The 'Babbling Echo' poem suggests that there may be truth in the early love-story of which some of his biographers make much. That may or may not have soured him; it may or may not have been the reason why he remained a bachelor. I do not think that Turner ever thought seriously about matrimony. His art was his mistress, and to his art to his dying day he was loyal, to the sacrifice of everything else. And he was loyal in his way—or shall I say faithful in his way—to Hannah Danby, who entered his service in 1800 or 1801, a girl of sixteen; who was housekeeper in Queen Anne Street through his long life; and who, in the end, when he had done all his great work, found him dying in hiding as Mr. Booth, 'husband' of Mrs. Booth, in the little house at Chelsea overlooking the river.
[CHAPTER IX]
1802: AGED TWENTY-SEVEN
HE EXHIBITS GRANDILOQUENT 'JASON' AND A SIMPLE 'VIEW ON CLAPHAM COMMON'
Sometimes in early life Turner, one might say almost by chance, prefigures the golden visions of his maturity, as in 'Conway Castle,' in the possession of the Duke of Westminster, which dates from about this time. The foreground is awkward, and strewn with meaningless litter; but the castle stands up magnificently against the blue sky, darkening to orange at the horizon, and over all is a ripe golden glow. You see this picture across the gallery, as at the Japan-British exhibition, where it was shown. It calls: you are held by the dawning magnificence of Turner at twenty-seven; you realise that the magician has begun to work his spell.
The sketch-books of 1801 and 1802 are numerous and varied, showing his travels at home and abroad: the itinerary of his first tour on the Continent; the 'Calais Pier' Sketch-Book, with such drawings as 'Group of Figures on Pier watching Fishing-Boats at Sea,' one of the many studies he made for his great picture of 'Calais Pier'; and the curious and interesting 'Studies in the Louvre' Sketch-Book, in which we find this indefatigable young man of twenty-seven not only sitting at the feet of, but metaphorically throwing himself into the arms of, the Old Masters. He makes copies of many pictures, such as Titian's 'Entombment,' 'Mars and Venus' by Domenichino, Rembrandt's 'Good Samaritan,' and to some of the copies he appends long descriptive criticisms that often elude our efforts to find their meaning.
His comment on 'The Deluge' by Nicholas Poussin begins:—'
The colour of this picture impresses the subject more than the incidents, which are by no means fortunate either to place, position, or colour, as they are separate spots untoned by the ... (? dark) colour that pervades the whole.'