report to send to his official superiors by the parting post.
Mr. Finn was an eminently energetic and scrupulously honourable official in all
particulars, but he suffered in the estimation of the natives
After my thorough change of work it was an excellent opportunity to sit in judgment upon “
I made some riding excursions to discover a young white goat, but it turned out that such a beast could be found only at a great distance. Having until January searched in vain, I sent a man beyond the Jordan to find one, he delighted me after two or three days by appearing with a model which was nigh perfect; the price was a fancy one, the animal was tired with his journey, and it was petted in every degree as a precious possession, but the next day it died before I could do a touch from it. I then had to send off two venturesome lads for another, and in a week, in the middle of February, they returned with a kid without a trace of brown or black on his coat.
I was gradually overtaken by the penalty of becoming known among the guides who acted for travellers visiting the city, and the work did not progress so quickly as I had hoped, for I had my fits of discontent, and frequently, in the hope of some better arrangement, I undid work that had been painted.
While I was thus engaged, news came of the battle of Inkerman which silenced our alien disparagers for a time, but as the winter approached, rumours of the soldiers' sufferings from cold and privations in the Crimea were of the most distressing character, and these were triumphed in by our foreign neighbours.
The winter storms rendered the landing of mails impossible; the Arabs, however, in some mysterious manner, obtained and circulated dark reports, and it was impossible to ignore that the German Colony, instead of fraternal feeling, which I had thought existed on either side, entertained a settled captious jealousy of the English.
In Jerusalem, as in other places, men without honest occupation are given to invent
fables, and it is not so frivolous as it might appear to be to show them their folly. One
evening in a satirical mood I amused Sim by making a neat drawing of a newly invented gun
lettered with description to look like an engraving. Having all ready, Sim and I on our
evening walk began an altercation within hearing of a certain transatlantic pro-Russian, I
affecting to scout the story that the Russians could be persuaded that such an invention
would act, and that they were about to bring it into the field against the Allies. Sim
pretended to believe the story. The listener wanted particulars. I said that when he saw
the absurd print he would recognise the utter impracticability of the gun. He said he had
little doubt it was true that the Russians had such a gun; and when he saw the drawing he
exclaimed,
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,
BRUNSWICK STREET, STAMFORD STREET, S.E.,
AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.