Madox Brown. Some Letters Followed by a Diary

Madox Brown To Elizabeth Brown, Hastings.

LETTER I.

Brown and his first wife (his cousin, Elizabeth Bromley) married at a very early age, and lived for a while in Paris. They left Paris and settled in England in the summer of 1844. The state of her health was such as to require her to live out of London, and she went to Hastings; he occupied a studio in the Regent’s Park or Camden Town district, in the same house with the painter Charles Lucy and his family. Another inmate was Frank Howard, an artist of rapid facility and some cleverness, who engaged in the cartoon-competitions for the Houses of Parliament. “My coloured sketch” was (I take it) the same design as Brown’s cartoon, The Spirit of Justice, sent to the second of these competitions. The name of the painter, William Etty, explains itself. Martin must be the celebrated John Martin.

35 Arlington Street, Camden Town.
[? December 1844.]

My Blessed Lizzy,

You can’t think how I was pleased to receive your long letter.... I am in no mood to write a long letter. I am bothered and anxious. This is a horrid place: that study is a regular castle of indolence, and it is catching—indeed, nothing is more so. The study is continually full of all of them, gabbling, and it distracts me. That infernal Howard is a pest, and yet he is so good-natured one can’t feel offended at him. It is a curse to be in such a place. Nothing would surprise me less than to want time just at the last. I have got more work than I can get through. I ought to have done it all before the new year. I have showed my coloured sketch to Etty and Martin; they were both pleased with it, which is a rare feeling for Etty to express. God bless you. I have no time or humour to write more, but believe me, your husband loves you as the first day. God bless you.—F. M. Brown.

LETTER II.

The letter from which I here extract appears to be incomplete—there is no signature to it. The oil-picture of Parisina represents the jealous rage of the husband consequent upon the words of love murmured by Parisina in her sleep—a dramatically treated subject, painted in a dark continental style, not at all hinting of “Præraphaelitism.” It now belongs to Mr. Henry Boddington, of Manchester. The last thing on the sheet of letter-paper is the sketch (a slight affair) of The Banks and Braes of Bonny Doune. I am satisfied that Brown did not ever paint this intended subject. We see here that he “modelled” a little boy; but I think the process of modelling was still almost a novelty to him when, after Dante Rossetti’s death in 1882, he undertook the bas-relief subjects for his grave-cross, and afterwards the bust-monument in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea.

35 Arlington Street, Camden Town.
[? February 1845.]

My dearest Lizz,

I write you from the Studio again, as I had no paper this morning. I have been out and executed all your commissions.... I went to the British Institution yesterday, as it was varnishing-day, and saw all is a noble-looking man. They have not hung my sketch, but the Parisina looks very well, as it has got a good light.

I saw Mr. and Mrs. MacIan, a Scotch artist and his wife, whom I met at Mr. Etty’s. He was in perfect rapture with Parisina, said the price I asked was perfectly preposterous, fifty guineas. He said it was worth six times as much. You will be surprised but not displeased to hear that I have almost begun a picture for the Royal Academy—The Banks and Braes of Bonny Doune—one full-length figure the size of life. As it will be a very pretty thing, it might sell; at all events, it will be something to send there. But after some reflection I have decided not to begin it till three weeks before the exhibition opens, as I will then be better able to judge if it will have time. Besides, if I can get the old Judge Best to sit, I would not have time for both for certain.

I have made an outline from nature for it. She is bare-foot, seated on the bank and with the water at her feet, looking round at the birds at play, which awakes a pang.

I have modelled a little boy, and drawn him from Mrs. Christie’s little boy....

LETTER III.

Brown was at this time preparing to work on his specimen of fresco, for the Westminster Hall competition; he was also engaged upon his cartoon of The Spirit of Justice for the same competition, and upon a water-colour reproducing the composition of that cartoon. The other cartoons, which he had been removing from Westminster Hall, were proper to the competition of the preceding year—namely, William the Conqueror gazing on the body of Harold, and Adam and Eve after the Fall.

All three cartoons remained in his possession up to his death in 1893, and were sold shortly afterwards to public institutions. In connexion with these cartoons, Brown names “Pickham.” I do not know who Pickham may have been, and suspect that he meant Pickford (the carrier), for he was always celebrated for mauling surnames. “The wax sketch” must have been an encaustic painting from the Harold subject, exhibited along with it in Westminster Hall. Mrs. Lucy was the wife of Mr. Charles Lucy, the painter, in whose house Brown then occupied a studio. Mr. Lucy is now almost forgotten, but was at one time an artist of some prominence, popular from the engravings after two of his large works—Cromwell at the Deathbed of his daughter Mrs. Claypole, and Nelson in the Cabin of the Victory.

35 Arlington Street, Camden Town.
6 May 1845.

My blessed Wife,

... I have got my fresco-ground prepared at last, and brought home. My sand and lime is all mixed, and I am only waiting for tracing-paper to begin my fresco. In the mean time I have finished off the top part of the Cartoon, ready to paint from it. I have also finished the Knight and the Lawyer and the Widow, and have begun the Father of the Knight. I am getting on, and so is the time,—I hardly know which the faster.

I had to go to the Westminster Hall, [and] roll-up my Cartoons, as they were clearing the Hall for next exhibition. It took me a day’s work nearly; but they are now safely packed up, thank goodness, and hid away by Pickham, as I did not know where to have them brought to....

I have just been writing to Manchester about sending Parisina there, and the wax sketch....

I will tell you an amusing anecdote. Mrs. Warton, the Model, came to sit to Mr. Lucy the other morning; she came while I was gone to breakfast. She is rather a pretty girl. When I was there, Mr. Lucy left the room a moment, when the girl asked me if Mrs. Lucy was jealous of her husband. I said I did not think so—but why?—“Why,” says the woman, “while I was waiting for Mr. Lucy here this morning, Mrs. Lucy came into the room, and pretended to look for a book. And says she, ‘Are you come here to sit for Mr. Lucy?’ Says I, ‘I don’t know, I’m sure, which of the gentlemen I’m wanted [for],—I believe it is for Mr. Lucy,’ says I. So says she, ‘Are you going to sit undressed to him?’ And I answered her, ‘I’m sure I don’t know if he wants me to.’ ‘Well,’ says she, ‘I’m sure I can’t think how ever a woman can be so nasty undelicant as to take off all her things before a man; it’s a filthy disgusting thing to do, and I can’t think how they can get any woman to do [it]. I wouldn’t’, says she—‘No, that I wouldn’t.’”—Mrs. Warton answered her not a word to increase her choler; “so with that she flounced out of the room, with her face as red as a turkey-cock’s.”

Mrs. Warton would have it that she was on the tiles, peeping down through the skylight; because it rattled with the wind, and Mr. Lucy looked up once now and then, and told her it was the wind. But nevertheless the story is sure to go unimpaired all over London, as Mrs. Warton, being pretty, seemed to derive satisfaction from the idea of Mrs. Lucy’s being jealous....

Your affectionate dear Husband,
Ford M. Brown.

LETTER IV.

[35 Arlington Street.
May ? 1845.]

My blessed Lizz,...

I shall have done my fresco to-morrow: I shall then have more than a fortnight to finish my cartoon and sketch. I can’t say how it looks till dry, but I think it is better than last year. If it does not dry well, I shall retouch it a great deal. I lay the plaster myself over-night, and work all next day from five in the morning till dark, I shall have done it all in fourteen days. I have hired an alarum that always wakes me at half-past four. I go to bed at eleven....

God bless you over and over again. How cruel of you never to say a word about your health!

Your ever affectionate husband,
Ford M. Brown.

LETTER V.

The picture mentioned is, I infer, the Parisina. The date of the letter is but obscurely indicated. “Our child,” named at the close of the letter, was Lucy Brown, born in 1843, who became my wife in 1874.

35 Arlington Street,
Camden Town.
? 18 May 1845.

My dearest Lizz,

I promised you yesterday to finish my letter by this post, as I had so little time to write you a decent letter yesterday—what with Mrs. Lucy’s making me eat of the inside of a sheep, and Mr. Howard’s infernal tongue, which went at such a rate that I was obliged to leave him and his studio in which we were working (as the stove is being mended in ours) and go in the middle of his argument into our cold room to be able to finish the letter at all; and then I had to run a good way after the bellman, who had just left the office. Tell me next letter if you have to pay for it—I mean yesterday’s letter. My own dear Lizzy, I am now in peace and quiet by mine own fireside, and have time to say all I wish to you, my dear wife. I must, as you wish, give you all the news, such as it is: but first and foremost make yourself happy and quiet. As for myself—but for you, I never was in better spirits, particularly since I have seen Mr. Solly, and, but for the wish to see you, I should be quite happy.

Our prospects seem brighter to me than ever. It may be a kind of excitement, but I feel sure that in a few years I shall be known, and begin to be valued, and in the meantime I shall be increasing reputation daily. The artists seem to be pleased with the picture now exhibited, as I hear from divers models; and this (as it was never painted to suit public taste) is as much as I can wish: all the artists seem to notice it. Don’t mention much about my artistic affairs to Miss A—, as she is such a friend of the Claxtons,⁠ who seem queer people....

I am colouring the sketch of my cartoon, and will get it all right, I think, but it is the most difficult part. The figure of the Knight in brown burnished armour looks splendid now it is coloured: it is not the sketch for sending in that I am doing. I have been drawing from the model a great deal also, and will soon get through all that, but will not have time to paint the Banks and Braes of Bonny Doune. I am altogether pleased with my work, and am doing it more carefully than I did the last cartoon; but am not so satisfied with the quantity I have done these few last days, I seem to have so many things to do.... Mr. Lucy is very kind and mightily taken with me and you, which is as well as otherwise. What lies you wrote about their child! I have now told you pretty near all. God bless you, my dear Wife, and bless our child....

Your affectionate hubby,
Ford M. Brown.

MADOX BROWN’S DIARY, 1847 TO 1856.

Brown seems to have first begun keeping a Diary on 4th September 1847. I possess five copy-book sections of this Diary, going on (but with considerable intervals when the day-by-day work was neglected) up to 6th January 1856. Later sections are in the possession of Mr. Ford Hueffer, and have been used in his book entitled Ford Madox Brown. I have said elsewhere that, had I at the proper time been conscious of housing the earlier sections, I should at once have placed them at his disposal—but I never knew anything about them until October 1896, when the above-named Biography was already fully in type. I am satisfied that the reader, conversant with art-matters, will find a good deal of interest in my extracts from the Diary, offhand though they mostly are: these form perhaps hardly a half of the whole. The footnotes are always mine. When the name Lucy occurs the reader should be on his guard to remember that it sometimes means Brown’s daughter Lucy, but more generally the Painter Charles Lucy. Brown was punctilious in noting down at the end of each day the number of hours during which he had been occupied in actual professional work. Taking at random the month of November 1847, I find the total to be 171¼ hours, or upwards of 5 hours per day. This, allowing for interruptions, meals, and demands upon him for other than artistic purposes, is a good tale of diligence: but at some other periods the numbers of hours was much larger—we read of 10 hours, 12, and even on occasion 15 and 18.

4 September 1847.

As the work I am at present engaged upon is the most extensive, as well as the most interesting to myself, of any that I have yet undertaken, I shall begin this book by a short retrospectory glance at the events which have led to my undertaking it.

In the summer of ’45 I went to the British Museum to read Sir James Mackintosh’s History of England, having heard that it was of a philosophical nature, with a view to select some subject connected with the history of this country, of a general and comprehensive nature. I was already wavering in my mind between two that struck me; one was “The First Naval Victory,” and the other “The Origin of our Native Tongue.” The former subject had first engaged my attention; but the sight of Maclise’s cartoon of Chivalry, and the wish to handle more luxuriant and attractive materials, afterwards changed the current of my thoughts.

In this mood, glancing over the pages of the above-named history, I fell upon a passage to this effect as near as I can remember: “And it is scarcely to be wondered at that English about this period should have become the judicial language of the country, ennobled as it had recently been by the genius of Geoffrey Chaucer.” This at once fixed me; I immediately saw a vision of Chaucer reading his poems to knights and ladies fair, to the king and court, amid air and sunshine.

When I arrived at Rome, from the library of the English Academy I procured the works and life of our first poet, and fortunately I found that the facts known respecting him perfectly admitted of the idea I had already conceived of the subject,—to wit, Chaucer reading his poems to Edward III. and his court, bringing-in other noted characters, such as the Black Prince etc. I immediately set to work; and, after many alterations and great labour, I brought the composition to its present state.

At first I had intended calling it “The Seeds of the English Language,” and putting Wiclif on one side (as a wing) and some one else on the other; but I could find no one to suit. Gower was too poor a character; and John of Gaunt, for the harmony of ideas, would not suit—it being inappropriate to put the patron on one wing, and his protégés one in the centre and the other on the other side-compartment. I then changed my idea to that of “The Seeds and Fruits of the English Language”; but I soon found that in doing so, after having given a place to our greatest poets, there would be none left for the prose-writers: and, little liking the trouble of cutting and contriving for them, I determined on leaving them out and calling the work the “Seeds and Fruits of English Poetry.”

Such is the exposal of the train of ideas which led to the composition of the work in its present state. Whether it may ever deserve the pains I am now taking about it remains to be seen; very likely it may only add one more to the many kicks I have already received from Fortune. If so, I am quite able to bear it and despise her. Of one thing she cannot rob me—the pleasure I have already extracted—distilled, I may say—from the very work itself. Warned by bitter experience, I have learned not to trust only to hope for my reward, nor consider my toil as a sacrifice, but to value the present, the pleasure that I have received and daily yet receive from the working out of a subject after mine own heart, a love-offering to my favourite poets, to my never-faithless Burns, Byron, Spenser, and Shakespeare. Never can I forget the pleasure with which I could muse over my work in Rome, at a time when visited by the most bitter afflictions and apprehensions for the future,⁠ at a time when all other satisfaction was impossible; never can I forget that she gave it her unqualified approbation, prophesied that it would ensure me ultimate success, regretted that she would never live to see it, and ordered me to complete it after her death. In fulfilling her behest I am breaking one of her strongest recommendations—I have parted from Lucy.⁠ O God! ought not that thought to make me strive and struggle against indolence? Oh the hell of poverty!

To-day I have done little or nothing but sketched-in the figure of Chaucer in white chalk, and have been to the Strand about some costumes, after writing out a list of them.

I must not omit to say that in Rome I painted a sketch of it in oil, afterwards made a drawing of it in chalk, and then an outline of the whole as it now is; since which I began first to fill it up in colour at Southend, afterwards went on a little with it at Hampstead, and since touched it and marred it at Tudor Lodge.⁠

I have long intended beginning this journal; praise be God it is begun at last.

5th September.—Got up late, got to work late, did little, scratched-in three figures in white chalk; left off at half-past two, dressed and went out to dinner. Then went to the Cemetery:⁠ found it full of cockneys: walked over to Hampstead, saw a glorious sunset....

6th.—Have not worked to-day—tried to do so but could not, having been out all the morning to the costume-shop and other places.... Got a lay figure from Barbe’s at last, bought ten yards of flannel for draperies, engaged a model for to-morrow. Lost myself in Somerstown; got into a place where there was no gas; thought I should get my throat cut. Persevered, and after almost breaking my neck got into the King’s Road at last.... Went to Cooper’s, and ordered a moveable seat for my painting-steps....

7th.—Got up at seven, model came, worked well all day—drew some legs....

8th—... John Marshall⁠ came in; went out with him, and then called to see my aunt Brown. Lost a day like Titus, but dined (like Lord Byron on his birthday) on eggs and bacon and ale. Am very sulky with myself.

9th.—... Bought some plaid draperies, and set about arranging the draperies for Robert Burns⁠ on the lay figure—sweated over it till dark, but got it to do at last. Went out till bed-time....

11th.—... Painted-in part of a study for Robert Burns’ tartan with copal varnish; worked till quarter to six.

13th.—Went to Gravesend to see Lucy dear.

14th.—Got up later, at eight. Finished the plaid, and began a drawing for the robe of Robert Burns. Mr. and Mrs. Lucy came in: afterwards Thomas interrupted,⁠ and I didn’t do much. Have bought a rat-trap: studio⁠ swarms with them....

16th.—Got up at half-past seven. Cut out a fresh mantle for Milton. Set it and began drawing it. Went out in the evening. Set about preparing a togam;⁠ bought more flannel for it.

17th.—Got up at quarter to eight: worked all day at the cloak for Milton, and all the evening till twelve at the togam....

18th.—... Cut out the togam, and arranged it on the lay figure for Lord Byron....

20th.—Got up very early for a wonder: got to work at quarter past seven. Worked very hard all day; finished the drapery for Lord Byron. Dined, and walked round Regent’s Park with Thomas. Left him about to go and tell them, at a Shakespeare meeting of the Church Mason Society, that he thought it all humbug, and that the old House⁠ had better be pulled down, and monument put in its place. Afterwards I came home, and had the energy to arrange the lay figure for Shakespeare before going to bed. I am honouring him in the right way.

21st.—Got up at seven, worked pretty well all day. The Lucys came in, and in the night the rats ran away with a mutton-chop—could find no trace of it, not even the satisfaction of seeing the bone....

23rd.—Got up late—painted till five.... Find that, when I have painted some hours, I get tired and cannot see the colour, but can see the shape. Memo., ought not to paint too long if I want to do good....

25th.—Got up early—and got to work late. Fumbled till twelve o’clock over the hood of the left-hand-corner figure of the knight; made a liripipe for it. About twelve set to work at a small drawing of ——;⁠ had not finished it by dusk. Am a very swine—shall never get the painting done in time—am a beast and a sleepy brute.

26th.—Finished the drawing of the hood, and a drawing of a cloak for one of the men next him, the Chamberlain....

28th.—Got up at eight. Arranged the cardinal’s cape again; began a drawing of it. Lucy came in about one: made me go out with him. Did nothing more, but went to Richmond; back with him to tea. Came home by eleven. Read Shelley, and got to sleep about twelve.

29th.—Got up past nine, worse and worse; it is horrible to reflect. Finished the cape about one. Went out to see Thomas and my aunt; came back, and began arranging the hood for Alice Perrers, old Edward’s mistress: found the hair of the lay figure wanted curling—put it in paper, and made a fire to heat the tongs, and curled it; then oiled it. Alas! did nothing afterwards. Went for a walk with Thomas....

4th October.—Got up late; felt low and dejected, never feel happy. Got to work about twelve. Arranged the white capuchon for the lady with her back to you; nearly finished it....

5th.—... Went to Thomas to make a sketch of some vine-leaves—found him at work on his designs of the Penseroso for the Art-Union, but out of sorts and dejected. About three left off, and went to the cemetery at Highgate.

6th.—... Went out to see after stuffs, and a portrait of Chaucer published by C. Knight; could get nothing; tired and dejected....

7th.—... Dined too late to begin anything; went to sleep. Thomas came in, and we had a walk. He thinks of going to Cambridge, to become wise and learned in all matters. I am a brute and a sleepy beast.

8th.—... Began, and painted the white-silk head-cushion with copal varnish and drying-oil in equal parts; find it dries quick, and does not sink in on retouching. Went and drank tea with Lucy: engaged Miss Chamberlayne for Tuesday. Began making a green velvet hat of the time of Edward III.

9th.—... Have been suffering eight or ten days from indigestion; live upon mutton-chops and tea and coffee, quite a teetotaler....

12th.—Finished the furred cap; went and bought stuff for a blind, to have two lights if necessary, to give the appearance, to those figures which are not in sunlight, of being in the open air.⁠ Lawrence did not come to put it up.

13th.—Finished the green hat. Wrote four letters, and called on Thomas to see some sketches of his; some fine ideas; one in particular, a scramble for laurels—grandly satirical. Came back to the studio, and put up the blind with Lawrence. Afterwards walked half over London in quest of draperies; bought some crimson cotton-velvet.

14th.—Got up at half-past seven. Miss Chamberlayne came. Worked till four, in spite of her talking propensities. Made outlines of the nude of the two figures of Muses of impassioned and satirical poetry,⁠ and several other central figures. Dined, and called on my Aunt Brown. Walked down Holborn in quest of stuffs, and found some German velvet a bargain, 10¾d. a yard: took six yards of it for the gown of Chaucer. Came back, and am now writing this....

16th.—... With Thomas to the Princess’s Theatre, to see Miss Cushman and Cooper in The Stranger, both nature to the life; and She Stoops to Conquer, a fine fine play. Went and supped with Thomas, and stopped till half-past one....

19th.—Got up at half-past five; went to Gravesend to see my sweet child; found her quite well. Came back, and went to bed....

22nd.—Got up at half-past five, got to work by seven. Painted-in the King’s cloak (study). Workwoman came; set her to make the gown for Chaucer; myself made ears for the jester’s hood, and began a drawing of it. In the evening began drawing-in the draperies of Milton on the canvas.

27th.—Got up at—past seven. Went out to seek for velvet and brocades: got some velvet to suit, and an old yellow satin dress; saw some fine old brocade; told the Jew to bring it me to my study, to bargain some old clothes against it. Came back very tired. Drew a little at the jester, and in the evening at the draperies of Robert Burns.

28th.—Got up at quarter to seven; workwoman came at nine. Worked at the jester’s head. At ten Master Lawrence came in, and the poor brute became insolent, and wanted to fight me because I wanted him to be off again. Had to kick him out at last; and then he came to the window and abused me—threatened him with the police. Richard Bromley came to see me on his return from Ireland,⁠ for a few days. The Jew came, and went off sulky, because I would not give him his price and the old clothes into the bargain. Did little all day but superintend the workwoman. Went to see the Lucys: came back and worked at Robert Burns on the canvas.

29th.—... Drew Chaucer and the old King in on the canvas. Am writing this and going to bed, twenty minutes past ten....

31st.—Sunday. Got up very late; painted at the sideless gown, and then at the hair and cap of the troubadour in the centre of the picture. Laid-in the study for it. Called on Mark Anthony,⁠ stopped there till twelve. He told me that Hurlstone⁠ had wished to get me to join the Suffolk Street set, which has been trying to regenerate.

1st November.—Got up at seven, felt very tired. Walked half over London: bought a portrait of Lord Byron and some yellow brocade, and hired some ermine. Came in about three. Finished the hair of the troubadour—dined, felt very tired; John Marshall came in—stopped till eleven (one hour’s work.)

2nd.—Got up at seven, and to work by eight. Painted the study of the ermine cloak of “ye ladie with ye sideless gown”; workwoman all day; cut out the yellow brocade hood and cape, and muddled away the rest of the evening (six hours’ work).

3rd.—Got up at quarter to seven, and to work by half-past eight. Finished yesterday’s work, and painted at a study of the ermine cloak of ye Black Prince, and at two had to leave off in consequence of the fog—which, like Foggo, was nogo.⁠

6th.—Got up at seven; have not slept last night. What is the reason of it? Drank some tea just before going to bed. Hope I shall sleep to-night. Got to work before nine, finished the hair. Arranged the lay figure for the figure in the yellow brocade hood, began painting it; did little before four. At seven went with Lucy to a meeting of the Shareholders of the Free Exhibition. We both refused to be on the committee. Martin in consequence is afraid they will turn him off,—poor Martin, hon. sec.!⁠ We have written to him to say that, if they do, we will have nothing more to do with them. Marshall Claxton and his party want to make Dibdin secretary;⁠ what a set of muffs! What will be the upshot of it I don’t know and don’t care.—Went to bed at twelve (five hours’ work).

12th.—Got up at seven, and to work by nine—painted at the green gown till quarter past three.... Went to see Mark Anthony about a Daguerreotype: think of having some struck off for the figures in the picture, to save time. Came back, and set to work at a drawing of the head of Spenser: work from nine till twelve (eight and a-half hours’ work)....

16th.—Got up quarter to seven, and to work by quarter past eight. Worked at the study of yellow sleeve till half-past ten. Called on Thomas: came back to dine by five. He is hard at work, knocking metaphysical art on the head, and bringing each thing sentimental to a positive state. Lucy called on me; did not get to work again till nine. Worked at the head of Byron two and a half hours (seven and a half hours’ work).

17th.—Got up at quarter past seven, and to work by nine. Cogitated on what I was to do till half-past ten. Drew at the Cardinal and the two ladies till two. Set to work at seven: painted the first bit on the canvas: worked till I laid-in the head and neck of Lord Byron (ten hours’ work)....

22nd.—Got up at half-past seven, felt ill. Went out on business; wasted my time, and took a walk till twelve. Came back, and worked a very little—about one and a-half hours—wasted my time, and dined. Martin has just dropped a note in my letter-box, which seems to say that they have ejected him from the place of secretary to the Free Exhibition: if so, we have done with it, and there is no necessity for me to get this work finished: it has rather cooled my working-ardour. Worked a little in the evening, about two hours....

26th.—Got up at eight, began work at half-past nine. Worked till twelve at the head of Shakespeare; did nothing fit to be seen. Went out—wretched weather. Lucy came back and dined with me. About half-past six I set to work at drawing heads, but could not work: drew one: worked little better than two hours. I have been reflecting seriously about my large composition, that I had better paint the middle compartment small for next year’s exhibition, and recompose it for the large one on a grander principle. I have been reflecting on the subject, and have almost made up my mind to do so. I have sat up thinking of the new composition, to see if I could make a better one, so as not to risk sacrificing the present one to no purpose, and I believe I have succeeded to my satisfaction—(two hours’ work, two hours’ thought: three wasted).

27th.—Got up I know not at what time. Have been thinking about my change, and have decided to go and order the small canvas....

29th.—... Thought of a subject as I went along: Wiclif reading his translation of the Bible to John of Gaunt, Chaucer and Gower present. Arranged it in my mind. Called on Lucy; saw Martin, in a precious stew about the Free Exhibition. Dined, came home: made a slight sketch of it (three hours’ work).

30th.—Got up at quarter to eight. Went out to see about the Museum for consulting authorities; called on Mark Anthony; went to the reading-room of Museum; saw Lewis’s Life of Wiclif, Southey’s Book of the Church. Met Lucy there in search of documents for his Landing of Puritans in New Plymouth.⁠ Came home, dined, and sketched a little at the subject (three hours’ work).

1st December.—Got up at eight; went out to the print-shops and to the National Gallery. Then to the Museum; read Godwin’s Life of Chaucer....

2nd.—Got up at half-past seven. Went out to the British Museum; got there by ten; made a drawing of a Gothic alphabet; read Knight’s Chaucer. Dined, called on my aunt Brown. Set to work by eight, worked till twelve, the sketch....

3rd.—Got up at eight. Went to the Museum by half-past nine; finished the alphabet, and consulted Pugin on Furniture. In the evening worked at the composition till half-past twelve (five hours—six hours Museum).

4th.—Went to Highgate and to Gravesend, to see my sweet child.

5th.—Slept at Gravesend, and drew a little head of my beautiful babe; it is to-day eighteen months since the death of my poor dear wife. These are thoughts that I must banish; it unnerves me. I have dedicated the day to my child and the memory of her mother. Yesterday I brought her fuchsia down from her grave, and have given it to Mrs. Lucy to take care of for the winter. I left Gravesend by the five o’clock boat, and have come back, intending perhaps to do some work (two hours).

9th.—Got up at eight. The night before I had finished the drawing of the sketch. About ten I began to draw a tracing of the sketch, to make it in oil; muddled and worked and muddled till half-past three. Went out, half inclined to work no more. Came back, dined. Mr. and Mrs. Lucy came in to see me; good excuse; I went home with them, and stopped till one!...

11th.—Got up about eight. Set to painting by ten; painted till half-past three at the figures of Wiclif, Chaucer, and Gower, and that side of it.... Did little good (eight hours’ work).

12th, Sunday.—Got up at eight, set to work before ten. Painted till three at the figure of John of Gaunt, etc.; went out and dined, and spent the evening with Lucy (three hours’ work).

13th.—... Called on Lucy. Buss⁠ has been bothering him about the Free Exhibition. Went with him to Rowney’s: came back, dined, and set to work about six. Wasted one and a half hours cleaning a damned pipe. Worked till eleven (five hours’ work)....

16th.—... Set to work about twelve; worked till three, chalking-in the figures on the canvas. Went out for a model, unsuccessful; got Smith coming to-morrow. Set to work about quarter past six; left off for want of chalk. Am writing this, and going to write damned letters for money, etc. Can do no more work for want of chalk: have been as far as Oxford Street, but can get none. Drew a little at the ornamental part of the design (four hours).

27th.—Came up to London [from Gravesend]; did nothing all day. Called on the Lucys in the evening. On coming home to my studio at past twelve, found a drunken man groaning in one of the workshops with a candle amid the shavings. Fetched a policeman and the master; got him safe out.

28th.—Tried to work: did nothing all day but arrange the lay figure for Wiclif, and superintend the making of a gown for Chaucer; I am sadly idle!...

1848—1st January.—Came back to London and dined at Lucy’s. In the evening Thomas came in, and we settled to illustrate Pope’s Essay on Man between us; I proposed the subject.⁠ Came to bed by one....

3rd.—... Worked till eleven at the outline of the painting; afterwards fiddled at a piece of poetry till quarter to one (eight hours’ work)....

10th.—Got up at half-past eight and to work by half-past nine; drew my two hands in the glass for Gower’s.... I afterwards drew a little at one of my hands for Wiclif, when that devil Miss Chamberlayne called. Walked round Regent’s Park, dined. Thomas came in, and with Lucy we went to Dickinson’s Academy, Maddox Street: saw Foley there, and Paris and Salter⁠ (five hours’ work)....

12th.—Breakfasted in bed; drew all day at the canvas. Lucy came in to go to Dickinson’s with me: found I was making my figures of Chaucer and Gower too short—quite took me aback. Went and began a pencil drawing at Dickinson’s. Walked home with Lucy, came back; bought a bottle of whisky to drown care with (eight hours’ work).

15th.—I went to Greenwich,⁠ to collect rents, and to Gravesend.

16th.—Gravesend still. Made a little study of Lucy in sunshine⁠ (one and a half hours’ work).

17th.—Came back by the half-past eight boat: went to see John Bromley,⁠ and to make a sketch of the hand of his little girl for the female in this painting.... Came back and set to work drawing at the figure of Wiclif. Went to Maddox Street; came back again at ten, and worked till past eleven (five and a half hours’ work).

18th.—Got up at half-past eight. Set to work by ten at drawing-in a hand and the sleeves of Wiclif. Began Painting. Laid-in the head and feet of Wiclif. Turned my canvases of the Poets round to the wall, so as to be able to admit persons if necessary.

19th.—... Called on Mark Anthony: saw his large Village Festival in progress; called on Lucy (five hours’ work).

21st.—Breakfasted in bed; got up at ten, and to work by eleven. Drew-in the head of Chaucer from myself in two looking-glasses; altered that of Gower, and reduced one of Chaucer’s hands.

22nd.—... Painted-in the sleeves and upper part of Chaucer’s gown (à premier coup): shall not want to retouch it much, I expect; worked till four.

26th.—Wednesday. Got up at half-past eight: went out for a walk; found it too cold. Went and bespoke Miss Ashley, and came back. Miss Ashley came by eleven: stopped till four, let the fire out three times, and talked all day; will never do.—In the evening I worked at the head of the female, drawing it in in water-colour; could not succeed (four hours’ work)....

31st.—... Went to Suffolk Street, to hear Professor Ansted tell us that the colour of the air is blue, and that of mist grey, etc. etc.; this they call geology! (two hours’ work).

1st February.—... I afterwards set about composing the furniture for my painting; did not do much (two hours’ work). Got a note from Helen Bromley, enclosing one for Miss Ensgrubber⁠ to her, to ask my poor wife’s address. Oh dear! hers has been for upwards of nineteen months the cemetery of Highgate; mine, this rascally barn of a studio. To think that we once had a home together! in Paris how different, and even in Rome how different! Bless you, my poor child!

2nd.—Got up at eight, worked from ten till four at composing the chair of John of Gaunt....

3rd.—Going to set to work for about three hours at the chair. Did little good; what a muff I am! (three hours’ work).

4th.—Breakfasted in bed; set to work about ten. Recomposed the chair, and composed the lectern, and began painting it. Worked till half-past four. Walked round the Park. Set to work again at seven, when Thomas and John Marshall came in, and I did no more work. Thomas accused Marshall of having spoken about our London University project,⁠ at the College. Marshall denied it, but said that he had heard that another body of artists had proposed the same thing about a year ago. Thomas stopped till eleven, and we drank two glasses of grog each (six hours’ work).

5th.—Breakfasted in bed; set to work about half-past nine. Worked at the lectern: altered it, painted at it till four. Dined etc. A wet day; did not go out. Began work again at seven till eight, and from nine till half-past eleven, painting at the lectern—what snobbish work! (nine hours’ work). Forgot to go to Highgate—alas my poor wife!...

7th.—Got up at quarter to eight; breakfasted, and went to Highgate. Had iron stakes put to the standard roses. Called on Lucy; went to London University, to see about Capbell’s bust of Potter.⁠ John Marshall, on behalf of the Committee, commissioned me to make a drawing of it, for [which] I am to receive five guineas. Dined; set to at my accounts. Thomas called in to know if I would accompany him to-morrow to a meeting of the Freemasons of the Church, to hear a lecture on Beauty by a Baronet M.P. He for the first time explained to me his views on beauty, and the explanation thereof. Wonderful fellow! I hardly know what to make of him, his talents are so wonderful and varied. Stopped till half-past eleven.

8th.—Got up at half-past eight. Went to the British Institution; saw a wonderful piece of light by Inskip,⁠ a beautiful marine by Danby (calm after a storm with a heavy ground-swell). I stopped one half-hour looking at this picture. Lance, Frost, Copley Fielding, etc. Afterwards I went to the University, and began the drawing of the bust; came back after two and a-half hours’ work, dined. Sam Bamford⁠ called in, then Thomas; when we went to hear a most absurd lecture by a Bart.—beside whom was seated the Duke of Northumberland; after which some antiquarian controversy....

17th.—Breakfasted in bed; Miss Ashley called in. Composed the chair of John of Gaunt, and began it. In the evening went to hear Leslie’s⁠ first lecture on painting: twaddle (six hours’ work)....

21st.—Got up at half-past seven, walked over the Park. Set to work about ten, painting at the arch. Got a letter from my Uncle Madox,⁠ asking me to go and speak to him in the City on business. Left off about two; went to the City. Found he wanted to sell his one-eighth of the Tan Yard, and, if I would sell mine, he would get me £700 for it, £200 more than I thought it worth: no unpleasant news. Decided to sell it in order to buy a house....

25th.—Got up late. Rainy morning, did not go out. Set to work by ten. French Revolution⁠ proclaimed. Worked at the balustrade, and laid-in the pavement.... In the evening I went to see the papers, and to hear Professor Ansted lecture on geology. Afterwards went again to get a sight of the papers, and went at eleven at night to see Lucy. Found him in great excitement about Paris; Fenton⁠ his pupil, in a sad state about it. We all three have associations with Paris. Came back, and got to bed by one (seven hours’ work).

26th.—Got up at half-past seven, went out before nine. Called to see Thomas, and talk over the revolution. Came back to work. Maitland⁠ came in by half-past ten; worked at laying-in the legs of John of Gaunt till half-past one; laid them in with light yellow and cadmium. Afterwards I could do nothing more, but went to see the newspaper. Called on Marshall and Lucy; and Thomas came and took me to an artists’ conversazione at the Bricklayers’ Arms: saw Scharf, Collingwood Smith, and Oliver there.⁠ Had some more information about the Free Exhibition. Art-Union has joined, and members must be proposed and seconded. Went in and had supper with Thomas (three hours’ work)....

28th.—... Composed one of the figures for the spandrils over again; a young girl (instead of a child) to impersonate the Protestant Faith. Determined to make the figures fill up the whole of the spandrils without tracery-work. After dinner composed the other figure, of the Romish Faith; a figure holding a chained-up bible and a torch, with a hood (like the penitents at Catholic funerals) showing only the eyes, with burning fagots and a wheel of fortune for accessories.⁠...

8th March.—Got up at quarter past seven. Finished the cloak; began the woman’s head-dress. My aunt Brown called in. Walked out to the Strand and Trafalgar Square, to the scene of the riots. Came back by nine. Thomas called in. Began one of the flowers on the spandrils (nine hours).

9th.—... Set to work at making lions and fleurs-de-lys, of paper, for the jupon of John of Gaunt till twelve (eight hours’ work).

10th.—Got up at seven; set to work sewing on the arms on to his coat. Did nothing (when Smith came), all day, but paint the two crimson-damask sleeves, and badly too.—Set to work again about nine at the Gothic flower (eight hours’ work, three preparation).

11th.—... Arranged the lay figure I had made of the child; took up much time; did nothing more....

17th.—Got up at quarter past seven, to work by quarter to nine. Painted at the ivy till quarter past two, and from half-past three till six at the damask back of the chair. Arranged the lay figure for John of Gaunt. From half-past seven till ten painted-in the ground afresh for the jupon; yellow for the blue, and white for the red; nothing like a good coating of white to get bright sunny colour: (nine hours’ work, two and a-half arranging)....

22nd.—Rose at seven, to work by nine. Painted-in the Page with the books, all but the sleeves. Head very successful; rubbed out the legs. From seven till nine at moulding of frame, from half-past ten till two, modelling ornaments for ditto (ten, and three preparing)....

24th.—Got up at quarter past seven, to work by nine. Painted the head and one hand of John of Gaunt; my eyes so dim and weak I could hardly go on with it.⁠ Painted till half-past two. Went out to the City: came back, painted the cap of John of Gaunt....

25th.—Got up at seven, to work by nine. Painted till twelve at the head of fair Page. Maitland came. Painted the hose of John of Gaunt; did not do, rubbed it out again. Had interruptions. Elliott, Thomas, and Rossetti called;⁠ the latter my first pupil. Curious enough—he wrote to ask me to give him lessons, from his opinion of my high talents; knew every work I had exhibited and all about [them]. Will see what we can make of him. Worked from ten till twelve at correcting the arms of Wiclif (nine hours)....

27th.—Got up at eight; to work half-past nine; till six painted the water behind the pages, etc., and the heads of the two boys, with part of the railing: heads in shadow very difficult. Dined and walked out, and wrote two notes. Set to work by nine, designing ornamental work for the spandrils, and also the figure of Catholicism, much to my satisfaction, till eleven o’clock. Writing this, and mean to work one hour more at the spandrils (eleven hours’ work)....

2nd April.—Got up at seven, to work by nine. Till twelve, at the head of John of Gaunt from Smith (bad): glazed a sleeve, and the blue velvet of the same. Painted at the head of Chaucer from Hewlett from three till six (bad). Worked from nine till ten at setting the lay figure for the monk’s draperies, drew part of them till quarter to twelve (eleven hours)....

5th.—Got up at six, to work by seven. Till ten at the shoes of Gower, and the steps; from half-past ten till half-past one at the head of Wiclif from Krone; eyes so dizzy obliged to leave off. Went for a walk, bathed my eyes; began again at three till six—not the thing. Dined, went to sleep. Mr. and Mrs. Lucy called in. Set to work at ten, at one of the cinqfoil ornaments. Have not yet finished it, twelve o’clock; must finish it before I go to bed—finished it by one (twelve and a half hours’ work).

6th.—Got up at half-past six; to work, by a quarter to eight till one, at the figure of Wiclif. Glazed his gown and part of his cloak, and repainted a long time at the head. Eyes very bad; walked out over the Park. Began again at the head at two till three; then painted till six at the hands of John of Gaunt. Lucy came in, and drew-in the figure with lily in the spandril. I began work again at nine, at one of the cinqfoils; finished it by eleven; must try and do the other and last one. Did nothing more (eleven hours).

7th.—Got up at quarter past seven; to work by half-past eight at the third head of Chaucer; made it worse than before. Had Mrs. Yates for it. Worked till eleven at it—quite horrible. Afterwards painted the two hands rather well; then painted the hands of Gower and one foot of Wiclif pretty well. John Marshall called in: talked a great deal about the approaching revolution; what is to be the upshot of it? Thomas called in. I set to work again at half-past nine till eleven, and drew-in the figure in the spandril with the lily (ten hours’ work)....

14th.—Up at seven; to work by eight. Painted the head of Wiclif till half-past ten from old Coulton. My uncle Madox called at twelve. Began retouching the arch; worked at it till six. Went to the Free Exhibition: began painting the female in the spandril at nine: worked till half-past twelve (eleven hours’ work).

16th.—My birthday; twenty-seven to-day, alas! Got up at seven; to work by eight. Painted the red cross and rosary of Chaucer, then the hose of the Duke. Muddled at them; could not succeed. In despair rubbed them out again partly, and made them another colour, yellow and grey. Will do, must do, but not very well. Glazed the archway, and began marking-in the stones. Did a little to the cloak of Wiclif, and the hassock of the female. Began work again by eight till two in the morning; painted a host of little odds and ends (fifteen hours).

17th.—Got up at six; to work by half-past eight. Finished the Pages and Chaucer and Gower and Wiclif: painted the green rushes: finished the ground, the reading-desk, and the female’s chair. In the evening painted at the letters from nine till eleven. Then again at the female and the mosaic work till four in the morning (seventeen hours).

18th.—Got up at six; to work by half-past seven. Repainted the whole of the flesh, glazing the shadows with yellow lakes and madder, and repainted the lights with their white tints. At three began at the general effect. Worked till half-past six, then again till three at the mosaic work and sundries (eighteen hours).

19th.—Got up at six: set off with my picture to the gallery, Hyde Park Corner. Got there by nine. Ten o’clock before framed, and that did not fit. Thought I had all day to work, but found we were all to decamp at ten. Got leave to wait till the sweeping was done, and set to work again at twelve till six. Improved the general appearance much by glazing etc. Slept next door at a tavern, to be able to be at work next morning at six, to finish it before the private view (six hours).

20th.—Up at quarter to six; to work by half-past. Painted at the hose of John of Gaunt, and put-in some trees—too green.... Then fetched Thomas for the private view. Afterwards spent the evening and slept at Bamford’s (four hours).

21st.—Went to the gallery at about eleven: repainted at the trees till two.

4th May.—Had my pupil Rossetti here; working for about six hours on a head, to show him (six hours).

6th.—Got up at half-past six. Began work at nine till five from Maitland: began a study of his head in sunlight, and painted the black silk legs for Shakespeare and Milton⁠ (eight hours).

7th.—Got up at eight; to work by nine till four. Did little but a drawing (of his head) for the courtier next to the one in the yellow hood in the foreground, for which also is the study in oil (six hours).

17th.—Up at five. Six till eight at the study of Mrs. Yates [a hand]: the rest of the day made alterations in the figure and head of Lord Byron (eight hours).

18th.—Up at five. Six till eight at Mrs. Yates. Walked till eleven with Thomas. Had an argument; tried to persuade him that, to imitate the true tone of the model, it must be painted so that, when held up beside it, it would not be like it in colour. Did nothing but try to write down what I had been speaking of; afterwards went to see Lucy....

22nd.—Up at half-past eight; to work by eleven. Altered the head of Burns, and drew-in that of Pope. Walked over the parks with Thomas (five hours’ work).

15th June.—Cleaned the dog, and shaved his head and paws....

17th.—They want to engrave Wiclif for The People’s Journal.⁠ Laid-in skirt of Robert Burns’s gown; worked about four hours till five o’clock. Called on proprietor of People’s Journal; supped at Mr. Bamford’s....

25th.—Came back. Heard of the revolution in Paris; spent the evening with Lucy....

17th July.—Went to Paris, to see my old friend Casey,⁠ and buy a lay figure. Did both; enjoyed myself much. Painted a portrait of Casey: worked about seven hours at it. Came back to London on the 6th [August].

28th August.—Set to work, about half-past two till six, at the architecture of the Byron compartment; afterwards at the same by lamp-light. Thomas has begun working by night in my studio....

30th.—Walked out over the Park; then to see Lucy. He told me of another kick-up at the School of Design: he had been applying for one himself; I began to think of it.⁠ Called to see Thomas, and talked the matter over: worked but little at the architecture (three hours).

31st.—Set to work about twelve till two, and from three till five, at the architecture. Rossetti called with Hunt,⁠ a clever young man (three hours).

10th September.—Read Keats,⁠ and spent the day with Thomas.

11th.—Ill in bed with a bad cold; Lucy called....

13th.—Up late; could not get to sleep. Out to see Thomas: could not get well; who knows but it may be the death of me? Damned wretched, but only because not occupied.

21st.—Started for the Lakes of Cumberland in company with Lucy: saw the Exhibition of Manchester.

25th.—Began painting a view of Windermere: worked six days at about four hours a day, last day in the rain under an umbrella.

2nd October.—Started on foot for Patterdale; then over the mountains past the Greenside lead-mine to Keswick.

3rd.—Through the Borrowdale pass to Wast-water.

4th.—Rain all day; stopped there.

5th.—Started in the rain over the mountains by Eskdale to Windermere.

6th.—By rail to Liverpool. Saw my Wiclif there up high: looked damned bad.

7th.—To Chester, thence to Birmingham; saw Exhibition, and back to London that night.

8th.—Went to Gravesend to see my darling.

9th.—Went to City; afterwards painted at my view of Windermere at the sky (two hours’ work).

10th.—All day writing a letter to Builder about Thomas....

12th.—Began a portrait of R. Bromley’s daughter (four hours).

13th.—Portrait not dry enough to go on with. Sent for Mrs. Ashley and child, and began a sketch of them for a little picture of a mother and child.⁠ Made a sketch in the evening, in black and white, of the view of Windermere (three hours’ work).

14th.—Laid-in the view of Windermere with a thin coating of asphaltum, and white for the high lights: drying-oil and copal. After dinner sketched the outline of a small sketch for Mother and Child: after tea worked on the helmet and sword of Lord Byron⁠ (eight hours’ work).

15th.—Painted a sketch of the Mother and Child: in the evening worked at the Byron’s sword (seven hours).

16th.—Worked at the portrait of John Bromley about four hours....

18th.—Went out with Rossetti to see his picture.⁠

28th.—Painted other arm of Julia Bromley (two hours), and in the evening wrote a defence of Thomas’s Lectures for The Builder.⁠...

31st.—Wrote all day at the letter to Builder....

4th November.—Tooth all day; in the evening wrote about influences of antiquity in Italy.⁠...

12th.—Did very little; painted a copy of Lucy’s head⁠ (two hours).

13th.—Drew a portrait of Mrs. Ashley’s baby, and wrote in the evening on Italy and Art (three hours)....

16th.—Worked at the little picture: laid-in the background, and altered the legs of the child. In the evening thought a great deal about the subject (four hours).

17th.—Wasted half the day, and composed Lear and Cordelia.⁠

18th.—Went to Pratts’s, and subscribed for armour and old furniture: tried to work, but did little....

19th.—Began work late; composed Lear and Cordelia (six hours).

20th.—Wrote an answer to “Amateur” in The Builder, and started for Gravesend.

21st.—Came home by 8 p.m. Drew at sketch of Lear (three hours).

22nd.—Went to Pratts’s. Set to work at one till half-past three at the mirror; spent the evening studying grammar (three and a-half hours).

23rd.—Began work at ten till half-past three, at mirror and gilt leather: asphaltum, cadmium, lemon-yellow, ivory-black, sienna, etc.; magilp and copal. In the evening worked at the composition of Lear and Cordelia (six hours’ work)....

25th.—Up late. To work by eleven till one at the gilt leather. John Marshall came in: did little more but arrange a bunch of keys, and begin them. In the evening worked at the Lear, but have not yet settled it (five hours).

26th.—... In the evening worked four and a-half hours at Lear; going on well (eight hours).

27th.—... In the evening wrote three notes, and worked from seven till eight at Lear; finished the outline of the sketch (five hours)....

30th.—Painted at the sketch. Went with Lucy to see Elliott’s picture and Rossetti’s (four hours)....

5th December.—Spent the day in divers ways; bought a large oak door, and scraped it with glass, and varnished it; in the evening composed the panels of the little picture (three hours’ work).

6th.—Had a King Charles spaniel; paid 4s. 6d. for it. Painted it in three hours: evening, began chalking the outline of the Lear on canvas (seven hours’ work).

7th.—Painted at the panel five hours. In the evening had a model, to draw the nude of Cordelia (seven and a-half hours)....

19th.—Bought mittens and a rose, and made a fan; arranged it, and began the gown. In the evening Maitland for two hours: sketched the figure of Lear (seven hours)....

30th.—Drew at the outline of Lear till three.

1849—11th January.—Painted the sea, cliffs, ships, and tents, in Lear; in the evening painted the four little figures, and drew-in the nude of warrior resting upon his shield, from Maitland (nine hours)....

16th.—Up till four night before. Supped with Lucy and Mark Anthony at an oyster-shop. Began work at one, till four; painted body of dress from Mrs. Ashley;⁠ in the evening rubbed it out, and drew four hours at the head of Cordelia; made it beastly (seven hours’ work)....

27th.—Laid-in the Jester’s hands,⁠ and re-painted the flesh of the child in little picture. In the evening, laid-in the head of the fool, from Rossetti (seven hours).

28th.—Re-painted one arm and hand of mother in the little picture, and re-touched it generally; in the evening laid-in one hand of the physician, and retouched the expression of the jester (eight hours).

31st.—Laid-in the head of Lear from a cast of Dante’s, and a drawing of Coulton. Called on Lucy, and ordered a frame in the evening. Again in the evening (eight hours).

1st February.—Worked all day at the head of Cordelia from model: in the evening rubbed it out, and retouched the head of Lear. Found a dog in the rain, and brought him home with me (seven hours)....

6th.—Finished the little picture.

17th.—Altered the head of Cordelia; painted-in head of Lear, and head and hand of Kent: evening, re-touched heads of Kent and jester and Cordelia (eleven hours).

18th.—Sunday. Painted-in the head of Cordelia from model, and one hand; evening at Lucy’s (seven hours)....

1st March.—Painted the head of the jester from Dante Rossetti, and the hands from Mrs. Ashley; so muddled away the day. In the evening Bell Smith, of Free Exhibition, called to inform me that I might keep it till private view; also of secret machinations to form a fresh society and so get rid of the muffs (seven hours).

2nd.—Went to Greenwich, and then to Free Exhibition to ballot for places; evening at Thomas’s....

13th.—Re-painted one hand of Lear (bad), and his head (not too good): bad day. Evening, carpet (eight hours)....

21st.—Re-painted and finished the head of Cordelia at last; painted the carpet and flowers and shield and divers (eight hours).

22nd.—Took Lear to the Free Exhibition. Found a large white sky came directly beneath it: kicked up a row, and got it taken away, then worked at the picture at divers (three hours).

23rd.—Re-painted the sky, and re-touched many things, and finished it definitely (six hours).

24th.—Went to private view: picture much liked. Started for Gravesend: my child in bed.

28th.—Went to see Baily’s Graces at his studio, and Nichols’ sculpture for the pediment of the Hall of Commerce, Manchester; bad but effective. Also to see some magnificent Dutch pictures at Mr. Theobald’s.

29th.—Went to see young Hunt, and thence to see Millais’s picture, Isabella; wonderfully painted, full of expression, sentiment, and colour, and extreme good painting, but somewhat exaggerated in character, and careless in drawing.

31st.—Painted at the view of Windermere.

2nd April.—Evening spent at Rossetti’s: saw his designs and his brother, all up in his little room, fifth storey⁠....

5th.—Painted at Windermere, cows and foreground (five hours).

6th.—Painted at idem, horses, etc. (five hours)....

10th.—Painted in the day-time, and in the evening from nine till eleven: finished it, and carried it to the Royal Academy (seven hours’ work)....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diary resumed on the 16th August 1854.⁠

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

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

After finishing this picture (which I forgot to say the Academicians hung in such a way as to shine all over, and without the frame), I took a house at Stockwell.... I went for three days to the Isle of Wight with Anthony and Hunt. The first day we marched for five hours in the rain; the second and third, revelled in the enjoyment—liberty, novelty of scene, fine weather, and huge appetite. The fourth we returned home. At Stockwell this year I painted one month at the sketch for the Chaucer, begun on paper and water-colour. Anthony was to give me a work for this, but I afterwards asked him to give me twelve guineas instead, which he did. I then began my picture of the Baa Lambs, which I finished in five months of hard labour; during which time I was very hard up generally, owing to McCracken not paying me all at once for the picture of Wiclif, which he purchased of me at this time for fifty guineas and a very bad Deighton⁠—a do in fact. During this time I painted Mrs. Seddon’s portrait, which turned out bad and a curse: this was the second portrait for the sofa, which they valued at thirteen guineas cost-price. During this time I also finished the landscape-study of Shorn, which I gave to Tom Seddon; he having kindly lent me money about this time, £12, I think; £5 of which I borrowed to lend Lucy. But Seddon was the first to borrow of me, £10 once. At this time I also finished the sketch of Wiclif, and the first of Chaucer (since given to John Marshall); about a day’s work between the two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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