cellar, another in an attic, another at the pawnbroker's, another in a
grocer's shop, another unfinished in his studio; the bills for frames and
colours and the rent were unpaid. Some solace he even found in stating a
few of these facts, in French, to a French official or diplomatic visitor
to London, interested in the condition of the arts. Well, who shall live
without support? A man finds it where he can.

After these offences of self-will and vanity Tom Taylor finds us some
other little thing--I think it is inaccuracy. Poor Haydon says in one
phrase that he paid all his friends on such a day, and in another soon
following that the money given or lent to him had been insufficient to
pay them completely; and assuredly there are many revisions,
after-thoughts, or other accidents to account for such a slip. His
editor says the discrepancy is "characteristic," but I protest I cannot
find another like it among those melancholy pages. If something graver
could but be sifted out from all these journals and letters of frank
confession, by the explainer! Here, then, is the last and least: Haydon
was servile in his address to "men of rank." But his servility seems to
be very much in the fashion of his day--nothing grosser; and the men who
set the fashion had not to shape their style to Haydon's perpetual
purpose, which was to ask for commissions or for money.

Not the forsaken man only but also the fallen city evokes this exercise
of historical morality, until a man in flourishing London is not afraid
to assign the causes of the decay of Venice; and there is not a watering
place upon our coasts but is securely aware of merited misfortune on the
Adriatic.

Haydon was grateful, and he helped men in trouble; he had pupils, and
never a shilling in pay for teaching them. He painted a good thing--the