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HAYDON.
(THE TWO EXHIBITIONS.)
Scene—A room in the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, engaged by Haydon for the exhibition of his two important pictures, “The Banishment of Aristides,” and “The Burning of Rome.”HAYDON.
The world may say I've fail'd; I have not fail'd:
If I set truth 'fore men they will not see,
'Tis they who fail, not I. My faith holds firm,
And time will prove me right; meantime I feel
As martyrs feel who suffer for the Truth!
Art should illustrate principle; give strength
To virtue; lift the soul to God! It claims
A higher, nobler province than to deck
The walls of lordly owners; than to be
Mere furniture for mansions. Art—High Art—
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Commemorate the loftiest deeds of man!
Enter Lady Ethgrove and Party.
LADY ETHGROVE.
La, bless me, not a creature—I declare;
How vastly awkward—'tis a change, indeed,
To leave the General for Mr. Haydon.
PARTY.
A change, indeed; but surely you'll not stay?
LADY ETHGROVE to HAYDON.
You see I've call'd,—I promised you I'd call.
The pictures?—ah, I see;—how forcible!
Especially “The Burning,”—or, in fact,
I scarce know which is best, both are so good.
The Banishment of . . . Let me see the bill—
Of Aristides—hum!
HAYDON.
Contemptible! (aside.)
Your ladyship, I fear me, hurried here
From metal more attractive—General Thumb?
LADY ETHGROVE.
Oh, such a treasure, such a little dear!
Ladies were off'ring guineas for a kiss.
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Indeed!
LADY ETHGROVE.
So said: though, 'faith, I offer'd none.
Charm'd as I am, I must perforce away.
These pictures quite enamour me; but still . . .
HAYDON.
Your ladyship prefers the General.
[Walks about.
Enter Lord Lovel.
LADY ETHGROVE.
Ah, my Lord Lovel, have you seen the “rage,”
The wonder of the world?—so perfect, too,
From crown to heel a miracle of form!
LOVEL.
A miracle?—wherever to be seen?
LADY ETHGROVE.
General Tom Thumb—you must, indeed, go there;
The whole world's hurrying there; nothing is heard
But sayings, doings, speeches of Tom Thumb!
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Dwarfs suit not with my humour: when I pay
'Twill be for seeing giants, not for dwarfs.
[Haydon stops in his walk and regards Lord Lovel.
LADY ETHGROVE.
You'll go, I know; come, see him for yourself.
Say yes—but “yes”—and straight we will return;
Though, 'faith, we've spent the whole long morning there.
LOVEL.
Excuse me; nothing less than man gigantic!
Not an inch less than nine full measured feet
Would tempt me to attend.
LADY ETHGROVE.
Ah, you but jest!—
You'll see—you'll change your mind—we go with crowds:
Where fashion is, there go the fashionable!
And 'tis the fashion to admire Tom Thumb.
Adieu! I'm sure you'll go—quite sure you'll go.
[Exeunt Lady Ethgrove and Party.
LOVEL
to HAYDON.
You seem annoy'd—yet wherefore thus annoy'd?
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If weak, 'tis harmless, and not worth a thought.
HAYDON.
Not quite so harmless as your lordship deems.
This puny prodigy—this wondrous mite—
This dwarf—this minikin—this scrap of flesh—
This turnip-radish of a man, attracts
In myriads, while I gain in units.
Last week twelve thousand hurried to the show—
One hundred honour'd me with their regard:
Twelve thousand to one hundred—desperate odds!
LOVEL.
Your name and service will survive the time;
You are the prophet of a new Art-creed;
It taketh years to inculcate the “New”—
The “Old” had its believers ere we came,
And will have when we're gone.
HAYDON.
In fact, this world's
A riddle, and success an epigram.
Forty-two years I've battled for the cause,
Through harassments, anxieties, and loss—
And what is the result?
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A great result; and greater yet to come.
The Elgin Marbles gave fresh force to Art,
And your impassion'd advocacy made
Them known and loved, when scorn'd and misconceived.
HAYDON.
Kindly remark'd, my lord; spoke all like you,
My heart—and more, my home—had suffer'd less.
LOVEL.
The years to come shall pay for sorrows past;
Meanwhile, let patience minister to peace!
HAYDON.
The years to come! I hear the knell of Hope
Dolefully ringing 'neath the spectral veil
Which hides the future! In my dreams I hear
Nothing but dirges. Hope loves youth, not age!
LOVEL.
Some pulse of Goodness centres in all life;
Open the door, and let the Angel enter.
HAYDON.
Goodness! the revelation of God's love;
Yes; I have faith in goodness, though unfound!
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No man more earnestly beseecheth God
For strength in weakness, for support in grief,
For aid to finish greatly what his mind
Greatly conceives, than I. Ere canvas find
A line upon its surface, my heart's prayer
Ascends to Him who is the help of all!
To Him who grasps eternity, and holds
All nature in the hollow of His hand.
Then in such mood, I feel that I could seize
E'en Samson by the throat, and conquer him!
Nothing's too vast, too high, too difficult:
I walk the level of colossal thought,
And mate with heroes in the world of Art.
LOVEL.
Proceed; I'm all attention.
HAYDON.
For a time,—
This for a time; but other moods take place:
The glory narrows to a final speck,
And darkness, thick as Erebus, succeeds:
Out of this mist of horror comes a breath—
A whisper—scarce a voice—a small thin tone
That shakes me like a reed, and makes the air
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Of home, of children, all endearing things
That gladden labour through the task of life;
But still that breath grows hotter in mine ear;
The darkness thickens, and an utterance,
More dread than any presence man ere saw,
Chafes my roused spirit into hate and scorn!
Infects me with a pride beyond all pride,—
Intense disdain—unequall'd arrogance—
Unmatch'd assumption of transcendent powers.
Ambition, vast as was the Morning Star's
Ere quench'd in night, possesses every nerve.
I feel the world would crush me, if it could,
But that its malice lacks the needful might:
And then I brave the worst it can perform—
Mock its opinions—crucify its idols—
Unmask its falsehoods, and expose its shams—
Counters that would be coins—mere dross for dupes!
All tongues against me—I against all tongues!
Till life appears a mesh, from which to 'scape
Were paradise—and then . . . .
I dare not think what then!
LOVEL.
'Tis but the penalty of shatter'd nerves—
O'erwrought imagination. You need rest,
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And pass a month with me at Loveltower.
Let Nature turn physician, and prescribe
As only Nature can, whose power's supreme.
HAYDON.
There's a prescription every one must take,
Sooner or later, and that sombre draught
With me seems close at hand—a grave-like phial!
LOVEL.
Come, come, be glad; discard this monkish mood.
Nature's a queen, whom God himself hath crowned:
Grace, Beauty, Sweetness, are her maids of honour;
They bear her train, rich with the vernal gold
And diamonds of the morn; and forth she moves
With Pow'r and Grandeur for her ministers:
A thousand servants wait upon her steps,
And kings are her retainers! Come, we'll change
This scene for one of peaceful, woodland life.
I'll be the prompter, at whose magic call
Prisons are changed to palaces. You'll return
Strong to achieve; and Fame will banquet you!
HAYDON.
Fame is a myth—a ghost that wanders ruins!
A phantom that deceives, misleads, and mocks;
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This vision?
LOVEL.
Fame is the star of Labour,
Without it effort dies—existence pines.
Fame, or the hope of Fame, hath led to deeds
Which elevate the world,—say nought 'gainst Fame;
Fame is to Mind what Love is to the Heart,
The goddess of its worship, and its wealth:
You have no heresy 'gainst Love, we hope?
HAYDON.
Love is the law of all things visible;
From Love doth emanate the beautiful;
And from the god-like beautiful springs Form—
Form, the exponent of all majesty!
LOVEL.
We carry beauty and proportion with us;
The visual eye asks guidance from within,
And as that cometh is its power increased.
Some men see form the first, the colour next:
Mere outline hath to them a grander charm
Than harmony of tone or grace of hue.
Others would sit unquiet if there hung
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Compell'd by impulse to adjust it right.
HAYDON.
Taste is the gold of life, where'er 'tis seen,
Though but in cottage-home, it lends a light
Not wealth itself, if wanting taste, can match.
Art, as a teacher and a benefactor,
As yet is unacknowledged: give me rule,
And Schools of Art I'd raise in every town.
LOVEL.
You pause.
HAYDON.
The wheels fast rolling to Tom Thumb!
Hear you the inmates hurrying to the scene?
They crush—they scream—they faint. Your Lordship finds
The number here needs no arithmetic!
LOVEL.
Methought you had forgotten “such small deer!”
HAYDON.
Who feels for others can forget no step
By which their happiness may be involved:
Failure in this neglected exhibition
May bring down desolation upon those
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'Tis but one heartache more! Let me proceed.
LOVEL.
Schools of Design, you say . . . .
HAYDON.
Had I the means,
Schools of Design I'd build in every town;
Make Art an element of education
Common to all—the lowliest born of man;
A new community should spring around,
Refined, improved, advanced in social worth;
“Design” ere long would forth reveal itself
In every mercantile, industrial craft;
Iron and wood, nay, e'en the potter's clay,
Would offer forms of elegance and taste.
A graceful style adds nothing to the cost;
'Tis odds if more material be not used
To mould the vulgar than the graceful form!
A saving! there's attraction in the word,
Could I but prove this to the Government:
What say you?
LOVEL.
Simply this—petition Peel.
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I have; and he most courteously declines.
Yet Peel means well, and has a heart to feel;
Would fain do right, and yet is slow to act.
Melbourne but shrugs, and shakes his laughing sides,
And says, “What need to paint the House of Lords?
Many might say too much Art there already!
Schools of Design? What, more designing men?
Call you this, Haydon, serving well your country?”
So, with a joke, he laughs at argument,
And quits the question.
LOVEL.
We'll not quit it thus;
Assistance shall be had, and now, for once,
Close doors, and come with me: I have a scheme
Perchance may make a fortune; meanwhile, deem
My house a debtor by your sojourn there.
HAYDON.
Had not your lordship better ask Tom Thumb?
If he were absent—I might then succeed!
LOVEL.
The river of success runs ever clear!
All flock to see what all can understand.
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I read to what's Shaksperian in the man.
If he be wanting in dramatic taste,
I might as well harangue the Monument!
Come, staying here doth but embitter thought.
Nay, cease to hesitate.
HAYDON.
Embitter thought?
Thrice happy they whose expectation's small,
And hope but little, if they hope at all!
[Exeunt.
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From T. Taylor's Life of Haydon.
“Advertisement.—Haydon's New Pictures.—On Easter Monday next will open for exhibition at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly (admission 1s., catalogues 6d.), two large pictures, viz., ‘The Banishment of Aristides, with his Wife and Children,’ to show the injustice of democracy; ‘Nero Playing with his Lyre while Rome is Burning,’ to prove the heartlessness of despotism.
“April 4th. It rained the whole day. Nobody came except Jerrold, Bowring, Fox Maule, and Hobhouse. Twenty-six years ago the rain would not have prevented them, but now it is not so. However, I do not despair.—6th. Receipts, 1846, £1 1s. 6d.; Aristides. In God I trust, Amen.—7th. Rain. £1 8s. 6d.—8th. Fine. Receipts—worse, £1 6s. 6d.—13th. Easter Monday. O God! bless my receipts this day for the sake of my creditors, my family, and my Art, Amen. Receipts (22). £1 2s.; catalogues (3) 1s. 6d.; £1 3s. 6d.
“They rush by thousands to see Tom Thumb (exhibiting in another room in the same building). They push, they fight, they scream, they faint, they cry help and murder! and oh! and ah! They see my bills, my boards, my caravans, and don't read them. Their eyes are open, but their sense is shut. It is an insanity, a rabies, a madness, a furor, a dream!”
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