CHAPTER X.
HISTORIC PAINTERS.
MANY of our painters who aspired to high art in the field of history were forced to abandon these ambitious designs, and confine themselves to the more lucrative branches of their calling. It was not so with
WILLIAM HILTON (1786—1839), who, although chilled and saddened by neglect, and generally unable to sell his pictures, maintained his position as a history painter, and suffered neither poverty nor the coldness of the public to turn him aside. Few details are known of his life; he was a gentle, silent, and retiring man, who knew much sorrow and shunned publicity. Rescued from a trade to which he was destined, Hilton was allowed to learn drawing, and became a pupil of J. Raphael Smith, the mezzotint engraver. He entered the Academy schools, and paid special attention to the anatomy of the figure. His earliest known productions were a series of designs in oil to illustrate "The Mirror," and "The Citizen of the World." Hilton's early exhibited works had classic subjects, such as Cephalus and Procris, Venus carrying the wounded Achilles, and Ulysses and Calypso. In 1810, he produced a large historic painting, called Citizens of Calais delivering the Keys to Edward III., for which the British Institution awarded him a premium of fifty guineas. For the Entombment of Christ he received a second premium, and for Edith discovering the Dead Body of Harold a third of one hundred guineas. Nevertheless, the public did not appreciate his works, and they were unsold. The Directors of the British Institution, who had already marked their sense of this painter's ability, purchased two of his sacred pieces, Mary anointing the Feet of Jesus, which was presented to the Church of St. Michael, in the City, and Christ crowned with Thorns, which was given to that of St. Peter's, Eaton Square, but which has since been sold. In 1819 Hilton became a full member of the Academy, and was appointed Keeper in 1827, a position for which he was specially fitted, and where he gained the affection of the students. In the next year he married. The death of his wife, in 1835, crushed his energy and hope. He saw himself painting for a public which did not value his art.
In addition to the above examples, we may mention Hilton's Serena rescued by the Red Cross Knight, Sir Calepine, and The Meeting of Abraham's Servant with Rebekah (National Gallery), and a triptych of The Crucifixion, which is at Liverpool. Most of Hilton's works are falling to decay through the use of asphaltum.
BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON (1786—1846) was the son of a bookseller at Plymouth, and his "fitful life"—marked by "restless and importunate vanity"—was ended by his own act. Haydon refused to follow his father's business, and insisted on becoming a painter. Of his thoughts, hopes, and dreams, we have been well informed. He was in the habit of writing in an elaborate diary all that concerned himself. He came to London in 1804 with £20 in his pocket, entered the Academy schools, and worked there with vigour and self-reliance. Northcote did not encourage his enthusiastic countryman when he told him that as an historic painter "he would starve with a bundle of straw under his head." We admire the courage of Haydon in holding fast to the branch of art he had embraced, but his egotism fulfilled the prophecy of Northcote. When twenty-one, Haydon ordered a canvas for Joseph and Mary resting on the Road to Egypt, and he prayed over the blank canvas that God would bless his career, and enable him to create a new era in art. Lord Mulgrave became his patron, and this may have added to the painter's hopes. He painted Dentatus, and, intoxicated by flattery, believed the production of this his second work would mark "an epoch in English art." Dentatus, however, was hung in the ante-room of the Royal Academy, and coldly received. In 1810, he began Lady Macbeth for Sir George Beaumont; quarrelling with his patron, he lost the commission, but worked on at the picture. Although deeply in debt, he quarrelled with those who would have been his friends. His Judgment of Solomon, a very fine picture, was painted under great difficulties and privations. West, the President, whom the painter accused of hostility to him, is said to have shed tears of admiration at the sight of this work, and sent Haydon a gift of £15. Solomon was sold for 600 guineas, and the British Institution awarded another hundred guineas as a premium to its author. In 1820 Haydon produced Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, and during its progress he, as he recorded, "held intercourse only with his art and his Creator." This picture was exhibited at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly, and brought a large sum of money to the painter. Unsold in England, the work of which Haydon had expected much was purchased for £240, and sent to America. He established an Art school, where several able painters were trained, but the master was constantly in great pecuniary difficulties. In 1823, he exhibited the The Raising of Lazarus, containing twenty figures, each nine feet high, which is now in the National Gallery. Of this work Mr. Redgrave says: "The first impression of the picture is imposing; the general effect powerful, and well suited to the subject; the incidents and grouping well conceived; the colouring good, and in parts brilliant. The Christ is weak, probably the weakest, though the chief figure in the picture." Misfortune still dogged the painter. He was thrown into prison for debt; released, he worked in poverty, afraid of his "wicked-eyed, wrinkled, waddling, gin-drinking, dirty-ruffled landlady." The closing scenes of his life grew darker and darker. In 1826, he painted Venus and Anchises, on commission, began Alexander taming Bucephalus, and Euclus, and was once more in prison. An appeal in the newspapers produced money enough to set him again at liberty. Then appeared the Mock Election, and Chairing the Member, the former being purchased by the King. No success, however, seemed to stem the tide of Haydon's misfortunes. He lectured on Art with great ability in 1840, continued painting for bread, and finally, disgusted by the cold reception of Aristides, and Nero watching the Burning of Rome, the over-wrought mind of the unfortunate man gave way, and he committed suicide, leaving this brief entry in his journal—"God forgive me! Amen. Finis. B. R. Haydon. 'Stretch me no longer on the rack of this sad world.'—Lear." A sad finish to his ambitious hopes! Of Haydon's art generally Mr. Redgrave says: "He was a good anatomist and draughtsman, his colour was effective, the treatment of his subject and conception were original and powerful; but his works have a hurried and incomplete look, his finish is coarse, sometimes woolly, and not free from vulgarity."
WILLIAM ETTY (1787—1849), the son of a miller at York, had few advantages to help him on the road to fame. His education was slight, and his early years were spent as a printer's apprentice in Hull. But he had determined to be a painter; and his motto was, as he tells us, "Perseverance." In 1806, he visited an uncle, in Lombard Street, and became a student at the Academy, though his earliest art-school was a plaster-cast shop in Cock Lane. Through his uncle's generosity, he became a pupil of Lawrence, who had little time to attend to him. Though overwhelmed with difficulties Etty persevered bravely. He laboured diligently in the "Life School," tried in vain for all the medals, sent his pictures to the Academy only to see them rejected; unlike Haydon, he never lost heart. In 1820 The Coral Finders was exhibited at the Academy, and in the following year Cleopatra. His patience and diligence were rewarded; henceforth his career was one of success. In 1822, he visited Italy, and in 1828 became a full member of the Academy. His art was very unequal. He chiefly devoted himself, however, to painting women, as being the embodiments of beauty. As a colourist few English painters have rivalled him, and as a painter of flesh he stands high. As showing the different forms of his many-sided art, we may mention Judith and Holofernes, Benaiah, The Eve of the Deluge, Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the Helm, The Imprudence of Candaules, The dangerous Playmate, and The Magdalen (all in the National Gallery). Etty died unmarried, and the possessor of a considerable fortune.