Coutts'. When the exhibition closed in London, Haydon took his
masterpiece to Scotland, and showed it both in Edinburgh and in
Glasgow, netting another L900, which, however, was quickly eaten up by
hungry creditors. The picture was too big to tempt a private
purchaser, and in spite of the admiration it had aroused, it remained
like a white elephant upon its creator's hands.

On his return to town, after being feted by Sir Walter Scott,
Lockhart, and 'Christopher North,' Haydon finished his commission for
Sir George Phillips, 'Christ Sleeping in the Garden,' which, he
frankly admitted, was one of the worst pictures he ever painted.
Scarcely was this off his easel than he was inspired with a tremendous
conception for the 'Raising of Lazarus.' He ordered a canvas such as
his soul loved, nineteen feet long by fifteen high, and dashed in his
first idea. He was still deeply in debt, still desperately in love
(his lady was now a widow), and the new picture would take at least
two years to paint. Nevertheless, he worked away with all his
customary energy, and prayed fervently that he might paint a great
masterpiece, never doubting but that his prayers would be heard.

With the end of this year, 1820, Haydon's Autobiography breaks off,
and the rest of his life is told in his Journals and Letters. At the
beginning of 1821, when he was fairly at work on his Lazarus, he
confides to his Journal his conviction that difficulties are to be his
lot in pecuniary matters, and adds: 'My plan must be to make up my
mind to meet them, and fag as I can--to lose no single moment, but
seize on time that is free from disturbance, and make the most of it.
If I can float, and keep alive attention to my situation through
another picture, I will reach the shore. I am now clearly in sight of
it, and I will yet land to the sound of trumpets, and the shouts of my