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Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, 
 In thy most need to go by thy side. 
 
This is No. 563 of Everyman’s Library. A 
 list of authors and their works in this series 
 will be found at the end of this volume. The 
 publishers will be pleased to send freely to all 
 applicants a separate, annotated list of the 
 
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EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY 
 EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS 
 
 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF 
 JOHN CONSTABLE, R. A. 
 BY C. R. LESLIE, R.A. • INTRO- 
 DUCTION BY C. J. HOLMES 
 
CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE, an American 
 bom in London in 1794. Went to America 
 at the age of five and lived in Philadelphia 
 until 1 8 1 1 , when he returned to London as a 
 student at the Royal Academy. In 1821 was 
 elected A.R.A., and R.A. in 1826. Taught 
 drawing at West Point for six months during 
 1833. Died in England in 18^9. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF 
 JOHN CONSTABLE, R.A. 
 
 C. R. LESLIE, R.A. 
 
 LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. 
 NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. INC. 
 
All rights reserved 
 Made in Great Britain 
 at The Temple Press Letchworth 
 and decorated by Eric Ravilious 
 
 f° r 
 
 J. M. Bent <%_ Sons Ltd. 
 Aldine House Bedford St. London 
 First Published in this Edition ipi2 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 On Tuesday, May 15th, and on Wednesday, May 16th, 1838, 
 the finished works, studies, and sketches of John Constable, 
 Esq., R.A., deceased, were sold by auction by Messrs. 
 Foster in Pall Mall. One hundred and forty lots were 
 offered, including fourteen of the artist’s largest and most 
 famous works, but the net result was little more than 2000 
 guineas. It might well seem to his friends that the un- 
 popularity which had pursued Constable all his life was 
 to follow him beyond the grave. 
 
 Five years later ( 1 843 ) a biography appeared by his friend 
 C. R. Leslie, illustrated with a fine series of the mezzo- 
 tints by David Lucas after Constable’s sketches, and was 
 successful enough to warrant the issue of a second edition 
 without the illustrations in 1845. Leslie’s quiet good 
 sense, technical authority and reasoned enthusiasm, coupled 
 with the extraordinary charm of the book as a human 
 document, at once began to start a revulsion in Constable’s 
 favour. External causes also were working to the same 
 end. Constable during his life-time had become a con- 
 spicuous figure in the eyes of French artists, and the 
 naturalism of which he was the greatest exponent had been 
 making headway in England also. The seed sown by 
 Leslie thus fell on a soil that was not wholly unprepared to 
 receive it. 
 
 But the increase of Constable’s reputation must also in 
 some degree be attributed to the conditions of the picture 
 market. He had sold very few landscapes in his life-time, 
 and the sale in 1838 was such a fiasco that a considerable 
 portion of his works were “bought in ” by his family. The 
 result was that so soon as there began to be any demand 
 at all for Constable’s pictures it was discovered that they 
 were exceedingly scarce. Forgers did their best, as in the 
 case of Crome, to supply the deficit, but they could not 
 
 vii 
 
Vlll 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 keep prices from rising rapidly, and that in England spells 
 fime. But even the forgers were in a difficult position. 
 Some half dozen works in the National Gallery and at 
 South Kensington made up practically the whole of the 
 material for imitation; when that was exhausted they 
 (like the public) were compelled to fall back upon the 
 Lucas mezzo-tints, while the vast mass of Constable’s 
 genuine work remained locked up in inaccessible private 
 collections until the year 1888, just half a century after the 
 disastrous sale at Foster’s. Then Miss Isabel Constable 
 bequeathed to the nation more than 400 of her father’s 
 pictures and studies, and a complete estimate of Constable’s 
 achievement was at last made possible. Miss Constable’s 
 gift was no less timely than it was precious. Though the 
 market price of Constable’s works was rapidly rising to a 
 height almost unprecedented for a landscape painter and 
 an Englishman, his place as an artist, his technical skill, 
 and the very principles on which he worked had long been 
 challenged, and that by a very formidable enemy. 
 
 More than thirty years before, Constable’s great con- 
 temporary Turner had found a champion in John Ruskin — 
 a champion who brooked no rival near the throne of his 
 admiration. Ruskin ’s amazing eloquence, erudition and 
 public spirited advocacy of unpopular causes in artistic 
 and social matters, had in the course of years given him 
 unrivalled authority among the English educated classes, 
 and his influence did much to suppress, though it could not 
 extinguish, the growing feeling in favour of Constable’s art. 
 Ruskin himself was frank enough as to his own motives. 
 In the first appendix to the third volume of Modern Painters 
 (1856), he writes, “ The reader might however suspect me 
 of ill-will towards Constable, owing to my continually 
 introducing him for depreciatory comment. So far from 
 this being the case, I had, as will be seen in various passages 
 of the first volume, considerable respect for the feeling with 
 which he worked, but I was compelled to do harsh justice 
 upon him now, because Mr. Leslie, in his unadvised and 
 unfortunate rechauffe of the fallacious art maxims of the 
 last century, has suffered his personal regard for Constable 
 so far to prevail over his judgment as to bring him forward 
 as a great artist, comparable in some kind with Turner.” 
 
 The book which awakened this jealousy was Leslie’s 
 
Introduction 
 
 IX 
 
 
 ; Handbook for Young Painters, of which the first edition 
 : had appeared in 1854, the sanest and most enlightened 
 I practical treatise upon the arts which had appeared in 
 England since Reynold’s Discourses. But for the moment 
 ; its soundness made but little appeal to the general public, 
 
 ‘ and Leslie’s modest voice was overwhelmed by the trumpets 
 ; of Ruskin and the din of the Pre-raphaelite controversy. 
 
 ; Only when Modern Painters has become a classic, and the 
 1 Pre-raphaelites have become old masters, have we slowly 
 jj come to recognise that Leslie after all is a sounder guide 
 than his brilliant antagonist. 
 
 I think we need some such historical prelude if we are to 
 appreciate quite justly the value of the Life of Constable. 
 As a painter Leslie will never rank high. It is true that 
 his little picture in the Diploma Gallery, “ Catherine 
 j of Aragon,” is admirable both in feeling and execution; 
 but he rarely reaches anything like the same level, and his 
 harshness in the matter of colouring (perhaps due to a 
 i mistaken application of Constable’s theories) is specially 
 noticeable. Yet his Autobiographical Recollections show 
 ! him to have been one whom the eminent men of his age 
 I were glad to know; as a Royal Academician he was the 
 | champion of important reforms which have since been 
 effected ; and as a critic he deserves a far higher rank than 
 : is commonly accorded to him. 
 
 Almost every word that he wrote fifty years ago can be 
 ; accepted without alteration to-day, and in his attitude 
 towards masters like Girtin and Cozens he is wholly modern. 
 Probably in this matter Leslie owed something to Constable, 
 who copied Girtin in boyhood, and always spoke with 
 rapturous enthusiasm of Cozens. But the inclusion of 
 these masters in a serious treatise on the arts was a daring 
 step fifty years ago, especially when they were honoured 
 with the only two important plates which the treatise 
 contains. Even the relentless partisanship of Ruskin 
 might well have been softened by the loveliness of the 
 engraving after Cozens. But it was not to be. The print 
 1 was seen with blind eyes, the praises fell upon ears that 
 j could not or would not hear, and it is not until the last 
 decade that Leslie’s foresight has been openly and 
 j abundantly justified. 
 
 j In the Life and Letters of John Constable the same sound 
 
 il 
 
X 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 judgment, the same foresight, is no less consistently, if less 
 obviously, shown. Leslie had known Constable ever since 
 his student days, but their acquaintance had only become 
 intimate friendship during Constable’s later years. Thus 
 for the earlier portion of Constable’s career he was de- 
 pendent almost entirely upon letters written to others, 
 chiefly to members of Constable’s own family. Some of 
 the material he used has passed through my hands, and I 
 can testify to the thoroughness with which he seems to 
 have extracted from every letter all that could possibly 
 interest a later generation, except, perhaps, in one or two 
 cases where his natural amiability led him to suppress 
 some forcible criticism of the art or character of his living 
 contemporaries. Only in one period of Constable’s life, 
 from 1803-1811, are these materials really inadequate, 
 and from the artistic point of view the loss is serious. 
 Everywhere else, however, the material is sufficient to 
 provide a continuous narrative, and one of quite extra- 
 ordinary interest both as a contribution to the history of 
 painting and as a human document. 
 
 The troubles of Constable and Miss Bicknell during then- 
 long engagement, the persistence of the one, the not 
 altogether culpable hesitations of the other, the perplexities 
 of their elders, all overshadowed by the portentous figure 
 of Dr. Rhudde, the rich grandfather whose money would 
 be left — heaven knows where! if the young people were 
 allowed to be happy, make up a wonderful picture of social 
 life in England a hundred years ago. Delightful in another 
 way is the portrait of Constable’s friend, Archdeacon 
 Fisher: one who loved men and books and pictures and 
 pike fishing, who bought Constable’s canvases when no one 
 else dared to do so, and who supported him in all his 
 trials with affectionate common sense. 
 
 But Constable himself is naturally the great figure of 
 the book, and it is to two aspects of his career of which 
 Leslie was unable to speak, that I should like to devote the 
 remainder of this brief note, namely, his development as a 
 painter, and his influence upon landscape painting. 
 
 It is easy to blame his parents for opposing Constable’s 
 wish to be an artist; but an acquaintance with his early 
 efforts amply justifies their reluctance. Up to the age 
 of twenty-four Constable was a poor draughtsman and a 
 
Introduction 
 
 xi 
 
 wretchedly clumsy painter. During the next six years, by 
 unceasing efforts under the influence of such different 
 f masters as Girtin, Ruysdael, and Benj amin West, he obtained 
 
 I a very fair acquaintance with the traditional methods of 
 using oil and water colour, which he employed inter- 
 1 mitten tly in attempting to paint from nature in his beloved 
 1 Suffolk. 
 
 Then followed another period of four or five years in 
 which he obtained work as a copyist of portraits, which 
 
 I brought him into contact with paintings by Hoppner 
 and Reynolds. From them he learned much, and a few 
 ; portrait commissions no doubt extended his technical 
 
 ! experience. In the intervals of these labours he returned 
 to his painting from nature. Here his newly-gained know- 
 ledge stood him in such good stead that by the time he was 
 thirty-six years old (1812) he had become a capable and 
 original artist. 
 
 The works of this time show very clearly the principles 
 on which he worked. As with the old masters, the founda- 
 tion is a warm monochrome into which the fresh sharp 
 colours of nature are painted, at first with a sparing hand, 
 afterwards so forcibly that the original foundation is 
 disguised, if it is not wholly concealed. The method is 
 specially noticeable in his large pictures, where the mono- 
 chrome serves as a link to bind the masses into a compact 
 whole. In his sketches the use of a board of a reddish 
 colour is enough to serve the same purpose, and to prevent 
 the cool tones of blue and green from looking cold. And 
 the method expands with his increasing experience. As time 
 went on and his life grew more troubled, the trouble was 
 reflected in his workmanship. The serene subjects and the 
 serene handling of his early years gave place to stormy 
 moods, expressed by fierce brushwork and reinforced with 
 touches of pure colour applied with the palette knife. 
 But the monochrome foundation persisted to the last; 
 
 I indeed it is never more prominent than in certain works 
 I of his later years, such as “ The Valley Farm ” and “ The 
 Cenotaph ” in the National Gallery. 
 
 It is in virtue of this monochrome foundation that 
 I Constable remains a pupil of the old masters. His con- 
 | nection with the moderns rests on the sincerity with which 
 he looked at nature, a sincerity which only a few years ago 
 
Xll 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 was commonly regarded as the one thing needful to great 
 art. And of this sincerity Constable was the conspicuous 
 champion. Turner was sincere to himself rather than to 
 nature. Crome was sincere to nature, but never allowed 
 his sincerity to over-rule his innate reverence for fine 
 painting. Cox and De Wint were sincere, but their outlook 
 was less wide, their truthfulness less unrelenting than 
 Constable’s. So it has come about that Constable is 
 generally held to be the father of modern landscape both 
 in France and in England. 
 
 Yet, on the evidence, the claim must not be pressed too 
 far. Delacroix undoubtedly repainted “ Le Massacre de 
 Scio,” making it brighter and more luminous, after seeing 
 Constable’s pictures at the Salon of 1824, but Rousseau, 
 the pioneer of landscape painting in France, was then 
 only twelve years old, Corot’s work retained its pleasant 
 youthful stiffness for years after Constable’s death, and 
 French painters in general would have had nothing but 
 the memory of the few works by Constable which had been 
 shown at the Salon to direct their sympathetic enthusiasm. 
 It is as a tradition rather than a reality that his influence 
 has persisted. 
 
 The causes have already been indicated which made his 
 acceptance in England more tardy than it might otherwise 
 have been. But after 1888, when the glamour of Ruskin’s 
 eloquence was fading, and artists were able to judge 
 Constable by the superb selection from his life’s work in 
 the Victoria and Albert Museum, admiration increased by 
 leaps and bounds. As was natural, the younger painters 
 were those who were able to profit most by his example, 
 and the school of which Mr. Wilson Steer is the leader, came 
 into being. Constable’s peculiar intimacy with certain aspects 
 of nature remains unrivalled (Daubigny’s knowledge of the 
 scenery of the Oise is the one parallel to the Englishman’s 
 knowledge of Dedham Vale and Hampstead), but his truth, 
 his courage, and in some measure his skill in seizing the 
 vital spirit of landscape, the pulsating life of clouds and 
 trees, and shifting sunshine have been inherited by his 
 younger disciples. There are indications already that this 
 is not to be the last word in European landscape. Yet the 
 message of sincerity to nature is one which no future school 
 of painting can afford altogether to forget, and in Leslie’s 
 
Introduction 
 
 xm 
 
 Life of Constable it finds its first and most perfect expression . 1 
 For Constable was one of the few painters who have been 
 able to record their thoughts in lucid and eloquent words. 
 His letters reflect the very soul of his art, and so his wise 
 biographer, by leaving him to tell his own story, has given 
 us not only a human document of singular charm, but also 
 a unique record of the most momentous aesthetic revolu- 
 tion which Europe has experienced for at least three 
 centuries. 
 
 C. J. H. 
 
 December 1911. 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Memoirs of the Life of John Constable, R.A., composed chiefly of his 
 letters, 1843, 2nd edition, 1845; New Edition, Life and Letters, etc., 
 1896; Handbook for Young Painters, 1855, 1870; Life and Times of 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds, with notices of some of his contemporaries, com- 
 pleted by T. Taylor, 2 vols., 1865. 
 
 Life : Autobiographical Recollections, edited with a prefatory essay 
 on Leslie as an Artist, and selections from his correspondence, by 
 T. Taylor, i860. See also Cunningham, Lives of the British Painters, 
 edited by C. Heaton (Bohn’s Standard Library) ; and Redgrave. A 
 Century of Painters of the English School, 2nd edition, 1890, 1893. 
 
 1 The admirable French translation of Leslie’s book by M. Leon 
 Bazalgette (Paris: Floury, 1905, 6 fr.) includes an interesting intro- 
 duction on Constable’s relations to “ the men of 1830,” and notes on 
 points raised in Lord Windsor’s John Constable, R.A. (London: Walter 
 Scott, 1903), which contains a considerable amount of new material, 
 and my own Constable and his Influence on Landscape Painting. For 
 the pitfalls which attend a minute study of Constable’s work, see The 
 Burlington Magazine for August 1908, vol. xiii., pp. 286-287. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 1776-1810 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Constable’s Native Scenery. Parentage. Birth. School 
 Days. His Love of Painting. John Dunthorne. 
 Constable employed in his Father’s Mills. Intro- 
 duced to Sir George Beaumont. His first Sight of a 
 Picture by Claude. Girtin’s Drawings. Constable’s 
 first} Visit to London. Farrington. Antiquity Smith. 
 Constable engaged in his Father’s Counting-house. 
 Returns to the Study of Painting. Becomes a 
 Student of the Royal Academy. His Drawings at 
 Helmingham. Visits Derbyshire. Anatomical 
 Studies. Exhibits at the Academy. Samuel Strow- 
 ger. Mr. West. Situation of a Drawing Master 
 offered to Constable. Dissuaded by Mr. West from 
 accepting it. Voyage from London to Deal. 
 Altar-Piece for Brantham Church. Visits West- 
 moreland and Cumberland. Introduced to the Earl 
 and Countess of Dysart. Altar-Piece for Neyland 
 Church. Jackson. Wilkie. . . . . 1 
 
 1811-1812 
 
 II. West’s Picture of “ Christ Healing the Sick.” Constable’s 
 Art. Traits of his Character. His health affected. 
 
 Sir George Beaumont’s Prescription. Another Pre- 
 scription. Attachment to Miss Bicknell. Their 
 Marriage objected to by her Friends. Visit of Miss 
 Mary Constable to her Brother. Correspondence 
 with Miss Bicknell. Exhibition at the Royal 
 Academy, 1812. The Rev. J. Fisher. Mr. Stothard. 
 Constable engaged on Portraits. Fire at his 
 Lodgings ........ 18 
 
 1813-1814 
 
 III. Constable’s Pictures in the Exhibitions of 1813. Exhibi- 
 tion at the British Gallery of the Works of Reynolds. 
 Turner. J. Dunthorne, Jun. “ Willy Lott’s House.” 
 
 Sale of two of Constable’s Pictures. His Pictures 
 at the Academy, 1814. Excursion in Essex. Pic- 
 ture of “ Boat-building.” Constable’s disposition to 
 shun Society ....... 35 
 
 xiv 
 
Contents 
 
 xv 
 
 1815-1816 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 IV. Constable permitted to visit Miss Bicknell. Death of 
 his Mother. Death of Miss Bicknell’s Mother. 
 
 G. Dawe. Exhibition, 1815. Delicacy of Miss 
 Bicknell’s Health. Lady Spencer. Constable’s 
 Studies at Bergholt. Illness of his Father. Dr. 
 Rhudde. Exhibition, 1816. Death of Constable’s 
 Father. General and Mrs. Rebow. Pictures 
 painted at Wivenhoe Park. The Rev. J. Fisher. 
 Constable’s Marriage. Visit to Osmington. Dr. 
 Rhudde’s Legacy to Mrs. Constable ... 46 
 
 1817-1821 
 
 V. Housekeeping. Birth of a Son. Exhibitions, 1817, 
 
 1818, and 1819. Birth of a Daughter. Constable 
 elected an Associate of the Royal Academy. Sale 
 of his large Pictures, the “ White Horse ” and 
 “ Stratford Mill,” to Archdeacon Fisher. Exhibi- 
 tion, 1820. Matthews’ Diary of an Invalid. 
 Stothard’s “ Canterbury Pilgrims.” White’s Sel- 
 borne. Exhibition, 1821. Excursion in Berkshire 
 and to Oxford. Studies at Hampstead. Criticisms 
 on the “ Stratford Mill.” Constable’s Remarks on 
 Skies ........ 62 
 
 1822 
 
 VI. Mr. Samuel Lane. Farrington. Coxe’s Life of Correggio. 
 
 Gold grounds. Constable’s fourth large Picture. 
 Stothard’s “ Wellington Shield.” Farrington’s 
 House. The Bishop of Salisbury. Studies of Skies. 
 Illness. System of Copying at the British Gallery. 
 Picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s 
 Grounds.” David’s Picture of the “ Coronation of 
 Josephine.” Constable’s dread of a National Gallery 76 
 
 1823 
 
 VII. Illness. Picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral.” Sir John 
 Leicester’s Pictures. Wilson. Constable’s Pictures 
 at the Exhibition. Sir Godfrey Kneller’s House. 
 
 Life of Correggio. The Rev. T. J. Judkin. Sir 
 William Curtis. Visit to Archdeacon Fisher. Font- 
 hill. The Diorama. Visit to Cole-Orton Hall. 
 Adventure on the Road. Sir George and Lady 
 Beaumont. Pictures at Cole-Orton. Manner of 
 passing the Day there. Scenery of its Neighbour- 
 
XVI 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 hood. Southey. Difference of Opinion between 
 Sir George and Constable on Art. Studies at Cole- 
 Orton. Return to London. Illness. Pictures for 
 the Exhibition. Southey and the Church 
 
 1824 
 
 VIII. Letter from Sir George Beaumont. Picture of the 
 “ Opening of Waterloo Bridge.” Lady Paintress. 
 Sale of two large Pictures to a Frenchman. Picture 
 of a “ Lock on the Stour.” Description of Brighton. 
 Mr. Phillips. J. Dunthorne, Jun. Venetian Secret 
 discovered by a Lady. Mr. Ottley. Washington 
 Irving. Note from Mr. Brockedon. Archibald 
 Constable. French Criticisms on Constable’s Pic- 
 tures ........ 
 
 1825 
 
 IX. Brighton Sketches. Family Picture at Woodmanstone. 
 
 Picture of the “ Jumping Horse.” Gold Medal 
 awarded to Constable by the King of France. Due 
 de Choiseul. Paley. Sharon Turner. Picture of 
 the “ Lock.” Opinion expressed of it by S. W. 
 Reynolds. Constable’s Pictures in the Exhibition 
 at the Academy. Sale of two Pictures to Mr. Darby. 
 Exhibition, at the British Gallery, of a Selection of 
 the Works of Living Artists. Illness of Constable’s 
 eldest Son. Picture of the “ White Horse ” sent to 
 Lisle. Dinner at Lady Dvsart’s. Northcote. Cat 
 and Chickens. Mr. Bannister. J. Dunthorne’s 
 Description of the “ Devil and Dr. Faustus ” 
 
 1826-1827 
 
 X. Return of the “ White Horse ” from Lisle. Gold Medal 
 
 voted to Constable. Letters of N. Poussin. Con- 
 stable’s Picture of the “ Cornfield.” Letter from 
 Mr. Phillips. Mr. Fisher’s Description of the Valley 
 of Sutton and Preston. Anecdote of one of 
 Mr. Fisher’s Children. Exhibition at the Royal 
 Academy, 1826. Description of a ruined Man. 
 Paul Pry. Ludicrous Occurrence to the Ghost in 
 “ Hamlet.” The Brighton Gazette. “ The Glebe 
 Farm.” Mr. Fisher and Bishop Burgess. North- 
 cote. Picture by Ruysdael. Exhibition at the 
 Academy, 1827. Constable removes his Family to 
 a House in Well Walk, Hampstead 
 
 PAGE 
 
 86 
 
 102 
 
 119 
 
 132 
 
Contents 
 
 XVII 
 
 1828-1829 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XI. Illness of Mr. Abram Constable, and of Mrs. Constable. 
 
 Birth of Constable’s youngest Child. Pictures of 
 “ Dedham Vale,” and of “ Hampstead Heath.” 
 Death of Mr. Bicknell. His Bequest to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Constable. Exhibition at the Royal Academy, 
 
 1828. Death of Archdeacon Coxe. Illness of Mrs. 
 Constable. Her death. Constable ill. Receives a 
 commission to paint a Sign. Elected an Aca- 
 demician, 1829. Congratulations from some of his 
 Friends. Sir Thomas Lawrence and Constable. 
 Picture of “ Hadleigh Castle.” Constable engaged in 
 preparing the English Landscape for publication. 
 
 Mr. David Lucas . . . . . .144 
 
 1830-1831 
 
 XII. Picture of “ Bergholt Churchyard.” Death of Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence. Mr. Shee elected President of 
 the Royal Academy. Notes to Mr. Lucas. Con- 
 stable on the Committee of Arrangement at the 
 Academy. Picture of “A Dell in Helmingham 
 Park ” exhibited in 1830. Illness of George IV. 
 Jackson. Bannister. Constable Visitor in the Life 
 Academy. Etty. Wilkie. Illness. Large Picture 
 of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows ” ex- 
 hibited, 1831. Death of Jackson. Death of North- 
 cote. Watteau. Greuze. JohnVarley. Coronation 
 of King William IV. and Queen Adelaide. Lord 
 
 B m. Lord Lyttelton and the Ghost. Old 
 
 Sarum. Illness. Reform Bill. E. Landseer . 159 
 
 1832 
 
 XIII. Illness. Turner. Claude. Hobbema. Gainsborough. 
 
 Stanfield. Picture of “ Waterloo Bridge.” Mr. 
 Lawley. Callcott. Constable’s Mode of Proceeding 
 with his Pictures. The Palette Knife. Exhibition 
 at the Academy, 1832. Constable’s eldest Daughter 
 dangerously ill. Illness of John Dunthorne, Jun. 
 New Apartments for the Academy. Death of 
 Archdeacon Fisher. Copy of De Hooge. Death 
 of J. Dunthorne, Jun. Constable attends his 
 Funeral at Bergholt. Vale of Dedham. E. Land- 
 seer. Mr. George Constable. Picture of “ Engle- 
 field House” ....... 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In the first arrangement of the papers of which these 
 Memoirs principally consist, many passages were included 
 that, from the fear of making the book too long, were after- 
 wards omitted. The interest, however, with which the 
 retained portions of Constable’s correspondence were read, 
 has encouraged me to restore, now, much that had been 
 left out of the first edition. To this I have added a few 
 of his early letters, recently placed in my hands, and by 
 a careful examination of some of his papers, which I had not 
 before seen, I have been enabled to make a few additions 
 to the notes of his Lectures. I have also added to the 
 quotations from the letters of Archdeacon Fisher some 
 passages which assist the narrative, and others which appear 
 to me well worthy of preservation on their own account. 
 
 In changing the form of the volume to one more adapted 
 to general circulation, while I cannot but hope that its 
 additional pages will be found to add to its value, I regret 
 that it must appear without the beautiful engravings from 
 Constable’s works, with which in its first state it was adorned. 
 
 I must again offer my thanks to the members of his family 
 and to others of my friends, for their renewed assistance in 
 a task, to me, far less easy than interesting, although, now as 
 before, it has been little else than that of an editor. 
 
 C, R, LESLIE. 
 
 July 1845 . 
 
 XX 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF 
 JOHN CONSTABLE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 1776-1810 
 
 Constable’s Native Scenery. Parentage. Birth. School Days. His 
 Love of Painting. John Dunthorne. Constable employed in his 
 Father’s Mills. Introduced to Sir George Beaumont. His first 
 Sight of a Picture by Claude. Girtin’s Drawings. Constable’s 
 first Visit to London. Farrington. Antiquity Smith. Constable 
 engaged in his Father’s Counting-House. Returns to the Study 
 of Painting. Becomes a Student of the Royal Academy. His 
 Drawings at Helmingham. Visits Derbyshire. Anatomical 
 Studies. Exhibits at the Academy. Samuel Strowger. Mr. 
 West. Situation of a Drawing Master offered to Constable. 
 Dissuaded by Mr. West from accepting it. Voyage from London 
 to Deal. Altar-Piece for Brantham Church. Visits Westmore- 
 land and Cumberland. Introduced to the Earl and Countess of 
 Dysart. Altar-Piece for Neyland Church. Jackson. Wilkie. 
 
 “ East Bergholt, or as its Saxon derivation implies, 
 Wooded Hill, is thus mentioned in the Beauties of England 
 and Wales : — c South of the church is Old Hall, the manor 
 house, the seat of Peter Godfrey, Esq., which, with the 
 residences of the rector, the Rev. Dr. Rhudde, Mrs. Roberts, 
 and Golding Constable, Esq., give this place an appearance 
 far superior to that of most villages.’ It is pleasantly 
 situated in the most cultivated part of Suffolk, on a spot 
 which overlooks the fertile valley of the Stour, which river 
 separates that county on the south from Essex. The beauty 
 of the surrounding scenery, its gentle declivities, its luxuriant 
 meadow flats sprinkled with flocks and herds, its well 
 cultivated uplands, its woods and rivers, with numerous 
 scattered villages and churches, farms and picturesque 
 cottages, all impart to this particular spot an amenity and 
 elegance hardly anywhere else to be found.” 
 
 This is Constable’s description of the “ scenes of his boy- 
 hood,” which he was fond of saying “ made him a painter,” 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 From among them most of the subjects of his pencil were 
 selected. The frontispiece to the English Landscape, a 
 series of engravings published by him late in life, is from 
 a sketch of the house in which he was born, and the passage 
 I have quoted accompanies the plate. Fearful of having 
 said too much, and yet unwilling to say less, he adds, “ Per- 
 haps the author, with an over-weening affection for these 
 scenes, may estimate them too highly, and may have dwelt 
 on them too exclusively.” 
 
 His ancestors were from Yorkshire, where the name is 
 frequent. His great-grandfather, Hugh Constable, carried 
 it into Suffolk, and settled as a farmer at Bures, on the 
 border which separates that county from Essex. Golding 
 Constable, the artist’s father, inherited a considerable 
 property from a rich uncle, who was childless, including the 
 water-mill at Flatford ; he afterwards purchased a water-mill 
 at Dedham, and two windmills in the neighbourhood of 
 East Bergholt; at the latter place he built the house which 
 has been mentioned, and to which he removed in the year 
 1774; having before that period married Miss Ann Watts, 
 who brought some accession to his wealth, but more to his 
 happiness, for she possessed in a high degree the virtues 
 best suited to domestic life. 
 
 The children of this marriage were three sons and three 
 daughters. John Constable, the second son, was born on 
 the nth of June, 1776, and baptized on the same day, not 
 being expected to live. He became, however, a strong and 
 healthy child, and when seven years old, was placed at 
 a boarding-school about fifteen miles from Bergholt. He 
 was afterwards removed to a school at Lavenham, the 
 master of which, being in love, left the care of his scholars 
 to an usher, who flogged them so unmercifully as to incur 
 the hatred of them all; and Constable secretly resolved to 
 repay his own share of the castigation in kind, if as men 
 he and the tyrant should ever meet; a resolution he was 
 well qualified to put in practice, unless the usher had been 
 a man of uncommon personal strength. From Lavenham 
 he was removed to the grammar school of the Rev. Dr. 
 Grimwood, at Dedham, where he met with an indulgent 
 master, with whom he became a favourite. Dr. Grimwood 
 had penetration enough to discover that he was a boy of 
 genius, although he was not remarkable for proficiency 
 
Love of Painting 3 
 
 in his studies, the only thing he excelled in being penman- 
 ship. He acquired, however, some knowledge of Latin, 
 and subsequently took private lessons in French, in which 
 he made less progress. He was at this time sixteen or 
 seventeen years of age, and had become devotedly fond of 
 painting. During his French lessons a long pause would 
 frequently occur, which his master would be the first to 
 break, saying, “ Go on, I am not asleep: Oh! now I see you 
 are in your painting-room.” 
 
 But his painting-room was not under his father’s roof. 
 He had formed a close alliance with the only person in the 
 village who had any love for art, or any pretensions to the 
 character of an artist, John Dunthorne, a plumber and 
 glazier, who lived in a little cottage close to the gate of 
 Golding Constable’s house. Mr. Dunthorne possessed more 
 intelligence than is often found in the class of life to which 
 he belonged; at that time he devoted all the leisure his 
 business allowed him, to painting landscapes from nature, 
 and Constable became the constant companion of his studies. 
 Golding Constable did not frown on this intimacy, although 
 he was unwilling that his son should become a professional 
 artist, and Constable’s attempts were made either in the 
 open air, in the small house of his friend, or in a hired room 
 in the village. 
 
 It argued no want of affection or of foresight in his father 
 that he opposed his son’s choice of a profession in which 
 future excellence cannot with any certainty be predicted 
 from early attempts, and which, even if attained, is less 
 sure than excellence in many other pursuits of securing 
 a competence. He would have educated him for the Church, 
 but finding him disinclined to the necessary studies, he 
 determined to make a miller of him. For about a year, 
 Constable was employed in his father’s mills, where he 
 performed the duties required of him carefully and well. 
 He was remarkable among the young men of the village 
 for muscular strength, and being tall and well formed, with 
 good features, a fresh complexion, and fine dark eyes, his 
 white hat and coat were not unbecoming to him, and he 
 was called in the neighbourhood the “ handsome miller.” 
 
 The windmill in an engraving from one of his sketches 
 entitled “ Spring,” is one of those in which he worked; and 
 its outline, with the name of “ John Constable, 1792,” very 
 
4 Life of Constable 
 
 accurately and neatly carved by him with a penknife, still 
 remains on one of its timbers. His acquaintance with the 
 •picturesque machinery both of wind and water-mills, was 
 very useful to him in after life. His younger brother, 
 Mr. Abram Constable, said to me, “ When I look at a mill 
 painted by John, I see that it will go round, which is not 
 always the case with those by other artists.” By a wind- 
 miller every change of the sky is watched with peculiar 
 interest; and it will appear from Constable’s description 
 of this plate that the time spent as one was not wholly lost 
 to him as a painter. 
 
 “ It may perhaps,” he says, “ give some idea of one of 
 those bright and silvery days in the spring, when at noon 
 large garish clouds surcharged with hail or sleet sweep with 
 their broad shadows the fields, woods, and hills; and by 
 their depths enhance the value of the vivid greens and 
 yellows so peculiar to the season. The natural history, if 
 the expression may be used, of the skies, which are so par- 
 ticularly marked in the hail squalls at this time of the year, 
 is this: — The clouds accumulate in very large masses, and 
 from their loftiness seem to move but slowly: immediately 
 upon these large clouds appear numerous opaque patches, 
 which are only small clouds passing rapidly before them, 
 and consisting of isolated portions detached probably from 
 the larger cloud. These floating much nearer the earth may 
 perhaps fall in with a stronger current of wind, which as 
 well as their comparative lightness causes them to move 
 with greater rapidity; hence they are called by wind-millers 
 and sailors, messengers, and always portend bad weather. 
 They float midway in what may be termed the lanes of the 
 clouds; and from being so situated, are almost uniformly 
 in shadow, receiving a reflected light only, from the clear 
 blue sky immediately above them. In passing over the 
 bright parts of the large clouds they appear as darks; but 
 in passing the shadowed parts, they assume a grey, a pale, 
 or a lurid hue.” 
 
 Mrs. Constable procured for her son an introduction to Sir 
 George Beaumont, who frequently visited his mother, the 
 Dowager Lady Beaumont, then residing at Dedham. Sir 
 George had seen and expressed himself pleased with some 
 copies made by Constable in pen and ink from Dorigny’s 
 engravings of the Cartoons of Raphael ; and at the house of the 
 
Antiquity Smith 5 
 
 Dowager Lady Beaumont the young artist first saw a picture 
 by Claude, the “ Hagar,” 1 which Sir George often carried 
 with him when he travelled. Constable looked back on the 
 first sight of this exquisite work as an important epoch in 
 his life. But the taste of a young artist is always the most 
 affected by cotemporary art. Sir George Beaumont pos- 
 sessed about thirty drawings in water colours by Girtin, 
 which he advised Constable to study as examples of great 
 breadth and truth ; and their influence on him may be traced 
 more or less through the whole course of his practice. The 
 first impressions of an artist, whether for good or evil, are 
 never wholly effaced; and as Constable had till now no 
 opportunity of seeing any pictures that he could rely on as 
 guides to the study of nature, it was fortunate for him that 
 he began with Claude and Girtin. 
 
 In the year 1795, his father consented to his visiting 
 London, for the purpose of ascertaining what might be his 
 chance of success as a painter, and on this occasion Priscilla 
 Wakefield furnished him with a letter of introduction to 
 Farrington, of whom, it has been said, he became a pupil. 
 But this was not the case, though he, no doubt, received 
 many valuable hints from a landscape painter, who, though 
 not a man of genius, possessed a great deal of good sense, 
 and could tell him much of the practice of Wilson. Farring- 
 ton predicted Constable’s future excellence, and said, at an 
 early period of their acquaintance, that his style of landscape 
 would one day “ form a distinct feature in the art.” 
 
 Soon after his arrival in London, Constable became ac- 
 quainted with John Thomas Smith, known then as a clever 
 draughtsman, engraver, and local antiquary; since more 
 generally, I cannot say better , known as the writer of the 
 Life of Nollekins. Constable’s intercourse with “ Antiquity 
 Smith,” as he was called, tended, no doubt, to strengthen 
 that fondness for localities which had so much to do with, 
 if indeed it was not the basis of his art; and it may be in- 
 ferred that the advice he received from his new friend was 
 generally sound, from the following specimen. “ Do not,” 
 said Smith, “ set about inventing figures for a landscape 
 
 1 This little treasure is now in the National Gallery, where it is called 
 “ The Annunciation; ” but the spring by which the female is seated, 
 and the action of the angel who points to the buildings in the distance, 
 leaves little doubt that Claude’s intention was to represent the first 
 flight of Hagar from the presence of her mistress. 
 
6 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 taken from nature; for you cannot remain an hour in any 
 spot, however solitary, without the appearance of some 
 living thing that will in all probability accord better with 
 the scene and time of day than will any invention of your 
 own.” Often has Constable, in our walks together, taken 
 occasion to point out, from what we saw, the good sense 
 of Smith’s advice. 
 
 Constable’s time was now divided between London and 
 Bergholt; and the following passages from the letters he 
 wrote from the country to Smith show what were some of 
 his occupations for the next two years. “ October 27th, 1796. 
 As the evenings are now long, I find great pleasure in reading 
 the books I brought home with me, particularly Leonardo 
 da Vinci and Count Algarotti. I should feel obliged to you, 
 when you make up the parcel which I mentioned, if you 
 would enclose Gessner’s Essay on Landscape. I devote all 
 my evenings to the study of anatomy.” “ January 16th, 
 1797. You flatter me highly respecting my ‘ Cottages,’ 
 and I am glad you have found one or two amongst them 
 worthy of your needle. 1 I am obliged to you for the direc- 
 tions you sent me for etching, but they were not exactly 
 what I meant. What I fear I am deficient in is the biting. I 
 have lately copied Tempesta’s large battle, and painted two 
 small pictures in oil, viz. a ‘ Chymist ’ and an ‘ Alchymist,’ 
 for which I am chiefly indebted to our immortal bard. You 
 remember Romeo’s account of an apothecary’s shop. I have 
 a great mind to copy one of Ruysdael’s etchings. I have 
 seen one at your house where there are two trees standing 
 in the water, and there is one your father copied: either of 
 these I should like very much, but as they are scarce and 
 dear, perhaps you would not like to trust them ; if not, send 
 me any others. I want to know if it is possible to take the 
 proofs of the plates myself.” 
 
 The little pictures of the “ Chymist ” and the “ Alchymist ” 
 mentioned in this letter have very little merit. Constable 
 probably intended a moral by the ragged and poverty-struck 
 appearance of the alchymist, while the chymist is neat and 
 comfortable; but if he had as yet produced nothing better, 
 it is not surprising that his own pursuits were regarded by his 
 friends much in the same light with those of his alchymist. 
 
 1 Smith was publishing a series of etchings of picturesque cottages, 
 and some of Constable’s letters to him contained sketches of cottages. 
 
At the Royal Academy 7 
 
 In a letter to Smith, dated March 2nd, 1797, he says, “ I 
 must now take your advice and attend to my father’s busi- 
 ness, as we are likely soon to lose an old servant (our clerk), 
 who has been with us eighteen years ; and now I see plainly 
 it will be my lot to walk through life in a path contrary to 
 that in which my inclination would lead me.” The next 
 letter is from Mrs. Constable to Smith: “East Bergholt, 
 October 1797. Dear Sir, I have great pleasure in receiving 
 a letter so warm in commendation of my son John, as yours 
 of the 29th ult. His future conduct I trust will ever merit 
 the favour of your friendship, which I know he highly values. 
 Let me assure you, that were you intimately acquainted with 
 his father, you would not wonder at his having so worthy a 
 son. We are anticipating the satisfaction of seeing John at 
 home in the course of a week or ten days, to which I look 
 forward with the hope that he will attend to business, by 
 which he will please his father, and ensure his own respecta- 
 bility and comfort.” 
 
 How long Constable was engaged in his father’s counting- 
 house I know not; but in the year 1799 he had resumed the 
 pencil, not again to lay it aside; as I find him thus writing 
 to Dunthome. “ London, February 4th, 1799. I am this 
 morning admitted a student at the Royal Academy; the 
 figure which I drew for admittance was the Torso. I am 
 now comfortably settled in Cecil Street, Strand, No. 23. I 
 shall begin painting as soon as I have the loan of a sweet 
 little picture by Jacob Ruysdael to copy. Since I have been 
 in town I have seen some remarkably fine ones by him, indeed 
 I never saw him before; yet don’t think, by this, I am out 
 of conceit of my own, of which I have seen a print, ’tis of the 
 same size and reversed. I shall not have much to show you 
 on my return, as I find my time will be more taken up in 
 seeing than in painting. I hope by the time the leaves are 
 on the trees, I shall be better qualified to attack them than 
 I was last summer. All the time that you can conveniently 
 spare from your business may be happily spent in this way, 
 perhaps profitably, at any rate innocently. . . . Smith’s 
 
 friend, , has left off painting, at least for the present. 
 
 His whole time and thoughts are occupied in exhibiting an 
 old, rusty, fusty head, with a spike in it, which he declares 
 to be the real embalmed head of Oliver Cromwell? where 
 he got it I know not; ’tis to be seen in Bond Street, at half 
 
8 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 a crown admittance. How goes on the lay figure ? 1 I hope 
 to see it finished when I return, together with some drawings 
 of your own from nature.” 
 
 I have seen no studies made by Constable at the Academy 
 from the antique, but many chalk drawings and oil paintings 
 from the living model, all of which have great breadth of 
 light and shade, though they are sometimes defective in 
 outline. 
 
 On the 1 8th of August he writes to Smith from Ipswich: 
 “ I believe I may be here a fortnight longer. It is a most 
 delightful country for a painter. I fancy I see Gainsborough 
 in every hedge and hollow tree.” 2 
 
 In a letter to Dunthome from London, without date, but 
 probably written in the winter of this year, Constable says: 
 “ I paint by all the daylight we have, and that is little enough. 
 I sometimes see the sky, but imagine to yourself how a pearl 
 must look through a burnt glass. I employ my evenings in 
 making drawings and in reading, and I hope by the former 
 to clear my rent. If I can I shall be very happy. Our 
 friend Smith has offered to take any of my pictures into his 
 shop for sale. He is pleased to find I am reasonable in my 
 prices.” 
 
 In another letter, to the same correspondent, without date, 
 he says: “ I have copied a small landscape of A. Caracci 
 and two Wilsons, and have done some little things of my 
 own. I have likewise begun to copy a very fine picture by 
 Ruysdael, which Mr. Reinagle and myself have purchased in 
 partnership for £70. . . . I hope to see you in the spring, 
 when the cuckoos have picked up all the dirt. Every fine 
 day makes me long for a walk on the commons. ... I 
 have finished my copy from Ruysdael, all but the glazing, 
 which cannot be done till the picture is dry. It has been 
 roasting in the sun these two or three days. To-morrow I 
 hope to go on with my copy from Sir George Beaumont’s 
 little Claude. 3 I shall remain in town the chief of this 
 summer. Indeed I find it necessary to fag at copying, some 
 
 1 Mr. Dunthorne, who was a man of much ingenuity, had undertaken 
 to make a lay figure. 
 
 a Gainsborough was a native of the southern border of Suffolk. He 
 was bom at Sudbury, about fourteen miles from Bergholt; and his 
 earliest studies, like those of Constable, were from the pastoral scenery 
 of the Stour. Before he settled in London he resided for some time at 
 Ipswich. 
 
 3 The “ Hagar.” 
 
Helmingham and Derbyshire 9 
 
 time yet, to acquire execution. The more facility of practice 
 I get, the more pleasure I shall find in my art ; without the 
 power of execution I should be continually embarrassed, and 
 it would be a burthen to me. This fine weather almost 
 makes me melancholy; it recalls so forcibly every scene we 
 have visited and drawn together. I even love every stile and 
 stump, and every lane in the village, so deep-rooted are early 
 impressions.” In a letter, probably subsequent to these, he 
 says, “ My visit to the Whalleys 1 has done me a world of 
 good. The regularity and good example in all things, which 
 I had an opportunity of seeing practised (not talked of only), 
 during my stay with that dear family, will, I trust, be of 
 service to me as long as I live. I find my mind much more 
 decided and firm; and since I have been this time in town, 
 I have acquired, considerably, what I have so long and so 
 ardently desired, patience in the pursuit of my profession. 
 I know very little of what is going on in the arts, but I have 
 free admission to Mr. Bryan’s picture-room, where are some 
 fine works, particularly some landscapes by Gaspar; I visit 
 this once a week at least.” 
 
 “ (Month illegible), 1800. Dear Dunthome, Here I am 
 quite alone among the oaks and solitudes of Helmingham 
 Park. I have taken quiet possession of the parsonage, 
 finding it empty. A woman comes from the farm house, 
 where I eat, and makes my bed, and I am left at liberty 
 to wander where I please during the day. There are abun- 
 dance of fine trees of all sorts, and the park on the whole 
 affords good objects rather than fine scenery. But I can 
 hardly judge yet what I may have to show you. I have 
 made one or two drawings that may be useful.” 
 
 Two of these drawings, dated July 23rd and 24th, are in 
 my possession, and though slight and merely in black and 
 white, they show that he at that time possessed a true sense 
 of the beautiful in composition. In the year 1801, it appears 
 by one of his sketch books, he visited Derbyshire. The 
 sketches he made there, like those at Helmingham, are 
 slight and general. They are washed in one tint only, and 
 with no attempt at the beautiful finish or force of chiaroscuro 
 seen in his later studies. 
 
 “ 1801. Dear Dunthorne, ... I have got three rooms 
 in a very comfortable house, No. 50, Rathbone Place. My 
 1 Mrs. Whalley was Constable’s second sister. 
 
io Life of Constable 
 
 large room has three windows in front. I shall make that 
 my shop, having the light from the upper part of the middle 
 window, and by that means I shall get my easel in a good 
 situation. I hope to be able to keep more to myself than I 
 did in former times, in London. I have been among my old 
 acquaintances in the art, and am enough disgusted (between 
 ourselves) with their cold trumpery stuff. The more canvas 
 they cover, the more they discover their ignorance and 
 
 total want of feeling. ... I have seen twice. 
 
 He has painted a ‘ Landscape, Dedham,’ from the sketch he 
 took from Mrs. Roberts’. He calls it his best picture. 
 It is very well pencilled, and there is plenty of light without 
 any light at all” 
 
 “ Rathbone Place, January 8th, 1802. Dear Dunthome, 
 . . . About a fortnight back, I was so fully in the hope of 
 making an immediate visit to Bergholt that I deferred 
 writing. I then knew nothing of the anatomical lectures 1 
 which I am at present attending, and which will be over in 
 about a week or ten days. I am so much more interested in 
 the study than I expected, and feel my mind so generally 
 enlarged by it, that I congratulate myself on being so 
 fortunate as to have attended these lectures. Excepting 
 astronomy, and that I know little of, I believe no study is 
 really so sublime, or goes more to carry the mind to the 
 Divine Architect. Indeed the whole machine which it has 
 pleased God to form for the accommodation of the real man, 
 the mind, during its probation in this vale of tears, is as 
 wonderful as the contemplation of it is affecting. I see, 
 however, many instances of the truth, and a melancholy 
 truth it is, that a knowledge of the things created does not 
 always lead to a veneration of the Creator. Many of the 
 young men in this theatre are reprobates. 
 
 “ I have done little in the painting art since I have been 
 in town yet. A copy of a portrait and a background to an 
 ox for Miss Linwood is all. I have not time to say half I 
 could wish about my Derbyshire excursion, therefore, I will 
 say nothing.” 
 
 1 Delivered by Mr. Brookes at his Anatomical Theatre. To these 
 lectures, and to his dissecting room, Mr. Brookes, very liberally, gave 
 the students of the Royal Academy free admission. Many extremely 
 accurate and beautiful coloured drawings, of a large size, made by 
 Constable at this time, from dissections, bear evidence of the interest 
 with which he pursued the study of anatomy. 
 
Samuel Strowger 1 1 
 
 In 1802, Constable’s name appeared for the first time in 
 the catalogue of the exhibition of the Royal Academy as an 
 exhibitor; the picture being merely called “ Landscape.” 
 I think it likely, however, he may have sent pictures for 
 exhibition in 1800 or 1801, or in both years, which were re- 
 jected; as in a letter, apparently written in the winter of 1799,, 
 he speaks of preparing some little thing for the exhibition. 
 
 Those of my brother artists who remember the Academy 
 twenty years ago will not have forgotten Samuel Strowger, 
 the most symmetrical of models in the Life School, and the 
 best of servants to the Institution. He was a Suffolk man, 
 and had worked on a farm in Constable’s neighbourhood,, 
 where he was distinguished in the country phrase as “ a 
 beautiful ploughman,” until he enlisted in the Life Guards, 
 when his strict attention to his duties soon acquired for him 
 the character of the best man in his regiment. The models 
 of the Academy are generally selected from these fine troops ; 
 Sam was chosen, and the grace of his attitudes, his intel- 
 ligence and steadiness, induced the Academy to procure his 
 discharge, and to place him in the Institution as head porter 
 and occasional model. Sam and Constable, who had known 
 each other in Suffolk, were thus brought together again in 
 London; and Strowger showed his readiness to patronise his 
 old acquaintance, as far as lay in his power, by interceding, 
 when he could venture to do so, during the arrangements 
 of the exhibitions, in behalf of his works. As they- were 
 generally views in Suffolk, they had peculiar charms in 
 Sam’s eyes, and he could vouch for the accuracy with which 
 they represented all the operations of farming. He was 
 captivated by one of them, a “ Corn Field with reapers at 
 work,” and pointed out to the arranging committee its 
 correctness, “ the lord ,” as the leading man among reapers 
 and mowers is called in Suffolk, being in due advance of the 
 rest. But with all his endeavours to serve his friend the 
 picture was either rejected or not so well placed as he wished, 
 and he consoled Constable, and at the same time apologised 
 for the members of the committee, by saying, “ Our gentle- 
 men are all great artists, sir, but they none of them know 
 anything about the lord” 
 
 I cannot take leave of my old friend Strowger without 
 mentioning that towards the close of his life, the students of 
 the Academy presented him with a silver snuff-box of huge 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 i 2 
 
 dimensions; and that a very exact portrait of him in his 
 best days was painted by Wilkie. It is the head of the 
 intelligent farmer in the “ Rent Day/’ who, seated at the 
 table with his finger raised, appears to be recalling some 
 circumstance to the recollection of the steward. 
 
 I have heard Constable say that under some disappoint- 
 ment, I think it was the rejection, at the Academy, of a view 
 of Flatford Mill, he carried a picture to Mr. West, who said, 
 “ Don’t be disheartened, young man, we shall hear of you 
 again; you must have loved nature very much before you 
 could have painted this.” He then took a piece of chalk, 
 and showed Constable how he might improve the chiaroscuro 
 by some additional touches of light between the stems and 
 branches of the trees, saying, “ Always remember, sir, that 
 light and shadow never stand still” Constable said it was 
 the best lecture, because a practical one, on chiaroscuro 
 he ever heard. Mr. West, at the same time, said to him, 
 “ Whatever object you are painting, keep in mind its pre- 
 vailing character rather than its accidental appearance 
 (unless in the subject there is some peculiar reason for the 
 latter), and never be content until you have transferred that 
 to canvas. In your skies, for instance, always aim at 
 brightness , although there are states of the atmosphere in 
 which the sky itself is not bright. I do not mean that you 
 are not to paint solemn or lowering skies, but even in the 
 darkest effects there should be brightness. Your darks 
 should look like the darks of silver, not of lead or of slate.” 
 This advice was not addressed to an inattentive ear. 
 
 Constable acknowledged many obligations to the amiable 
 President of the Academy, in whom every young artist 
 found a friend; but the greatest was one which possibly 
 affected the whole course of his life. In the spring of 1802, 
 Dr. Fisher, Rector of Langham, and afterwards Bishop of 
 Salisbury, had procured for him the situation of a drawing- 
 master in a school; but Mr. West strongly dissuaded him 
 from accepting it, telling him that if he did so he must give 
 up all hopes of distinction. Such advice, and from so high 
 an authority, was very agreeable to Constable ; the difficulty, 
 however, remained, of declining Dr. Fisher’s well-intentioned 
 offer without giving him offence, which Mr. West undertook 
 and easily accomplished. To this affair Constable alludes 
 in the next letter. 
 
Voyage from London to Deal 13 
 
 “ London, May 29th, 1802. My dear Dunthome, I hope 
 I have now done with the business that brought me to town 
 with Dr. Fisher. It is sufficient to say that had I accepted 
 the situation offered, it would have been a death-blow to all 
 my prospects of perfection in the art I love. For these few 
 weeks past, I believe I have thought more seriously of my 
 profession than at any other time of my life; of that which 
 is the surest way to excellence. I am just returned from a 
 visit to Sir George Beaumont’s pictures with a deep convic- 
 tion of the truth of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ observation, that 
 ‘ there is no easy way of becoming a good painter.’ For 
 the last two years I have been running after pictures, and 
 seeking the truth at second hand. I have not endeavoured 
 to represent nature with the same elevation of mind with 
 which I set out, but have rather tried to make my perform- 
 ances look like the work of other men. I am come to a 
 determination to make no idle visits this summer, nor to give 
 up my time to commonplace people. I shall return to 
 Bergholt, where I shall endeavour to get a pure and unaffected 
 manner of representing the scenes that may employ me. 
 There is little or nothing in the exhibition worth looking up 
 to. There is room enough for a natural painter. The great 
 vice of the present day is bravura, an attempt to do some- 
 thing beyond the truth. Fashion always had, and will have, 
 its day; but truth in all things only will last, and can only 
 have just claims on posterity. I have reaped considerable 
 benefit from exhibiting; it shows me where I am, and in fact 
 tells me what nothing else could.” 
 
 In 1803, Constable exhibited at the Academy two “ Land- 
 scapes ” and two “ Studies from Nature; ” and in April he 
 made a trip from London to Deal, in the Coutts, East India- 
 man, with Captain Torin, a friend of his father. 
 
 “ London, May 23rd, 1803. Dear Dunthorne, I have for 
 some time felt a weight on my mind from having so long 
 neglected writing to you. Indeed there is this strange 
 fatality about me, that I seem to neglect those whose love 
 and friendship I most value. . . . My voyage I will mention 
 first. I was near a month on board, and was much employed 
 in making drawings of ships in all situations. I saw all sorts 
 of weather. Some the most delightful, and some as melan- 
 choly. But such is the enviable state of a painter that he 
 finds delight in every dress nature can possibly assume. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 H 
 
 When the ship was at Gravesend, I took a walk on shore to 
 Rochester and Chatham. Their situation is beautiful and 
 romantic, being at the bottom of finely formed and high 
 hills, with the river continually showing its turnings to great 
 advantage. Rochester Castle is one of the most romantic I 
 ever saw. At Chatham I hired a boat to see the men-of-war, 
 which are there in great numbers. I sketched the Victory 
 in three views. She was the flower of the flock, a three 
 decker of (some say) 112 guns. She looked very beautiful, 
 fresh out of dock and newly painted. When I saw her they 
 were bending the sails ; which circumstance, added to a very 
 fine evening, made a charming effect. On my return to 
 Rochester, I made a drawing of the Cathedral, which is in 
 some parts very picturesque, and is of Saxon architecture. 
 I joined the ship again at Gravesend, and we proceeded on 
 our voyage, which was pleasant enough till we got out to 
 sea, when we were joined by three more large ships. We 
 had almost reached the Downs when the weather became 
 stormy, and we all put back under the North Foreland, and 
 lay there three days. Here I saw some very grand effects of 
 stormy clouds. I came on shore at Deal, walked to Dover, 
 and the next day returned to London. The worst part of 
 the story is that I have lost all my drawings. The ship was 
 such a scene of confusion, when I left her, that although I 
 had done my drawings up very carefully, I left them behind. 
 When I found, on landing, that I had left them, and saw the 
 ship out of reach, I was ready to faint. I hope, however, I 
 may see them again some time or other. Now I think I 
 must have tired you, and I will change the subject. 
 
 “ The exhibition is a very indifferent one on the whole. 
 In the landscape way most miserable. I saw, as I thought, 
 a great many pictures by Sir F. Bourgeois, but it proved 
 that not half of them belonged to him, but to another painter 
 who has imitated his manner exactly. Sir Francis was the 
 hangman, and was so flattered by these imitations that he 
 has given them as good places as his own. There are, how- 
 ever, some good portraits in the exhibition. I have seen 
 some fine pictures lately, and have made a few little pur- 
 chases; twelve prints by Waterloo, and four fine drawings 
 by him, with some other prints. But my best purchases 
 are two charming little landscapes by Gaspar Poussin, in his 
 best time. ... I feel now, more than ever, a decided con- 
 
Altar-piece for Brantham Church i 5 
 
 viction that I shall sometime or other make some good 
 pictures. Pictures that shall be valuable to posterity, if I 
 reap not the benefit of them. This hope, added to the great 
 delight I find in the art itself, buoys me up, and makes me 
 pursue it with ardour. 
 
 “ Panorama painting seems all the rage. There are four 
 
 or five now exhibiting, and Mr. R is coming out with 
 
 another, a view of Rome, which I have seen. I should think 
 he has taken his view favourably, and it is executed with the 
 greatest care and fidelity. This style of painting suits his 
 ideas of the art itself, and his defects are not so apparent in 
 it; that is, great principles are neither expected nor looked 
 for in this mode of describing nature. 1 He views nature 
 minutely and cunningly, but with no greatness or breadth. 
 The defects of the picture at present are a profusion of high 
 lights, and too great a number of abrupt patches of shadow. 
 But it is not to be considered as a whole. ... I shall soon 
 be at home again. The weather is not, however, very 
 tempting, and while I find so much to interest me, at this 
 busy time of the Arts, in London, I shall stay a week or two 
 longer.” 
 
 Constable was fortunate enough to recover his marine 
 sketches, about 130, and the use he made of his drawings of 
 the Victory will be seen immediately. 
 
 Between this period and 1807, no letters either to or from 
 Constable have reached my hands. In 1804 he did not 
 exhibit, but he painted an Altar-piece for Brantham Church 
 near Bergholt, the subject, “ Christ blessing little Children.” 
 The figures are of the size of life, and all standing, except a 
 child in the Saviour’s arms. The arrangement of the masses 
 is good, but it has no other merit; and indeed is no other- 
 wise worthy of notice than as a proof that he did wisely, 
 after one more attempt, in making no farther incursions into 
 this walk of the art. In 1805 he exhibited a “ Landscape, 
 
 I Moonlight,” and in 1806, a drawing of “ His Majesty’s Ship 
 Victory in the Battle of Trafalgar, between two French Ships 
 ! of the Line.” This subject was suggested to him by hearing 
 I an account of the battle from a Suffolk man, who had been 
 | on Nelson’s ship. 
 
 1 Sir George Beaumont was of opinion, and, perhaps with some 
 reason, that the effect of panorama painting has been injurious to the 
 taste, both of the artists and the public, in landscape. 
 
1 6 Life of Constable 
 
 In this year his maternal uncle, David Pike Watts, recom- 
 mended to him a tour in Westmoreland and Cumberland in 
 search of subjects for his pencil, and paid his expenses. He 
 spent about two months among the English lakes and 
 mountains, where he made a great number of sketches, of a 
 large size, on tinted paper, sometimes in black and white, 
 but more often coloured. They abound in grand and solemn 
 effects of light, shade, and colour, but from these studies he 
 never painted any considerable picture, for his mind was 
 formed for the enjoyment of a different class of landscape. 
 I have heard him say the solitude of mountains oppressed his 
 spirits. His nature was peculiarly social and could not feel 
 satisfied with scenery, however grand in itself, that did 
 not abound in human associations. He required villages, 
 churches, farm-houses, and cottages; and I believe it was as 
 much from natural temperament as from early impressiQns 
 that his first love, in landscape, was also his latest love. In 
 1807 he exhibited some of the results of his excursion; “A 
 View in Westmoreland,” “ Keswick Lake,” and “ Bow Fell, 
 Cumberland.” 
 
 The Earl of Dysart wishing to have some family pictures 
 copied, Constable was introduced to his lordship and the 
 Countess as a young artist who would be glad to undertake 
 them. The consequence was, his being employed in making 
 a number of copies, chiefly from Sir Joshua Reynolds; and 
 although it is to be regretted that much of his time should 
 have been spent on any but original works, yet he no doubt 
 derived improvement in his taste for colour and chiaroscuro 
 by this intimate communion with so great a master of both. 
 
 About this time his mother, at the conclusion of a letter to 
 him, says: “ How thankful I am that you so much enjoy the 
 invaluable blessing of health. It is, I trust, the kind gift of 
 Providence, rendered the more permanent by your own 
 prudence and good conduct. Long may you enjoy it on 
 such terms ! ” And his uncle, Mr. Watts, thus speaks of him 
 at the same period: “ J. C. is industrious in his profession, 
 temperate in diet, plain in dress, frugal in expenses, and in 
 his professional character has great merit.” 
 
 In 1808 he exhibited at the Royal Academy, three pictures, 
 “ Borrowdale,” “ A Scene in Cumberland,” and “ Winder- 
 mere Lake,” and at the British Gallery, “ A Scene in West- 
 moreland,” probably the one he had exhibited at the Academy 
 
Altar-piece for Neyland Church 17 
 
 the preceding year, and “ Moonlight (a Study).” In 1809 
 his pictures at the Academy were three, with the title merely 
 of “ Landscape; ” and at the British Gallery he had also 
 three, “ Borrowdale,” “ A Cottage,” and “ Keswick Lake,” 
 the latter having been exhibited at the Academy. 
 
 In this year he painted his second and last attempt in 
 sacred history, an altar-piece for Neyland Church, a single 
 half figure of the Saviour blessing the bread and wine. 
 Although, from the slightness of the execution, this picture 
 can only be considered as a sketch of the size of life, it is 
 in all respects much better than the Brantham altar-piece. 
 There is no originality in the treatment, but a subject so 
 often painted almost precludes originality. The light falls 
 on the face from a lamp, and the colour and effect are very 
 agreeable, broken colours partaking of purple and brownish 
 yellow being substituted in the draperies for the ordinary 
 blue and red. Still, such are its deficiencies, that it is 
 evident a long course of study and practice would have been 
 required before he could have done justice, if ever, to subjects 
 of its class. 
 
 In 1810 he exhibited at the Academy “ A Landscape ” and 
 “ A Church-Yard.” 
 
 The following passage in a letter from John Jackson, dated 
 October 23rd, 1810, shows that Constable’s friendship with 
 that eminent artist had then commenced. They were men 
 who could fully appreciate each other: “ I spent ten days in 
 Hants, and was delighted beyond measure with the New 
 Forest. I think it indescribably beautiful; but perhaps you 
 may have seen it. If not, I wish we might find some 
 sequestered cottage to put our heads in by night, and in the 
 day explore and sketch, for a fortnight or three weeks: but 
 more of this when we meet.” 
 
 Constable and Wilkie were also much together at that time, 
 and their friendship never suffered any diminution. Constable 
 sat to Wilkie for the head of the physician in his picture of 
 the “ Sick Lady,” and again, in the character of a physician, 
 at a late period of their lives ; as will be noticed in its proper 
 place. 
 
 B 
 
CHAPTER II 
 1811-1812 
 
 West’s Picture of “ Christ healing the Sick.” Constable’s Art. Traits 
 of his Character. His Health affected. Sir George Beaumont’s 
 Prescription. Another Prescription. Attachment to Miss Bick- 
 nell. Their Marriage objected to by her Friends. Visit of Miss 
 Mary Constable to her Brother. * Correspondence with Miss 
 Bicknell. Exhibition at the Royal Academy, 1812. Archdeacon 
 Fisher. Mr. Stothard. Constable engaged on Portraits. Fire at 
 his Lodgings. 
 
 In 1811, an extraordinary event in the history of English 
 Art occurred : the directors of the British Institution bought 
 West’s picture of “ Christ healing the Sick ” for £3000. 
 Constable’s fond mother, who had seen this picture, after 
 saying she preferred the principal figure and infant in her 
 son’s Brantham altar-piece, thus concludes a letter to him: 
 “ In truth, my dear John, though in all human probability 
 my head will be laid low long ere it comes to pass, yet with 
 my present light, I can perceive no reason why you should 
 not, one day, with diligence and attention be the performer 
 of a picture worth £3000.” 
 
 In this year he sent to the Academy two pictures, “ Twi- 
 light,” and “ Dedham Vale,” and to the British Gallery, “ A 
 Church Porch,” which as well as the “ Dedham Vale ” 
 remained in his possession to the end of his life, and I am 
 therefore well acquainted with them. The “ Porch ” is that 
 of Bergholt Church, and the stillness of a summer afternoon 
 is broken only by the voice of an old man to whom a woman 
 and girl sitting on one of the tombs are listening. As in 
 many of the finest Dutch pictures, the fewness of the parts 
 constitutes a charm in this little work; such is its extreme 
 simplicity, that it has nothing to arrest attention, but when 
 once noticed, few pictures would longer detain a mind of 
 any sensibility. I have heard the word sentiment ridiculed 
 when applied to representations of inanimate objects. But 
 no other word can express that from which the impression 
 of this picture results, independently of the figures. In the 
 “ Dedham Vale ” an extensive country is seen through a 
 
 18 
 
Traits of Character 
 
 !9 
 
 sunny haze, which equalises the light, without injuring the 
 beauty of the tints. There is a tree of a slight form in the 
 fore-ground, touched with a taste to which I know nothing 
 equal in any landscape I ever saw. Such pictures were, 
 however, too unobtrusive for the exhibition, and Constable’s 
 art had made no impression whatever on the public. But 
 when we look back to the fate of Wilson, and recollect that 
 Gainsborough was only saved from poverty by his admirable 
 powers in portraiture, and that the names of Cozens and 
 Girtin are scarcely known to their countrymen, we shall not 
 hastily conclude that to fail in attracting general notice is 
 any proof of want of merit in an English landscape painter. 
 It may be that the art, so simple and natural, as it is in the 
 best works of these extraordinary men, becomes a novelty 
 which people do not know how to estimate; Steele, in a 
 paper of the Tatler , speaks of an author “ who determined 
 to write in a way perfectly new, and describe things exactly 
 as they happened.” 
 
 Constable’s father and mother wished him to apply himself 
 to portrait painting, but he had not the happiness, like Gains- 
 borough, to combine landscape and portrait in equal perfec- 
 tion. He painted the latter indeed, occasionally, all his life, 
 but with very unequal success; and his best works of this 
 kind, though always agreeable in colour and breadth, were 
 surpassed, in more common qualities, by men far inferior to 
 him in genius. His profession had hitherto been profitless, 
 but it may be doubted whether under any circumstances he 
 would have become a rich man by his own exertions; for 
 although he was an early riser, frugal in his habits of living 
 and not addicted to any vicious extravagance either of time 
 or money, yet of neither was he an economist. Both were 
 always too readily at the disposal of others; it was as difficult 
 for him to say no to a borrower, as to shut his door against a 
 lounger, still less could he ever resist an appeal to his charity; 
 and if a book or a print he wanted came in his way, the 
 chances were he would buy it, though with the money that 
 should pay for his next day’s dinner. He was well aware of 
 this want of resolution, and often formed plans of economy, 
 but failing in a constant and steady adherence to them, they 
 seldom proved of much real advantage to him. 
 
 It now became apparent to Constable’s friends that his 
 health was declining. It was, I believe, at this time that 
 
20 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 Sir George Beaumont undertook to be his physician, and 
 prescribed for him that he should copy a picture entirely 
 from memory. He was to walk every day to Sir George’s 
 house in Grosvenor Square, look at the picture as long as he 
 pleased, then return home and paint as much of it as he had 
 retained in his recollection, until the copy was finished. The 
 regular exercise and change of scene, combined with an agree- 
 able and not too arduous employment were to work the cure. 
 The picture selected was a landscape by Wilson, and the 
 experiment was tried, but the malady under which Constable 
 laboured was not to be so easily removed. 
 
 The following is part of a very long letter from a friend, 
 who often bestowed advice on him less judicious than well 
 intentioned. It is addressed to “ J. C. aged thirty-five,” 
 which marks it as belonging to this period. “ Dear John, 
 I am sorry to see too visible traits in your whole person of 
 an inward anxiety which irritates your nervous system, 
 deranges the digestion, and undermines the health. But 
 health alone, that invaluable possession, is not the sole thing 
 impaired; the mental powers are liable to participate in the 
 depression of the animal system. It is not in the power of 
 even your nearest friend to see into the secret causes of the 
 operations of the mind; but a tolerable opinion may be 
 formed of what passes within the thoughts of another person 
 by certain external traits. The conclusion to be drawn from 
 these is, that your indisposition arises from more than one 
 cause, though one has of late been predominant, and has 
 become the main trouble which absorbs the minor ones, and 
 resolves all the subordinate cares into one overwhelming 
 solicitude, and this is a deep concern of the heart and affec- 
 tions.” I will spare the reader any more of this letter, which 
 comprises four pages of the usual advice as to the best means 
 of combating a hopeless passion, which is generally thrown 
 away on similar occasions; one page being a quotation from 
 “ an able divine.” Enclosed in the letter I found a printed 
 paper entitled: “A Cure for Love. Take half a grain of 
 sense, half a grain of prudence,” etc., etc. 
 
 Another long letter, from the same kind mentor, appears 
 to have been written the next day; and however well meant, 
 was certainly not very well timed. 
 
 “ Dear John, I amused myself at seven o’clock this morn- 
 ing, in transcribing the enclosed, which I hope will amuse 
 
Attachment to Miss Bicknell 
 
 2 1 
 
 you more than my yesterday’s extract. You see I copy from 
 the great masters, whether in Divinity, Morals, or the Arts. 1 
 I sometimes wish you had copied more ; and that at an early 
 age you had put yourself under a great master. That dread 
 of being a mannerist, and that desire of being an original, has 
 not, in my imperfect judgment, produced to you the full 
 advantage you promised yourself from it. As far as my 
 unqualified, and simply native taste extends (which I 
 acknowledge to be very inadequate to form a correct judg- 
 ment), I had rather see some of the manner of those highly 
 extolled works, which have commanded the applause of the 
 public at large, from the perfect connoisseur down to the 
 simple spectator. I have before taken the freedom to offer 
 my sentiments to you ; you have before paid me the compli- 
 ment to ask and receive them. I have no motive in my 
 observations but your good, or what I conceive to be so, 
 joined to a regard to truth, and an aversion to flattery. My 
 opinion is, that cheerfulness is wanted in your landscapes; 
 they are tinctured with a sombre darkness. If I may say so, 
 the trees are not green, but black ; the water is not lucid, but 
 over-shadowed; an air of melancholy is cast over the scene, 
 instead of hilarity,” etc. How must the artist have writhed 
 under this friendly advice, ill in body and depressed in mind 
 as he then was. 
 
 Maria Bicknell, the young lady between whom and Con- 
 stable there now existed a mutual attachment, was the 
 daughter of Charles Bicknell, Esq., of Spring Gardens, 
 Solicitor to the Admiralty, and grand-daughter, by her 
 mother’s side, to the Rev. Dr. Rhudde, Rector of Bergholt, 
 where Constable’s acquaintance with her had commenced as 
 early as the year 1800, while she was a child. Objections to 
 their union arose on the part of Miss Bicknell’ s friends, Dr. 
 Rhudde being its chief opposer. He was probably unwilling 
 that his grand-daughter should marry a man below herself in 
 point of fortune, and whom he might, not unreasonably, 
 consider as without a profession, since Constable could 
 scarcely appear in any other light to his best friends. A 
 
 1 1 have omitted transcribing the enclosure, nor should I have inter- 
 rupted the narrative with any of the effusions of this correspondent, 
 but that the reader may judge, from these specimens, of many similar 
 inflictions to which Constable was, for some years, subjected from the 
 same quarter. They smack of the wisdom, as well as the style of 
 Polonius. 
 
22 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 difference had arisen between Golding Constable and the 
 rector, which at that time estranged them from each other; 
 and there was a story current in Bergholt of a caricature of 
 the doctor by Constable, which, whether true or false, was 
 unfortunate. How far any or all of these circumstances 
 operated on Dr. Rhudde’s mind, or what other objections he 
 may have had to receive Constable as a grandson-in-law, I 
 know not, but it became afterwards plain that Mr. Bicknell 
 would not long have opposed the marriage, had it not been 
 from fear of excluding his daughter’s name from the will of 
 her grandfather, who was very rich. As it was, the lovers 
 were doomed for five years to suffer all the wearing anxieties 
 of hope deferred, of which their own letters form a deeply 
 interesting history. 
 
 The first I have seen of this series is from Miss Bicknell, 
 who was on a visit at the house of a friend in the country. 
 
 “Spring Grove, Nov. 2, 1811. My dear Sir, You have 
 grieved me exceedingly by the melancholy account you give 
 of your health, and I shall feel much better satisfied when I 
 know you are in Suffolk, where I do not doubt that good air, 
 with the nursing and attention of your friends, will go a great 
 way towards your recovery. I dare not suffer myself to think 
 on your last letter. I am very impatient, as you may 
 imagine, to hear from papa, on a subject so fraught with 
 interest to us both; but was unwilling to delay writing to 
 you, as you would be ignorant of the cause of such seeming 
 inattention. I hope you will not find that your kind partiality 
 to me made you view what passed in Spring Gardens too 
 favourably. You know my sentiments; I shall be guided 
 by my father in every respect. Should he acquiesce in my 
 wishes, I shall be happier than I can express. If not, I shall 
 have the consolation of reflecting that I am pleasing him, a 
 charm that will in the end give the greatest satisfaction to 
 my mind. I cannot write any more till the wished, but 
 fearfully dreaded, letter arrives. With the most ardent 
 wishes for your health, believe me, my dear Sir, your obliged 
 friend, Maria E. Bicknell.” 
 
 Constable’s fond mother, who, from the commencement of 
 his attachment to Miss Bicknell, entered warmly into all his 
 feelings on the subject, thus replied to a letter she had 
 received from him: 
 
 “East Bergholt, Nov. 3, 1811. Your letter of the 31st 
 
Objections to Marriage 23 
 
 ult. pleases me, because it tells me you are £ far better.’ But 
 you cannot imagine how you have surprised and filled me 
 with conjecture by saying ‘ I have been kindly received by 
 the Bicknells this morning, and my mind is in some measure 
 quieted. I have Mr. Bicknell’s permission to write to Miss 
 Bicknell, which I have done this afternoon.’ Now, my dear 
 son, what may be augured from this? I pray it may prove 
 favourable. They are too good, and too honourable, to trifle 
 with your feelings; therefore I am inclined to hope for the 
 best, and that it will end well.” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable, Spring Grove, Nov. 4. I have 
 received my father’s letter. It is precisely such a one as I 
 expected, reasonable and kind; his only objection would be 
 on the score of that necessary evil money. What can we 
 do? I wish I had it, but wishes are vain; we must be wise, 
 and leave off a correspondence that is not calculated to make 
 us think less of each other. We have many painful trials 
 required of us in this life, and we must learn to bear them 
 with resignation. You will still be my friend, and I will be 
 yours. Then, as such, let me advise you to go into Suffolk, 
 you cannot fail to be better there. I have written to papa, 
 though I do not, in conscience, think he can retract anything 
 he has said; if so, I had better not write to you any more, 
 at least till I can coin. We should both of us be bad subjects 
 for poverty, should we not? Even painting would go on 
 badly; it could hardly survive in domestic worry. I hope 
 you have done a good deal this summer; Salisbury, I suppose, 
 has furnished some sketches. You are particularly fortunate 
 in possessing the affectionate esteem of so kind and excellent 
 a man as Mr. Watts, whose wishes you must consult on this 
 most important point. Remember, dear sir, if you wish to 
 oblige me and all your friends, it must be by taking care of 
 your health. Adieu, and think me always sincerely yours, 
 M.E.B.” 
 
 Constable, however, abated not “ a jot of heart or hope.” 
 “ Be assured,” he wrote to her, “ we have only to consider 
 our union as an event that must happen, and we shall yet be 
 happy.” To this she replied, “ You grieve and surprise me 
 by continuing so sanguine on a subject altogether hopeless. 
 I cannot endure that you should harbour expectations that 
 must terminate in disappointment. I never can consent to 
 act in opposition to the wishes of my father; how then can I 
 
24 Life of Constable 
 
 continue a correspondence wholly disapproved of by him? 
 He tells me that I am consulting your happiness as well as 
 my own by putting an end to it. Let me then entreat that 
 you will cease to think of me. Forget that you have ever 
 known me, and I will willingly resign all pretensions to your 
 regard, or even acquaintance, to facilitate the tranquillity 
 and peace of mind which is so essential to your success in a 
 profession, which will ever be in itself a source of continued 
 delight. You must be certain that you cannot write without 
 increasing feelings that must be entirely suppressed. You 
 will, therefore, I am sure, see the impropriety of sending me 
 any more letters. I congratulate you on your change of 
 residence. It is, I think, a very desirable situation. Fare- 
 well, my dear sir, and ever believe me your sincere and con- 
 stant well-wisher, M.E. B. Spring Grove, Dec. 1811.” 
 
 From his father Constable received, on the same subject, 
 the following letter: 
 
 “ East Bergholt, Dec. 31, 1811. Dear John, Your present 
 prospects and situation are far more critical than at any 
 former period of your life. As a single man, I fear your 
 expenses, on the most frugal plan, will be found quite equal 
 to the produce of your profession. If my opinion were asked, 
 it would be to defer all thoughts of marriage for the present. 
 I would farther advise a close application to your profession, 
 and to such parts as pay best. At present you must not 
 choose your subjects, nor waste your time by accepting 
 invitations not likely to produce future advantages. When 
 you have hit on a subject, finish it in the best manner you 
 are able, and do not in despair put it aside, and so fill your 
 room with lumber. I fear your great anxiety to excel may 
 have carried you too far above yourself, and that you make 
 too serious a matter of the business, and thereby render 
 yourself less capable; it has impaired your health and 
 spirits. Think less, and finish as you go (perhaps that may 
 do). Be of good cheer, John, as in me you will always find 
 a parent and a sincere friend. At your request, you may 
 expect to see your sister at No. 63, next Thursday after- 
 noon.” 
 
 Constable’s youngest sister, the lady mentioned in this 
 letter, remained with him in London from the commence- 
 ment of 1812 to the middle of May; and by the affectionate 
 interest she took in all that agitated his mind, and the truly 
 
Academy Pictures, 1812 25 
 
 feminine gentleness of her manners contributed much to his 
 comfort. 
 
 It was scarcely to be expected that the injunctions of Miss 
 Bicknell, to write no more to her, should be obeyed by 
 Constable, now that matters had gone so far, and a regular 
 interchange of letters soon took place between them. 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. 63, Charlotte Street, April, 1812. 
 I have dispatched my pictures to Somerset House: my 
 
 friends assure me they are my best; but Leonardo da Vinci 
 tells us to mind what our enemies say of us. It is certainly 
 one of the great ends of a public exhibition, that we hear 
 the truth. I have sent four pictures, the ‘ View of Salisbury,’ 
 ‘ Flatford Mill,’ and two small ones. My good friends the 
 Bishop of Sarum and Mrs. Fisher called to see them. I shall 
 have great pleasure in giving you some account of the 
 exhibition. Lawrence has sent a picture of Kemble in Cato. 
 Mr. Farrington spoke highly of it to me. . . . Let me beg 
 of you to continue to cheer my solitude with your endearing 
 epistles; they are next to seeing you, and hearing you speak. 
 I am now engaged with portraits. Mr. Watts sat to me this 
 morning, and seems pleased with what is going on. I am 
 copying a picture for Lady Heathcote, her own portrait as 
 Hebe. She will not sit to me, though she wants many 
 alterations from the original; but I can have prints, drawings, 
 miniatures, locks of hair, etc., etc., without end. You may 
 be able to tell me, better than I can you, any public matter, 
 as I never have an opportunity of seeing the newspaper.” 
 
 “ 63, Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, April 24, 1812. 
 ... I believe I mentioned to you that I left a card for 
 Dr. Rhudde in Stratton Street. I have had a polite message 
 from him, offering to take any letter, etc., to Bergholt. I 
 called with a letter for my mother, and saw the doctor, 
 who was very courteous. I am glad I have seen him; 
 for though this may not better our cause, it cannot make it 
 worse, and I have not to reflect on myself for any omission 
 or neglect. 
 
 “ I met Mr. West in the street the other day; he had 
 been much gratified with my picture of the Mill, etc., which 
 passed the Council of the Academy. I wished to know 
 whether he considered that mode of study as proper for lay- 
 ing the foundation of real excellence. ‘ Sir,’ said he, ‘ I 
 consider that you have attained it.’ . . . What happiness it 
 
26 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 is to me to impart to you any little circumstances that in any 
 way connect themselves with our future welfare, when I 
 know how they will be received by you; and though I am 
 denied the pleasure of communicating them with 
 “ Your arm fast lock’d in mine.” 
 
 yet I have had that pleasure, and may yet again for many 
 years. Mary Constable has left Epsom, and I have detained 
 her here for a few days on her return. She begs her kind 
 remembrance to you.” 
 
 “ 63, Charlotte Street, May 6, 1812. My dearest Maria, 
 I am writing to you on my mother’s birthday and wedding- 
 day. Perhaps you will think me very busy with my pen; 
 but I am glad to recollect that you may be expecting to hear 
 from me about this time. Your kindness will remember 
 that I can scarcely gain any intelligence of you but from 
 yourself. I have made two hasty visits to the exhibition. 
 The portraits by Lawrence and Owen are very excellent; 
 and there are some beautiful fancy pictures by Thomson, the 
 Infant Jupiter, and Lavinia resting her arm on her mother. 
 Mr. West’s is truly an heroic landscape; 1 and Turner has 
 another, a scene among the Alps, with Hannibal and his 
 army. It is so ambiguous as to be scarcely intelligible in 
 some parts (and those the principal), yet, as a whole, it is 
 novel and affecting. Mr. Farrington has some beautiful 
 landscapes, but they are heavy and crude. I waited to see 
 them by twilight, when they looked much better. My own 
 landscapes have excellent situations. My dear Mary is still 
 with me, but I must part with her in a few days.” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. Spring Grove, May 14, 1812. 
 I am sorry, my dear John, that you should have felt any 
 disappointment by my silence. I will not therefore delay 
 thanking you for your last two letters. . . .You will, I am 
 sure, make allowances for me. Think how much of the 
 charm of writing is broken, not having my mother’s appro- 
 bation to add to my joy by sharing it. But do not let me 
 grieve you by sorrow, that will intrude its hideous form to 
 me. I am sure you have suffered sufficiently on my account. 
 What do you think of accompanying Sadak in his search for 
 the waters of oblivion ? but were they now within my reach, 
 I could not drink them.” 
 
 Constable’s health again suffered, and he was advised to go 
 1 “ Saul before Samuel and the Prophets.” 
 
Decision of Character 27 
 
 into the country. On the 24th of May he wrote to Miss 
 Bicknell, “ I am still looking towards Suffolk, where I hope 
 to pass the greater part of the summer; as much for the sake 
 of study as on any other account. You know I have always 
 succeeded best with my native scenes. They have always 
 charmed me, and I hope they always will. I have now a 
 path marked out very distinctly for myself, and I am desirous 
 of pursuing it uninterruptedly.” This last sentence is worthy 
 of attention, as it shows the steadiness of purpose which 
 belonged to his character in all matters relating to his art, 
 while to those who knew or observed him but slightly, there 
 was an appearance of vacillation and indecision in his manner 
 entirely at variance with the real stability of his mind. It 
 will be seen, in the sequel, how impossible it was to drive him 
 out of the path he had chosen, though few indeed were the 
 encouragements he met with to continue in it. In the same 
 letter he says, “ I am getting on with my picture for Lady 
 Heathcote. Lady Louisa Manners has a wretched copy 
 by Hoppner from Sir J. Reynolds, which she wishes me to 
 repaint, so that I fear it must be, at least, a fortnight or three 
 weeks before I can get into Suffolk. My friend John Fisher 
 is half angry with me because I will not pass a little time 
 with him at Salisbury; but I am determined not to fritter 
 away the summer, if I can help it. I will quote part of his 
 letter (which he has followed to town), that you may see 
 what an enthusiast he is, ‘We will try and coax you here, 
 dear Constable, by an account of the life we will lead. We 
 will rise with the sun, breakfast, and then set out for the 
 rest of the day. If we tire of drawing, we can read, or 
 bathe, and then home to a short dinner. We will drink tea 
 at the Benson’s, or walk the great aisle of the cathedral, or 
 if the maggot so bites, puzzle out a passage or two in Horace. 
 I think this life of Arcadian or Utopian felicity must tempt 
 you.’ 
 
 “ I believe there are more exhibitions than usual, open at 
 this time. I have been most gratified at Wilkie’s.” 
 
 The Rev. John Fisher (afterwards Archdeacon Fisher) 
 was chaplain to his uncle, the Bishop of Salisbury. He was 
 the eldest son of Dr. Fisher, Master of the Charter House, 
 and though sixteen years younger than Constable, they had 
 contracted a friendship for each other which never altered 
 excepting by its growth. 
 
28 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, June 6th, 1812. Yesterday I took a 
 long walk with Mr. Stothard. I left my door about six in 
 the morning, we breakfasted at Putney, went over Wimble- 
 don Common, and passed three hours in Coombe Wood 
 (Stothard is a butterfly-catcher), where we dined by a spring, 
 then back to Richmond by the Park, enjoyed the view, and 
 so home. All this on foot, and I do not feel tired now, 
 though I was a little so in the morning. I only asserted I 
 was well before, I hope now this is a proof of it.” 
 
 Constable had, for some time, been the chosen companion 
 of Stothard’s long walks, the chief relaxation of that admir- 
 able artist from the drudgery of working for the publishers. 
 These walks lengthened with the lengthening days, and I 
 have heard him speak of the hilarity with which Stothard 
 would enter his room on a fine afternoon in the spring and 
 say, “ Come, sir, put on your hat, my boys tell me the lilacs 
 are out in Kensington Gardens.” I have seen a beautiful 
 pencil drawing of a shady lane, which Constable made during 
 their excursion to Coombe Wood, while his companion, who 
 was introduced into it, was engaged with his butterfly nets. 
 Stothard was then about fifty years of age; his deafness 
 precluded him from the enjoyment of general society, but 
 with a single friend, and, as in this instance, a younger man, 
 who looked up to him with great respect and admiration, and 
 whose mind was in many respects a kindred one, he was 
 very communicative. In their walks together, he, no doubt, 
 felt his infirmity as little as possible; while the hours passed 
 with him must have contributed to soothe the spirits of 
 Constable, disquieted as they then were. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, June 10th, 1812. You will see by 
 the cover that the good bishop is as kind to me as ever. He 
 and Mrs. Fisher were here yesterday for an hour or two; 
 and I have completed the portrait 1 quite to their satisfaction. 
 I am to make a duplicate of it for the palace at Exeter. 
 During their stay, Mrs. Fisher wrote to the Marchioness of 
 Thomond, to introduce me to a sight of her fine collection 
 of Sir Joshua Reynolds’ pictures. I am going this morning 
 to Pall Mall (I believe I told you that I had something 
 to do there, with a portrait of Lady Louisa Manners); from 
 thence to call on Sir George Beaumont; he wishes to see 
 the Gainsboroughs at Lord Dysart’s, and in return he is 
 1 Of the Bishop. 
 
In Suffolk 
 
 2 9 
 
 to take me to the Marquis of Stafford’s Gallery. These 
 things delay my visit to dear Bergholt, and I am sighing 
 for the country. I am told the trees never were more 
 beautiful; indeed, I never saw them in greater perfection 
 than in my walk with Mr. Stothard to Richmond.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, June 15th. I am making sad ravages 
 of my time with the wretched portraits I mentioned to you. 
 I am ungallant enough to allude entirely to the ladies’ por- 
 traits. 1 I see no end, if I stay, to my labours in Pall Mall. 
 Lady Louisa was quite distressed when I told her I must 
 order my colours away; but I see no alternative, and must 
 fly like another Telemachus, though not for the same reason. 
 I am sure you will pardon me, when I tell you, that duty 
 and affection to my mother, made it impossible for me to 
 withhold some of your letters from her. The perusal of 
 them made her more than ever lament our unhappy situation. 
 My father is uncommonly well; on horseback at six o’clock 
 in the morning, pursuing his plans with all the ardour of 
 youth: surely this is a delightful proof of the blessings of 
 a well spent and temperate life. ... In one of your letters 
 you ask me, what I have read lately. I have all Cowper’s 
 works on my table. I mostly read his letters. He is an 
 author I prefer to almost any other, and when with him 
 I always feel the better for it.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, June 22nd. From the window where I 
 am now writing, I see all those sweet fields where we have 
 passed so many happy hours together. I called at the 
 Rectory on Saturday with my mother. The doctor was 
 unusually courteous, and shook hands with me on taking 
 leave. Am I to argue from this that I am not entirely out 
 of the pale of salvation? How delighted I am that you are 
 fond of Cowper. But how could it be otherwise? for he is 
 the poet of religion and nature. I think the world much 
 indebted to Mr. Hayley. I never saw, till now, the supple- 
 ment to the letters; perhaps some of his best are to be 
 found there, and it contains an interesting account of the 
 death of poor Rose, a young friend of the poet’s. Nothing 
 can exceed the beautiful appearance of the country; its 
 freshness, its amenity.” “ July 22nd. I have been living 
 a hermit-like life, though always with my pencil in my hand. 
 
 1 These were copies by Hoppner, with alterations according to the 
 fancies of the ladies. 
 
30 Life of Constable 
 
 Perhaps this has not been much the case with hermits, if we 
 except Swaneveldt (the pupil of Claude); who was called 
 the £ Hermit of Italy/ from the romantic solitudes he lived 
 in, and which his pictures so admirably describe. How 
 much real delight have I had with the study of landscape 
 this summer ! either I am myself improved in the art of seeing 
 nature, which Sir Joshua calls painting, or nature has 
 unveiled her beauties to me less fastidiously. Perhaps there 
 is something of both, so we will divide the compliment. But 
 I am writing this nonsense with a sad heart, when I think 
 what would be my happiness could I have this enjoyment 
 with you. Then indeed would my mind be calm to con- 
 template the endless beauties of this happy country.” 
 
 In a letter dated in August, he says, “ Many of my friends 
 have urged my leaving a profession so unpropitious ; but 
 that, you know, is impossible.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, September 6th, 1812. I am happy to 
 hear of your safe arrival at Bognor ... on the same day I 
 found myself quietly drinking tea with my father and mother. 
 ... I was looking anxiously for your letter, and am grieved 
 to find your spirits so much affected. You have hitherto 
 borne your share of our sorrows (and you have had by far 
 the greatest share) with a fortitude, that has made me 
 ashamed of myself. I can only imagine our feelings to have 
 been very similar; but let me believe that much of our 
 present suffering may be the effect of parting; and that, with 
 this fine weather, added to the delightful scenes you are in, 
 you have recovered your usual serenity. ... I have not 
 resumed my landscape studies since my return. I have not 
 found myself equal to the vivid pencil that landscape requires. 
 I am going to-morrow to stay a few days at General Rebow’s, 
 near Colchester, to paint his little girl, an only child, seven 
 years old; I believe I am to paint the general and his lady 
 at some future time : this is in consequence of my portrait of 
 young Godfrey, which has been much admired.” . . . 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. Bognor, September 10th. 
 
 . . . Continue to write to me, my dear John, without the 
 least reserve; the more I am acquainted with you, the 
 happier I shall be. We are both very unfortunately situated 
 (but really you must think me very silly to tell you what is 
 so evident). We can, however, make writing alleviate many 
 of our troubles, and be to us one of our highest pleasures. 
 
Fire at His Lodgings 31 
 
 I used to dislike it excessively; but now there is no employ- 
 ment I like so well. . . . Have the goodness to remember 
 me kindly to your mother, and tell her how much I am 
 obliged to her for her frequent recollections of me. And 
 you, my dearest John, accept every affectionate wish from 
 M.E.B.” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. Bognor, November 6th. It 
 was particularly kind of your mother to call in Spring 
 Gardens. You do not mention anything that passed, so 
 I suppose it was merely the common chit-chat of the day. 
 You will believe how earnestly I hope my father’s visit to 
 Suffolk will produce some change for the better. But I 
 dare not be too sanguine; for then bitter would be my 
 disappointment. Grateful for the present share of happiness 
 we enjoy, we must not be too anxious for the future. Your 
 letters afford me a continual source of pleasure. . . . Fare- 
 well, my dearest John; may health and spirits long attend 
 you, and then I shall always subscribe myself, your happy 
 and affectionate Maria.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. 33, Portland Place, November 10th, 
 1812. . . . Should the circumstance of a fire in Charlotte 
 Street appear in any of the papers, it is possible you may 
 meet with it; and I write this hasty line or two, that you 
 may not be uneasy on my account. The fire did in fact 
 happen on the premises I inhabit; but I have lost nothing. 
 We shall suffer a temporary inconvenience; but Mr. Watts 
 has kindly ordered me a bed in his house, and a neighbour, 
 Mr. Henderson, in Charlotte Street, has allowed me a room 
 to paint in while the house is under repair. We were put 
 to some alarm and bustle, but no one was hurt; and I hope 
 Mr. Weight’s insurance will cover his loss. The fire began 
 in a workshop at the back of the house, about four o’clock 
 in the morning, and spread so very fast, that at one time we 
 thought of saving ourselves only. I, however, secured my 
 most valuable letters ; and we went to work removing what- 
 ever we could into the street. We were not long without 
 help; but it was an hour before any engine came. It 
 appeared as if nothing could save the house, and it was very 
 difficult to pass up and down stairs, owing to the great heat 
 of the windows; but we persevered as long as we could, 
 and while we were getting Lady Heathcote’s large picture 
 down, I had a shower of glass about me from the window 
 
32 Life of Constable 
 
 on the staircase. I ran with it over the way to Mr. Far- 
 rington’s, and on my return for something else, I found the 
 poor woman-servant, who had lately nursed Mrs. Weight, in 
 great distress, as all her fortune was in the garret, and in her 
 pockets which were under her pillow; there was no time to 
 be lost, I ran upstairs, and she was overjoyed to see me 
 return with them, through the smoke, quite safe. It was 
 now that the engines arrived, and fortunately succeeded 
 in putting a stop to the flames. Mr. Weight’s loss is greater 
 than he at first expected; all the premises are burnt at the 
 back of the house, the back drawing-room and its contents 
 are destroyed, and all the back windows. I cannot bear 
 to leave these poor people in their distress, and we think 
 of taking a temporary place till the house is repaired.” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. Bognor, Nov. 16. My dearest 
 John, Had it been merely a letter of form I had to write, 
 you should have received it sooner; but, as it is, you per- 
 fectly know how sincerely and fervently thankful I am 
 that you have sustained no personal harm. You acted 
 considerately and like yourself. I should have been sadly 
 alarmed at any account of the fire previous to yours; but 
 I had not seen it in the papers, though I dare say it has been 
 inserted, as they are always glad of news, and I believe the 
 more melancholy the better.” 
 
 Constable had presented to his friend Fisher a small land- 
 scape, of which that gentleman writes in a letter, dated 
 “Nov. 13, 1812. Your painting has been much criticised; 
 disliked by bad judges, gaped at by no judges, and admired 
 by good ones. Among these, Coxe the historian, who has 
 seen much, was particularly pleased with it. It put him in 
 mind, he said, ‘ of the good old Dutch forest painting school.’ 
 He looks at it whenever he comes into my room, which is 
 most days. What it wants, he says, is, that c what is depth 
 near, should not be gloom at a distance.’ By the words far 
 and near, I mean as the spectator recedes from or approaches 
 the picture. This is, I think, a just observation. I am now 
 looking at it. It is most pleasing when you are directed to 
 look at it; but you must be taken to it. It does not solicit 
 attention ; and this I think true of all your pictures, and the 
 real cause of your want of popularity. I have heard it 
 remarked of Rubens, that one of his pictures illuminates 
 a room. It gives a cheerfulness to everything about it. It 
 
Portrait Painting 33 
 
 pleases before you examine it, or even know the subject. 
 How he obtained this, or how it is to be obtained — hie labor, 
 hoc opus est. Don’t laugh at my feeble criticisms, Constable; 
 I mean your service, and all men are allowed to talk good- 
 natured nonsense. You shall have something to put you in 
 mind of the great * Escurial ’ 1 at Lord Radnor’s. I have to 
 thank you for the ability to view that work as it ought to 
 be viewed. You gave me another sense. ... I passed 
 three most delicious days in this country with Dr. Callcott 
 and his brother the artist. . . . How is your mind? at 
 rest? Set it so, if you can, for your success, as you know, 
 depends upon it. I shall see you soon in town, till when 
 
 * Adieu — adieu, — remember me ! * 
 
 though I am no ghost. Believe me, my dear fellow, Yours 
 most faithfully, John Fisher.” 
 
 In a letter, without date, but written about this time, 
 Constable says, “ My good friends in Seymour Street continue 
 their great kindness to me, I have just completed another 
 portrait for them, for the Palace at Exeter. I told Mrs. 
 Fisher yesterday, how much I thought his lordship had 
 of the character of the Archbishop of Cambray. She was 
 pleased to hear me say so, and said, that although it had not 
 been observed to her before, she had always called him her 
 Fenelon. Mr. Watts and I are the best friends in the world. 
 Should I not be happy when I consider all these blessings, 
 and that you love me?” 
 
 The portraits Constable had painted, of the Bishop of 
 Salisbury and Mr. Watts, had given great satisfaction, and 
 on the 30th of November his mother thus wrote to him: 
 “ Fortune seems now to place the ball at your foot, and I 
 trust you will not kick it from you. You now so greatly 
 excel in portraits that I hope you will pursue a path the 
 most likely to bring you fame and wealth, by which you can 
 alone expect to obtain the object of your fondest wishes.” 
 
 Portraiture, we are told, originated in love; and Con- 
 stable’s friends now hoped that love would make a portrait 
 painter of him. Its immediate effects, however, seemed 
 more likely to retard his advance, both in portrait and in 
 landscape; and Miss Bicknell, who saw this with great grief, 
 thus admonished him. “ By a sedulous attention to your 
 1 A Landscape by Rubens. 
 
 C 
 
34 Life of Constable 
 
 profession, you will very much help to bestow calm on my 
 mind, which I shall look for in vain while I see with sorrow 
 how unsettled you appear, and consequently, unfitted to 
 attend to a study that requires the incessant application 
 of the heart and head. You will allow others, without half 
 your abilities, to outstrip you in the race of fame, and then 
 look back with sorrow on time neglected and opportunities 
 lost, and perhaps blame me as the cause of all this woe. 
 Exert yourself while it is yet in your power; the path of 
 duty is alone the path of happiness. Let us wait with quiet 
 resignation till a merciful Providence shall dispose of us 
 in the way that will be best. Believe me, I shall feel a more 
 lasting pleasure in knowing that you are improving your 
 time, and exerting your talents for the ensuing exhibition, 
 than I should do while you were on a stolen march with me 
 round the Park. Still I am not heroine enough to say, 
 wish, or mean, that we should never meet. I know that 
 to be impossible. But, then, let us resolve it shall be but 
 seldom, not as inclination, but as prudence shall dictate. 
 Farewell, dearest John; may every blessing attend you, 
 and in the interest I feel in your welfare, forgive the advice 
 I have given you, who, I am sure, are better qualified to 
 admonish me. Resolution is, I think, what we now stand 
 most in need of, to refrain for a time, for our mutual good, 
 from the society of each other . ” 
 
CHAPTER III 
 1813-1814 
 
 Constable’s Pictures in the Exhibitions of 1813. Exhibition at the 
 British Gallery of the Works of Reynolds. Turner. J. Dun- 
 thorne, Jun. “ Willy Lott’s House.” Sale of two of Constable’s 
 Pictures. His Pictures at the Academy, 1814. Excursion in 
 Essex. Picture of “ Boat-building.” Constable’s Disposition to 
 shun Society. 
 
 “To Miss Bicknell. 63, Charlotte Street, May 3rd, 1813. 
 Mr. West informs me, it is the opinion of the council, as well 
 as his own, that I have made an advance upon myself this 
 year. Since I had last the happiness of seeing you, I have 
 had so great a share of ill health, that I have not been able 
 to paint; but I hope the summer and a look at the country 
 will revive me. I told you I was about to commence a 
 portrait of Lady Lennard. I began it three weeks ago, and 
 it promised to be like; but I was obliged to decline it, and 
 this circumstance has given me real concern, as I am anxious 
 to maintain the friendship of this worthy family. . . . 
 Shall I mention my profession again? I am really con- 
 sidered to have been more successful in it this last year; 
 and is it unreasonable to suppose, that if, under such unto- 
 ward circumstances, I have exerted some energy, I might 
 do much more if this load of despondency could be removed 
 from me?” 
 
 The pictures mentioned in the foregoing letter, were called 
 in the catalogue of the Academy, “ Landscape, Boys Fishing,” 
 and “ Landscape, Morning.” In January he had exhibited 
 at the British Gallery, one picture, with no title but “ Land- 
 scape.” 
 
 In the summer of this year, the directors of the British 
 Institution exhibited at their rooms the most splendid collec- 
 tion of pictures that were ever seen together, as the produc- 
 tions of one man; and the reputation of Reynolds, high as 
 it was, was raised by this assemblage of his works. Through 
 the kindness of Mr. Watts, Constable received a card for the 
 dinner, given by the directors, on this memorable occasion; 
 
 35 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 3 6 
 
 and the following is the account he gave of the day to Miss 
 Bicknell: “ The company assembled at an early hour in the 
 Gallery, from which there was a covered way to Willis’ rooms. 
 On the arrival of the Prince Regent, the Marquis of Stafford 
 and the governors of the Institution hastened to conduct 
 him upstairs. His manner was agreeable, and I saw him 
 shake hands with many of the company. Dinner was 
 announced at seven, the Marquis of Stafford (the president) 
 in the chair, behind which, on a considerable elevation, was 
 placed a statue of Sir Joshua Reynolds, by Flaxman. The 
 Earl of Aberdeen made an excellent speech; he said, that 
 < although the style of Sir Joshua Reynolds might differ in 
 appearance from the style of those specimens of art which 
 are considered the nearest to perfection in the ancient Greek 
 sculpture, and the productions of the great schools of Italy; 
 yet his works were to be ranked with them, their aim being 
 essentially the same — the attainment of nature with simplicity 
 and truth.’ The Regent left the table about ten, and 
 returned to the Gallery, which was now filled with ladies. 
 Among them I saw Mrs. Siddons, whose picture is there as 
 the 4 Tragic Muse.’ Lord Byron was pointed out to me; his 
 poetry is of the most melancholy kind, but he has great 
 ability. Now, let me beg of you, to see these charming 
 works frequently; and form, in your own mind, the idea of 
 what painting should be from them. It is certainly the 
 finest feeling of art that ever existed.” 
 
 “ Spring Garden Terrace, June 9th. My dear John. 
 Having only a few minutes to converse on Friday, you know 
 we did not say much. I will, therefore, try what I can do 
 in a letter. Writing I dislike excessively, but still I have no 
 other means of telling you what passes here, and I take it 
 for granted you like to know. I think you seemed much 
 better than when I saw you at the Academy. I was quite 
 hurt then at your appearing so very far from well. The 
 portrait you gave me looks pale, as you did then. That 
 is the only fault I find with it. I was enchanted with Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds’ pictures. I think it must have been 
 a beautiful sight to have seen them by candle light, and 
 the rooms filled with company elegantly dressed. ... I 
 imagine next month you will like to quit London for Suffolk; 
 as the study of nature will be more agreeable than the 
 picture galleries. I will not forget to drink your health in a 
 
Advice from Mr. Fisher 
 
 37 
 
 bumper on the nth. Adieu, dear friend, why are we thus 
 attached when everything conspires against us! ” 
 
 “ Palace, Sarum, June 14th, 1813. Dear Constable, I 
 have heard your great picture spoken of here, by no inferior 
 judge, as one of the best in the exhibition. It is a great 
 thing for one man to say this. It is by units that popularity 
 is gained. I only like one better, and that is a picture of 
 pictures, the ‘ Frost ’ by Turner. But then you need not 
 repine at this decision of mine ; you are a great man, and like 
 Buonaparte, are only to be beaten by a frost. I despair of 
 ever seeing you down here. What a reflection is it in this 
 life, that whenever we have a pleasant scene, there is little 
 hope of repeating the view. How many delightful hours of 
 pleasantry have I passed in a society that will never meet 
 together again, except under the sod. It is one argument 
 for living while you can live. * Dum vivimus vivamus.’ The 
 same argument will, by the bye, hold good of reading. Read 
 a book while it lies before you: ten to one if you read it 
 another time. I only know, the little knowledge I have, has 
 been picked up by odds and ends. In a bookseller’s shop, 
 late at night, at breakfast, or while waiting for a friend who 
 was late at dinner. Pray, as you regard your interest, call 
 on the Bishop and his lady, as he may attribute your not 
 calling to neglect, and not to humility. Everybody does 
 not know, as well as myself, that there is an exhibitioner 
 and a painter for fame, who is possessed of modesty and 
 merit, and is too honest and high-minded to push himself 
 by other means than his pencil and palette. Believe me, 
 dear Constable, Yours very faithfully, John Fisher.” 
 
 “ 63, Charlotte Street, June 30th. When I last had the 
 happiness of seeing you, my dearest Maria, I had fixed a day 
 for going into Suffolk. I was, however, prevented by a call 
 upon me for portraits; for I assure you, my reputation in 
 that way is much on the increase. One of them, a portrait 
 of the Rev. George Bridgman, a brother of Lord Bradford, 
 far excels any of my former attempts in that way, and is 
 doing me a great deal of service. My price for a head is 
 fifteen guineas; and I am tolerably expeditious when I can 
 have fair play at my sitter. I have been much engaged 
 for Lady Heathcote, who seems bent on serving me. My 
 pictures of herself and her mother, occupy either end of the 
 large drawing-room in Grosvenor Square; they have magni- 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 38 
 
 ficent frames, and make a great dash. She is to bring me a 
 handsome boy at the Christmas holidays. She has a little 
 dance on Friday, when my pictures will be seen for the first 
 time publicly. I am now leaving London for the only time 
 in my life with my pockets full of money. I am entirely free 
 from debt (not that my debts ever exceeded my usual annual 
 income), and I have required no assistance from my father. 
 I have arranged matters with Sir Thomas Lennard, and am 
 to pass a month with him very late in the season; which I 
 am delighted to find gives me possession of the three ensuing 
 months to myself, and I hope to do a good deal in that time. 
 I do assure you, my dearest Maria, I am not trying to give 
 you the favourable side, only, of myself; but am merely 
 mentioning facts as they have occurred to me within the last 
 two or three months, during which time, we have unfortun- 
 ately had so little communication with each other. But I 
 trust the time is at hand, when the ground will be rendered 
 more smooth for us. You may probably know that there has 
 been some correspondence between Mr. Bicknell and myself. 
 When I thought I was leaving town, I wrote to him, to 
 request he would consent to an interview, or some sort of 
 communication between us; he would agree to neither; yet 
 
 I do not repent of what I have done, as I was happy at least, 
 to have an opportunity of approaching him in a respectful 
 manner. ... I thank God daily for a thousand blessings 
 which I enjoy; and I can lay my hand on my heart and say, 
 
 I I have a conscience void of offence.’ I look forward to 
 many happy years with you, but we might have been spared 
 a world of pain. ... I am quite delighted to find myself 
 so well, although I paint so many hours; but my mind is 
 happy when so engaged. ... I dined with the Royal 
 Academy last Monday in the council room. It was entirely 
 a meeting of artists (none but the members and exhibitors 
 could be admitted), and the day passed off very well. I sat 
 next to Turner, and opposite Mr. West and Lawrence. I 
 was a good deal entertained with Turner. I always expected 
 to find him what I did. He has a wonderful range of mind. 
 ... I leave town with a much more comfortable feeling on 
 your account, than I had last year. You looked so well, 
 and seemed so happy; and to see you comfortable ought to 
 make me happy under any circumstances.” 
 
 “ Richmond, August 25th, 1813. Knowing, my dearest 
 
Young Dunthorne 39 
 
 John, that you are expecting a letter from me, I cannot 
 delay any longer thanking you for your last letter, which I 
 received the day before I left town; I wish I could divest 
 myself of feeling so like a culprit when I write to you. It 
 would be so much pleasanter for you and for me; but I 
 know I am breaking through rules prescribed to me by those 
 I love, and making you uncomfortable by my sombre 
 reflections. I think of you equally if I write or do not 
 write ; so recollect in future, not to expect to hear from me, 
 unless I have something very particular to say.” 
 
 “ Spring Garden Terrace, February 18th, 1814. Your 
 wish, my dear John, is totally impracticable — of correspond- 
 ing weekly; but I will write as often as I can. Indeed, I 
 was just going to tell you, that your last letter had given me 
 much pleasure; for it seemed written in better spirits than 
 usual. ... You have both surprised, deceived, and pleased 
 me. How could you say there was no picture of yours at 
 the British Gallery ? I think the cats 1 excessively pretty, 
 comical creatures. I am sure you must have been enter- 
 tained in painting them. The whole has a richness of 
 colour that pleases me. You must forgive my criticising 
 your pictures. ...” 
 
 In a letter to Miss Bicknell, dated February 1814, the 
 first mention of young Dunthorne, the son of Constable’s 
 early friend, occurs. Of this young man, to whom he was 
 much attached, and who became an extremely useful assistant 
 to him, he says: “ I have written to Dunthorne to send me 
 Johnny. He is not at all vulgar, and naturally very clever; 
 but were he not, I should love him for his father’s sake.” 
 To Dunthorne, Constable wrote: “ I am rather disappointed 
 at not seeing Johnny here yet; but as the weather is now fine 
 though cold, I wish you would let him come. I am desirous 
 of having him now, for I think he will be useful to stimulate 
 me to work, by setting my palette, etc., which you know is 
 a great help, and keeps me cheerful. I am anxious about the 
 large picture, ‘ Willy Lott’s House,’ which looks uncommonly 
 well in the masses and tone. I am determined to detail, but 
 not retail it out. Tell Abram, Mr. Coxe 2 intends having my 
 
 1 Two martin cats, of which he exhibited a small picture at the 
 British Gallery. 
 
 a Peter Coxe, the brother of Archdeacon Coxe, and author of a poem 
 called the “ Social Day,” for which the engraving was made. 
 
40 Life of Constable 
 
 ‘ Windmill ’ engraved, and has put it into the hands of Mr. 
 Landseer for that purpose. It is a pretty subject, one of the 
 Stoke Mills. I am determined to finish a small picture on the 
 spot, for every large one I intend to paint. This I have 
 always talked about, but have never yet done.” 
 
 The little farmhouse, which in the last letter is called 
 “ Willy Lott’s House,” is situated on the edge of the river, 
 close to Flatford Mill. It is a principal object in many of 
 Constable’s pictures; but the most exact view of it occurs in 
 the one engraved for the “ English Landscape,” with the 
 title of “ A Mill Stream,” and is taken from the front of the 
 mill, the wheel of which occasions the ripple seen on the 
 surface of the water. Willy Lott, its possessor, was bom in 
 it; and it is said, has passed more than eighty years without 
 having spent four whole days away from it. 
 
 So little was Constable’s art as yet appreciated, that the 
 sale of two of his pictures, this year, must be mentioned as an 
 extraordinary event; a small one exhibited at the British 
 Gallery to Mr. Allnutt, and a larger one of a “ Lock ” to Mr. 
 James Carpenter. The last is mentioned in the following 
 note to Mr. Watts: — “ 63, Charlotte Street, April 12th, 1814. 
 My dear Uncle, I received your kind note this morning. 
 Accept my best thanks for the excellent advice it contained, 
 and which, I am well aware, I stand much in need of. I am 
 willing to allow that I possess more than a usual share of the 
 failings incident to the species; as an artist, I know I have 
 many great deficiencies, and that I have not yet, in a single 
 instance, realised my ideas of art. Your kind solicitude 
 respecting my picture of the ‘ Lock ’ is highly gratifying to 
 me; but it may now cease, as the picture has become the 
 property of Mr. Carpenter, who purchased it this morning. 
 He is a stranger to me, and bought it because he liked it. 
 You say, truly, that my mind is not at ease. Perhaps there 
 may be something constitutional; but it is certainly much 
 increased, since I have had the misfortune to involve the 
 happiness of the most amiable being on the face of the earth 
 in my own fate. The excellent lady to whom I allude con- 
 tinues faithful to me in my adversity; and that too amidst 
 a scene of persecution and unkindness, which has continued 
 many years; therefore I may yet be happy; and believe me, 
 my dear uncle, the great kindness which you have always 
 shown me at your table, and elsewhere, as a friend and 
 
Mr. Allnutt 
 
 4 1 
 
 relation, has not a little contributed to support my mind 
 through much trouble, which I believe has been increased 
 by an extraordinary susceptibility of feeling.” 
 
 The picture purchased by Mr. Allnutt led to an acquaint- 
 ance between Constable and that gentleman, who has recently 
 favoured me with the following account of its commencement. 
 
 “ Dear Sir, Many years ago, I purchased at the British 
 Institution a painting by Mr. Constable. But as I did not 
 quite like the effect of the sky, I was foolish enough to have 
 that obliterated, and a new one put in by another artist 
 which, though extremely beautiful, did not harmonise with 
 the other parts of the picture. Some years after, I got a 
 friend of Mr. Constable to ask him, if he would be kind 
 enough to restore the picture to its original state, to which 
 he readily assented. Having a very beautiful painting by 
 Mr. (now Sir Augustus) Callcott, which was nearly of the 
 same size, but not quite so high; I sent it to Mr. Constable 
 together with his own, and expressed a wish, that if he could 
 do it without injury to the picture, he would reduce the size 
 of it in height, by lowering the sky, so as to make it nearer 
 the size of Mr. Callcott’s, to which I wished it to hang as a 
 companion. When I understood from him that it was ready 
 for me, I called at his house to see it; and this was the first 
 interview I ever had with him. He asked me how I liked 
 it; to which I replied, I was perfectly satisfied; and wished 
 to know what I was indebted to him for what he had done to 
 it, in order that I might settle the account. He then said, he 
 had no charge to make, as he felt himself under an obliga- 
 tion to me, which he wished to acknowledge, and was happy 
 he had now an opportunity of doing so. I told him I was 
 not aware of any obligation; and, therefore, wished he would 
 name a price. To which he replied, that I had been the 
 means of making a painter of him, by buying the first picture 
 he ever sold to a stranger; which gave him so much en- 
 couragement, that he determined to pursue a profession in 
 which his friends had great doubts of his success. He like- 
 wise added, that wishing to make the picture as acceptable to 
 me as possible, he had, instead of reducing the height of the 
 old picture, painted an entirely new one of the same subject, 
 exactly of the size of the one by Callcott; and that if I was 
 satisfied with the exchange (which of course I was), it gave 
 him much pleasure. I remain, dear Sir, yours very faith- 
 
42 Life of Constable 
 
 fully, John Allmitt. Clapham Common, February 2nd, 
 i 8 43 -” 
 
 The pictures Constable sent to the Academy this season 
 were, “ A Ploughing Scene in Suffolk,” and a “ Ferry.” 
 
 From Miss Bicknell. “ Spring Garden Terrace. I de- 
 ferred writing, my dear John, in hopes of being able to tell 
 you where our summer quarters would be fixed; but it still 
 remains undecided. Only think of your not making one 
 among the 200,000 persons, who I hear are come to town 
 to see our illustrious visitors ; 1 I suppose you intend consol- 
 ing yourself with a view of their pictures. . . . Indeed, my 
 dear John, people cannot live now upon £400 a year— -it is a 
 bad subject, therefore, adieu to it. I imagine it will not be 
 very long before you are in town. I wonder if I shall see 
 you. Alas ! that it should be a matter of doubt.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. East Bergholt, July 3rd, 1814. I 
 have been absent from this place more than a fortnight, on a 
 visit to the Rev. Mr. Driffield, at Feering, near Kelvedon. 
 He is a very old friend of my father’s, and once lived in this 
 parish. He has remembered me for a long time ; as he says 
 he christened me one night, in great haste, about eleven 
 o’clock. Some time ago, I promised him a drawing of his 
 house and church at Feering; and, during my visit, he had 
 occasion to go to his living at South Church, and I was 
 happy to embrace his proposal, that I should accompany 
 him ; by which I saw much more of the county of Essex than 
 I had ever seen before, and the most beautiful part of it; as I 
 was at Malden, Rochford, South End, Hadleigh, Danbury, 
 etc., etc. At Hadleigh there is a ruin of a castle, which 
 from its situation is vastly fine. It commands a view of the 
 Kent hills, the Nore, and the North Foreland, looking many 
 miles to sea. I have filled, as usual, a little book of hasty 
 memoranda of the places which I saw. My companion, 
 though more than seventy, is a most active, restless creature, 
 and I never could get him to stop long at a place. He could 
 outwalk and outrun me on any occasion; but he was very 
 kind and good-tempered. Indeed, my dear Maria, this little 
 excursion was so amusing to me, that although I was never 
 a moment without you in my thoughts, there were times 
 when I was so delighted with the scenery, as to forget that 
 my mind had been so long a stranger to happiness. You 
 1 The Emperor Alexander, the King of Prussia, etc. 
 
“ Boat-building ” 
 
 43 
 
 tell me that you have an offer of going into Wales. Let me, 
 my beloved child, entreat you to embrace it if you are able to 
 leave your excellent mother, to whom I know you are always 
 ready to devote yourself. I am confident that such a tour 
 would be a real blessing to you ; the change of air, and then 
 the sublime scenery. I did hope that we might have visited 
 these delightful places together for the first time ; but it will 
 be happiness enough for me to know that you are happy. ...” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. East Bergholt, Sept. 18th, 1814. 
 This charming season, as you will guess, occupies me entirely 
 in the fields ; and I believe I have made some landscapes that 
 are better than usual, at least that is the opinion of all here. 
 I do hope that nothing will happen to interrupt my present 
 pursuits, but that I shall pass the rest of the autumn as I have 
 done the summer; and I also hope on my return to London 
 to have the great happiness of seeing you much oftener than 
 I have hitherto done. I believe we can do nothing worse 
 than indulge in useless sensibility, but I can hardly tell you 
 what I feel at the sight, from the window at which I am 
 writing, of the fields in which we have so often walked. A 
 calm autumnal setting sun is glowing on the gardens of the 
 rectory and on those fields where some of the happiest hours 
 of my life have been passed.” 
 
 Among the landscapes mentioned in this letter was one 
 which I have heard him say he painted entirely in the open 
 air. It was exhibited the following year at the Academy, 
 with the title of “ Boat-building.” In the midst of a meadow 
 at Flatford, a barge is seen on the stocks, while just beyond it 
 the river Stour glitters in the still sunshine of a hot summer’s 
 day. This picture is a proof, that in landscape, what painters 
 call warm colours are not necessary to produce a warm effect. 
 It has indeed no positive colour, and there is much of grey 
 and green in it; but such is its atmospheric truth, that the 
 tremulous vibration of the heated air near the ground seems 
 visible. This perfect work remained in his possession to the 
 end of his life. 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. East Bergholt, Oct. 2nd, 1814. We 
 have had a most delightful season. It is many years since 
 I have pursued my studies so uninterruptedly and so calmly, 
 or worked with so much steadiness or confidence. I hope 
 you will see me an artist some time or other.” 
 
 Constable’s close application to his art while at Bergholt 
 
44 Life of Constable 
 
 had prevented his paying as much attention to some of his 
 friends there as it would appear he was expected to do, and 
 after his return to town, his mother wrote to him. “ I 
 believe it is thought you avoid notice too much: this will 
 damp the ardour of the best friendships. ’Tis true you have 
 been delightfully busy this summer, and so far so good.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. Oct. 25th, 1814. ... I am happy 
 to hear of some improvement in your mother’s health; I 
 hope it may continue to advance. Though any notice or 
 good wishes from me I know will be useless, yet I mention 
 it for your sake. ... I have had a distressing letter from 
 my friend John Fisher on the death of his uncle, General 
 Fisher. Poor Fisher was acting the part of a comforter 
 when no comfort could be imparted. The distress of the 
 general’s daughter, Mrs. Conroy, and of his son-in-law, was 
 beyond all belief. A fine manly soldier weeping like an 
 infant; and Fisher was obliged to tear her from the coffin 
 when they were taking it away. He wishes me to undertake 
 (as it might prove a means of consolation) a portrait of the 
 general from a drawing. He was extremely like the good 
 bishop, mild, sensible, and placid. I could give him little 
 hope of making much of a picture, but shall willingly try. . . . 
 The studies I have made this summer are better liked than 
 any I have done; but I would rather have your opinion of 
 them than that of all others put together. But fate is still 
 savage. I lament every moment the want of your society, 
 and feel the loss of it in my mind and heart. You deserved 
 a better fate.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. 63, Charlotte Street, Nov. 12th, 1814. 
 You say you shall leave Brighton in a fortnight. Let me 
 hope, then, you have received benefit from its good air and 
 general appearance of cheerfulness. I never was at a bath- 
 ing town, but I am told they are amusing. You will judge 
 of my great ignorance of what is going on in the gay world, 
 when I tell you, that till I read your letter yesterday, I did 
 not know that any of the royal family had visited Brighton 
 this season. ... I never fail to find unceasing delight in 
 the art; but who are seeking for its honours I know not: it 
 is sufficient for me to know that I am not, though I will allow 
 that four or five years ago, when I was more youthful, I was 
 a little on tiptoe for fame. I have hardly yet got reconciled 
 to brick walls, and dirty streets, after leaving the endeared 
 
Shunning Society 45 
 
 scenes of Suffolk. At the same moment that I received your 
 letter I had one from my mother so amusing that I long to 
 show it to you. It is quite a journal of the time I was with 
 them, though she regrets, at the end, that my natural pro- 
 pensity to escape from notice should have so much increased 
 upon me.” 
 
 “ Brighton, Nov. 15th, 1814. You will be surprised, my 
 dear John, to hear from me again so soon. Indeed I fear I 
 shall ruin you in postage. But really you have written me 
 such a strange letter, that I cannot forbear sending you my 
 sentiments upon it, and I am delighted to find that I am 
 supported in them by Mrs. Constable. It appears strange 
 to me that a professional man should shun society. Surely 
 it cannot be the way to promote his interest. Why you 
 should no longer be anxious for fame is what I cannot com- 
 prehend. It is paying me a very ill compliment. If you 
 wish to remain single, it may do very well. We shall return 
 to town next Tuesday. I trust the following day, if it should 
 be tolerably fine, to have the pleasure of seeing the recluse in 
 St. James’ Park about twelve o’clock; if not, the following 
 day at the same hour. You can then if you please make 
 your defence, and promise to behave better for the future. 
 I must have no more of this propensity to escape from notice : 
 I must have you known, and then to be admired will be the 
 natural consequence. I do not know how you will like my 
 strictures on your conduct, but I cannot help that. It is 
 better you should know my mind now than afterwards. It 
 is not too late to quarrel. It is your turn next to accuse me, 
 and I am sure I stand convicted of numberless errors.” 
 
 “ Dec. 12. When I took leave of you, my dearest John, 
 last Saturday, I fully thought I should see you again before 
 you left town ; but alas ! it is your fate as well as my own 
 to be often disappointed. It is, I am well convinced, for our 
 mutual benefit that we should not often see each other. It 
 is this alone makes me support the privation with tolerable 
 good-humour. But your time, so infinitely valuable to me, 
 I cannot have it lost. The genius of painting will surely, 
 one day or other, rise up against me for too often keeping 
 one of her favourite sons from a study that demands his 
 exclusive attention. . . . Mamma, I am happy to say, is 
 much better.” 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 1815-1816 
 
 Constable permitted to visit Miss Bicknell. Death of his Mother. 
 Death of Miss Bicknell’s Mother. G. Dawe. Exhibition, 1815. 
 Delicacy of Miss Bicknell’s Health. Lady Spencer. Constable’s 
 Studies at Bergholt. Illness of his Father. Dr. Rhudde. Ex- 
 hibition, 1816. Death of Constable’s Father. General and Mrs. 
 Rebow. Pictures painted at Wivenhoe Park. The Rev. J. 
 Fisher. Constable’s Marriage. Visit to Osmington. Dr. Rhudde’s 
 Legacy to Mrs. Constable. 
 
 East Bergholt, January 6th, 1815. My dear son John. 
 I send you a mother’s Christmas gift, in the form of six new 
 shirts. Four of them are hemp, and you said you should 
 like to try them for working shirts. The other two are 
 Sunday ones, with the collars cut to the pattern of your 
 
 cousin ’s. How you will like them I cannot tell. But 
 
 I hope it will be the only imitation of him you will try; with 
 the exception of the kind intentions of his heart, and his 
 dutiful affection to his mother and sisters, which will spring 
 up and show themselves through all the confusion in his 
 affairs. The magnitude of his debts really terrifies me. 0 , 
 my dear John, pray keep out of debt, that earthly Tartarus! 
 I return you the pocket-book. It is very pretty, and much 
 increased in value for the donor’s sake, who, I hope, will one 
 time or other, be rewarded better than by a poor artist. You 
 must try hard for fame and gain. We have lived to see the 
 beginning of a new year. Who may be permitted to see the 
 close of it, God only knows. To those who do, may it prove 
 a happy one, and to you amongst that number. Ann 
 Constable.” 
 
 “ Spring Garden Terrace, February 23rd. My dearest 
 John, I have received, from papa, the sweet permission to 
 see you again under this roof (to use his own words) ‘ as an 
 occasional visitor.’ From being perfectly wretched, I am 
 now comparatively happy. ... M. E. Bicknell.” 
 
 Mrs. Constable, in a letter to her son, dated, “ East Berg- 
 holt, March 7th,” thus speaks of this unexpected gleam of 
 sunshine on the prospect of the lovers. “ It gives me 
 
 46 
 
Death of His Mother 
 
 47 
 
 pleasure to know you are a visitor in a friendly w r ay, in Spring 
 Gardens. You must make every allowance for Mr. Bicknell, 
 who is, most assuredly, not a free agent in this matter. He 
 is under rigid restrictions; from which, for the sake of his 
 family, he must not swerve. As circumstances stand, I 
 esteem it a great point gained; and it is a comfort to my 
 mind, which has long been a silent sufferer from the treat- 
 ment you have met with, so derogatory to your respectability 
 and honourable intentions.” 
 
 Mrs. Constable was not, however, destined to see her son, 
 and the object of his affections, more happy than they now 
 were. She had lately suffered much anxiety on account of 
 her husband’s health, which was declining. And this, 
 perhaps, hastened a paralytic attack, with which she was 
 seized on the 9th of April, while gardening, a recurrence of 
 which terminated her well-spent life on the 8th of May. In 
 her last letter to her son, she earnestly exhorted him to use 
 his influence with a friend at Bergholt, whose conduct had 
 placed him at variance with his wife. “ How can he bear,” 
 she said, “ to worry her, as it were, into her grave. And as 
 to the children, all their budding days of happiness, their 
 youthful prime, are blighted by their father’s imprudence. 
 Do, my dear John, try to persuade him to the ways that 
 make for peace: ‘ Blessed are the peace-makers; for theirs 
 is the kingdom of God.’ May this be your portion in the 
 world to come, and health and happiness in this. So prays 
 your affectionate mother.” 
 
 The death of this excellent woman was felt by her son as 
 a very heavy blow. She had cheered and encouraged him 
 in his profession, and obtained for him introductions calcu- 
 lated to advance his prospects, at a time when his other 
 friends considered them hopeless. She, more than any one 
 else, shared in all the anxieties arising out of his engagement 
 with Miss Bicknell, which she hoped to see happily fulfilled ; 
 and she neglected no means, however trifling, to propitiate 
 Dr. Rhudde, as a single instance will show. Constable had 
 sent her a present of a large drawing in water colours of 
 Bergholt Church, 1 which, in the letter she wrote to acknow- 
 ledge its receipt, she described as “ the most beautiful 
 drawing she had ever beheld.” But it immediately occurred 
 to her to present it to the rector, which she did in the name 
 
 1 This drawing now belongs to his eldest sister, Miss Ann Constable. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 48 
 
 of her son. It was useless. Dr. Rhudde acknowledged 
 the present in a polite letter; but, unwilling to remain the 
 obliged person, he enclosed a bank note, requesting Constable 
 to purchase with it something to remember him by, “ when 
 he should be no more.” The death of Miss Bicknell’s 
 mother, who had long been ill, occurred not many days 
 after that of Mrs. Constable. 
 
 “To Miss Bicknell. East Bergholt, May 21st, 1815. 
 My dearest love, When I left town it was not my intention 
 to have remained so long absent. I received your kind note, 
 and regretted you were so situated that you could not see me. 
 I called, however, the day before I came here; and, although, 
 your note had somewhat prepared me for the afflicting 
 intelligence which I received at your door, I could not but 
 be shocked, as I was not aware that your dear mother was so 
 near her removal. It is singular that we should, both of us, 
 have lost our nearest friends, the nearest we can have in this 
 world, within so short a time ; and now, more than ever, do 
 I feel the want of your society.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. 63, Charlotte Street, June 16th. 
 I have seen Spilsbury again; he still urges me to make him 
 a visit at his cottage, near Tintem Abbey. I ought to see 
 another country, and this is a charming one. I am half 
 inclined to go, but I need not decide for a week or ten days. 
 I pine after dear Suffolk; but is not this indolence? My 
 heart, as you know too well, is not there. At least, not all 
 of it. But you say, you would not give a farthing for a 
 divided heart; however, make yourself easy, you have by 
 far the greatest part; but what vanity is this! ” 
 
 “ June 17th. I have given up all thoughts of Wales, and 
 I now only wonder that I indulged in them. I have sold 
 myself for the work I am engaged in, which is a large land- 
 scape in the background of a picture at Mr. Dawe’s. 1 It 
 occupies me at least twelve, and sometimes fourteen hours a 
 day. This I do by choice, as well as by agreement, that I 
 may the sooner get back to dear Bergholt, and find a day to 
 see you before I go.” 
 
 “ June 28th. I find there is no end to my labours for 
 Dawe. Therefore, with even a loss to myself, should it be 
 so, I am determined to relinquish them. He is very anxious 
 
 1 The portrait of Miss O’Neil, in the character of Juliet, now in the 
 .possession of the Garrick Club. 
 
Exhibition, 1815 49 
 
 to engage me in other works; and he would even take a 
 promise from me for a twelvemonth to come. We are full 
 of anxiety about our relations who were in the late dreadful 
 battle; 1 we can get no account of them whatever.” “ June 
 30th. I have done at Mr. Dawe’s, and have given him great 
 satisfaction; but I have persisted in making him no more 
 promises; he is an overmatch for me.” 
 
 Constable, this year, exhibited at the Academy eight 
 works, and among them, the exquisite one I have mentioned, 
 called “ Boat-building: ” the others were, “ A View of 
 Dedham,” “ A Village in Suffolk,” “ A Landscape,” “ A 
 Sketch,” and three drawings. At the British Gallery, he 
 exhibited one picture, called “ Landscape.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell. East Bergholt, July 13th. . . . 
 I think I never saw dear old Bergholt look half so beautiful 
 as now, the weather has been so delightful. There is no 
 village news, except that they are all very gay, and the 
 youngest man among them is Dr. Rhudde. . . .” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. ... I was much pleased 
 with your letter. You appear calm, resigned, affectionate, 
 and happy. It communicated the same feelings to me. . . . I 
 am very glad you have had a conversation with papa. In 
 the winter it will be well to renew it. Of the doctor, I can 
 say nothing; but, that I believe, it will be wisest to leave 
 him to himself. How delightful this sweet rain will make 
 those dear fields look, that I envy you the view of. I should 
 like to transport myself there once a week: am I not very 
 moderate? How much you must enjoy painting in the open 
 air, after Mr. Dawe’s room.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, August 27th. ... I have, my dearest 
 love, little to tell you of what is passing here. I live almost 
 wholly in the fields, and see nobody but the harvest men. 
 The weather has been uncommonly fine; though we have 
 had some very high winds that have discomposed the foliage 
 a great deal. We are all well; my father takes his rides as 
 usual, and is pretty well, but we think he gradually grows 
 weaker. This, however, we cannot but expect; but his 
 present appearance is a striking proof of the blessings attend- 
 ing the old age of a virtuous life. 2 ... I received a news- 
 
 1 Of Waterloo; at which were present two of Constable’s cousins. 
 Captain Gubbins, who was killed ; and Lieutenant Allen. The mothers 
 of these officers and Mrs. Constable were sisters. 
 
 8 Golding Constable was then in his 77th year. 
 
 D 
 
50 Life of Constable 
 
 paper containing an account of Mr. Stothard’s pictures from 
 Lord Byron’s works, etc. — am I not obliged to you for it? 
 It must have been directed by your hand.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, August 29th. ... It was I who sent 
 the newspaper; just to show you that I sometimes think of 
 you, and in expectation of hearing from you, so it answered 
 my plan exactly.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, September 9th. I cannot resist, my dear 
 John, taking up my pen again, fearing you should have 
 deemed my last letter unworthy of notice; and I may, 
 perhaps, be absent a week after the 16th; 'and then, I hope, 
 you would have thought my silence long. How charmed 
 you must be with this long continuance of fine weather. I 
 should suppose for many seasons, you have not painted so 
 much in the open air. Nature and you must be greater 
 friends than ever. I am suffering a little, to-day, from being 
 out late yesterday. Is it not a sad thing to be so delicate? 
 I must not be out after sunset. It is easy enough to avoid it, 
 so that trouble is soon got over. The moon shall tempt me 
 
 no more. ... I regret you have not seen Mrs. , she 
 
 is much interested in our future welfare. Fortune, I am 
 sure, delights to torment us. But hold, my pen! I do not 
 think I am ever long dejected. Tell me what you have been 
 reading. But I suppose you have not found much time for 
 it. I am studying French, quite hard, and I find it very 
 amusing. . . . My dear John, good-bye, you will allow 
 this to be, for me, quite a long letter! Will the end of 
 October oblige you to return to London? Though I long 
 to see you, I am always sorry when you leave Suffolk. It 
 must be so pleasant for you to be there. I should never like 
 to leave the country while a single leaf remained on the 
 trees.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, September 14th. ... I am concerned 
 to find by your letter that you are still so delicate, and that 
 you are so liable to be hurt by any little unusual exertion. 
 Pray take care of yourself. I am happy to hear that your 
 father is so friendly and kind to you. I shall always venerate 
 him for his goodness to you, who are all the world to me. 
 I am sure you will believe me, my dear Maria, when I say, 
 that I allow no bad disposition, nor any wrong feeling to 
 remain in my heart, towards any one, for both our sakes. 
 For should it be, as I trust it is, God’s good pleasure that we 
 
At Bergholt 5 1 
 
 should pass our lives together; it will be but sensible con- 
 duct, as well as a religious duty, to have as little to disturb 
 our peace as possible; for, as life advances, our trials will 
 increase, and at the end all our ill conduct must be accounted 
 for. I have, as you guess, been much out of doors.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell, October 1st. I cannot help regretting 
 the departure of our delightful summer; but I continue to 
 work as much as possible in the fields, as my mind is never 
 so calm and comfortable as at those times. . . . This 
 morning we had the sacrament at our church, and I am 
 happy to say my father was able to join us. . . . You do 
 not mention when you leave Putney Heath. Should I be 
 likely to stop here a few weeks longer, I shall come to town 
 for a day or two, for I am anxious to see you. . . .” 
 
 Constable remained at Bergholt until the beginning of 
 November. In a letter to Miss Bicknell, dated the 1st of 
 that month, he says, “ My Aunt Allen’s second son is lately 
 made a post-captain; and our cousin, Colonel Gubbins , 1 is 
 preferred (Mr. Watts writes me word) above fifty other field 
 officers to command the light companies of the army in 
 Paris; and when, added to these good things, your papa 
 introduces me to the Prince Regent, 2 — who cannot do other- 
 wise than give me a bit of red or blue riband for my very 
 excellent landscapes, you may justly be proud of the family 
 you are to be connected with.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, October 2nd. I must praise you, my 
 dear John, for writing on the day I named. I should have 
 been very sorry had you not. Is it not delightful that we 
 can depend upon each other? I must tell you what a 
 pleasant ride I had yesterday, through Wimbledon Park, 
 to see Lady Spencer (very grand, is it not?) who had politely 
 desired papa to bring his daughter. She appeared to be 
 a very pleasant woman, but had she not, a title is too apt to 
 make us think so. Does it not seem strange? — a charming 
 house and park, and she says, she ‘ would not give two-pence 
 for it.’ Such is the world! what we have we do not value, 
 and what we have not we want. . . . These are charming 
 days for walking, but surely too cold and damp for painting.” 
 
 1 The brother of Captain Gubbins who was killed at Waterloo. 
 Colonel Gubbins had just returned from America, where he had been 
 present at the attack on New Orleans. 
 
 2 Mr. Bicknell was solicitor to the prince. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 5 2 
 
 “ East Bergholt, October 19th. ... I have been every 
 day intending to write to you, but I have been so much out, 
 endeavouring to catch the last of this beautiful year, that I 
 have neglected almost every other duty. I have put rather 
 a larger landscape on hand than I ever did before. And this 
 it is my wish to secure in a great measure before I leave this 
 place; as I here find many aids, and I am sure that if I go 
 to London to stay, first, I shall meet with many trifling jobs 
 to interrupt me, which I shall do with pleasure when I have 
 my own pictures under command. You shall hear from me 
 again in a day or two.” 
 
 After a short visit to London, Constable again wrote from 
 Bergholt on the 15th of November. “ I have received your 
 kind and affectionate note, and your lovely present, which I 
 cannot enough prize. It is the first thing of the kind I ever 
 possessed. It is my intention to continue here till I feel that 
 I have secured such a picture as I intend for the exhibition. 
 Here everything is calm, comfortable, and good; and I am 
 at a distance from you, which effectually removes the 
 anxious desire I always feel, when you are in London, to meet 
 you, perhaps too often for each other’s comfort, till we can 
 meet for once, and I trust, for good. . . . My kindest 
 regards to all about you, and, believe me, ever dear Maria, 
 unalterably yours.” 
 
 “ Spring Garden Terrace, December 28th. I dare say, 
 my dear John, you are expecting to hear from me, and I am 
 expecting to hear from you; as your last letter led me to 
 suppose, you would write again in a day or two. But it is 
 painting that takes up all your time and attention. How I 
 do dislike pictures; I cannot bear the sight of them; but I 
 am very cross, am I not? You may spare yourself telling 
 me I am very unreasonable, for I know it already. But I 
 cannot be reconciled to your spending month after month in 
 the country. You say you have no expectation of remaining 
 in London for some time. At all events it is pleasant 
 intelligence. But I feel how very often the visits here are 
 distressing. I believe you are right to remain where you are; 
 in a comfortable home, and rendering the declining years of 
 your father happy. Whatever attention you can show him, 
 must make your hours pass the more agreeably. Whenever 
 I wish you away, I know I do wrong. I wish we could 
 always like what is right. Henceforth I will endeavour. 
 
His Father’s Illness 
 
 53 
 
 . . . Accept, my dearest John, the good wishes of the 
 season; not only you, but all your family, and believe me, 
 affectionately yours, M. E. B. — P.S. I am in very good 
 humour now, so that I shall be happy to hear your pictures 
 please you. Is Bergholt gay this Christmas? Do you not 
 think if I were to write seldom, and fill the paper, it would 
 be better? I certainly will in future.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, December 31st. Believe me, my dearest 
 Maria, I have been for some time past most anxious to write 
 to you. I have even written more than one letter, without 
 being able to prevail on myself to send them. This house 
 has been the scene of great anxiety and alarm, owing to the 
 very dangerous state of my dear father’s health. But, 
 thank God, for the last two or three days he has revived; 
 and, although in a very weak and low state, he seems to be 
 free from immediate danger. As you may suppose, I have 
 not been painting much, nor am I likely to return to London 
 for the present, at least, not to remain. Dr. Rhudde has 
 been very kind in his inquiries after my father, and has 
 sent him word that he will call upon him at the shortest 
 notice.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, January 7th, 1816. It is impossible to 
 contemplate, without satisfaction, the frame of mind my 
 father has been in, all through his illness. His pious resig- 
 nation, in what appeared the hour of death; his calmness, 
 and his thankfulness for all the blessings he has enjoyed; 
 will, I hope, be always before me, and prove a guide to my 
 future life. His pillow is light to him, and he is so kind, 
 as to consider the having all his children about him, as not 
 among the least of his blessings. I have got to work again 
 with alertness, and am, I hope, advancing. I have no 
 intention of coming to London to stay; but I hope, if my 
 father continues as well as he now is, to be there, for a few 
 days, soon. I have a letter of thanks, from Mr. Watts, 
 for a most beautiful brace of pheasants, which I wish it had 
 been in my power to have given to you. But from these 
 little courtesies, dear to a heart that is not bad, I am cut 
 off.” 
 
 “To Mr. John Constable. Though I have not written 
 to you, my dearest John, I have thought continually of you. 
 When you last wrote, the idea of danger seemed past, and 
 I rejoice that it pleases God still to bless you with a father. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 54 
 
 May the impression it has made on you never wear off; it 
 shall be a lesson to me. Of this I am confident, that those 
 who really love and fear God, are the only wise people. 
 Remember me kindly to your sisters. M. E. Bicknell.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, January 14th. . . . My dear father 
 continues charmingly, all things considered, and this imparts 
 cheerfulness to the whole house. . . . He will drink your 
 health in a bumper with me to-morrow. 1 . . . .” 
 
 Miss Bicknell’s next letter alludes to a visit paid by her 
 father to Dr. Rhudde. “ January 18th. ... I do not 
 think I have been quite so comfortable lately as I ought to 
 be. I had most foolishly, most romantically, I own, flattered 
 myself that the late visit to the Rectory would have pro- 
 duced some good for us ; but the state of our affairs seems as 
 bad as ever; with, to me, the addition of your spending the 
 winter in the country. Though, remember, in your father’s 
 present state of health, I would not for the world, you should 
 be anywhere else. In the summer it is a thing of course, 
 and we have been used to it, and know it must be; but in 
 the winter and spring months we have always been together. 
 ... We certainly have not too many enjoyments. ... I 
 am afraid you will be said to be very unsociable by the 
 Bergholt belles and beaux, if you refuse being at any of their 
 card parties.” 
 
 Soon after receiving this letter, Constable spent a few days 
 in town, and returned to Bergholt, from whence he wrote 
 to Miss Bicknell on the “ 25th January . . . On my arrival 
 here, I found my dear father sadly. There is certainly a 
 great alteration in him since I left home. I fear his time is 
 now short indeed. I am glad I went to London; and do let 
 me entreat you to be calm, and let nothing that can be said 
 vex you. ... I love you entirely, and nothing, save death, 
 can prevent our being happy together. We can never be 
 rich; but we can have what riches cannot purchase, and what 
 
 enemies cannot deprive us of. Dr. Rhudde and Mrs. 
 
 are entirely inveterate against me. But don’t let that vex 
 you. The one never saw me, and the other has had no 
 opportunity of knowing me. But time will set all to 
 rights.” 
 
 The permission Mr. Bicknell had given Constable to pay 
 occasional visits at his house, had been kept a secret from 
 1 Her birthday. 
 
Dr. Rhudde’s Letter 
 
 55 
 
 Dr. Rhudde. But an accident now discovered it to him; 
 and Miss Bicknell wrote to Constable. “ February 7th. . . . 
 The doctor has just sent such a letter, that I tremble with 
 having heard only a part of it read. Poor dear papa, to have 
 such a letter written to him ! he has a great share of feeling 
 and it has sadly hurt him. ... I know not how it will end. 
 Perhaps the storm may blow over; God only knows. We 
 must be patient. I am sure your heart is too good not to 
 feel for my father. He would wish to make us all happy 
 if he could. Pray do not come to town just yet. I hope 
 by the end of the month peace will be restored.” Constable 
 replied: “ I am truly sorry anything should have happened 
 to cause us any concern from that quarter. But my sisters 
 trust the calm will not long be disturbed; though I have 
 always feared it was a deceitful one, and that we have been 
 making ourselves happy over a barrel of gunpowder. But, 
 my love, let me hear from you, and tell me whether I may 
 see you when I return to London. All this nonsense has 
 been kept from my father, or it must have vexed him.” 
 
 “ February 13th. I would rather, my dear John, write 
 too soon, than that you should wonder why you do not hear 
 from me; but you have already so much to distress you, that 
 I hardly know if I should tell you, what I fear, will only do 
 so more. The kind doctor says, he * considers me no longer 
 as his grand-daughter/ and from the knowledge I have of his 
 character, I infer he means what he says. I have not seen 
 his letters. Papa says, if we were to marry, and live at 
 Bergholt, he thinks the doctor would leave the place.” 
 
 “ To Miss Bicknell, February 18th. I trust, my dearest 
 love, you have allowed yourself to be made as little unhappy 
 as possible, by what has been lately passing in your house. 
 You have always been so kind as to believe that my affection 
 for you was never alloyed by worldly motives. I, now, 
 more than ever repeat it : and I assure you, that nothing can 
 be done, by any part of your family, that shall ever make 
 any alteration in me towards you. I shall not concern my- 
 self with the justice or injustice of others; that must rest 
 with themselves ; it is sufficient for us to know that we have 
 done nothing to deserve the ill opinion of any one. Our 
 business is now more than ever with ourselves. I am entirely 
 free from debt, and, I trust, could I be made happy, to 
 receive a good deal more than I do now by my profession. 
 
56 Life of Constable 
 
 After this, my dearest Maria, I have nothing more to say, 
 than the sooner we are married the better; and from this 
 time, I shall cease to listen to any arguments the other way, 
 from any quarter. I wish your father to know what I have 
 written if you think with me” 
 
 “ February 25th. I was expecting to hear from you, my 
 dearest Maria, all last week. I wrote you a long letter last 
 Sunday; and I am very anxious to hear from you again, as I 
 fear you are unwell. Do give me a line by return of post, 
 otherwise it is probable I may come to London on Wednes- 
 day. My dear father is no better, but the contrary. His 
 dropsy certainly increases, and Mr. Travis says it is out of 
 his power to help him. Mrs. Whalley is here, who cheers 
 our fireside a good deal. Her mildness and serenity always 
 make her a most welcome guest everywhere. Do pray write 
 to me. I am restless to see you; yet my poor father is in 
 such a sad state, that every week we look for the change. 
 But tell me that you are well, and I shall be easy.” 
 
 “ Spring Garden Terrace, February 26th. My dearest 
 John, I received your letter at Greenwich. . . . Greenwich, 
 I am told, is a damp, unhealthy place, and I am sorry I went, 
 for it has delayed, a few days, my writing to you. I walked 
 out, foolishly, on a very damp day, and have got a cold. I 
 have had a blister, and shall now be well in a few days; I 
 have only to keep quiet. I will write to you again in a day 
 or two. There is not, my dearest John, the least cause for 
 you to be uneasy. I fully intended writing to-day, and only 
 mention this cold to make my excuse for seeming neglect. 
 We are all perfectly quiet here, and it would be a great pity 
 for you to leave your poor father. Perhaps you might regret 
 it. It must be a pleasure to him to have you with him. 
 Your affection is a source of the greatest happiness to me; 
 but may I entreat that you will not wish to hear very fre- 
 quently from me. It only makes you uncomfortable if I do 
 not write on the day you imagine I will. Papa says, if we 
 remain as we are, he has no expectation that the doctor will 
 alter his will. Let us then wait any time, rather than you 
 should experience the misery of being much in debt, added 
 to having a very delicate wife. ... I am glad you have 
 the addition of Mrs. Whalley to your society.” 
 
 Towards the end of March, Constable arrived in town 
 with two pictures for the Academy, one of which is called in 
 
Death of Golding Constable 57 
 
 the catalogue, “ A Wheat Field,” and the other, “ A Wood, 
 Autumn.” The latter was purchased by Mr. Watts. 
 
 He was recalled to Bergholt by the death of his father, 
 which in a letter to Miss Bicknell he thus describes: “ My 
 dear father died while sitting in his chair as usual, without a 
 sigh or pang, and without the smallest alteration of his posi- 
 tion or features, except a gentle inclination of his head 
 forwards; and my sister Ann, who was near him, had to put 
 her face close to his to assure herself that he breathed no 
 more. Thus it has pleased God to take this good man to 
 Himself, the rectitude of whose life had disarmed the grave 
 of its terrors, and it pleased God also to spare him the pangs 
 of death. May 19th, 1816.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, July 17th. My dearest love, You would 
 certainly have heard from me before, had I left London on 
 the day I mentioned, but I could not get away before Tues- 
 day. I found all my friends here quite well, and we make 
 a large family party; nine with Mrs. Whalley’s two children, 
 and your portrait (which gives great pleasure here, as an 
 additional proof of your kindness to me). ... We are all 
 very happy among ourselves; but so used have I been, on 
 entering these doors, to be received with the affectionate 
 shake of the hand of my father, and the endearing salute of 
 my mother, that I often find myself overcome by a sadness I 
 cannot restrain. ... I am sitting before your portrait; 
 which when I look off the paper, is so extremely like, that I 
 can hardly help going up to it. I never before knew the 
 real pleasure a portrait can afford.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, August 1 5th. . . . How well you knew 
 what I should like, when you sent me the delightful letters 
 of Gessner. My only regret is, that I have finished them so 
 soon. I shall send to the library for the rest of his works. 
 My dear John, you know the moments were too short and too 
 precious for me to write a note when you took the box; but 
 I expected you would make a very pretty speech for me 
 when you gave it to your sister. I am very glad she was 
 pleased with it. I had great pleasure in doing it for her. 
 Thank you, my dear John, for sending me your sweet picture. 
 Come early this evening.” 
 
 When Constable, on one of his visits to Spring Garden 
 Terrace, placed himself beside Miss Bicknell, and took the 
 hand which was soon to be given to him for life, her father 
 
58 Life of Constable 
 
 said, “ Sir, if you were the most approved of lovers, you 
 could not take a greater liberty with my daughter.” — “ And 
 don’t you know, sir,” he replied, “ that I am the most 
 approved of lovers? ” — She had been treated, for five years, 
 as if she were a boarding-school girl in danger of falling a 
 prey to a fortune-hunter. But she had now arrived at the 
 age of twenty-nine; a time of life at which, patient as she 
 was, she felt entitled to determine for herself a matter which 
 so entirely affected her own happiness. A journey into 
 Wales, under the care of an uncle, was proposed to her; and 
 in allusion to this, she says, in a letter to Constable, dated 
 July 30 th, “lam not to go unless I get stronger than I am at 
 present, and then it will do me much good, the change of 
 air and scene. My uncle intends to take plenty of time for 
 the journey, that it may not be fatiguing. I think, there- 
 fore, you may safely trust to my discretion, and then my dear 
 John shall find me ready, if it is his decided wish, for another 
 and far pleasanter journey.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, August 20th. ... I do not like, dear 
 John, that you should have to borrow money; and I think 
 you said it would be some time before you came into posses- 
 sion of your own. I only suggest this for our consideration, 
 but, alas ! I know too well that you have thought of it with 
 sorrow. Let me know what you think, for it makes me 
 perfectly uncomfortable. I am glad to be going from home 
 for a short time.” 
 
 “ East Bergholt, August 21st. My dearest love, I returned 
 from my very pleasant visit at General Rebow’s on Monday. 
 . . . The general and Mrs. Rebow are determined to be of 
 some service to me. I am going there again, and shall stay 
 a week, in all probability. Do be so kind as to let me hear 
 from you before you go to Mr. Lambert’s. I am to paint 
 two small landscapes for the general; one in the park, of the 
 house, and a beautiful wood and piece of water; and another 
 a wood, with a little fishing house, where the young lady 
 (who is the heroine of all these scenes) goes occasionally to 
 angle. They wish me to take my own time about them; 
 but the general will pay me for them when I please, as he 
 tells me he understands, from Mr. Driffield, that we may soon 
 want a little ready money. They are both well acquainted 
 with our history, and hope to see us there together. I am 
 next year to paint another picture of the little girl with her 
 
Wivenhoe Park 
 
 59 
 
 donkey, for their house in town. This, my love, is just such 
 a commission as will be of real service to me. I am getting 
 on as well as I can wish with my own pictures; but these 
 little things will rather interrupt them, and, I am afraid, 
 will detain me here a week or two longer than I could have 
 wished.” 
 
 “ Putney Heath, August 23rd. I thank you, dear John, 
 for yours, this moment received. How very happy the 
 account of your visit makes me ; you seem so truly comfort- 
 able there. I am delighted that you return on Monday, and 
 that the views you are to paint are so pretty. . . . My uncle 
 set off last night by the mail. The weather has so much 
 improved, that I have been silly enough to regret (only for a 
 moment) that I did not go. But then, poor dear papa! I 
 ought sometimes to comply with his wishes with pleasure.” 
 
 “ Wivenhoe Park, August 30th. My dearest love, I have 
 been here since Monday, and am as happy as I can be, away 
 from you. Nothing can exceed the kindness of the general 
 and his lady. They often talk of you, because they know it 
 will please me, and I am sure they will show you the same 
 attentions they show me. I feel comfortable with them, 
 because I know them to be sincere people; and though of 
 family, and in the highest degree refined, they are not at all 
 people of the world, in the common acceptation of the word. 
 I am going on very well with my pictures for them. The 
 park is the most forward. The great difficulty has been to 
 get so much in it as they wanted. On my left is a grotto 
 with some elms, at the head of a piece of water; in the 
 centre is the house over a beautiful wood; and very far to 
 the right is a deer house, which it was necessary to add; so 
 that my view comprehended too large a space. But to-day 
 I have got over the difficulty, and begin to like it myself. I 
 think I shall make a large picture from what I am now 
 about. When do you return? If I should be delayed 
 longer in the country than I at first expected, I shall run up 
 for a day, to see you. I shall write to John Fisher soon.” 
 
 “ Wivenhoe Park, September 7th. My dearest love, I 
 hasten to send you the enclosed letter from our friend Fisher. 
 I can only say, that I am ready to adopt any plan that may 
 meet your feelings on this occasion, and I repeat Fisher’s 
 words, that, ‘ I shall be happy and ready to marry you,’ at 
 the time he mentions. I am advised by my good friends 
 
6o 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 here, to try one more effort with the doctor; but I shall do 
 entirely in this as you direct.” 
 
 The following is the letter enclosed: “ Osmington, near 
 Dorchester, August 27th, 1816. My dear Constable, I am 
 not a great letter writer, and when I take pen in hand, I 
 generally come to the point at once. I, therefore, write to 
 tell you, that I intend to be in London on Tuesday evening, 
 the 24th, and on Wednesday, shall hold myself ready and 
 happy to marry you. There, you see, I have used no round- 
 about phrases; but said the thing at once, in good plain 
 English. So, do you follow my example, and get you to 
 your lady, and instead of blundering out long sentences about 
 ‘ the Hymeneal altar,’ etc., say that on Wednesday, September 
 25th, you are ready to marry her. If she replies, like a 
 sensible woman, as I suspect she is, 1 Well, John, here is my 
 hand, I am ready,’ — all well and good. If she says, ‘ Yes, 
 but another day will be more convenient,’ let her name it, 
 and I am at her service. And, now my dear fellow, I have 
 another point to settle. And that I may gain it, I shall put 
 it in the shape of a request. It is, that if you find, upon 
 your marriage, your purse is strong enough to make a bit of 
 a detour, I shall reckon it a great pleasure, if you and your 
 bride will come and stay some time with my wife and me. 
 That lady joins with me in my request. The country here 
 is wonderfully wild and sublime, and well worth a painter’s 
 visit. My house commands a singularly beautiful view, and 
 you may study from your very window. You shall have a 
 plate set by the side of your easel, without your sitting down 
 to dinner. We never see company, and I have brushes, 
 paints, and canvas in abundance. Of an evening, we will sit 
 over our autumnal fireside, read a sensible book, perhaps a 
 sermon, and after prayers, get us to bed, at peace with our- 
 selves and all the world. Since I have been quiet down here, 
 
 out of the way of the turmoil and bustle of ’s great 
 
 dinners, I have taken much to my easel, and have improved 
 much. Your visit will be of wonderful advantage to me. 
 Tell your lady, that I long to be better acquainted with her, 
 as does Mrs. Fisher; and I beg her to use her influence with 
 you to bring you to see, — yours, with sincerity, John Fisher.” 
 On the 15th September, Constable wrote to Miss Bicknell: 
 “ What can I do about writing to your father? will it be 
 time enough if I call on him when I come to town? You 
 
Marriage 61 
 
 must be my adviser.” She replied: “ Papa is averse to 
 everything I propose. If you please, you may write to him ; 
 it will do neither good nor harm. I hope we are not going 
 to do a very foolish thing. . . . Once more, and for the last 
 time ! it is not too late to follow papa’s advice and wait. . . . 
 Notwithstanding all I have been writing, whatever you deem 
 best, I do. This enchanting weather gives one spirits.” 
 
 They were married on the 2nd of October, 1816, at St* 
 Martin’s Church, by Mr. Fisher, whose invitation to Osming- 
 ton they accepted. Mr. Fisher had himself been married 
 but three months. 
 
 Mr. Bicknell did not long withhold his forgiveness from 
 his daughter, and now that he allowed himself opportunities 
 of knowing Constable, he became extremely fond of him. 
 In one of Miss Bicknell’s letters which has not been quoted, 
 she said, “ It grieves me that papa and you cannot be better 
 acquainted, but the loss is mutual.” Dr. Rhudde was not 
 so soon reconciled to the marriage, but at his death, which 
 occurred in 1819, he left his grand-daughter a legacy she 
 probably little expected of £4000. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 1817-1821 
 
 Housekeeping. Birth of a Son. Exhibitions 1817, 18, and 19. Birth 
 of a Daughter. Constable elected an Associate of the Royal 
 Academy. Sale of his large pictures “ The White Horse ” and 
 “ Stratford Mill ” to Archdeacon Fisher. Exhibition 1820. 
 Matthews’ Diary of an Invalid. Stothard’s “ Canterbury Pil- 
 grims.” White’s Selborne. Exhibition 1821. Excursion in 
 Berkshire and to Oxford. Studies at Hampstead. Criticisms on 
 the “ Stratford Mill.” Constable’s remarks on Skies. 
 
 Although my acquaintance with Constable began about 
 this time, I have little to tell of the next two years of his 
 life but that which the catalogues of the Exhibition furnish. 
 I remember him in 1817 living in a small house, No. 1, 
 Keppel Street, Russell Square; and that his first child, a 
 fine boy, to whom his own name had been given, might be 
 seen almost as often in his arms as in those of his nurse, 
 or even his mother. His fondness for children exceeded, 
 indeed, that of any man I ever knew. 
 
 In this year he exhibited at the British Gallery, “ A 
 Harvest-field with Reapers and Gleaners,” and at the 
 Academy, “ Wivenhoe Park,” “ A Cottage,” a portrait of 
 Mr. Fisher, and “ A Scene on a navigable River; ” and in 
 the autumn he paid a visit to Bergholt, as the dates of some 
 of his sketches show. 
 
 In 1818, he sent to the Academy, “ Landscape, breaking 
 up of a Shower,” three other landscapes, “ A Gothic Porch,” 
 and “A Group of Elms;” the two last being drawings in 
 lead pencil; and to the British Gallery he sent, “ A Cottage 
 in a Corn-field,” probably exhibited at the Academy the 
 year before. The cottage in this little picture is closely 
 surrounded by the corn, which on the side most shaded 
 from the sun, remains green, while over the rest of the field 
 it has ripened ; one of many circumstances that may be dis- 
 covered in Constable’s landscapes, which mark them as the 
 productions of an incessant observer of nature. But these 
 and other latent beauties passed wholly unnoticed in the 
 Exhibitions; indeed, the pictures that contained them were 
 
 62 
 
Constable’s Pictures 
 
 6 3 
 
 for the most part unheeded, while more showy works by 
 artists whose very names are now nearly forgotten, were the 
 favourites of the day. 
 
 Constable’s art was never more perfect, perhaps never so 
 perfect, as at this period of his life. I remember being 
 greatly struck by a small picture, a view from Hampstead 
 Heath, which I first saw at Ruysdael House , as Mr. Fisher 
 called his residence in Keppel Street. I have before noticed 
 that what are commonly called warm colours are not neces- 
 sary to produce the impression of warmth in landscape ; and 
 this picture affords, to me, the strongest possible proof of the 
 truth of this . 1 The sky is of the blue of an English summer 
 day, with large, but not threatening, clouds of a silvery 
 whiteness. The distance is of a deep blue, and the near 
 trees and grass of the freshest green; for Constable could 
 never consent to parch up the verdure of nature to obtain 
 warmth. These tints are balanced by a very little warm 
 colour on a road and gravel pit in the foreground, a single 
 house in the middle distance, and the scarlet jacket of a 
 labourer. Yet I know no picture in which the mid-day heat 
 of Midsummer is so admirably expressed; and were not the 
 eye refreshed by the shade thrown over a great part of the 
 foreground by some young trees, that border the road, and 
 the cool blue of water near it, one would wish, in looking at 
 it, for a parasol, as Fuseli wished for an umbrella when 
 standing before one of Constable’s showers. I am writing of 
 this picture, which appears to have been wholly painted in 
 the open air, after an acquaintance with it of five-and-twenty 
 years; and, on referring to it again and again, I feel my first 
 impressions, whether right or wrong, entirely confirmed. 
 At later periods of his life, Constable aimed, and successfully, 
 at grander and more evanescent effects of nature; but in 
 copying her simplest aspects, he never surpassed such pic- 
 tures as this; and which, I cannot but think, will obtain for 
 him, when his merits are fully acknowledged, the praise of 
 having been the most genuine painter of English landscape 
 that has yet lived. 
 
 The following beautiful passage is from a letter written to 
 
 1 It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remark that we associate the idea 
 of warmth with red, orange, and yellow, because they are the colours 
 of fire; and that, in a summer landscape, they can only have place 
 in very small proportions, excepting at the rising and the setting of 
 the sun, the coolest hours of the day. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 64 
 
 Mrs. Constable in May 1819, while he was on a short visit 
 to Bergholt: “Everything seems full of blossom of some 
 kind, and at every step I take, and on whatever object I 
 turn my eyes, that sublime expression of the Scriptures, 
 4 1 am the resurrection and the life/ seems as if uttered 
 near me.” 
 
 In 1819, he sent two pictures to the British Gallery, not 
 before exhibited, “ Osmington Shore, near Weymouth,” and 
 “ A Mill; ” and to the Academy he sent the largest and most 
 important work he had yet produced, “ A Scene on the river 
 Stour,” afterwards called, from a white horse in a barge near 
 the foreground, “ Constable’s White Horse.” This fine 
 landscape, which was too large to remain unnoticed, attracted 
 more attention than anything he had before exhibited. It is 
 the one mentioned by him in the following letter to Arch- 
 deacon Fisher, 1 dated July 17th. I should like of all things 
 to make you a visit in the autumn, though I cannot allow 
 myself to be sanguine; yet it is cheering to think about it; 
 such a visit would have many charms for me. Your society, 
 the cathedral, the walks, and those mines of art, Longford 
 and Wilton, to which you could procure me admission to 
 make some studies.” 
 
 “ The price I have put on my large landscape is one hun- 
 dred guineas, exclusive of the frame; it has served a good 
 apprenticeship in the Academy, and I shall work a good deal 
 upon it before it goes to the British Gallery. I should hardly 
 like to part with my copy of Ruysdael; its being an old 
 school exercise (of which I have too few), gives it a value to 
 me beyond what I could in conscience ask for it. We will 
 talk about the Claude when we meet. I have procured the 
 drawing by Cozens for you, and could pictures choose their 
 possessors, you would have had many like it long ago. I 
 
 do not wonder at what you tell me of poor ’s pictures. 
 
 Such collections and judges always make me melancholy. 
 I neither visit them nor talk about them if I can help it. 
 But such things are driven down the throats of ignorance, 
 by ignorance still more overbearing, backed, by the bye, 
 with good dinners. ... I have made a sketch of the scene 
 on the Thames, which is very promising.” 2 
 
 1 Mr. Fisher had been installed Archdeacon of Berkshire, in the 
 latter part of 1817. 
 
 2 “ The Opening of Waterloo Bridge.” 
 
Associate of the Royal Academy 65 
 
 “ August 13th. My dear Fisher. I was happy to receive 
 your friendly letter yesterday. Nothing would give me 
 greater pleasure than to make you a visit, and I hope to be 
 able to accomplish it, ere long. I am under an engagement 
 to paint the portraits of General and Mrs. Rebow, at Wiven- 
 hoe Park, about this time. I have written to know if it is 
 still his wish, and when I have his answer you shall hear 
 from me again. My wife thanks you for your kind inquiries 
 after her and her infant. They are both well, and a more 
 lovely little girl, at a month old, was never seen. We are 
 so proud of her, and at the same time so ambitious, as to 
 be induced to ask a great favour: it is our wish to be allowed 
 to name you for her Godfather. We shall take her to church 
 in a few days, and shall be happy to hear from you.” 
 
 In October, 1819, Constable was called to Bergholt by the 
 division of his father’s property, of which his part amounted 
 to £4000; and in November he was elected an Associate of 
 the Royal Academy, on which occasion he received the 
 following note from Mr. Fisher: “ Close, Salisbury, Novem- 
 ber 1819. My dear Constable, The Bishop and Mrs. Fisher 
 bid me, with my own, to present their congratulations on 
 your honourable election. Honourable it is, for the Royal 
 Academy is, in the first place, an establishment of this great 
 country, and as such, to be held in great respect; and in 
 the second place, you owe your election to no favour, but 
 solely to your own unsupported, unpatronised merits. I 
 reckon it no small feather in my cap that I have had the 
 sagacity to find them out.” 
 
 Mr. Fisher did not content himself with praising his friend, 
 but by the purchase of “ The White Horse,” while he mani- 
 fested his sincerity, he rendered Constable a service which 
 was, perhaps, of more importance to him at that crisis of 
 his life than it would have been at any later period; and his 
 desire to follow this up, by farther acts of friendship, will 
 be seen in a letter dated “ April 19, 1820. My dear Con- 
 stable, I am under obligations to an architect here, who 
 has retired from business. I want to make him a present of 
 something near £20. I would rather give him one of your 
 pictures, if I thought he would appreciate it. See what you 
 can do for me. ... Do not part with your London and 
 Westminster view without apprising me; as I rather think 
 I shall like to have it, in case I am strong enough in purse. 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 At any rate, I can do you no harm by saying no, if I cannot 
 purchase. I am infinitely obliged by your purchase of the 
 Claude. You can send it me down with the picture. You 
 did right in sending the sea-coast windmill to the exhibition. 
 Pray come as soon as you can, and stay as long as you can.” 
 “ Salisbury, April 27th. ‘ The White Horse ’ has arrived 
 
 safe; it is hung on a level with the eye, the frame resting on 
 the ogee moulding in a western side light, right for the light 
 in the picture. It looks magnificently. My wife says she 
 carries her eye from the picture to the garden and back 
 again, and observes the same sort of look in both. I have 
 shown it to no one, and intend to say nothing about it, but 
 leave it to people to find it out, and make their own remarks. 
 I am quite impatient to see you here, and wish your young 
 family would permit your wife to join the party. J. Fisher.” 
 The “ White Horse,” on many accounts the most impor- 
 tant picture, to Constable, he ever painted, and certainly one 
 of the finest, is now in the possession of L. Archer Burton, 
 Esq., of the Woodlands, Hants. In a letter written to Miss 
 Gubbins (a lady related to that gentleman and to Constable), 
 at a late period of his life, he calls it, “ one of my happiest 
 efforts on a large scale, being a placid representation of a 
 serene grey morning, summer.” 
 
 “ Keppel Street, September 1st, 1820. My dear Fisher, 
 ... I have settled my wife and children comfortably at 
 Hampstead. I am glad to get them out of London for 
 every reason. Things do not look well, though I fear 
 nothing. 1 I hear the Duke of Wellington was in the most 
 imminent danger yesterday, and had nearly lost his life by 
 the hands of an old woman! We had a pleasant journey to 
 London. In truth, we were all made more fit for such an 
 excursion by the unbounded kindness of yourself and Mrs. 
 Fisher, and our kind friends at the Palace. Indeed, my dear 
 Fisher, my wife and I feel quite at a loss how to speak to 
 you of these things. My Salisbury sketches are much liked; 
 that in the Palace grounds, the bridges and your house from 
 the meadows, etc. ... I have just been giving some relief 
 to the poor old organist you saw at my door; he is almost 
 in a state of starvation, with a wife and children. He is 
 taken for an Italian, and is, in consequence, in danger in the 
 
 1 The excitement occasioned by the trial of Queen Caroline was then 
 at its height. 
 
Present to Mr. Tinney 67 
 
 streets. I shall venture to give him five shillings for you, 
 and add it to your running account.” 
 
 I do not know whether the present, mentioned in Mr. 
 Fisher’s letter of the 19th of April, was made; but Mr. 
 Tinney, of Salisbury, as the Archdeacon’s solicitor, having 
 rendered him some services for which he felt under great 
 obligations, he purchased a large picture of Constable, which 
 he presented to that gentleman ; but as Mr. Fisher considered 
 the price, one hundred guineas, to be far below its value, he, 
 with much delicacy, in a letter to Constable, spoke of the 
 transaction as “ our joint present.” This noble picture, 
 which I well remember in the exhibition of 1820, and which 
 has since been admirably engraved by Mr. Lucas, is about 
 as large as “ The White Horse,” and has more subject. 
 On the extreme left of the spectator, the wheel and part of 
 a water-mill are seen. In the foreground are some children 
 fishing, admirable for the expression of their attitudes, their 
 faces not being seen. Sir George Beaumont said of the 
 largest boy, that “ he was undergoing the agony of a bite.” 
 To the right, and in the middle distance, a barge lies with 
 extreme elegance of perspective on the smooth river; light 
 clouds throw their shadows over a rising distance of great 
 beauty, and a group of tall trees forms the centre of the 
 composition. It is a view, and when it was painted, was an 
 exact one of Stratford Mill on the Stour, not far from Berg- 
 holt. 1 Constable sent with it a small picture to the Academy, 
 “ A View of Harwich Lighthouse.” 
 
 “ Weymouth, February 14th, 1821. My dear Constable, 
 I am here paying the last duties to my wife’s mother. She 
 died silently and suddenly, on Monday morning at three 
 o’clock. Rather a singular accident happened to me in con- 
 sequence of her death. I was in the church, at Osmington, 
 with the old clerk alone, pointing out the site of her grave, 
 when the old man suddenly exclaimed, ‘ I cannot stand, sir/ 
 and dropping into my arms, died. 
 
 “ When you next see Stothard tell him the following 
 anecdote. I went to call upon a poor curate, living in one 
 of our mud villages on a lonely part of this coast, and was 
 shown into a dark low underground parlour. Casting my 
 
 1 Mr. Lucas’s engraving of this picture was published, after the 
 death of Constable, with the title of “ The Young Waltonians.” 
 A title he certainly would not have given it. 
 
68 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 eye round the comfortless walls, it was refreshed by spying 
 in a corner a most charming bit of light and shadow; and 
 walking up to see what else it contained, I found Stothard’s 
 “Canterbury Pilgrims,” 1 with the morning light breaking over 
 the Dulwich Hills. The poor man little less than worships 
 this print. — Pray get, at your circulating library, the Diary 
 of an Invalid. You will be much amused with it; for it is 
 written in a lively easy manner. When you come to his 
 critiques on painting and statuary, you will find another cor- 
 roboration of our often repeated opinion that persons of the 
 highest education in the sciences, are often mere children 
 in their knowledge of the art. ... As soon as the spring 
 arrives I will make a correct sketch of our ferry house at 
 Portland, and send it to you. I saw it, the other day, 
 standing in sea-bleached desolation. J. Fisher.” 
 
 Constable, in his reply to this letter, after condoling with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fisher on the melancholy news with which it 
 commenced, says, of another large work he was engaged on, 
 “ My picture is getting on, and the frame will be here in 
 three weeks or a fortnight. Believe me, my dear Fisher, I 
 should almost faint by the way when I am standing before 
 my large canvases, were I not cheered and encouraged by 
 your friendship and approbation. I now fear (for my 
 family’s sake) I shall never make a popular artist, a gentle- 
 men and ladies' painter. But I am spared making a fool of 
 myself, and your hand stretched forth, teaches me to value 
 what I possess (if I may say so); and this is of more con- 
 sequence than gentlemen and ladies can well imagine. The 
 
 Bishop and Mrs. Fisher attacked me about ’s pantomime 
 
 again, yesterday ; but I spoke my mind, as the shortest way. 
 I could not sacrifice myself to such gross ignorance.” 
 
 The “ pantomime ” here alluded to was an extravagant and 
 melo-dramatic conception of historical art, at that time 
 popular. The Bishop of Salisbury, though a man of great 
 refinement of mind, was no judge of painting, and was, 
 therefore, led away, on that subject, by the fashions of the 
 time. His unceasing kindness to Constable, whose art he 
 did not appreciate, was the result of friendship alone. 
 
 1 Constable told me he was in Stothard’s room when he was finishing 
 the picture of the “ Pilgrims,” and that he was then painting the two 
 dogs gambolling at the head of the cavalcade. They were the last 
 objects introduced into the composition. 
 
“The Hay Wain ” 69 
 
 “ Close, Salisbury, March 6th. My dear Constable, . . . 
 I am reading, for the third time, White’s Natural History 
 of Selborne. It is a book that would delight you, and be 
 highly instructive to you in your art, if you were not already 
 acquainted with it. White was the clergyman of the place, 
 and occupied himself with narrowly observing and noting 
 down all the natural occurrences that came within his view : 
 and this for a number of years. It is most elegantly written. 
 I fear the book is scarce. But if you can procure it, buy 
 it for me and keep it by you. It is in your own way of 
 close observation, and has in it that quality that, to 
 me, constitutes the great pleasure of your society. . . . 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 In 1821, Constable exhibited four pictures at Somerset 
 House, “ Hampstead Heath,” “ A Shower,” “ Harrow,” and 
 “ Landscape, Noon; ” the last was the third he had painted 
 on a six-foot canvas, encouraged to proceed with works on 
 so large a scale by Mr. Fisher’s two purchases. This picture 
 is mentioned in the next letter, and will be again spoken of 
 as “ The Hay Wain.” 
 
 “ To Archdeacon Fisher. No. 1, Keppel Street, April 1st, 
 1821. . . . My picture goes to the Academy on the 10th; 
 it is not so grand as Tinney’s. Owing, perhaps, to the masses 
 not being so impressive, the power of the chiaroscuro is 
 lessened, but it has a more novel look than I expected. I 
 have yet much to do to it, and calculate on three or four 
 days there. I hear of so many clever pictures, particularly 
 by non-members, that it must be a capital show. They are 
 chiefly historical and fancy pictures, and why? the Lon- 
 doners, with all their ingenuity as artists, know nothing of 
 the feelings of a country life, the essence of landscape. . . . 
 How much I am obliged to you for the mention of the books. 
 The Diary is delightful, it has given me new information on 
 subjects that I have heard of all my life. No doubt the 
 ‘ Invalid ’ is a clever fellow ; but these tourists in Italy 
 think they must talk about pictures, and relate anecdotes 
 of painting. I would recommend them to remember the 
 story of Alexander’s visit to the painting room of Apelles. 
 He mentions the landscapes of Gaspar Poussin (whose works 
 contain the highest feeling of landscape painting), and 
 imagines defects, that he may afford an opportunity to ‘ our 
 own Glover ’ to remedy them. This is too bad; and he here 
 
jo Life of Constable 
 
 shows himself to be truly an invalid. 1 The mind that pro- 
 duced the ‘ Selbome ’ is such a one as I have always envied. 
 The single page of the life of Mr. White leaves a more lasting 
 impression on my mind than all that has been written of 
 Charles V. or any other renowned hero. It shows what a 
 real love of nature will do. Surely the serene and blameless 
 life of Mr. White, so exempt from the folly and quackery of 
 the world, must have fitted him for the clear and intimate 
 view he took of nature. It proves the truth of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds’ remark, that ‘ the virtuous man alone has true 
 taste.’ This book is an addition to my estate. Stothard 
 was amused with your mention of his * Pilgrims,’ but said he 
 believed, ‘ many of his prints were to be found amongst the 
 Hottentots.’ I dined, last week, at Sir George Beaumont’s. 
 Met Wilkie, Jackson, and Collins. It was amusing to hear 
 
 them talk of ’s picture. Sir George said some clever 
 
 things about it, but he added, ‘ even allowing the composi- 
 tion, its only merit, to be something, still if the finest com- 
 position of Handel’s were played entirely out of tune, what 
 would it be? ’ ” 
 
 In June, Constable accompanied his friend Fisher during 
 his visitation in Berkshire, and made some beautiful pencil 
 and washed drawings of the scenery in the neighbourhood of 
 Reading, Newbury, and Abingdon. He also visited Oxford, 
 with Fisher, and made an exquisite drawing of Blenheim, 
 from the Park. 
 
 “ Salisbury, July 19th, 1821. My dear Constable, Your 
 picture is hung up in a temporary way at Tinney’s, till his 
 new room is finished, and excites great interest and attention. 
 How does ‘ The Hay Wain ’ look now it has got into your 
 own room again? I want to see it there, for how can one 
 participate in a scene of fresh water and deep noon-day in 
 the crowded copal atmosphere of the Exhibition? which is 
 
 1 The following is the passage from Matthews’ Diary of an 
 Invalid , , which excited his indignation. “ Doria Palace. Large 
 collection of pictures; Gaspar Poussin’s green landscapes have no 
 charms for me. The fact seems to be, that the delightful green of 
 nature cannot be represented in a picture. Our own Glover has per- 
 haps made the greatest possible exertions to surmount the difficulty, 
 and give with fidelity the real colours of nature; but I believe the 
 beauty of his pictures is in an inverse ratio to their fidelity; and that 
 nature must be stripped of her green livery, and dressed in the browns 
 of the painters, or confined to her own autumnal tints in order to be 
 transferred to canvas.” 
 
Claude 
 
 7 1 
 
 always to me like a great pot of boiling varnish. . . . Yours 
 very sincerely, John Fisher.” 
 
 “ No. 2, Lower Terrace, Hampstead, August 4th, 1821. 
 My dear Fisher, ... I am as much here as possible with 
 my family. My placid and contented companion and her 
 three infants are well. I have got a room at a glazier’s, 
 where is my large picture, and at this little place I have 
 many small works going on, for which purpose I have cleared 
 a shed in the garden, which held sand, coals, mops, and 
 brooms, and have made it a workshop. I have done a good 
 deal here. I have fitted up my drawing-rooms in Keppel 
 Street, and intend keeping them in order, hanging up only 
 decent works. ‘ The Hay Wain ’ looks well in them, but I 
 shall do more to it. . . . I am now going to pay my court 
 to the world. I have had experience enough to know that 
 if a man decries himself, he will find people ready enough to 
 take him at his word. Sir George Beaumont is going to 
 Italy; he has presented me with a beautiful little landscape, 
 a mill, the same mill in Tinney’s picture, it is quite a Rem- 
 brandt, full of tone and chiaroscuro. There is some hope of 
 the Academy’s getting a Claude from Mr. Angerstein’s, 1 the 
 large and magnificent marine picture, one of the most per- 
 fect in the world; should that be the case, though I can 
 ill afford it, I will make a copy of the same size. A study 
 would be only of value to myself, the other will be property 
 to my children, and a great delight to me. The very doing 
 it will almost bring me into communion with Claude himself. 
 Lawrence told me that, should I really wish it, it would 
 stimulate him to farther exertions to get it from Mr. Anger- 
 stein. In the room where I am writing, there are hanging 
 up two beautiful small drawings by Cozens; one, a wood, 
 close, and very solemn; the other, a view from Vesuvius, 
 looking over Portici, very lovely. I borrowed them from 
 my neighbour, Mr. Woodburn. Cozens was all poetry, and 
 your drawing is a lovely specimen.” 
 
 “ Salisbury, August 6th, 1821. My dear Constable, Very 
 few can copy Claude, I exhort you to it by all means. It 
 will secure two or three hundred pounds to your family, and 
 will furnish us with an inexhaustible store of pleasure. I 
 get impatient to know whether your wife will allow you to 
 
 1 Pictures are lent to the Academy by most of the possessors of col- 
 lections for the use of the paihting-school. 
 
72 Life of Constable 
 
 run down this autumn. Any time from September ist to 
 January will be convenient to me, and you need not be at 
 any expense at all. One night in the mail and you are here. 
 
 The assizes are holding, and C is here. Your letters 
 
 lay on the table. He said, that there were some parts of 
 your last picture good. I told him if he had said, all the 
 parts were good, it would be no compliment, unless he said 
 the whole was good. Is it not strange how utterly ignorant 
 the world is of the very first principles of painting? Here 
 is a man of the greatest abilities, who knows almost every 
 thing, and yet he is as little a judge of a picture as if he had 
 been without eyes. There’s Matthews again with 4 his own 
 Glover.’ ” 1 
 
 “ Hampstead, September 20th, 1821. My dear Fisher, 
 How much I should like to come to you ! and I cannot say 
 I will not, but I fear I must go into Suffolk soon, on account 
 of a job. 2 I have made some studies, carried farther than 
 any I have done before; particularly a highly elegant group 
 of trees (ashes, elms, and oaks), which will be of as much 
 service to me as if I had bought the field and hedgerow 
 which contain them; I have likewise made many skies and 
 effects; we have had noble clouds and effects of light and 
 dark and colour, as is always the case in such seasons as the 
 present. The great Claude does not come to the Academy 
 this year (a young lady is copying it), but they expect it 
 next year, and it would have been madness for me to have 
 meddled with it this season, as I am now behindhand with 
 the bridge. 3 The beautiful Ruysdael, 4 The Windmill ’ which 
 we admired, is at the Gallery. I trust I shall be able to 
 procure a memorandum of it; and there is a noble N. Pous- 
 
 1 Lord Dudley, in a letter to the Bishop of Llandaff, admirable for 
 its good sense and candour, speaking of the excellencies of the old 
 masters, says, “ I believe that merit to be of a sort which requires 
 study, habit, and, perhaps, some practical knowledge of the principles 
 of the fine arts, to perceive and relish. You remember that Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds tells us he was at first incapable of tasting all the excellence 
 of Raphael and Michael Angelo. And if he, already no mean artist, 
 was still uninitiated in some of the higher mysteries of art, and obliged 
 at first to take upon trust, much of that which was afterwards made 
 clear to him by further study and labour, what shall we say about 
 the sincerity of those, who knowing so much less, pretend to feel so 
 much more? For my own part, I think of them, very much as I 
 should think of anybody, who, being just able to pick out the meaning 
 of a Latin sentence, should affect to admire the language and versifica- 
 tion of the Georgies.” 
 
 8 A portrait, 3 His fourth large picture. 
 
Skies 
 
 73 
 
 sin at the Academy, a solemn, deep, still summer’s noon, 
 with large umbrageous trees, and a man washing his feet at 
 a fountain near them. Through the breaks in the trees are 
 mountains, and the clouds collecting about them with the 
 most enchanting effects possible. It cannot be too much to 
 say that this landscape is full of religious and moral feeling. 1 
 It is not large, about three and a half feet, and I should like 
 to, and will, if possible, possess a facsimile of it. I must 
 make time. If I cannot come to you, I will send you the 
 results of this summer’s study. My wife and children are 
 well, we have not had an hour’s illness all the summer.” 
 
 On the 26th of September, Fisher wrote to tell Constable 
 of objections that were made to the sky in Mr. Tinney’s 
 picture, by a “ grand critical party ” who had sat in judg- 
 ment on it. “ After talking in vain for some time,” he 
 continues, “ I brought them out of my portfolio two prints 
 from Wouvermans and a Vander Neer, where the whole 
 stress was laid on the sky, and that silenced them. While 
 in every other profession the initiated only are judges, in 
 painting, all men, except the blind, think themselves qualified 
 to give an opinion. The comfort is, that the truth comes 
 out when these self-made connoisseurs begin to buy and 
 collect for themselves. At Lord Shaftesbury’s, about twelve 
 miles from this place, there is a daylight Vander Neer. 
 When you come we will go and see it. I had nearly for- 
 gotten to tell you that I was the other day fishing in the 
 New Forest in a fine deep broad river, with mills, roaring 
 back-waters, withy beds, etc. I thought often of you during 
 the day. I caught two pike, was up to the middle in watery 
 meadows, ate my dinner under a willow, and was as happy 
 as when I was ‘ a careless boy.’ What have you done with 
 your ‘ Midsummer Noon,’ and what do you intend to do 
 with it? ” 
 
 “ Hampstead, October 23rd, 1821. My dear Fisher, . . . 
 I am most anxious to get into my London painting-room, 
 for I do not consider myself at work unless I am before a 
 six-foot canvas. I have done a good deal of skying, for I 
 am determined to conquer all difficulties, and that among 
 the rest. And now talking of skies, it is amusing to us to 
 see how admirably you fight my battles; you certainly take 
 the best possible ground for getting your friend out of a 
 1 This picture is in the National Gallery. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 74 
 
 scrape (the example of the old masters). That landscape 
 painter who does not make his skies a very material part of 
 his composition, neglects to avail himself of one of his greatest 
 aids. Sir Joshua Reynolds, speaking of the landscapes of 
 Titian, of Salvator, and of Claude, says: £ Even their skies 
 seem to sympathise with their subjects/ I have often been 
 advised to consider my sky as ‘ a white sheet thrown behind 
 the objects .’ Certainly, if the sky is obtrusive, as mine are, 
 it is bad; but if it is evaded, as mine are not, it is worse; 
 it must and always shall with me make an effectual part of 
 the composition. It will be difficult to name a class of 
 landscape in which the sky is not the key note, the standard 
 of scale, and the chief organ of sentiment. You may con- 
 ceive, then, what a c white sheet ’ would do for me, impressed 
 as I am with these notions, and they cannot be erroneous. 
 The sky is the source of light in nature, and governs every- 
 thing; even our common observations on the weather of 
 every day are altogether suggested by it. The difficulty of 
 skies in painting is very great, both as to composition and 
 execution; because, with all their brilliancy, they ought not 
 to come forward, or, indeed, be hardly thought of any more 
 than extreme distances are; but this does not apply to 
 phenomena or accidental effects of sky, because they always 
 attract particularly. I may say all this to you, though you 
 do not want to be told that I know very well what I am 
 about, and that my skies have not been neglected, though 
 they have often failed in execution, no doubt, from an over- 
 anxiety about them, which will alone destroy that easy 
 appearance which nature always has in all her movements. 
 
 “ How much I wish I had been with you on your fishing 
 excursion in the New Forest! What river can it be? But 
 the sound of water escaping from mill-dams, etc., willows, 
 old rotten planks, slimy posts, and brickwork, I love such 
 things. Shakespeare could make everything poetical; he 
 tells us of poor Tom’s haunts among £ sheep cotes and mills.’ 
 As long as I do paint, I shall never cease to paint such 
 places . 1 They have always been my delight, and I should 
 indeed have been delighted in seeing what you describe, and 
 in your company, £ in the company of a man to whom nature 
 
 1 The last picture he painted, and on which he was engaged on the 
 last day of his life, was a mill, with such accompaniments as are 
 described in this letter. 
 
Salisbury Cathedral 75 
 
 does not spread her volume in vain.’ Still I should paint 
 my own places best; painting is with me but another word 
 for feeling, and I associate ‘ my careless boyhood ’ with 
 all that lies on the banks of the Stour; those scenes made 
 me a painter, and I am grateful ; that is, I had often thought 
 of pictures of them before I ever touched a pencil, and your 
 picture is the strongest instance of it I can recollect; but I 
 will say no more, for I am a great egotist in whatever relates 
 to painting. Does not the Cathedral look beautiful among 
 the golden foliage? its solitary grey must sparkle in it.” 
 
 “ Close, Salisbury, October 24th. My dear Constable, I 
 had a most agreeable breakfast this morning, your letter 
 serving me in lieu of the newspaper, which is now too dull 
 to read. I was glad to see your handwriting so clear and 
 smooth. A certain proof of a tranquil mind. I shall be 
 alone and disengaged on Saturday the 3rd of November, and 
 continue so until the 26th of the same month. I think the 
 earlier you come the better. I project, if the weather be 
 fine, to go and see Winchester Cathedral. The roof has 
 been near falling in, owing to the constant cutting away of 
 the great supporting pillars to let in monuments (of folly and 
 bad taste). . . . Our Cathedral looks well this weather, 
 but it is not so much relieved by the warm tints as you 
 would imagine. Owing to the moisture of the season, and 
 the great and rapid decomposition of the vegetation, there is 
 a constant humid halo, which makes the shadows, at all 
 hours, very blue, and gives the landscape a cold tone. I am 
 sorry your children have been unwell. Mine are in high 
 health and good humour. How many dinners a week does 
 your wife get you to eat at a regular hour, and like 
 a Christian? ” 
 
 In November, Constable visited Salisbury, where, not- 
 withstanding the lateness of the season, he made some 
 beautiful sketches. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 1822 
 
 Mr. Samuel Lane. Farrington. Coxe’s Life of Correggio. Gold 
 grounds. Constable’s fourth large Picture. Stothard’s “ Welling- 
 ton Shield.” Farrington’s House. The Bishop of Salisbury. 
 Studies of Skies. Illness. System of Copying at the British 
 Gallery. Picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s 
 Grounds.” David’s Picture of “The Coronation of Josephine.” 
 Constable’s dread of a National Gallery. 
 
 Soon after his first arrival in London, Constable had become 
 acquainted with Mr. Samuel Lane, of Greek Street, Soho; 
 and this acquaintance ripened into a friendship which 
 continued to the end of his life. The following passage is 
 from one of his letters which Mr. Lane has permitted me 
 to make use of: “ February, 1822. My dear Lane, I have 
 been with my wife to look over Mr. Farrington’s house, 
 which has left a deep impression on us both. I could 
 scarcely believe that I was not to meet the elegant and 
 dignified figure of our departed friend, where I had been so 
 long used to see him, or hear again the wisdom that always 
 attended his advice, which I do indeed miss greatly.” 
 
 “ Salisbury, March 25th, 1822. My dear Constable, 
 Coxe is on the eve of publishing Correggio ; but he has some 
 sad stuff in it about the manner in which he is supposed 
 to have mixed his colours, and talks about his painting on 
 gold leaf to produce a warm effect. He will send you, by 
 my advice, the proof sheets of that part of his work which 
 treats of Correggio’s art, for your correction. . . . The 
 above was written yesterday. I left off, trying to recollect 
 some anecdote I had to tell you. I have just recalled it 
 to my memory. It is, as you know, part of the Apocalypse, 
 that the just should reign a thousand years, and then the 
 consummation of all things. During the tenth century, in 
 consequence of this prediction, there was a universal expec- 
 tation that the world was about to end. The agitation of 
 men’s minds is described, by contemporary writers, as 
 extreme. Among other effects which this expectation 
 produced, was the neglect to repair their houses and churches. 
 
 76 
 
Gold Grounds 77 
 
 So that when the dreaded period was past, their buildings 
 were found to be in a most dilapidated condition. The 
 eleventh century, therefore, was much occupied in building, 
 repairing, and beautifying. Hence we know, that few, very 
 few of our buildings can be older than that period. And 
 that the eleventh century and the beginning of the twelfth, 
 are probable periods to which to refer back many of our 
 most beautiful structures. It was the same cause that 
 enriched the church and made it so powerful. Men, expect- 
 ing the day of judgment, were glad to compound for their 
 sins by granting away their estates (which would not much 
 longer be of use to them or their heirs) to religious purposes. 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ Keppel Street, April 13th, 1822. My dear Fisher, I 
 have not seen any of the sheets of Mr. Coxe’s Life of Cor- 
 reggio ; but I hear of a letter from him to Jackson, expressing 
 a desire that they may be seen by his friend Constable. 
 There is no doubt but it will be interesting, but as to painting 
 on gold grounds, it is all over with the alchymy of the art, 
 I hope never to be revived again. Yet dark ages may 
 return, and there are always dark minds in enlightened 
 ones. In the early German and Italian pictures, gold was 
 used for glories, etc., and made to appear as a thing uncon- 
 nected with the painting, and so far supernatural; and this 
 has been done as late as Carlo Dolci, and it sometimes 
 appears very beautiful when blended into transparent 
 colour behind the heads of saints, etc. But still it looks 
 like trick, and Correggio was above all trick, nor do I believe 
 he ever resorted to any such nonsense to aid his brightness. 
 I have sent my large picture to the Academy. I never 
 worked so hard before. I do not know that it is better than 
 my others, but perhaps fewer vulgar objections can be made 
 to it.” (The writing is here interrupted by a beautiful 
 pen sketch, which has the force of a mezzotinto engraving.) 
 “ The composition is almost totally changed from what 
 you saw. I have taken the sail, and added another barge 
 in the middle of the picture, with a principal figure, altered 
 the group of trees, and made the bridge entire. The picture 
 has now a rich centre, and the right hand side becomes only 
 an accessory. I have endeavoured to paint with more 
 delicacy, but hardly anybody has seen it. I hear of some 
 excellent pictures. I am going into Suffolk about an altar- 
 
7 8 Life of Constable 
 
 piece, a gift from a gentleman. is annoyed by your 
 
 designating his old masters trash. He goes by the rule of 
 name. 
 
 “ I have some nibbles at my large picture of the ‘ Hay Wain/ 
 in the British Gallery. I have an offer of £70 without the 
 frame to form part of an exhibition in Paris. I hardly know 
 what to do. It might promote my fame and procure me 
 commissions, but it is property to my family; though I want 
 money dreadfully; and, on this subject, I must beg a great 
 favour of you, indeed I can do it of no other person. The 
 loan of £20 or £30 would be of the greatest use to me at this 
 time, as painting these large pictures has much impoverished 
 me. If you can, I know you will oblige me. If not, say 
 so. This summer I shall devote to money getting, as I have 
 several commissions, both landscape and otherwise. But a 
 large picture, and if possible, a good one, was necessary this 
 year. The next must take its chance. I hope, indeed I 
 really believe, I have never yet done anything so good as 
 the one now sent. 
 
 “ Stothard has published his beautiful etching of ‘ The 
 Shield of Wellington,’ three and a half feet circle. Oblige 
 me and my dear old friend by purchasing one. My 
 conscience acquits me of any neglect of my last picture. I 
 have dismissed it with great calmness and ease of mind.” 
 
 Of this picture, 1 another view on the Stour, and very near 
 Flat ford Mill, an admirable line engraving, by Mr. W. R. 
 Smith, is published in Messrs. Finden’s Gallery of British 
 Art; and a first sketch of the subject is engraved in the 
 English Landscape. 
 
 “ Keppel Street, April 17th. My dear Fisher, Accept 
 my thanks for your very kind letter. The contents will be 
 highly useful, for, as I told you, I had been so long upon 
 unprofitable canvas that I was getting hard run. But I am 
 now busy on some minor works which will bring things soon 
 about again. My writing requires much apology; but 1 
 Seldom sit down till I am already fatigued in my painting- 
 room, and near the post hour, and I must say of my letters 
 as Northcote says of his pictures, 4 1 leave them for the 
 ingenious to find out.’ I made two or three fruitless attempts 
 to read the last I sent you, and the postman ringing his bell 
 at the moment, I dismissed it. I must work hard this 
 x At present in the possession of Mr. William Carpenter. 
 
Farrington’s House 79 
 
 summer, but I should like much to take the Windsor 
 coach to hear your sermon, though I can ill spare a day, and 
 now that I have an opportunity of earning a little money, 
 I must make it a religious duty to do it. I shall not let the 
 Frenchman have my picture. It would be too bad to allow 
 myself to be knocked down by a Frenchman. In short, 
 it may fetch my family something one time or other, and 
 it would be disgracing my diploma to take so small a sum, 
 less by near one half than the price I asked. 
 
 “ Several cheering things have lately happened to me, 
 professionally. I am certain my reputation rises as a land- 
 scape painter, and that my style of art, as Farrington always 
 said it would, is fast becoming a distinct feature. I am 
 
 anxious about this picture. My neighbour , who 
 
 expects to be an Academician before me, called to see it. 
 He has always praised me; now he said not a word; till, on 
 leaving the room, he looked back and said, he hoped his 
 picture would not hang near it. 
 
 “ I trust you will come to London on your visitation; I 
 shall be much disappointed if you do not. I am about 
 Farrington’s house; I think this step necessary; I shall get 
 more by it than my family, in conveniences, though I am 
 loth to leave a place where I have had so much happiness, 
 and where I painted my four landscapes; but there is no 
 end to giving way to fancies ; occupation is my sheet anchor. 
 My mind would soon devour me without it. I felt as if I had 
 lost my arms after my picture was gone to the Exhibition. 
 I dare not read this letter over, take it as one of my sketches.” 
 
 “ April. My dear Fisher, I have been to Farrington’s 
 this morning; they are sharp about the house, and wished 
 me to take the fixtures, and such of the furniture as I may 
 like, at a valuation. I have refused the latter, so stands the 
 matter at present; they will sell the Wilsons ; 1 they are well 
 worth sixty, or eighty, or even a hundred guineas the pair. 
 
 “ Tinney is confined to town by indisposition; I have 
 seen him often, and he views me favourably for your sake, 
 and is determined to love painting as an intellectual pursuit 
 of the most delightful kind, in preference to dirt, and old 
 canvas, varnish, etc. He has desired me to paint him, as a 
 companion to his landscape, another picture at my leisure 
 
 1 Two beautiful little views in Italy, now in the possession of Miss 
 Rogers. 
 
8o 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 for a hundred guineas. 1 If, however, I am offered more 
 for it, even five hundred guineas, I may take it, and begin 
 another for him. This is very noble (when all the nobility 
 let my picture come back to me from the Gallery), and will 
 enable me to do another large picture, to keep up and add 
 to my reputation. . . . How much I should like to be 
 now at Osmington; but work I must and will. If I recollect, 
 the ashes have very beautiful mosses, and their stems are 
 particularly rich at Osmington. I have never thanked you 
 for your account of the middle ages and the expectation of 
 the last day. I was not aware that its influence was so 
 enormous.” 
 
 In 1822, Constable exhibited at the Academy five pictures, 
 “ Hampstead Heath,” “ A View on the Stour, near Dedham,” 
 “ Malvern Hall, Warwickshire,” “ A View of the Terrace, 
 Hampstead,” and “ A Study of Trees from Nature.” 
 
 The next letter is from the Bishop of Salisbury. “ Malms- 
 bury, August 3rd, 1822. Dear Sir, My daughter Elizabeth 
 is about to change her situation, and try whether she cannot 
 perform the duties of a wife as well as she has done those 
 of a daughter. She wishes to have in her house in London 
 a recollection of Salisbury; I mean, therefore, to give her 
 a picture, and I must beg of you either to finish the first 
 sketch of my picture, or to make a copy of the small size. 
 I wish to have a more serene sky. I am now on my visitation, 
 and shall not be at Salisbury till the 20th, but my letters 
 follow me.” 
 
 “ Osmington, October 1st. My dear Constable. . . . 
 Captain Forster, a gentleman of property, near Windsor, is 
 an admirer of your art. He is to meet you at Salisbury, he 
 was first caught by a sketch-book of yours which I had. 
 Your pencil sketches always take people, both learned and 
 unlearned. Surely it would answer to publish a few of them. 
 Get one done on stone, as an experiment, unless it is deroga- 
 tory from the station you hold in the art. ... J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ To Archdeacon Fisher. Hampstead, October 7th, 1822. 
 My dear Fisher, several adverse circumstances had yielded 
 to my wishes, and I had determined on meeting you at 
 Salisbury on the day appointed; but things have changed 
 
 1 This commission from Mr. Tinney was never executed; why, I 
 know not ; but I believe Constable afterwards painted for him one or 
 two small pictures. 
 
Studies of Skies 
 
 8 i 
 
 again, and I know not how to come so far as Weymouth. 
 The loss of four days on the road is serious, and I am now 
 in the midst of a great struggle, and time is my estate. I 
 have got several of my commissions into tolerable forward- 
 ness, especially two kit-cat landscapes for Mr. Ripley, and 
 I am determined to overcome all my difficulties while a 
 great deal of health and some little youth remains to me. 
 I have got things into a train, by following which they are 
 made comparatively easy. Such a journey would turn me 
 inside out, and a visit to your coast would wash my brains 
 entirely. I must wait, and still hope to meet you when 
 quite convenient to yourself, and when you return to the 
 Close. I shall send you some picture to look at. ‘ Green 
 Highgate ’ has now changed its frame, and become a very 
 pretty picture, and deserves a better, or at least, a new 
 name. I have made about fifty careful studies of skies, 
 tolerably large to be careful. I do not regret not seeing 
 Fonthill; I never had a desire to see fights, and a gentleman’s 
 park is my aversion. 
 
 “It is singular that I happened to speak of Milman; no 
 doubt he is learned, but it is not fair to encumber literature. 
 The world is full enough of what has been already done, 
 and as in the art there is plenty of fine painting but very few 
 good pictures, so in poetry there is plenty of fine writing, 
 and I am told his is such, and as you say, ‘ gorgeous ; ’ but 
 it can be compared; Shakespeare cannot; nor Burns, nor 
 Claude, nor Ruysdael, and it has taken me twenty years to 
 find this out. This is, I hope, my last week here, at least 
 this summer; it is a ruinous place to me; I lose time here 
 sadly. One of my motives for taking Charlotte Street was 
 to remain longer in London. In Keppel Street we wanted 
 room, and were ‘ Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall; ’ 
 but the five happiest years of my life were passed 
 there.” 
 
 Twenty of Constable’s studies of skies made during this 
 season are in my possession, and there is but one among them 
 in which a vestige of landscape is introduced. They are 
 painted in oil, on large sheets of thick paper, and all dated, 
 with the time of day, the direction of the wind, and other 
 memoranda on their backs. On one, for instance, is written, 
 “ 5th of September, 1822. 10 o’clock, morning, looking 
 
 south-east, brisk wind at west. Very bright and fresh grey 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 clouds running fast over a yellow bed, about half way in the 
 sky. Very appropriate to the ‘ coast at Osmington. 5 ” 
 
 “ 35, Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, October 31st, 
 1822. My dear Fisher, We left Hampstead a fortnight ago 
 last Friday, and I have not yet had my pencil in my hand. 
 I got laid up attending bricklayers and carpenters at six and 
 seven in the morning, leaving a warm bed for cold damp 
 rooms and washhouses, for I have had immense trouble to 
 get the house habitable; but, though I am now quite well, I 
 am aware that the time is past in which it was convenient 
 for you to receive me. It has proved a very great disappoint- 
 ment to me, and I fear that my not coming has vexed you, 
 especially as I have not heard from you. I have got the 
 large painting-room into excellent order; it is light, airy, 
 sweet, and warm; I, at one time, despaired of attaining 
 either of these qualities. I have now two six-footers in 
 hand, — one of which I shall send to the Gallery at £200. 
 
 “ The art will go out ; there will be no genuine painting in 
 England in thirty years. This will be owing to pictures 
 driven into the empty heads of the junior artists by their 
 owners, the directors of the British Institution, etc. In the 
 early ages of the fine arts, the productions were more affecting 
 and sublime, for the artists being without human exemplars, 
 were forced to have recourse to nature; in the latter ages, of 
 Raphael and Claude, the productions were more perfect, less 
 uncouth, because the artists could then avail themselves of 
 the experience of those who were before them, but they did 
 not take them at their word, or as the chief objects of imita- 
 tion. Could you but see the folly and ruin exhibited at the 
 British Gallery, you would go mad. Vander Velde, and 
 Gaspar Poussin, and Titian, are made to spawn multitudes 
 of abortions: and for what are the great masters brought 
 into this disgrace ? only to serve the purpose of sale. Holland 
 has sold a shadow of Gaspar Poussin for eighty guineas, and 
 it is no more like Gaspar than the shadow of a man on a 
 muddy road is like himself.” 1 
 
 1 The directors of the British Institution are assuredly not account- 
 able for the abuse of the privilege they grant annually to artists of 
 making copies from the old masters at their Gallery; a privilege of 
 which some of our best painters have availed themselves with advan- 
 tage to their own practice, and of which Constable had himself intended! 
 to make use. He did not sufficiently consider that those who are- 
 content to spend much of their time in copying pictures, are not of 
 that class who would advance or even support the art under any cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
Picture of Salisbury Cathedral 83 
 
 A letter from the Bishop of Salisbury to Constable, dated 
 November 12th, contained a draft with these words: 
 “ Lawyers frequently receive retaining fees, why should not 
 painters do the same? ” The picture he was engaged on for 
 the bishop, was finished and exhibited in the following spring. 
 It is an extremely beautiful work, and one with which he 
 took great pains, a view of the “ Cathedral from the Bishop’s 
 Grounds.” In the foreground he introduced a circumstance 
 familiar to all who are in the habit of noticing cattle. With 
 cows there is generally, if not always, one which is called, 
 not very accurately, the master cow , and there is scarcely any 
 thing the rest of the herd will venture to do until the master 
 has taken the lead. On the left of the picture this individual 
 is drinking, and turns with surprise and jealousy to another 
 cow approaching the canal lower down for the same purpose ; 
 they are of the Suffolk breed, without horns; and it is a 
 curious mark of Constable’s fondness for everything con- 
 nected with his native county, that scarcely an instance can 
 be found of a cow in any of his pictures, be the scene where it 
 may, with horns. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, December 6th. My dear Fisher, There 
 is nothing so cheering to me as the sight of your handwriting, 
 yet I am dilatory in answering you. I will gladly do all I 
 
 can for R 1 and his picture, but you know I can only 
 
 send it, I possess no favour in that place, I have no patron 
 but yourself, and you are not a grandee; you are only a 
 gentleman and a scholar, and a real lover of the art. I will 
 
 mention R ’s picture to Young, and this is all that is in 
 
 my power. Is it not possible to dissuade him from coming 
 to London, where he will be sure to get rid of what little local 
 reputation he may have ? But perhaps he prefers starving 
 in a crowd, and if he is determined to adventure, let him by 
 all means preserve his flowing locks, they will do him more 
 service than even the talents of Claude Lorraine, if he 
 possessed them. 
 
 “ shall have his picture when I can find an oppor- 
 
 tunity of sending it. Had I not better grime it down with 
 slime and soot, as he is a connoisseur, and perhaps prefers 
 filth and dirt to freshness and beauty? 
 
 “ I have been to see David’s picture of ‘ The Coronation 
 
 1 A young artist of Salisbury who had sent a picture to town for 
 exhibition at the British Gallery. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 84 
 
 of the Empress Josephine.’ It does not possess the common 
 language of the art, much less anything of the oratory of 
 Rubens or Paul Veronese, and in point of execution it is 
 below notice; still I prefer it to the productions of those 
 among our historical painters who are only holding on to the 
 tail of the shirt of Carlo Maratti, simply because it does not 
 remind me of the schools. I could not help feeling as I did 
 when I last wrote to you of what I saw at the British Institu- 
 tion. Should there be a National Gallery (which is talked of), 
 there will be an end of the art in poor old England, and she 
 will become, in all that relates to painting, as much a nonentity 
 as every other country that has one. The reason is plain; 
 the manufacturers of pictures are then made the criterions 
 of perfection, instead of nature.” 
 
 Here, as well as in his remarks on the system of copying 
 pursued at the British Gallery, Constable’s inference seems 
 hasty. Neither connoisseurs nor legislators can promote the 
 rise or hasten the decline of the arts in any material degree. 
 A multitude of concurring circumstances, varying in every 
 age and nation, contribute to these; meantime, it is some- 
 thing that a collection of fine pictures should be accessible to 
 the public; and if the National Gallery should help, only in 
 a small degree, to keep our young artists from the dissipation 
 of their time, and the injury their unformed minds receive 
 while running all over Europe in quest of the art, which can 
 only be acquired by years of patient and settled industry, it 
 may effect some good. 1 Constable, at this moment, forgot 
 what at other times he fully admitted, that good pictures are 
 the necessary interpreters of nature to the student in art. If 
 the reader will turn to the end of the book, he will find in 
 the remarks on Claude, in the lecture he delivered on the 
 2nd of June 1836, at the Royal Institution, and on Rem- 
 
 1 Those who are old enough to compare the present state of painting* 
 among us, with what it was before the Continent was thrown open to 
 our artists, cannot but have misgivings as to the advantage of foreign 
 travel to British students. If, as it may be feared, we are more and 
 more losing sight of nature, it may be less owing to the influence of 
 the National Gallery, than to the example from abroad of, I will not 
 call it imitation but mimicry of early art. This is so easy a thing 
 to succeed in, and is so well calculated to impose on ourselves and 
 others a belief that we possess the spirit of the primitive ages of art, 
 that we cannot too carefully guard against its seduction. The purity 
 of heart belonging to childhood is, no doubt, as desirable to the 
 painter as to the Christian, but we do not acquire this by merely 
 imitating the lisp of infancy. 
 
Sir George Beaumont 85 
 
 brandt at the close of the next lecture, his settled opinions 
 on this subject. But that his dread of picture worship should 
 lead him to express himself as he did, in the letter last quoted, 
 I can well understand, knowing as I do the notions prevailing 
 among the artists and amateurs with whom he lived. Among 
 the last may be particularly mentioned the amiable and 
 accomplished Sir George Beaumont, at that time the leader 
 of taste in the fashionable world. Few men better dis- 
 criminated, than did Sir George, the various excellencies of 
 the old masters ; but he never considered how many beauties 
 might remain in nature untouched by their pencils, and 
 consequently he was averse to any deviation from their 
 manner. It is curious, that throughout the whole of his 
 intercourse with Constable, Sir George assumed the character 
 of a teacher. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 1823 
 
 Illness. Picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral.” Sir John Leicester’s Pictures. 
 Wilson. Constable’s Pictures at the Exhibition. Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller’s House. Life of Correggio. The Rev. T. J. Judkin. 
 Sir William Curtis. Visit to Archdeacon Fisher. Fonthill. The 
 Diorama. Visit to Cole-Orton Hall. Adventure on the Road 
 Sir George and Lady Beaumont. Pictures at Cole-Orton. Manner 
 of passing the day there. Scenery of its neighbourhood. Southey. 
 Difference of opinion between Sir George and Constable on Art. 
 Studies at Cole-Orton. Return to London. Illness. Pictures 
 for the Exhibition. Southey and the Church. 
 
 Constable was prevented by illness from finishing either of 
 the large pictures he had on hand in time for the exhibitions 
 of 1823, and even from writing again to Fisher until the 1st of 
 February in that year, when he thus resumed their corre- 
 spondence: “ My very dear Fisher, Ever since Christmas my 
 house has been a sad scene of serious illness; all my children, 1 
 and two of my servants laid up at once. Things are now, 
 thanks to God, looking better, but poor John is still in a 
 fearful state. I am unfortunately taken ill again myself, 
 but to-day I am better, and determined to write to you. 
 What with anxiety, watching, nursing, and my own indis- 
 position, I have not seen the face of my easel since Christmas, 
 and it is not the least of my troubles that the good bishop’s 
 picture is not fit to be seen; pray, my dear Fisher, prepare 
 his lordship for this; it has been no fault of my own. Your 
 excellent mother and family, hearing of our distress, most 
 kindly called here. The sight of Mrs. P. Fisher always does 
 one good; her looks say we should patiently submit to all 
 things, and this is confirmed in her own conduct, for she can.” 
 “ Charlotte Street, February 21st. My dear Fisher, I was 
 cheered by your letter and kind inquiries. I am now at work 
 again, and some of my children are better, but my poor 
 darling boy John is in a sad state indeed; God only knows 
 how it will end. Baillie and Gooch see him continually, and 
 are not without hope; but I am worn with anxiety. ... I 
 1 He had now two sons and two daughters. 
 
 86 
 
“ Salisbury Cathedral ” 87 
 
 am weak and much emaciated. They took a great deal of 
 blood from me which I could ill spare. I have fretted for the 
 loss of time, and being away from my easel, but most of all 
 for my poor dear boy; but I will leave my house, and go into 
 my painting-room. I have put a large upright landscape in 
 hand, and I hope I shall hold up to get it ready for the 
 Academy, with the Bishop’s picture. 
 
 “ I am sorry to see you again haunted by that phantom, 
 * The Church in danger; ’ it does not speak a just state of 
 mind or thinking. That the vultures will attack it, and 
 everything else that is valuable, is likely enough; but you 
 say, 1 they have failed on the State ; ’ that, therefore, still 
 stands between the Church and them, for they can only fall 
 together. The nobility know the value of intellect, and 
 endeavour to arm themselves from the same sources as you 
 do, the Universities ; and consider the ages they have stood, 
 and the storms they have weathered. ... I look forward 
 to coming to you at Gillingham to do something at the mill.” 
 
 “ May 9th. I had many interruptions in my works for 
 the Exhibition, as you know, so that I have no large canvas 
 there. My Cathedral looks uncommonly well; it is much 
 approved of by the Academy, and moreover in Seymour 
 Street. I think you will say when you see it, that I have 
 
 fought a better battle with the Church than old H e, 
 
 B m, and all their coadjutors put together. It was the 
 
 most difficult subject in landscape I ever had on my easel. 
 I have not flinched at the windows, buttresses, etc.; but I 
 have still kept to my grand organ colour, and have, as usual, 
 made my escape in the evanescence of the chiaroscuro. I 
 think you will like it, but you could have done me much 
 good. I am vexed to see the good bishop looking ill; it may 
 be a temporary cold, but he breaks, no doubt. This has been 
 a fearful winter for old and young. Callcott admires my 
 Cathedral ; he says I have managed it well. Wilkie’s pictures 
 are the finest in the world. Perhaps the outdoor scene is too 
 black. 1 Fuseli came up to him and said, * Veil, vat dis? is 
 dis de new vay, de Guercino style? ’ Speaking of me, he 
 says, * I like de landscapes of Constable; he is always 
 picturesque, of a fine colour, and de lights always in de right 
 places; but he makes me call for my greatcoat and umbrella.’ 
 
 1 The “ Parish Beadle.” The other was the small whole length 
 portrait of the Duke of York, painted for Sir Willoughby Gordon, 
 
88 Life of Constable 
 
 This may amuse you, when contemplating this busy but 
 distant scene; however, though I am here in the midst of 
 the world, I am out of it, and am happy, and endeavour to 
 keep myself unspotted. I have a kingdom of my own, both 
 fertile and populous, — my landscape and my children. I 
 have work to do, and my finances must be repaired if possible. 
 I have a face now on my easel, and may have more.” 
 
 Speaking in this letter of Italy, Constable continues, “ ‘ Oh 
 dear, oh dear, I shall never let my longing eyes see that 
 famous country ! ’ These are the words of old Richardson, 
 and like him I am doomed never to see the living scenes that 
 inspired the landscape of Wilson and Claude. No, but I was 
 born to paint a happier land, my own dear old England ; and 
 when I cease to love her, may I, as Wordsworth says, 
 
 * never more hear 
 
 Her green leaves rustle, or her torrents roar ! 51 
 
 I went to the gallery of Sir John Leicester, to see the English 
 artists. I recollect nothing so much as a large, solemn, 
 bright, warm, fresh landscape by Wilson, which still swims 
 in my brain like a delicious dream. Poor Wilson ! think of 
 his fate, think of his magnificence. But the mind loses its 
 dignity less in adversity than in prosperity. He is now 
 walking arm in arm with Milton and Linnaeus. He was one 
 of those appointed to show the world the hidden stores and 
 beauties of nature.” 
 
 With the picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Bishop’s 
 Garden,” Constable exhibited, at the Academy, “ A Study of 
 Trees, a Sketch,” and “A Cottage;” and to the British 
 Gallery he sent a picture of Yarmouth Jetty. 
 
 “ Gillingham, Shaftesbury, May 9th. My dear Constable, 
 ... I dined, yesterday, at the house built by Sir Godfrey 
 Kneller, that man of wigs and drapery. On the staircase 
 hung a beautiful portrait of Pope, by him. How unlike his 
 usual efforts ! I long to hear how you have succeeded in the 
 Exhibition. The Courier mentions you with honour. ‘ Con- 
 stable has some admirable studies of landscape scenery.’ . . * 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 1 “ O England! dearer far than life is dear. 
 
 If I forget thy prowess, never more 
 Be thy ungrateful son allowed to hear 
 Thy erreen leaves rustle, or thy torrents roar! 
 
 Thanksgiving Ode on the General Peace . 
 
Sir William Curtis 
 
 89 
 
 “ Gillingham, May 18th. My dear Constable, . . . Coxe 
 showed me the proof sheets of his Life of Correggio. It is 
 really very nicely done. He has got over the critical part 
 better than I expected. But he has, evidently, not quite a 
 clear idea of chiaroscuro. He has no notion that harmony 
 and brilliancy of effect are connected with light and shade; 
 or that Correggio’s great originality lay in that department. 
 But still, his book is well done. He proves, I think, very 
 satisfactorily, that Correggio did not die in poverty or of the 
 load of copper. He shows that he had bought houses and 
 property in the city of Correggio. And what is more, gold 
 was the currency of the country, and they never paid in 
 copper. It would not have been a legal tender. ... J. 
 Fisher.” 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Fisher, dated July 3rd, after speaking of 
 some purchases which he had made for that gentleman, one 
 of which was a Flemish picture of fruit, etc., Constable says, 
 “ I have been for a day or two at Southgate, at Judkin’s. 
 We dined with Sir William Curtis; he is a fine old fellow, 
 and is now sitting for his portrait to Lawrence for the king, 
 
 who desired it in these words, * D n you, my old boy, I’ll 
 
 have you in all your canonicals, and then I can look at you 
 every day.’ He is a great favourite, — birds of a feather. 
 Let me know your wishes about the picture.” 
 
 “ My dear Constable, Where real business is to be done 
 you are the most energetic and punctual of men. In smaller 
 matters, such as putting on your breeches, you are apt to lose 
 time in deciding which leg shall go in first. I thank you 
 heartily for the speed with which you have executed both 
 my commissions. I have never had this picture out of my 
 eye since I saw it. Still-life is always dull, as there are no 
 associations with it; but this is so deliciously fresh that I 
 could not resist it. If you have one of your coast windmills 
 hanging on your wall framed, I wish you would put it up with 
 the fruit-piece. And now with regard to our meeting, I am 
 unwilling to put off your visit to the old age of summer, when 
 all the associations are those of decay; I will therefore work 
 hard at the infirmary sermon, which I am to preach at the 
 cathedral in September, and get it finished by the 20th of 
 August, about which time I shall expect you, and I care not 
 how long you stay. I have discovered three mills , old, 
 small, and picturesque, on this river. I have a great desire 
 
go Life of Constable 
 
 to possess your 4 Wain; ’ but I cannot now reach what it is 
 worth, and what you must have; but I have this favour to 
 ask, that you will not part with it without letting me know. 
 It will be of the most value to your children by continuing 
 to hang where it does, till you join the society of Ruysdael, 
 Wilson, and Claude. As praise and money will then be of 
 no value to you, the world will liberally bestow both. Tinney 
 says his picture is inferior to mine. He cannot find out that 
 mine hangs alone, and that his is hurt, as is always the case, 
 by villainous company. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ July ioth. My dear Fisher, I am always pleased with 
 myself when I have pleased you. You have made an ex- 
 cellent purchase of a most delightful work: it is a pearly 
 picture, but its tone is so deep and mellow that it plays the 
 very devil with my landscapes ; but I shall make my account 
 of it, as I am now working for tone. The painter is C. de 
 Vris, an artist cotemporary with Rubens. De Heem painted 
 his excellent fruit and flower pieces at the same time, but 
 this painter’s works are more scarce, and Mr. Bigg thinks, 
 more excellent; I have stripped it of its trumpery border 
 which was cemented on the surface of the picture, and hid 
 two inches all round, to the great injury of the composition. 
 It has cost me some trouble to make good the background, 
 but it was well worth recovering, as the want of an efficient 
 field crowded the composition. I count much on our meet- 
 ing; it will be my only holiday. The time you speak of will 
 -do exactly for me. My wife is amused with your temptation ; 
 you think 4 three mills ’ irresistible, but it is you I want. I 
 have a proposal to make to Tinney; he must let me have his 
 picture and fifty or sixty guineas, and I will paint him 
 another, more for the ladies and old hums. Sir William 
 Curtis has a hankering after my 4 Wain,’ but I am not 
 sanguine, and you I should much prefer; we can talk about 
 it when we meet; it was bom a companion to your picture; 
 it must be yours. It is no small compliment to the picture, 
 that it haunted the mind of the alderman from the time he 
 saw it at the Institution; but though a man of the world, he 
 is all heart, and really loves nature . 1 It does me a great 
 deal of good where it now is, therefore let it remain for the 
 
 1 Constable told me of Sir William Curtis, that during an illness he 
 had a fine picture by Gainsborough hung in his chamber that he might 
 see it through the opening of his bed curtains 
 
Fonthill 
 
 9 1 
 
 present. Should Tinney and I agree, it will enable me to 
 paint another large picture for the Exhibition; I am hurt 
 
 this year for the want of one. showed me a pretty 
 
 picture he is painting, but it is insipid, and far too pretty to 
 be natural. Sir George Beaumont has just left me; he is 
 pleased with a large wood I have toned.” 1 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, August 18th. My dear Fisher, Astley 
 Cooper often arrives an hour sooner than the time fixed for 
 performing an operation, by which the patient is spared the 
 anticipation of the approaching moments ; I had fixed 
 Wednesday, the 20th, to come to you, and I now make it 
 Tuesday, the 19th. Your beautiful fruit-piece has left my 
 house, but it will not arrive soon enough at Salisbury to 
 meet us; you will not grudge what it has cost you; it is 
 lovely, and always puts me not only in good humour, but in 
 the humour for painting. I have not the sea-piece; I gave 
 it to Gooch for his kind attention to my children for which 
 he would receive no fee. Half an hour ago I received a 
 letter from Woodburne to purchase it, or one of my sea- 
 pieces; they are much liked, and you have my sketch of 
 Osmington. I have a great deal to say which must be 
 deferred till to-morrow. I leave my family with great 
 pleasure because they are all so well. My wife laughed much 
 at your saying, * But I don’t expect you to come.’ I was at 
 the Countess of Dysart’s fete champetre at Ham House. I 
 have pleased her by painting two portraits lately, and she has 
 sent me half a buck.” 
 
 “ To Mrs. Constable. Gillingham, Dorsetshire, 29th 
 August. My dearest love. I was at Fonthill yesterday. 
 It was very good-natured of Fisher to take me to see that 
 extraordinary place. The ticket to admit two persons is a 
 guinea, besides impositions afterwards. Fisher says, there 
 have been great changes in the articles since last year; so that 
 it is quite an auctioneer’s job. Many superb things are now 
 not there, and many others added ; especially pictures. One 
 of the latter (or I am greatly mistaken), a battle by Wouver- 
 
 mans, I saw at R ; s just before I left town. Yesterday, 
 
 being a fine day, a great many people were there. I counted 
 more than thirty carriages, and the same number of gigs, 
 and two stage coaches ; so that in spite of the guinea tickets 
 there was a great mixture of company, and indeed very few 
 1 A large sketch of the dell in Helmingham Park. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 92 
 
 genteel people. There was a large room fitted up with boxes 
 
 like a coffee-house, for dinners, etc., etc. Mr. ’s name 
 
 (the auctioneer’s) seemed here as great as Buonaparte’s. 
 
 Cards of various kinds, and boards were put up, ‘ Mr. 
 
 desires this, — Mr. takes the liberty of recommending 
 
 the following inns for beds,’ etc., etc. But I observed many 
 long faces coming away from the said inns. 
 
 “ I wandered up to the top of the tower. Salisbury, at 
 fifteen miles off, darted up into the sky like a needle, and the 
 woods and lakes were magnificent; and then the wild region 
 of the downs to the north. But the distant Dorsetshire 
 hills made me long much to be at dear old Osmington, the 
 remembrance of which must always be precious to you and 
 me. The entrance to Fonthill and the interior are beautiful. 
 Imagine Salisbury Cathedral, or indeed, any beautiful Gothic 
 building, magnificently fitted up with crimson and gold, 
 ancient pictures, and statues in almost every niche; large 
 gold boxes for relics, etc., and looking-glasses, some of which 
 spoiled the effect. But on the whole it is a strange, ideal, 
 romantic place; quite fairy-land. The spot is chosen in the 
 midst of mountains and wilds. We have had such sad 
 weather that I have been able to do but little, but I have made 
 one or two attacks on the old mill.” 
 
 “ September 30th. My dear Fisher. I should have 
 thanked you before now for my delightful visit; but I found 
 on my return so much occupation that my writing has been 
 too long delayed. But I trust forms will weigh as little with 
 you as with me, in a friendship which is at once the pride, the 
 honour, and the grand stimulus of my life. My Gillingham 
 studies give great satisfaction; Mr. Bigg likes them better 
 than anything I have yet done. I found my wife and 
 children all well; better than I ever had them. I am now 
 pretty full handed, but my difficulty lies in what I am to do 
 for the world next year; I must have a large canvas. I 
 must write to Tinney about his picture, which I wish to have 
 
 up; I shall be glad of it, frame and all. asked me to 
 
 see his picture; it is such art as I cannot talk about; heart- 
 less, vapid, without interest. I was at the private view of 
 the ‘ Diorama; ’ it is in part a transparency; the spectator 
 is in a dark chamber, and it is very pleasing, and has great 
 illusion. It is without the pale of the art, because its object 
 is deception. The art pleases by reminding, not by deceiving. 
 
Cole-Orton Hall 
 
 93 
 
 The place was filled with foreigners, and I seemed to be in a 
 cage of magpies.” 
 
 “ Salisbury, October 2nd. My dear Constable, Tinney 
 consents to let his picture come to London, but he does it, 
 he confesses, because he can deny you nothing. He dreads 
 
 you touching it. L , the engraver, says it ‘ has a look 
 
 of nature which seems diffused over the canvas as if by 
 magic, and this Constable may in an unlucky moment 
 destroy, and he will never paint another picture like it, for 
 he has taken to repeat himself.’ I know not whether this 
 remark was his own, or merely the echo of what he had 
 heard said by other artists; in either case it is right you 
 should be told of it. I must repeat to you an opinion I have 
 long held, that no man had ever more than one conception. 
 Milton emptied his mind in his first book of Paradise Lost , 
 all the rest is transcript of self. The Odyssey is a repetition 
 of the Iliad . When you have seen one Claude you have seen 
 all. I can think of no exception but Shakspeare; he is 
 always varied, never mannered.” 
 
 “ October 19th. My dear Fisher, Thank you for your 
 kind, amusing, and instructive letter. I shall always be 
 glad to hear anything that is said of me and my pictures. 
 
 My object is the improvement of both. L , like most 
 
 men living on the outskirts of the art, and like followers and 
 attendants on armies, etc., is a great talker of what should he , 
 and this is not always without malignity. Such persons 
 stroll about the foot of Parnassus, only to pull down by the 
 legs those who are laboriously climbing its sides. He may 
 be sincere in what he tells Tinney; he wonders at what is 
 done, and concludes the picture cannot be made better 
 because he knows no better. I shall write to Tinney and 
 request the picture, but with a promise not to meddle with 
 it, even if I see anything material that would improve it, 
 without first informing him of my intention. 
 
 “ By the time you receive this, I shall be at breakfast with 
 Sir George and Lady Beaumont, at Cole-Orton Hall, Leicester- 
 shire, near Ashby de la Zouch. I look to this visit with 
 pleasure and the hope of improvement. All Sir George’s 
 beautiful pictures are there, and if I can find time to copy 
 the little Claude, evidently a study from nature, 1 it will 
 
 1 Now in the National Gallery. This picture he mentions again 
 as “ The Little Grove.” 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 94 
 
 much help me. Sir George will not possess these things 
 longer than until a room can be got ready, at the British 
 Museum, to receive them. After my delightful visit to you, 
 I should have been content. But Sir George so much desired 
 to see me, and is such a friend to art, that I thought it a duty 
 to myself to go. . . . I want to get back to my easel in town, 
 and not to witness the rotting, melancholy dissolution of the 
 trees which two months ago were so beautiful. I must talk 
 to you about Coxe’s Life of Correggio ; he has made such 
 confusion and nonsense about art, with the letter of A. 
 Caracci, and the letter itself is so beautiful.” 
 
 “ To Mrs. Constable. Cole-Orton Hall, October 24th. 
 My very dear love. I hasten to fulfil my promise of writing 
 to you on my arrival here, though Sir George and Lady 
 Beaumont wish me to defer it to another day, as he wants 
 me in his painting-room. ... 0 dear! this is a lovely 
 
 place indeed, and I only want you with me to make my 
 happiness complete. Such grounds, such trees, such dis- 
 tances, and all seems arranged to be seen from the various 
 windows of the house. All looks like fairyland.” 
 
 “ I wish you to write to Mrs. Whalley, she will take it 
 sisterly and kind. Tell her what an adventure I had at 
 Leicester, as I was determined not to go by without seeing 
 Alicia. 1 I did not choose to dine at Northampton, but 
 counted much on tea at Leicester. Just as it was made, and 
 almost poured out, I ran to Miss Lin wood’s, and found that 
 she and all her young ladies were at the theatre (about half- 
 past eight). Thither I hastened, saw Alicia, — shook hands, 
 kissed her, — she looked delightfully, — her hair curled and 
 beautifully parted on her fair round forehead, — her cheeks 
 rosy, owing to being so surprised, — her chin dimpled, and her 
 teeth beautifully white. Saw three strange figures on the 
 stage, who had just ended a strange song, — the audience were 
 all clapping their hands, and all this took place in half a 
 minute. Hastened back to the inn to finish my tea, — party 
 broken up, — coach driving off, — and myself nearly left 
 behind. Will not this amuse her? Copy it, and your 
 letter will be almost formed. 
 
 “ Only think, I am now writing in a room full of Claudes 
 (not Glovers, but real Claudes), Wilsons, and Poussins. But 
 I think of you and am sad in the midst of all. And my 
 1 Mrs. Whalley’s daughter, who was at school at Leicester. 
 
Cole-Orton Hall 
 
 95 
 
 ducks, — my darling Isabel, my Charley boy, my Minna, and 
 my dear, dear John. J. C.” 
 
 “ Cole-Orton Hall, November 2nd. My very dear Fisher. 
 Your letter is delightful, and its coming here serves to help 
 me in the estimation of Sir George and Lady Beaumont. 
 Nothing can be more kind, and in every possible way more 
 obliging than they both are to me. I am left entirely to do 
 as I like, with full range over the whole house, in which I 
 may saturate myself with art; only on condition of letting 
 them do as they like. I have copied one of the small Claudes ; 
 a breezy sunrise, a most pathetic picture . 1 Perhaps a 
 sketch would have served my present purpose, but I wished 
 for a more lasting remembrance of it; and a sketch of a 
 picture is only like seeing it in one view; it will not serve 
 to drink at again and again. I have likewise begun the 
 little grove by Claude; a noon-day scene ‘ which warms and 
 cheers, but which does not inflame or irritate.’ Through 
 the depths of the trees are seen a waterfall, and a ruined 
 temple, and a solitary shepherd is piping to some goats and 
 sheep. 
 
 4 In closing shades and where the current strays, 
 
 Pipes the lone shepherd to his feeding flocks.’ 
 
 I draw in the evening, and Lady, or Sir George Beaumont 
 reads aloud. Sir George has known intimately many per- 
 sons of talent of the last half century, and is full of anecdote. 
 This is a magnificent country, abounding in the picturesque. 
 The bell is now going for church. Sir George and Lady 
 Beaumont never miss, morning and evening every Sunday, 
 and have family prayers. ... In the breakfast room hang 
 four Claudes, a Cozens, and a Swaneveldt; the sun glows 
 on them as it sets. In the dark recesses of the gardens, and 
 at the end of one of the walks, is a cenotaph erected to the 
 memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and on it some beautiful 
 lines by Wordsworth. There is a magnificent view from 
 the terrace over a mountainous region, and there is a 
 winter garden, the thought taken by Sir George from The 
 Spectator .” 2 
 
 1 The “ Cephalus and Procris,” another of Sir George Beaumont’s 
 valuable gifts to the National Gallery. 
 
 8 Wilkie, who, in company with Mr. Haydon, visited Cole-Orton 
 Hall in August, 1809, thus describes the house and its situation. 
 “ Dance, who designed it, has acquitted himself well. We found it 
 most spacious and magnificent. We entered first through a large 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 96 
 
 “ To Mrs. Constable, November 2nd. The weather has 
 been bad, but I do not at all regret being confined to this 
 house. The mail did not arrive yesterday till many hours 
 after the time, owing to some trees being blown down, and 
 the waters out. ... I am now going to breakfast before 
 the ‘ Narcissus ’ of Claude. How enchanting and lovely it is; 
 far, very far surpassing any other landscape I ever beheld. 
 Write to me. Kiss and love my darlings. I hope my stay 
 will not exceed this week.” 
 
 In one of his letters from Cole-Orton to his wife, Constable 
 says, “ Sir George rises at seven, walks in the garden before 
 breakfast, and rides out about two, fair or foul. We have 
 had breakfast at half-past eight, but to-day we began at 
 the winter hour, nine. We do not quit the breakfast-table 
 directly, but chat a little about the pictures in the room. 
 We then go to the painting-room, and Sir George most 
 manfully sets to work, and I by his side. At two the horses 
 are brought to the door. I have had an opportunity of 
 seeing the ruins of Ashby, the mountain stream and rocks 
 (such Everdingens) at Grace Dieu, and an old convent there, 
 Lord Ferrars’, a grand, but melancholy spot. At dinner we 
 do not sit long; Lady Beaumont reads the newspaper ( The 
 Herald) to us, and then to the drawing-room to tea, and 
 after that comes a great treat; I am furnished with some 
 portfolios full of beautiful drawings or prints, and Sir George 
 reads a play in a manner the most delightful. On Saturday 
 evening it was ‘As You Like It/ and I never heard the 
 £ seven ages ’ so admirably read before. Last evening, Sun- 
 day, he read a sermon, and a good deal of Wordsworth’s 
 ‘ Excursion.’ Some of the landscape descriptions in it are 
 very beautiful. About nine, the servant comes in with a 
 little fruit, and a decanter of water, and at eleven we go to 
 bed. I always find a fire in my room, and make out about 
 
 portico into the lobby which leads into a splendid hall lighted from 
 the ceiling. Round the hall is a suite of rooms fitted up in the most 
 -elegant manner. The rooms above are chiefly bedrooms, while at the 
 top of all is the painting room of Sir George himself. . . . The country 
 around is picturesque and rather richly wooded; and as we have the 
 advantage of seeing it from an eminence, the distance softens it to the 
 eye, and helps to render it less rugged than any other part of the 
 country we came through between this and London.” Wilkie also 
 speaks of a ruined abbey in the neighbourhood, rendered interesting 
 by being the birthplace of Beaumont who wrote in conjunction with 
 Fletcher, and whose brother was an ancester of Sir George. 
 
Cole-Orton Hall 
 
 97 
 
 an hour longer, as I have everything here, writing desk, 
 etc., and I grudge a moment’s unnecessary sleep in this 
 place. You would laugh to see my bedroom; I have dragged 
 so many things into it, books, portfolios, prints, canvases, 
 pictures, etc.” 
 
 “ November 9th. How glad I was, my dear love, to receive 
 your last kind letter, giving a good account of yourself and 
 our dear babies. . . . Nothing shall, I hope, prevent my 
 seeing you this week; indeed I am quite nervous about my 
 absence, and shall soon begin to feel alarmed about the 
 exhibition. ... I do not wonder at your being jealous of 
 Claude. If anything could come between our love, it is 
 him. I am fast advancing a beautiful little copy of his study 
 from nature of a little grove scene. If you, my dearest love, 
 will be so good as to make yourself happy without me for 
 this week, it will, I hope, be long before we part again. 
 But, believe me, I shall be the better for this visit as long 
 as I live. Sir George is never angry, or pettish, or peevish, 
 and though he loves painting so much, it does not harass 
 him. You will like me a great deal better than you did. 
 To-morrow Southey is coming, with his wife and daughter. 
 I know you would be sorry if I were not to stay and meet 
 him, he is such a friend of Gooch’s; but the Claudes, the 
 Claudes, are all, all, I can think of here. . . . The weather 
 is so bad that I can scarcely see out of the window, but 
 Friday was lovely. I shall hardly be able to make you a 
 sketch of the house, but I shall bring much, though in little 
 compass, to show you. . . . Thursday was Sir George’s 
 birthday. Sixty-nine, and married almost half a century. 
 The servants had a ball, and I was lulled to sleep by a 
 fiddle.” 
 
 “ November 1 8th. My dearest love, . . . I was very glad 
 to hear a very nice account of you and my dear babies. 
 
 . . . I shall finish my little Claude on Thursday; and then 
 I shall have something to do to some of Sir George’s pictures, 
 that will take a day or two more, and then home. ... I 
 sent you a hasty shabby line by Southey, but all that morn- 
 ing I had been engaged on a little sketch in Miss Southey’s 
 album, of this house, which pleased all parties here, very 
 much. Sir George is loath to part with me. He would have 
 me pass Christmas with him, and has named a small com- 
 mission which he wished me to execute here, but I have 
 
 G 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 98 
 
 declined it, as I am so desirous to return. Sir George is 
 very kind, and I have no doubt, meant this little picture to 
 pay my expenses. I have worked so hard in the house, 
 that I never went out of the door last week, so that I am 
 getting quite nervous. But I am sure my visit here will 
 be ultimately of the greatest advantage to me; and I could 
 not be better employed to the advantage of all of us by its 
 making me so much more of an artist. . . . The breakfast 
 bell rings. I now hasten to finish, as the boy waits. I really 
 think seeing the habits of this house will be of service to me 
 as long as I live. Everything so punctual. Sir George 
 never looks into his painting-room on a Sunday, nor trusts 
 himself with a portfolio. Never is impatient. Always rides 
 or walks for an hour or two, at two o’clock; so will I with 
 you, if it is only into the square. I amuse myself, every 
 evening, making sketches from Sir George’s drawings about 
 Dedham, etc. I could not carry all his sketch books. . . . 
 I wish I had not cut myself out so much to do here, — but I 
 was greedy with the Claudes.” 
 
 In his next letter to his wife, Constable deplores the 
 facility with which he allowed his time to be consumed by 
 loungers in his painting-room, an evil his good nature to 
 the last entailed on him. Mrs. Constable in one of her 
 
 letters had said, “ Mr. was here nearly an hour on 
 
 Saturday, reading the paper, and talking to himself. I hope 
 
 you will not admit him so often. Mr. , another lounger, 
 
 has been here once or twice.” 
 
 “ Cole-Orton Hall, November 21st. My dearest love, I am 
 as heart-sick as ever you can be at my long absence from 
 you, and all our dear darlings, but which is now fast draw- 
 ing to a close. In fact, my greediness for pictures made me 
 cut out for myself much more work than I ought to have 
 undertaken at this time. One of the Claudes would have 
 been all that I wanted, but I could not get at that first, and 
 I had been here a fortnight before I began it. To-day it 
 will be done, with perhaps a little touch on Saturday morning. 
 I have then an old picture to fill up some holes in. But I 
 fear I shall not be able to get away on Saturday, though I 
 hope nothing shall prevent me on Monday. I can hardly 
 believe I have not seen you or my Isabel, or my Charley, 
 for five weeks. Yesterday there was another very high 
 wind, and such a splendid evening as I never before beheld, 
 
Cole-Orton Hall 
 
 99 
 
 at this time of the year. Was it so with you? But in 
 London nothing is to be seen, worth seeing, in the natural 
 way. 
 
 “ I certainly will not allow of such serious interruptions as 
 I used to do, from people who devour my time, brains, and 
 everything else. Sir George says it is quite serious and 
 alarming. Let me have a letter on Sunday, my last day 
 here, as I want to be made comfortable on my journey, 
 which will be long and tiresome, and I shall be very nervous 
 as I get near home; therefore, pray let me have a good 
 account of you all. I believe some great folks are coming 
 here in December, which Sir George dreads, as they so much 
 interfere with his painting habits; for no artist can be fonder 
 of the art.” 
 
 “ November 25th. My very dearest love, I hope nothing 
 will prevent my leaving this place to-morrow afternoon, and 
 that I shall have you in my arms on Thursday morning, and 
 my babies ; 0 dear ! how glad I shall be. I feel that I have 
 been at school , and can only hope that my long absence from 
 you may ultimately be to my great and lasting improvement 
 as an artist, and indeed, in everything. If you have any 
 friends staying with you, I beg you will dismiss them before 
 my arrival.” 
 
 Though Sir George Beaumont and Constable agreed, 
 generally, in their opinions of the old masters, yet their 
 tastes differed materially on some points of art, and their 
 discourse never languished for want of “ an animated no.” 
 A constant communion with pictures, the tints of which are 
 subdued by time, no doubt tends to unfit the eye for the 
 enjoyment of freshness; and Sir George thought Constable 
 too daring in the modes he adopted to obtain this quality; 
 while Constable saw that Sir George often allowed himself 
 to be deceived by the effects of time, of accident, and by 
 the tricks that are, far oftener than is generally supposed, 
 played by dealers, to give mellowness to pictures; and, in 
 these matters, each was disposed to set the other right. Sir 
 George had placed a small landscape by Gaspar Poussin on 
 his easel, close to a picture he was painting, and said, “ Now, 
 if I can match these tints I am sure to be right.” “ But 
 suppose, Sir George,” replied Constable, “ Gaspar could rise 
 from his grave, do you think he would know his own picture 
 in its present state ? or if he did, should we not find it difh- 
 
IOO 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 cult to persuade him that somebody had not smeared tar 
 or cart grease over its surface, and then wiped it imperfectly 
 off ? ” At another time, Sir George recommended the colour 
 of an old Cremona fiddle for the prevailing tone of every- 
 thing, and this Constable answered by laying an old fiddle on 
 the green lawn before the house. Again, Sir George, who 
 seemed to consider the autumnal tints necessary, at least to 
 some part of a landscape, said, “ Do you not find it very 
 difficult to determine where to place your brown tree ? ” 
 And the reply was, “ Not in the least, for I never put such a 
 thing into a picture.” But however opposite in these re- 
 spects their opinions were, and although Constable well knew 
 that Sir George did not appreciate his works, — the intelli- 
 gence, the wit, and the fascinating and amiable manner of 
 the Baronet had gained his heart, and a sincere and lasting 
 friendship subsisted between them. 
 
 During his visit to Cole-Orton, besides his admirable 
 copies of the Claudes, he made a sketch from a landscape 
 by Rubens, a large sketch of the front of the house, and a 
 drawing of the cenotaph erected to Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 Constable had never been, nor was he ever again, so long 
 separated from his wife and children, as on this occasion; 
 and his anxiety to return, and at the same time, his wish to 
 complete the copies he undertook at Cole-Orton, confined 
 him so much to his easel that the visit proved an injury 
 instead of a benefit to his health. 
 
 “ Salisbury, December 12th. My dear Constable, ... I 
 know not how to advise you for the exhibition. ‘ The Water- 
 loo ’ depends entirely on the polish and finish given to it. 
 If I were the painter of it, I would always have it on my 
 easel, and work at it for five years, a touch a day. 
 
 “ The great storm played destruction at Gillingham. It 
 blew down two of my great elms, bent another to an angle 
 of forty-five degrees with the ground, and stripped a third 
 of all its branches, leaving only one standing entire. This I 
 have taken down, and your wood exists only in your sketches. 
 The great elm in the middle of the turf is spared. 
 
 “ Southey is a friend of the establishment: but in one 
 point I think him (with diffidence) wrong. He would adopt 
 the Methodist preacher into the church as an inferior servant. 
 This was the very cause of the corruptions and downfall of 
 the Roman Catholic establishment. For the sake of peace 
 
IOI 
 
 Southey and the Church 
 
 and unity they adopted enthusiasts, received their errors 
 into the creeds of the church, and then had to defend them. 
 You cannot make use of the men without receiving their 
 opinions. 
 
 “ Varley is here teaching drawing to the young ladies. 
 
 ‘ Principles ,’ he says, ‘ are the thing. The warm grey , the 
 cold grey , and the round touch? John Fisher.” 
 
 “ December 18th. My dear Fisher. Your kind and wel- 
 come letter, as usual, breathes nothing but good humour, 
 friendship, and understanding. I wanted just such a one; 
 as almost, from the time of my return, I have been laid 
 up and am quite disabled by pains in the bones of my head 
 and face, probably originating in the teeth. It began at 
 Gillingham. However, they have condemned one this 
 morning, who though not the principal, was still an acces- 
 sory before the fact. Perhaps I may look for some ease, but 
 I have lived on suction for the last fortnight. ... I shall 
 now turn to your letter to see what requires noticing. 
 
 “ First. I am settled for the exhibition. My ‘ Waterloo ’ 
 must be done, and one other; perhaps one of Tinney’s, 
 4 Dedham,’ but more probably my ‘ Lock.’ I must visit 
 Gillingham again for a subject for the other next summer. 
 
 “ Second. How much I regret the grove at the bottom of 
 your garden. This has really vexed me. I had promised 
 myself passing the summer hours in its shade. 
 
 “ Third. I am glad the great elm is safe. 
 
 “ Fourth. What you say of Southey is wise, just, moder- 
 ate, and undeniable. Though he can say much, he cannot 
 gainsay that short sentence of yours. It marks you master 
 of your own profession; and every hour’s experience proves 
 to me that no man, not educated, from his early youth, to 
 a profession, can fully and justly enter into it.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 1824 
 
 Letter from Sir George Beaumont. Picture of “ The Opening of Water- 
 loo Bridge.” Lady Paintress. Sale of two large Pictures to a 
 Frenchman. Picture of a “ Lock on the Stour.” Description of 
 Brighton. Mr. Phillips. J. Dunthorne, Jun. Venetian Secret 
 discovered by a Lady. Mr. Ottley. Washington Irving. Note 
 from Mr. Brockedon. Archibald Constable. French Criticisms 
 on Constable’s Pictures. 
 
 “To John Constable, Esq. Dear Sir, I am very sorry to 
 hear you have been so unwell since your visit to Cole-Orton, 
 and am afraid it arose from too intense application. You 
 must do me the justice to tell Mrs. Constable, that I never 
 failed daily proposing riding or walking. I am quite sure 
 artists save time in the end, by allowing the necessary 
 interruptions for air and exercise. However, now it is over, 
 I hope it will be a warning, and in the meantime, I must say 
 your time was not passed unprofitably, and your industry 
 has acquainted you with many of the arcana of Claude’s 
 mysterious and magical practice. I thank you for the 
 trouble you have taken in sending my colours, etc., and 
 finally, wish you success in the application of the result of 
 your studies. I hope you feel no remains of your illness, 
 and will go on merrily with your preparations for Somerset 
 House; but remember, air and exercise, or you may be 
 interrupted. At all events, it must injure you in the long 
 run, for I am convinced that many artists bring on various 
 complaints, and shorten their lives from inattention to this 
 point. It does not surprise me to hear that Sir Thomas 
 Lawrence has delivered an excellent discourse, and it adds 
 to my pleasure to hear that it is to be printed, and also that 
 with his usual liberality of feeling and good taste, he has 
 spoken in high terms of Mr. West. I beg my compliments 
 to Mrs. Constable, and request her to inform you from me, 
 with her influence superadded, that unless you take more 
 air and exercise, you will never reach my age. I remain, 
 my dear sir, with every good wish, truly yours, G. Beaumont. 
 
 102 
 
“ Waterloo Bridge ” 103 
 
 Cole-Orton Hall, January 6th, 1824. How are your copies 
 approved? ” 
 
 Whatever good effects Sir George’s advice may have 
 produced, were not lasting, for Constable never adhered to 
 any plan of regular exercise. In town, he was often obliged 
 to quit his easel; but even when called out, so constantly 
 was his attention drawn to passing objects, that he loitered 
 rather than walked, and his pace could scarcely be quickened 
 into exercise, unless he was late for some appointment. 
 
 A letter to Constable from the Bishop of Salisbury, dated 
 January 6th, enclosing a draft, concludes thus, “ Our new 
 year opens under many pleasing circumstances; fine weather, 
 returning plenty, public quiet, and the appearance of general 
 peace. May you and yours have many happy returns of 
 such a year.” 
 
 “ January 17th. My dear Fisher, The Frenchman who 
 was after my large picture of ‘ The Hay Cart ’ last year, is 
 here again. He would, I believe, have both that and * The 
 Bridge,’ if he could get them at his own price. I showed 
 him your letter, and told him of my promise to you. His 
 object is to make a show of them at Paris, perhaps to my 
 advantage. I should like to advise with you about the large 
 ‘ Waterloo; ’ it is a work that should not be hurried. I am 
 engaged on my upright * Lock,’ and I hope, one of Tinney’s 
 new ones. I only want to work harder to be comfortable. 
 My success in life seems pretty certain, but no man can get 
 much by study, and the labour of his own hands.” 
 
 “ January 18th. My dear Constable. Thurtell said, 1 — 
 but, perhaps, you are as sick of his name as you were of the 
 queen’s, so we will change the subject. . . . Let your ‘ Hay 
 Cart ’ go to'Paris by all means. I am too much pulled down 
 by the agricultural distress to hope to possess it. I would, 
 I think, let it go at less than its price for the sake of the 
 eclat it may give you. The stupid English public, which 
 has no judgment of its own, will begin to think there is 
 something in you if the French make your works national 
 property. You have long lain under a mistake; men do 
 not purchase pictures because they admire them, but because 
 others covet them. . . . 
 
 *' Did you know the fact in natural history that rooks 
 
 1 This is a humorous hit at the importance attached to everything 
 said or done by a convicted murderer. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 104 
 
 prefer to build in elm trees before all others, and that they 
 seldom or never frequent chesnuts? When we were felling 
 our elms at Gillingham, some rooks flew over and were 
 clamorous. Whether deprecating our work of destruction 
 or not, I cannot tell. 
 
 “ In the new novel attributed to Sir Walter Scott (St. 
 Ronan’s Well,) is the following passage. ‘ There are very 
 well bred artists, said Lady Penelope, it is the profession of 
 a gentleman.’ — ‘ Certainly, answered Lady Binks; but the 
 poorer class have often to struggle with poverty and depen- 
 dence. In general society, they are like commercial people 
 in presence of their customers; and that is a difficult part to 
 sustain. And so you see them of all sorts — shy and reserved, 
 when they are conscious of merit — petulant and whimsical, 
 by way of showing their independence — intrusive in order to 
 appear easy — and sometimes obsequious and fawning, when 
 they chance to be of a mean spirit.’ Are either you or 
 acquainted with Sir Walter Scott? 
 
 “I am shut up in lodgings here, — the walls covered with 
 old masters. I suffer like the martyrs of old, who had their 
 eyes put out with hot brazen basins, held before their faces. 
 But I am relieved by one picture which I guess to be a 
 genuine Vanderhayden. Is not that the name of the man 
 who painted brick buildings so minutely? It is very true 
 and delicate, and with pretty light and shadow, but the sky 
 looks as if it had been touched up. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ January 22nd. My dear Fisher, ... I have done the 
 little ‘ Waterloo,’ a small balloon to let off as a forerunner of 
 the large one. ...” 
 
 Mr. Fisher in a letter dated “ Weymouth, February 
 12 th,” says, “ I beg to congratulate you on the appearance 
 of your name in the newspapers. Do not despise them too 
 much. They cannot give fame, but they attend on her. 
 Smoke gives notice that the house is on fire. I shall be in 
 town Wednesday or Thursday next.” 
 
 “ April 15th. My dear Fisher, I have been for some 
 time desirous of writing to you, but I was never more fully 
 bent on any picture than that on which you left me engaged. 
 It is gone to its audit, and my friends tell me it is my best; 
 it is a good subject, and an admirable instance of the pic- 
 turesque. I hear there are some fine pictures this year at 
 the Academy, from some of the old, as well as some of the new 
 
A Lady Paintress 105 
 
 Academicians. On Saturday I shall go for a few days into 
 Suffolk; I wish to see what they are about, and Lady Dysart 
 wants me to look at the woods which she has given into 
 the care of my brother, that I may bring a report to her, 
 as he cannot leave them. I have had the Frenchman again 
 with me; we have agreed as to price, two hundred and fifty 
 pounds the pair, and I give him a small picture of ‘ Yarmouth ’ 
 into the bargain.” 
 
 “ I dined the other day with , to be introduced 
 
 to a lady paintress, ‘ with whom I should be much pleased.’ 
 I found a laughing, ignorant, fat, uncouth old woman; but 
 very good-natured; and she gave me no trouble, as she 
 wanted no instruction from me. When she told me of an 
 oil proper for painting, I told her it would not do, but she 
 assured me it would, and that she could give me no greater 
 proof of it, than that one of her pictures was painted entirely 
 with it.” 
 
 Constable exhibited but one picture this year. “ A Boat 
 passing a Lock.” — The scene of this subject is close to Flat- 
 ford Mill, and was often painted by him from different 
 points of view. An early picture of it, in which the lock is 
 on the right of the foreground, forms one of the most 
 complete subjects of the English Landscape. The little 
 wooden bridge, a principal feature in the engraving entitled 
 the “ River Stour, Suffolk,” is here introduced at a greater 
 distance, with the whole of the picturesque cottage near it. 
 
 “ May 8th. Dear Fisher, I have just deposited my picture 
 in its place, and opposite, and as a companion to one by 
 
 Mrs. - 1 To what honours are some men born! My 
 
 Frenchman has sent his agent with the money for the pic- 
 tures; they are now ready, and look uncommonly well, 
 and I think they cannot fail to melt the stony hearts of the 
 French painters. Think of the lovely valleys and peaceful 
 farm-houses of Suffolk forming part of an exhibition to 
 amuse the gay Parisians. My * Lock 5 is liked at the Academy, 
 and indeed it forms a decided feature, and its light cannot 
 be put out, because it is the light of nature, the mother of 
 all that is valuable in poetry, painting, or anything else 
 where an appeal to the soul is required. The language 
 of the heart is the only one that is universal; and Sterne 
 says, he disregards all rules, but makes his way to the heart 
 1 The lady described in the last letter. 
 
106 Life of Constable 
 
 as he can. But my execution annoys most of them, and 
 all the scholastic ones. Perhaps the sacrifices I make for 
 lightness and brightness are too great, but these things are 
 the essence of landscape, and my extreme is better than 
 white-lead and oil, and dado painting. I sold this picture on 
 the day of the opening for one hundred and fifty guineas, 
 including the frame, to Mr. Morrison. I do hope my exer- 
 tions may tend towards popularity; but it is you who have 
 so long held my head above water. Although a good deal of 
 the devil is in me, I do think I should have been broken- 
 hearted before this time but for you. Indeed, it is worth 
 while to have gone through all I have for the hours and 
 thoughts we have had together. I am in high favour with 
 all the Seymour Street family, and I look continually back 
 to the great kindness shown to me in my early days, when it 
 was truly of value to me; for long I tottered on the threshold, 
 and floundered in the path, and there never was any young 
 man nearer being lost; but here I am, and I must now take 
 heed where I stand.” 
 
 “ Gillingham, May ioth. My dear Constable. I admire 
 your lion-like generosity in passing over my long silence 
 without vituperation. I am glad you did not ask me for a 
 reason, for I can assign none, except that I was always think- 
 ing of you, daily intending to write, and daily neglecting to 
 put my intention into execution. Your last letter is evi- 
 dently written in a tone of great exultation, and with reason. 
 Your fame and fortune are both advanced; and for both you 
 are indebted but to Providence and your own exertions. I 
 am not surprised that ‘ The Navigator ’ sold on a first 
 inspection; for it was one of your best pictures. The 
 purchase of your two great landscapes for Paris, is surely 
 a stride up three or four steps of the ladder of popularity. 
 English boobies, who dare not trust their own eyes, will 
 discover your merits when they find you admired at Paris. 
 We now must go there for a week. ... I generally leave you 
 wiser than I came to you, and some of your pithy apothegms 
 stick to my memory like a thorn, and give me a prick when I 
 fall a dozing. ‘ A man is always growing,’ you said, * either 
 upwards or downwards.’ I have been trying to grow 4 up- 
 wards ’ since we parted. When I consulted you about the 
 Lancastrian Sunday School in my parish, you advised me to 
 * be quiet and do all the good I could.’ I took your advice, 
 
Brighton 1 07 
 
 and the quakers have, unsolicited, dropped the offensive 
 rules. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “Gillingham, May nth. My dear Constable. . . . 
 They have had one or two smart brushes at the Church 
 in Parliament, but have been triumphantly defeated. One 
 member said, ‘ If half the industry had been used to bring 
 to light the good done by the clergy, which has been used 
 to malign them, the Church would need no defender.’ How- 
 ever, I am indifferent to such attacks. I am at my post, and 
 intend to be found at it, happen what will. The people 
 of this place are given to my charge, and I will discharge 
 the duty, with or without the tithes. What has become 
 of ‘Waterloo?’ I am ready to receive you at Salisbury 
 at any moment. Will you go with me on my visitation? 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ My dear Fisher, I have counted on the pleasure of seeing 
 Berkshire again with you, but that is not possible this year; 
 I have just now engaged to get seven pictures of a small 
 size ready for Paris by August. The large ones are to 
 be exhibited at the Louvre, and my purchasers say they are 
 much looked for at Paris. The director of the Academy 
 at Antwerp, Mr. Vanbree, has been here; he says they will 
 make an impression on the Continent. . . . The world is 
 rid of Lord Byron, but the deadly slime of his touch still 
 remains.” 
 
 “ Brighton, May 29th. The dignitary of the Church 
 seems to have forgotten the dignitary of the easel. ... I 
 am busy here, but I dislike the place, and miss any letter 
 from you. I am, however, getting on with my French 
 affairs; one of the largest is quite complete, and is my best 
 in sparkle with repose, which is my struggle just now. 
 Brighton is the receptacle of the fashion and off-scouring 
 of London. The magnificence of the sea, and its, to use 
 your own beautiful expression, ‘ everlasting voice,’ is drowned 
 in the din and tumult of stage coaches, gigs, flys, etc., and the 
 beach is only Piccadilly or worse by the seaside. Ladies 
 dressed and undressed; gentlemen in morning-gowns and 
 slippers, or without them or anything else, about knee deep 
 in the breakers; footmen, children, nursery-maids, dogs, 
 boys, fishermen, and Preventive Service men with hangers 
 and pistols; rotten fish, and those hideous amphibious 
 animals, the old bathing-women, whose language, both in 
 
108 Life of Constable 
 
 oaths and voice, resembles men, all mixed together in endless 
 and indecent confusion. The genteeler part, or Marine 
 Parade, is still more unnatural, with its trimmed and neat 
 appearance, and the dandy jetty or Chain Pier, with its 
 long and elegant strides into the sea a full quarter of a mile.” 
 (Here the writing is interrupted by a sketch.) “ In short, 
 there is nothing here for a painter but the breakers and the 
 sky, which have been lovely indeed, and always varying. 1 
 The fishing-boats here are not so picturesque as the Hastings 
 boats; the difference is this.” (Here a sketch.) “ But 
 these subjects are so hacknied in the Exhibition, and are 
 indeed so little capable of the beautiful sentiment that 
 belongs to landscape, that they have done a great deal of 
 harm. They form a class of art much easier than landscape, 
 and have, in consequence, almost supplanted it. While in 
 the fields, for I am at the west of this city, and quite out 
 of it, I met with a most intelligent and elegant-minded man, 
 Mr. Phillips. We became intimate, and he contributes 
 much to our pleasure here. He is a botanist, and all his works 
 on Natural History are instructive and entertaining, calcu- 
 lated for children of all ages; his History of Trees is delightful. 
 We are at No. 9, Mrs. Sober’s Gardens, so called from Mrs. 
 Sober, the lady of the manor; she has built a chapel; and 
 a man who was taken before the magistrates quite drunk, 
 when asked what he was, said he was ‘ one of Mrs. Sober’s 
 congregation.’ Last Tuesday, the finest day that ever was, 
 we went to the Dyke, which is, in fact, the remains of a 
 Roman encampment, overlooking one of the grandest 
 natural landscapes in the world, and consequently a scene 
 the most unfit for a picture. It is the business of a painter 
 not to contend with nature, and put such a scene, a valley 
 filled with imagery fifty miles long, on a canvas of a few 
 inches ; but to make something out of nothing, in attempting 
 which, he must almost of necessity become poetical; but 
 you understand all this better than I. My wife and children 
 are delightfully well.” 
 
 In June, Constable returned to London with young 
 Dunthorne, leaving his family at Brighton. While in town, 
 
 1 On the back of one of Constable’s oil sketches made in the summer 
 of this year at the west end of Brighton, is written, “ The neighbour- 
 hood of Brighton consists of London cow-fields, and hideous masses 
 of unfledged earth called the country.” 
 
His Diary 109 
 
 he kept a diary, which he sent at intervals to Mrs. Constable, 
 and from which the following are a few extracts: “ Wednes- 
 day, June 1 6th. ... A French gentleman and his wife 
 called; they were much pleased, could talk a little English, 
 and we got on very well. He ordered a little picture, and 
 wished to know if I would receive any commissions from 
 Paris, where he said I was much known and esteemed, and 
 if I would go there, the artists would receive me with great 
 eclat. He was delighted with Tinney’s picture, which now 
 looks very beautiful on the easel; it is of service to me to 
 have so good a work to show. Jackson told me that Lord 
 Fitzwilliam would certainly have bought my picture, if it 
 had not been sold to Mr. Morrison. Fisher called and dined. 
 Leslie called to ask me to pass the evening with him. He 
 staid to tea. Fisher and Leslie had a good deal of talk about 
 Washington Irving. A new book of his just out. Fisher 
 is quite pleased with Irving.” 
 
 “ June 2 1 st. . . . Collins called; he says I am a great 
 man at Paris, and that it is curious they speak there of only 
 three English artists, namely Wilkie, Lawrence, and Con- 
 stable. This sounds very grand. He was quite struck with 
 the look of Tinney’s picture. He hopes it will go to the 
 Gallery.” 
 
 “ June 22nd. . . . Had a letter from Paris. Mr. Arrow- 
 smith informed me of the safe arrival of my pictures, and 
 how much they were admired; he talks of coming again 
 the end of next month; I shall be ready for him; his letter 
 is flattering, but I have no wish to go to Paris.” 
 
 “ June 24th. called. He did not want to see me, 
 
 but had something to say to a man he had with him, and 
 if I would give him leave, would take him into the parlour. 
 — He easily makes himself at home.” 
 
 “ June 25th. After breakfast called on the bishop by his 
 wish. He had to tell me that he thought of my improving 
 the picture of the Cathedral, and mentioned many things. — 
 4 He hoped I would not take his observations amiss.’ I said, 
 ‘ Quite the contrary, as his lordship had been my kind 
 monitor for twenty-five years.’ I am to have it home 
 to-morrow. He says I must visit the colonel, 1 at Charleton, 
 this or next month, for a day or two. I do not wish it, as I 
 begin to be tired of going to school. The good bishop had 
 1 A relation of the bishop, an amateur landscape painter. 
 
I IO 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 been at Dedham, and found the wretched ’s all at 
 
 daggers drawn. He reconciled them, and insisted on their 
 shaking hands, which they did. Mr. Neave called this 
 evening about five. He is always the most agreeable person 
 in the world. He was quite astonished at the picture on the 
 easel (Tinney’s) and hoped I would always keep to the 
 picturesque, and those scenes in which I am * so entirely 
 original. 5 Mrs. Hand tells me that Owen always speaks so 
 very highly of me, in every way, that it is quite delightful. 55 
 
 “ June 28th. F. Collins called to ask me to a party; but 
 Sir George Beaumont had sent me tickets for the British 
 Institution this evening, and I thought it would be a treat 
 to Johnny Dunthome to see so many fine ladies. 55 
 
 “ June 30th. Sir George Beaumont called to know if I 
 would undertake a singular commission. There is a lady 
 who has devoted herself to the discovery of what is called 
 the Venetian secret of colouring. She has been at it these 
 twenty years, and has at length written to the Secretary of 
 State to desire proper trials may be made of it by some 
 eminent artists. Sir George asked me to try it, saying I 
 should be paid for my time, etc., and thinking that as the 
 lady is now at Brighton, it might not be inconvenient to me. 
 I shall see him again to-morrow; the lady’s name I forget. 55 
 
 “ July 1 st. I am glad to find the lady who has discovered 
 the Venetian secret declines submitting it to any one artist. 
 She wants the governors of the British Institution to send 
 many artists, and to offer very high premiums for their 
 success, so Sir George hopes there will be an end of it. Mrs. 
 
 saw the Exhibition, and was delighted with my picture, 
 
 which, she says, ‘ flatters the spot, but does not belie nature. 5 55 
 
 “ July 2nd. Received a letter from the Institution offering 
 prizes for the best sketches and pictures of the Battles of 
 the Nile and Trafalgar; it does not concern me. 55 
 
 “ July 3rd. Mr. Ottley called this morning. I was intro- 
 duced to him by Sir George Beaumont. He was much 
 pleased, and stayed a long time, and looked at a good many 
 things. He is more of a connoisseur than an artist, and 
 therefore full of objections. A good undoer, but little of a 
 doer, and with no originality of mind. He invited me to 
 drink tea with him. — Mr. Appleton, the tub-maker, of 
 Tottenham Court Road, called to know if I had a damaged 
 picture which I could let him have cheap, as he is fitting up 
 
French Criticisms 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 a room up one pair of stairs. . . . Went to tea with Mr. 
 Ottley. Saw some beautiful prints. Such a collection of 
 Waterloo’s etchings, I never saw. There was also an abun- 
 dance of his own things, which gave me a great deal of pain; 
 so laborious, so tasteless, and so useless, but very plausible. 
 They were all of the single leaf, 1 and chiefly laurels, weeds, 
 hops, grapes, and bell vines ; and ten thousand of them. He 
 is a very clever writer and a good man. He says he has lost 
 a great deal by his publications on art.” 
 
 “ July 7th. Took tea with Rochard. The Chalons and 
 Newton there. A pleasant evening. Saw in a newspaper 
 on the table, a paragraph mentioning the arrival of my 
 pictures in Paris. They have caused a stir, and the French 
 critics by profession are very angry with the artists for 
 admiring them. All this is amusing enough, but they can- 
 not get at me on this side of the water, and I shall not go 
 there.” 
 
 “ July ioth. Dressed to go to Leslie’s to dinner. It is a 
 very fit house for an artist, but sadly out of the way. But it 
 is quite in the country. Willes and Newton there. After 
 dinner took a walk in the fields and to the new church, St. 
 John’s Wood, where my poor uncle, David Pike Watts, is 
 buried. Saw the tomb. A lovely evening.” 
 
 In another part of this journal, Constable describes the 
 familiarity of some of his neighbour’s pigeons. They came 
 into a room where John Dunthome was working, and 
 perched on the easel; and he continues: “Mary Constable 
 told me a funny story of one of her swans and a duck that 
 had young ones. He poked his long neck towards some of 
 her brood, and she attacked him with fury, and after a great 
 to-do, and splashing, and noise, and hissing, and flapping 
 of wings, she drove him off, and rode away in triumph on 
 his back.” 
 
 “ Brighton, July 18th. My dear Fisher, I have often 
 attempted to write to you, but in London I have so many 
 occupations and interruptions, that I was glad to put it off 
 ’till I arrived here, whither I am come to seek some quiet 
 with my family. ... I have formed a plan of receiving 
 no commission under twenty guineas, however small, as the 
 picture must be complete, and the subject as good as one on 
 
 1 He means that every single leaf was drawn without attention to 
 the masses. 
 
I I 2 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 a six-foot canvas. We have received a letter from the wise 
 men of the Institution; they offer a good thing; it is to 
 receive some pictures from living artists which are in private 
 hands, to form an Exhibition next year instead of the old 
 masters. I have to beg that Tinney’s picture may be one, 
 and as it is already in my possession, it is convenient. . . . 
 The French critics have begun with me, and that in the 
 usual way, by comparison with what has been done. They 
 are angry with the artists for admiring these pictures, which 
 they ‘ shall now proceed to examine,’ etc. They acknow- 
 ledge the effect to be ‘ rich and powerful, and that the whole 
 has the look of nature, and the colour, their chief excellence, 
 to be true and harmonious; but shall we admire works so 
 unusual for these excellencies alone ? what then is to become 
 of the great Poussin? ’ They then caution the younger 
 artists to * beware of the seduction of these English works.’ 
 All this comes of being regular critics. The execution of 
 my pictures, I know, is singular, but I like that rule of 
 Sterne’s, * Never mind the dogmas of the schools, but get 
 at the heart as you can; ’ and it is evident something like 
 this has been attained, by the impression these pictures have 
 made on most people who have seen them here and abroad. 
 
 I have the paper, and will send it to you. I am planning 
 some large landscape, but I have no inclination to pursue my 
 ‘ Waterloo ’; I am impressed with a notion that it will ruin 
 me. I want to see you at Salisbury, but how or when, I 
 know not. I am looking for a month’s quiet here, and have 
 brought with me several works to complete. What a bless- 
 ing it is thus to be able to carry my profession with me. 
 My wife is much better and stronger for the change.” 
 
 Constable’s youngest brother, Mr. Abram Constable, with 
 whom he kept up a constant correspondence, in a letter dated 
 August 2nd, says: “ I fully coincide in your opinion of John 
 Dunthome. He is certainly the most extraordinary young 
 man within my knowledge. So clever, so active, so inno- 
 cent, — ’tis marvellous. I assure you I had not overlooked 
 his conduct. . . . Johnny has made every inquiry about 
 the elm called ‘ Buck’s elm,’ and no intention is entertained 
 of its coming down at present; but a look-out shall be kept 
 to prevent it, if possible. ’Tis of no value when down, and 
 I hope that circumstance will prevent it. . . . John Dun- 
 thome is too good to pass his life among dissolute workmen.” 
 
Washington Irving 1 1 3 
 
 Immediately on alighting from the coach after one of his 
 journeys either to or from Brighton, Constable made the 
 beautiful sketch from which the engraving in the English 
 Landscape , called, “ Summer, Afternoon after a Shower,” was 
 taken ; it was the recollection of an effect he had noticed near 
 Red Hill. 
 
 “ Gillingham, Shaftesbury, September 8th. My dear Con- 
 stable. ... You recollect, probably, a conversation we 
 had with Leslie respecting Washington Irving. I said that 
 Irving had not done justice to the present character of the 
 clergy. That they were a class of men who much admired 
 his works, and had literary reputation much at their dis- 
 posal. In his new work, the Tales of a Traveller, he has made 
 us ample amends. I copy the following from page 316, 
 vol. i. ‘ He was a good man: a worthy specimen of that 
 valuable body of our country clergy, who silently and un- 
 ostentatiously do a vast deal of good; who are, as it were, 
 woven into the whole system of rural life, and operate upon 
 it with the steady yet unobtrusive influence of temperate 
 piety and learned good sense.’ The rest of the volume is on 
 the same subject, and gives a pretty picture of the serene 
 tranquillity and decorum of a Cathedral city, and a most 
 amiable hint at the character of a Prebendary. Is this acci- 
 dent? — Take an opportunity to let Leslie know that the 
 compliment has not been lost on the body. ... I have a 
 great mind to dress up your description of Brighton and send 
 it to John Bull. It is an odious place. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ November 2nd. My very dear Fisher, I am determined 
 to write to you, though scarcely equal to it. . . . All my 
 indispositions have their source in my mind. It is when I 
 am restless and unhappy that I become susceptible of cold, 
 damp, heats, and such nonsense. I have not been well for 
 some weeks,* but I hope soon to get to work again. ...” 
 
 “ November 2nd. My dear Constable, Association of 
 ideas is sometimes very singular. What is there in common 
 between you and Alderman Wood ? and yet seeing his name 
 at the head of a paragraph in a newspaper, made me think 
 of you. I found that his son had been elected to some living 
 
 in the city, and that J. had been a rival candidate. 
 
 The name of J. called that of Constable to my mind 
 
 by an intimate association, and so I stole a few moments to 
 write to you on the spur of the recollection. — November 4th. 
 
 H 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 1 14 
 
 I had written thus far, when, yesterday, I received your 
 distressing letter. I was very sorry to perceive both from 
 the matter and the handwriting that you were very much 
 out of order. But I trust the cold weather, and your tem- 
 perate habits, will soon restore nature to her healthy action. 
 . . . Everybody has been ill. Abernethy says that there 
 is not a healthy man in London; such is the state of the 
 atmosphere and mode of life. ... I copy you a passage 
 from D’lsraeli’s Anecdotes , in the absence of news. £ In all 
 art, perfection lapses into that weakened state too often 
 dignified as classical imitation. It sinks into mannerism, 
 wantons into affectation, or shoots out into fantastic novel- 
 ties. When all languishes in a state of mediocrity, or is 
 deformed by false taste, then some fortunate genius has the 
 glory of restoring another golden age of invention.’ History 
 of the Caracci. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ November 13th. My dear Constable. This moist muggy 
 weather seems to have deranged everybody; and among 
 others, your humble servant. I have been, as the old 
 women say, ‘ quite poorly,’ this last week, and not equal to 
 the energy of a letter. ... I hope you will diversify your 
 subject this year as to time of day. Thomson, you know, 
 wrote not four Summers, but four Seasons. People get 
 tired of mutton at top, mutton at bottom, and mutton at the 
 side, though of the best flavour and smallest size. When you 
 write again, give us a little history of your wife and children. 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, November 17th. My dear Fisher, 
 Thank you for your letter of yesterday. . . . John Dun- 
 thorne is here ; he cheers and helps me so much that I 
 could wish to have him always with me; he forwards me a 
 good deal in subordinate parts, such as tracing, squaring, 
 etc. This morning a gentleman called on me who has nine 
 telescopes; you may judge how thick they soon got; 1 it is 
 John’s forte, he is to see them to-morrow. I am planning 
 a large picture, and I regard all you say; but I do not enter 
 into that notion of varying one’s plans to keep the public in 
 good humour. Change of weather and effect will always 
 afford variety. What if Vander Velde had quitted his sea 
 
 1 Young Dunthorne, who was very ingenious, was fond of astronomy. 
 His father showed me, in 1840, the remains of a large telescope made 
 by him. 
 
Driving a Nail 1 1 5 
 
 pieces, or Ruysdael his waterfalls, or Hobbema his native 
 woods. The world would have lost so many features in art. 
 I know that you wish for no material alteration ; but I have 
 to combat from high quarters, even from Lawrence, the 
 plausible argument that subject makes the picture. Perhaps 
 you think an evening effect might do ; perhaps it might start 
 me some new admirers, but I should lose many old ones. I 
 imagine myself driving a nail; I have driven it some way, 
 and by persevering I may drive it home; by quitting it to 
 attack others, though I may amuse myself, I do not advance 
 beyond the first, while that particular nail stands still. No 
 man who can do any one thing well, will be able to do any 
 other different thing equally well; and this is true even of 
 Shakespeare, the greatest master of variety. Send me the 
 picture of the shady lane when you like. Do you wish to 
 have any other? The sketch-book I am busy with for a 
 few days; it is full of boats and coast scenes. Subjects of 
 this sort seem to me more fit for execution than for senti- 
 ment. I hold the genuine pastoral feeling of landscape to 
 be very rare, and difficult of attainment. It is by far the 
 most lovely department of painting as well as of poetry. 
 I looked into Angerstein’s the other day; how paramount 
 is Claude! . . . Can anything exceed the villainy of the 
 
 newspapers ? after having said everything bad of , most 
 
 of which is true, they are now endeavouring to turn justice 
 
 from its course. I met Sir several times at Brighton. 
 
 He is a strong, sensible, stupid, clever, foolish, vulgar dog; 
 very amusing, no doubt a great liar, has long been carried 
 about on the shoulders of the world, and his mind is filled 
 with all the dirt of life. I fear you will be annoyed by this 
 ill-written rigmarole letter. But forgive it, as it has afforded 
 much amusement to my mind to write it. My wife wants 
 some account of Mrs. Fisher and your children.” 
 
 “ My dear Constable, You will find in the enclosed some 
 remarks upon your pictures at Paris. I returned last night 
 and brought this with me. The French have been forcibly 
 struck by them, and they have created a division in the 
 school of the landscape painters of France. You are accused 
 of carelessness by those who acknowledge the truth of your 
 effect; and the freshness of your pictures has taught them 
 that though your means may not be essential, your end must 
 be to produce an imitation of nature, and the next exhibi- 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 1 16 
 
 tion in Paris will teem with your imitators, or the school of 
 nature versus the school of Birmingham. I saw one man 
 draw another to your pictures with this expression, ‘ Look at 
 these landscapes by an Englishman, — the ground appears 
 to be covered with dew.’ Yours very sincerely, William 
 Brockedon. n, Caroline Street, Bedford Square, Decem- 
 ber 13th.” 
 
 Constable told me of a singular practice of a namesake of 
 his, who was not, however, a relation. Archibald Constable, 
 the Edinburgh publisher, called on him, I think in this year, 
 and introduced himself, saying that, wherever he was, he 
 made it a point to call on every person he could find, bearing 
 his own name, whom he had not previously known. 1 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, December 17th. My dear Fisher, . . . 
 How much I should like to pass a day or two with you at 
 Bath; but after such an interrupted summer, and so much 
 indisposition in the autumn, I find it quite impossible to 
 leave London, my work is so much behindhand. We hear 
 of sad illnesses all round us, caused, no doubt, by the exces- 
 sive wet. I have just received a letter from Sir George 
 Beaumont; he has been seriously ill, and quite unable until 
 lately to touch a pencil. Everything which belongs to me 
 belongs to you, and I should not have hesitated a moment 
 about sending you the Brighton sketch-book, but when you 
 wrote, my Frenchman was in London, we were settling about 
 work, and he has engaged me to make twelve drawings, to 
 be engraved here, and published in Paris, all from this book. 
 I work at these in the evening. This book is larger than my 
 others, and does not contain odds and ends, but all regular 
 compositions of boats or beach scenes; there may be about 
 thirty of them. If you wish to see them for a few days, tell 
 me how I am to send them to you. My Paris affairs go on 
 very well. Though the director, the Count Forbin, gave 
 
 1 1 did not meet with the following account of the origin of the name, 
 in time to place it, where it should have appeared, in the first chapter. 
 “ The surname of Constable first took its rise from an office of great 
 trust so called in former times, as the constable of Chester, the con- 
 stable of Richmond; and at this time there is a constable of the 
 Tower of London, which office was introduced into England by the 
 Normans. Some of this sort of offices were in Bretagne, in France, 
 whence many of William the Conqueror’s army came into England 
 with him, among whom we find one Constable, the first of that name, 
 as appears by the list or table of Battle Abbey, in the Tower of London, 
 printed in How’s Chronicle, p. 138.” — Poulson’s History of Holder ness 8 
 vol. ii. 
 
Reputation in Paris 1 1 7 
 
 my pictures very respectable situations in the Louvre in the 
 first instance, yet on being exhibited a few weeks, they ad- 
 vanced in reputation, and were removed from their original 
 situations to a post of honour, two prime places in the 
 principal room. I am much indebted to the artists for their 
 alarum in my favour; but I must do justice to the count, 
 who is no artist I believe, and thought that as the colours are 
 rough, they should be seen at a distance. They found the 
 mistake, and now acknowledge the richness of texture, and 
 attention to the surface of things. The}' are struck with 
 their vivacity and freshness, things unknown to their own pic- 
 tures. The truth is, they study (and they are very laborious 
 students) pictures only; and as Northcote says, * They 
 know as little of nature as a hackney-coach horse does of a 
 pasture.’ In fact, it is worse, they make painful studies of 
 individual articles, leaves, rocks, stones, etc., singly; so that 
 they look cut out, without belonging to the whole, and they 
 neglect the look of nature altogether, under its various 
 changes. I learnt yesterday that the proprietor asks twelve 
 thousand francs for them. They would have bought one, 
 
 ‘ The Waggon,’ for the nation, but he would not part them. 
 He tells me the artists much desire to purchase and deposit 
 then in a place where they can have access to them. Rey- 
 nolds is going over in June to engrave them, and has sent 
 two assistants to Paris to prepare the plates. He is now 
 about ‘ The Lock,’ and he is to engrave the twelve drawings. 
 In all this I am at no expense, and it cannot fail to advance 
 my reputation. My wife is translating for me some of the 
 criticisms. They are amusing and acute, but shallow. After 
 saying, ‘ It is but justice to admire the truth, the colour, and 
 the general vivacity and richness of surface, yet they are like 
 preludes in music, and the full harmonious warblings of the 
 Htolian lyre, which mean nothing ; ’ and they call them 
 * orations and harangues, and high flowery conversations 
 affecting a careless ease,’ etc. However, it is certain they 
 have made a stir, and set the students in landscape to think- 
 ing. Now you must believe me, there is no other person 
 living but yourself to whom I could write in this manner, 
 and all about myself ; but take away a painter’s vanity, and 
 he will never touch a pencil again.” 
 
 The following is part of Mr. Fisher’s reply to this letter. 
 “ I am pleased to find they are engraving your pictures, 
 
1 1 8 Life of Constable 
 
 because it will tend to spread your fame: but I am almost 
 timid about the result. There is, in your pictures, too much 
 evanescent effect, and general tone, to be expressed by black 
 and white. Your charm is colour, and the cool tint of 
 English daylight. The burr of mezzotint will never touch 
 that.” 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 1825 
 
 Brighton Sketches. Family Picture at Woodmanstone. Picture of 
 “ The Jumping Horse.” Gold Medal awarded to Constable by 
 the King of France. Due de Choiseul. Paley. Sharon Turner. 
 Picture of “ The Lock.” Opinion expressed of it by S. W. Rey- 
 nolds. Constable’s Pictures in the Exhibition at the Academy. 
 Sale of two Pictures to Mr. Darby. Exhibition, at the British 
 Gallery, of a Selection of the Works of Living Artists. Illness of 
 Constable’s eldest son. Picture of “ The White Horse,” sent to 
 Lisle. Dinner at Lady Dysart’s. Northcote. Cat and Chickens. 
 Mr. Bannister. J. Dunthorne’s Description of “ The Devil and 
 Dr. Faustus.” 
 
 In a letter dated January 5th, 1825, Constable speaks of 
 sending some of his Brighton oil sketches to Fisher, and 
 says, “ Perhaps the sight of the sea may cheer Mrs. Fisher ” 
 (who was then very ill); he adds, “ I am writing this hasty 
 scrawl in the dark before a six-foot canvas, which I have 
 launched with all my usual anxieties. It is a canal scene, 
 my next shall contain a scratch with a pen.” 
 
 “ January 22nd. My dear Fisher, I am uneasy that I have 
 not heard from you. I hope your invalids have neither 
 relapsed nor increased in number. I write from Woodman- 
 stone, a village six miles south-east of Croydon. I am 
 painting a group of three children with a donkey, the grand- 
 children of Mr. Lambert, whose ancestors lived here in 1300. 
 It is to go to the parents in the East Indies. The children 
 are here for their education, and spoke the language imper- 
 fectly on their arrival. The butcher was driving home a 
 calf in his cart, when one of the boys exclaimed, ‘ Aunt, what 
 for one gentleman take away cow in gig .’ You may suppose 
 I left home to execute this commission very unwillingly. — 
 The large subject on my easel is promising; it is a canal, 
 and full of the bustle incident to such a scene when four or 
 five boats are passing in company; with dogs, horses, boys, 
 men, women and children, and best of all, old timber, props, 
 water plants, willows, stumps, sedges, old nets, etc. — I shall 
 not object, if you do not, to your picture going to the Gallery, 
 
 119 
 
I 20 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 but I shall try for Tinney’s when the time comes, as I think 
 it has more qualities for exhibition among other pictures. — 
 I had this morning a letter from Paris, informing me that on 
 the king’s visit to the Louvre, he was pleased to award me 
 a gold medal for the merit of my landscapes. At the same 
 time he made Sir Thomas Lawrence a Knight of the Legion 
 of Honour. I have a pride and satisfaction in mentioning 
 this to you; but I can truly say that your early notice of 
 me, and your friendship for me in my obscurity, was worth 
 more, and is looked back to by me with more heartfelt 
 satisfaction than this, and all the other notice I have met 
 with, put together. — I left home on Thursday, and shall be 
 back by the end of the week My little group is on the 
 canvas, and makes a pretty picture. In the background is 
 Woodmanstone Church ” (here follows a pen sketch of the 
 picture). “ Mr. Lambert is the old country squire. His 
 study contains pictures of racers and hunters, guns, gaiters, 
 gloves, turn-screws, tow, gun-flints, etc. You cannot think 
 how much I regret being here to the neglect of my large 
 landscape; but I must not quarrel with kind friends, and 
 kick down the ladder.” 
 
 “ Bath, January 27th. My dear Constable, You have but 
 too well guessed the cause of my silence. Two of my chil- 
 dren have been ill with fever and inflammation of the wind- 
 pipe. . . . My wife, thank God, is entirely recovered; and 
 for my own part, I have not been so well for years. — Your 
 package arrived safe. Your Brighton sketches carried us 
 down to Osmington in imagination. I showed them to an 
 artist living here: he wished to know what colours you used. 
 The Choiseul Gallery has been of the greatest comfort to me. 
 I have copied, in lead pencil, Ostade’s butcher selling the ox, 
 the boy looking out of the window into the sunshine, and 
 a Vanderheyden. Thanks to you for giving me the sixth 
 sense, the power of receiving pleasure from the chiaroscuro. 
 It has whiled away many an anxious hour. — I was impatient 
 to hear how you fared at the visit of the King of France to 
 the Louvre. Your medal could not have given you greater 
 exultation than it did me. Indeed I always consider your 
 fame as mine, and, as you rise in slow and permanent esti- 
 mation, pride myself that I have formed as permanent a 
 friendship with a man of such talent. But these things are 
 better felt than said. — I shall be running up to London soon, 
 
I 21 
 
 Paley 
 
 when I shall get a sight of your new six-foot canvas. My 
 wife observed that your enumeration of objects ‘ carried her 
 down to the river side.’ I should like to see my picture at the 
 Gallery. — I do think that an impression of your ‘ Cathedral ’ 
 would sell at Salisbury; but it entirely depends upon the 
 brilliancy of the engraving. ... I began this letter two 
 days ago; since then I have carried my two sick boys to a 
 house on the top of Lansdown, and they begin to recover.” 
 
 “ I have been reading much, lately, on the subject of the 
 French revolution. The Due de Choiseul was principally, 
 but ignorantly, perhaps, instrumental in bringing it about, 
 protecting and abetting Voltaire and Co. He little thought, 
 that in patronising their licentious pens, he was laying the 
 foundation of the bloody insurrection which was to disperse 
 his gallery of pictures, and send them to be sold to the 
 ‘ Nation of shopkeepers.’ He it was who banished the 
 Jesuits, the first and necessary step to success in bringing 
 about the change. He died the year before the volcano 
 burst. . . . John Fisher.” 
 
 “ Bath, April 8th. My dear Constable, I rode yesterday 
 out of the white atmosphere of Bath, into the green village 
 of Bath-Easton, and found myself by instinct at the mill , 
 surrounded by wiers, back-waters, nets and willows ; with a 
 smell of weeds, flowing water, and flour in my nostrils. I 
 need not say that the scene brought you to my mind and 
 produced this letter.” 
 
 Mr. Fisher, after speaking of the serious illness of Mrs. 
 Fisher, continues, “ I will send you in a week or two, your 
 sketches back. In the same box I shall enclose two volumes 
 of Paley’s posthumous sermons, which you may read to your 
 family of a Sunday evening. They are fit companions for 
 your sketches; being exactly like them, full of vigour, fresh, 
 original, warm from observation of nature, hasty, unpolished, 
 untouched afterwards. There is, prefixed to a new edition 
 of his works, a life of Paley, by his son, in which the inner 
 man is laid open. If you can get it, there are parts that 
 will delight you. He appears to have been a strong-minded, 
 guileless, simple-hearted man, who told the truth and de- 
 clared his honest opinion to every man he met with, friend 
 or foe. Hence he was sometimes in scrapes. I hope to be 
 able to get a peep at the metropolis and your picture about 
 the 20th of June. ... In a letter I had from the Charter 
 
I 22 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 House, it was mentioned that you were out of spirits, seem- 
 ingly, and had lost your usual glee in conversation. What 
 cog of the wheel wanted grease? J. Fisher.” 
 
 Constable’s answer to this letter is missing, but its tenor 
 may, in part, be seen by Mr. Fisher’s reply. “ Bath, April 
 ioth. My dear Constable, ... We are going on for the 
 present very prosperously. . . . My mind and spirits have 
 been much shaken; and I received your voluntary offer, to 
 come down to Osmington, with an exhilaration that I have 
 been long unused to. We will wander home from the shore 
 about dusk to the remnants of dinner, as heretofore, and 
 spend the evening in filling up sketches. There is aways 
 room for you. Will you accompany me on my visitation, 
 the 14th, 15th, 1 6th June, and return with me to Osming- 
 ton? . . . Why was not your picture on your easel a few 
 weeks longer? I have looked over your letter, but find no 
 other observation to make on it, so I will conclude with a 
 quotation that will please you. By the bye, you never 
 answer my letters. You write as if you had not received 
 them. My extract is from Sharon Turner’s History of Eng- 
 land, vol. i. page 424, 4to. He is speaking of our classical 
 education, that it stunts originality, contracts the mind, 
 and makes men knowing only in words. It is a complete 
 illustration of your saying that ‘ a good thing is never 
 done twice.’ — 
 
 “ c It has been remarked that great excellence has been 
 usually followed by a decline. No second Augustan age is 
 found to occur. A Virgil emerges, and if he cast on his 
 countrymen an everlasting spell, no future Virgil appears, — 
 no second Homer or Euripides, — no succeeding Pindar, 
 Horace, Demosthenes, Thucydides, Tacitus, or Cicero. The 
 fact is remarkable. But it is accounted for, not in a want 
 of talent, but from the destruction of talent by injudicious 
 education. It is in literature, as in painting: if we study 
 departed excellence too intensely, we only imitate; we 
 extinguish genius, and sink below our models. If we make 
 ourselves copyists, we become inferior to those we copy. The 
 exclusive or continual contemplation of preceding merit con- 
 tracts our faculties within, greatly within , its peculiar circle, 
 and makes even that degree of excellence unattainable which 
 we admire and feed upon.’ 
 
 “ There is more on the subject, equally good if you turn 
 
“ The Lock ” 123 
 
 to the book. It is a highly amusing work. Quite original 
 itself. J. Fisher.” 
 
 “Charlotte Street, April 13th, 1825. My dear Fisher, 
 Thank you for your second letter. You say you ‘ are going 
 on prosperously/ and this has relieved me from a sad feeling 
 which has haunted me ever since I read the second paragraph 
 in your first. ... It is true I do not answer your letters, 
 but I read them over and over, and they generally form 
 answers to mine. All your quotations are good, and make 
 for my grand theory. It is the rod and staff of my practice, 
 and can never fail or deceive its possessor. 
 
 “ They are overwhelmed with large pictures at the 
 Academy; what will become of mine I know not, but I am 
 told it looks bright. . . . My ‘ Lock 5 is now on my easel; 
 it is silvery, windy, and delicious ; all health, and the absence 
 of everything stagnant, and is wonderfully got together; the 
 print will be fine. ... I am so harassed and interrupted 
 that I must now conclude almost as abruptly as I did my 
 last. . . . The visit to Osmington I much look to. Nothing 
 shall readily occur to prevent it. I will give up Paris first. 
 ... I have rather a cheering account of my picture at 
 Somerset House. Its original feeling will support me through 
 all inaccuracies. But they should not be there, to make it 
 more academical, and to prevent the learned vulgar, in our 
 art, from blowing their noses upon it. . . . I am summoned 
 to tea with my wife and new baby.” 1 
 
 Constable’s description of his picture of “The Lock,” and 
 some passages from other letters in a similar strain of exulta- 
 tion, have been retained contrary to the advice of a gentle- 
 man with whose opinion on many points I am so fortunate 
 as to coincide. It appeared to me that in making selections 
 from letters not intended for publication, if all that might 
 seem egotistical were omitted, the interest would be greatly 
 and unnecessarily lessened, and by this impression I have 
 been guided throughout my undertaking. The utterance of 
 a man’s real feelings is more interesting, though it may have 
 less of dignity than belongs to a uniform silence on the subject 
 of self, while the vanity is often no greater in the one case 
 than in the other. In the present instance, the artist’s 
 exultation to his most intimate friend at the accomplish- 
 ment of his aim in one of his most important works, is so 
 1 His third daughter. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 i 24 
 
 natural, and the qualities he had kept steadily in view while 
 engaged on it are so well described by him, that I cannot 
 think I am doing as much injustice to his memory by pre- 
 serving the passage as I should do by its omission. I am 
 enabled to add to what he has himself said of “ The Lock,” 
 the opinion of another person, Reynolds, the admirable 
 engraver, who was a good judge of pictures, and whose 
 praises of it in the following letter were sincere, for he had 
 undertaken to engrave it at his own risk. 
 
 “To Mr. J. Constable. My dear Sir, I have, since the 
 arrival of your picture, been before it for the last hour, the 
 light of a cheerful day through the clean windows falling 
 full upon it. It is, no doubt, the best of your works, true to 
 nature, seen and arranged with a professor’s taste and judg- 
 ment. The execution shows in every part a hand of experi- 
 ence; masterly without rudeness, and complete without 
 littleness; the colouring is sweet, fresh, and healthy; bright 
 not gaudy, but deep and clear. Take it for all in all, since 
 the days of Gainsborough and Wilson, no landscape has been 
 painted with so much truth and originality, so much art, so 
 little artifice. Yours very truly, S. W. Reynolds.” 
 
 Reynolds was interrupted in the execution of his plate 
 by illness, and did not live to complete it; but the same sub- 
 ject, from a second picture, has since been most admirably 
 engraved, on a larger scale, by Mr. Lucas, and forms the 
 companion to his print of “ The Corn Field.” 
 
 Constable exhibited three pictures this year at the Academy, 
 of which the one mentioned by him as the canal scene was 
 the largest. The chief object in its foreground is a horse 
 mounted by a boy, leaping one of the barriers which cross 
 the towing paths along the Stour (for it is that river, and 
 not a canal), to prevent the cattle from quitting their bounds. 
 As these bars are without gates, the horses, which are of a 
 much finer race, and kept in better condition than the 
 wretched animals that tow the barges near London, are all 
 taught to leap; their harness ornamented over the collar 
 with crimson fringe adds to their picturesque appearance, 
 and Constable, by availing himself of these advantages, and 
 relieving the horse, which is of a dark colour, upon a bright 
 sky, made him a very imposing object. His other works 
 at the Academy were both landscapes, one of which was 
 described in a newspaper as “ A scene without any prominent 
 
His Son’s Illness 
 
 125 
 
 features of the grand or beautiful, but with a rich broken 
 foreground sweetly pencilled, and a very pleasing and natural 
 tone of colour throughout the wild green distance.” 
 
 These two last pictures were purchased by Mr. Francis 
 Darby, of Colebrook Dale. Constable was highly delighted 
 that they had attracted the notice of an entire stranger to 
 him. 
 
 In the summer of this year, the directors of the British 
 Institution, instead of their annual display of works of the 
 old masters, collected, as they had proposed, some of the best 
 pictures of living artists, and Constable was enabled by the 
 kindness of Mr. Fisher and Mr. Tinney to send to this exhibi- 
 tion, “ The White Horse ” and “ Stratford Mill.” 
 
 Among Mr. Fisher’s letters, I found a sheet of paper dated 
 “ Osmington, Weymouth, August 12th,” and containing 
 only a pen sketch of an hour-glass with wings. That Con- 
 stable was at this time in a state of extreme anxiety on 
 account of his eldest son, who was very ill, will be seen by 
 Mr. Fisher’s next letter, dated, “ Osmington, August 24th,” 
 in which he says, “ It struck me after I had despatched my 
 blank memorandum, that the illness of yourself, or some of 
 your family, was the cause of your non-appearance here. 
 Your letter with its uncomfortable details has just reached 
 me. If you can get the consent of the mother, bring your 
 poor boy down here directly; or send him to my house at 
 Salisbury and we will meet him there. He shall have the 
 best advice the country affords, with sea air, sea bathing, 
 and good food. You must exonerate me from any respon- 
 sibility if anything happens: and if he does well we will see 
 what can be done for him in the way of education. This will 
 relieve the mind and spirits of your wife, who is not strong, 
 and will give you more leisure for your easel. . . . Bring 
 your boy down yourself by easy stages, or if you prefer it, 
 bring one of your healthy boys and leave him here to take 
 his chance. As for money matters do not make yourself 
 uneasy. Write for anything you want, and send me any 
 picture, in pledge, you think proper. Your family or your- 
 self shall have the difference whenever it is called for. What- 
 ever you do, Constable, get rid of anxiety. It hurts the 
 stomach more than arsenic. It generates only fresh cause for 
 anxiety by producing inaction and loss of time. I have heard 
 it said of generals who have failed, that they would have 
 
126 Life of Constable 
 
 been good officers if they had not harassed themselves by 
 looking too narrowly into details. Does the cap fit ? It does 
 me. ... I would have come to Hampstead had I been able. 
 I could sooner do it now and at this distance, and will come 
 if it will do you any good. 
 
 “ Pity me. I am sitting in the shade with my children 
 by me, writing to you, with a quiet stomach and cool head; 
 and I am obliged to leave all this to go ten miles to eat veni- 
 son and drink claret with a brother officer, whose head is 
 filled with the same sort of materials that his venison pasty is 
 made of. Let me hear from you again soon, and believe me 
 always faithfully yours, John Fisher. ... You want a 
 staff just at present. Lean upon me, hard.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, September ioth. My very dear Fisher, 
 I was overcome by your kind and most friendly letter, which 
 some changes here have prevented my answering sooner. 
 Your offer to receive my dear boy, indeed, all your friendly 
 suggestions are fully appreciated by my wife and me, and 
 we cannot sufficiently express our sense of them; but the 
 distance at which you are from us is so great, and you have 
 such a charge of your own, that we know not what to do. 
 We determined to give our poor boy the chance of the sea, 
 and about a week ago I took them all to Brighton. I am 
 now quietly at my easel again; I find it a cure for all ills. 
 My commissions press in on me, and I have sent for Johnny 
 Dunthome, who wishes to be here again. . . . But I crave 
 your forgiveness on a serious matter; your large picture, 
 ‘ The White Horse/ is now exhibiting at the city of Lisle. 
 Wilkie, Sir Thomas Lawrence, and myself were each applied 
 to for pictures by the mayor of that city, who, under Royal 
 Authority, is the head of its establishments. It will be 
 safely returned about Christmas. Lawrence has sent some, 
 but Wilkie is abroad.” 
 
 From the diary which Constable kept with great regularity 
 and minuteness, and sent at intervals to Mrs. Constable, the 
 following are a few quotations: “September 4th. Set off 
 for Lady Dysart’s, and had a pleasant ride in the Richmond 
 coach. Received in the most agreeable manner, and found 
 there Miss Vernon, once maid of honour to Queen Charlotte, 
 Mrs. Charles Tollemache and her daughter, and Lady Laura. 
 We all walked in the garden before dinner, at which I was 
 placed at the bottom of the table, opposite Lady Dysart. 
 
A Grand Epoch 12 7 
 
 All sorts of conversation, but not much that I remember. 
 They talked of dress and of the new large sleeves; Lady D. 
 did not like them, nor the long waists that the ladies now 
 wear. They said I was very amusing, and Lady D. gave 
 me a sovereign for old Fontaine, 1 and Mrs. Tollemache half- 
 a-crown. After tea, Lady D. said, ‘ We shall shock Mr. 
 Constable, we are going to have a game of cards.’ 2 They 
 played a four game, I know not what; I walked about the 
 grounds, and plucked as much fruit as I wanted. 
 
 “ September 7 th. Got up early. Set to work on my 
 large picture, 3 took out the old willow stump by the horse, 
 which has improved the picture much; made one or two 
 other alterations. Leslie called and wanted to see old 
 Fontaine, thinking from my description he would make a 
 good Don Quixote. Indeed he has the look of an old gentle- 
 man. . . . Called at Hamlet’s for my medal, met there 
 Richard Gubbins ; he was looking at some beautiful bracelets, 
 no doubt for his lady. My poor girl had none of these pretty 
 things, but they go but a little way towards happiness, nor 
 do they always insure a good husband; but Richard will 
 make a good husband, he is so good a son. . . . 
 
 “ September 13th. ... In the evening went to Mr. 
 Northcote’s, and had a delightful conversation about paint- 
 ing, etc. It is wonderful to see him with all the energy of 
 youth. His eye sparkling so bright and so sharp. . . . 
 
 “ September 16th. This morning, a grand epoch, was 
 ushered in by a prodigious bustle with the fowls in the 
 garden; the black hen making a great to do, the cock strutting 
 about, and Billy 4 looking at them in great astonishment from 
 the back kitchen window. When all was a little quiet, I 
 looked into the brewhouse, and saw her on the nest I had 
 made, and at breakfast Elizabeth brought me a beautiful egg, 
 probably the first ever laid in these premises. How much 
 we have changed this house from what it was in Mr. Farring- 
 ton’s time; his attics turned into nurseries, a beautiful baby 
 bom in his bedroom, his washhouse turned into a brewhouse, 
 his back parlour, which contained all his prints, into a bed- 
 
 1 The Swiss organist, who had become a regular pensioner of Con- 
 stable. 
 
 2 Constable never played. He said he “ considered the time spent 
 at a card table as a vacuum in life.” 
 
 3 “ The Leaping Horse,” which had met with no purchaser. 
 
 4 A cat. 
 
128 Life of Constable 
 
 room, and his painting rooms made habitable; well done! 
 Billy is a most laughable cat; he plays with the kit, pulls it 
 out of its basket, tosses it up, and holds it with his fore feet in 
 a most ridiculous manner; the old Lady Hampstead 1 looking 
 on all the while, rather smiling than otherwise. Sir George 
 Beaumont called; he liked what I was about, but wanted 
 
 me to imitate pictures. . . . Took poor Mrs. H her 
 
 money. I was told she was ill and in bed. How sadly this 
 poor artist’s widow closes her days. Fortune seems indeed 
 blind to give Miss Mellon so much, and this poor widow, 
 who is really a gentlewoman, so little. I went to the back 
 drawing-room to see how Johnny was getting on, and a dear 
 little Robin was washing himself in the pigeon’s dish at the 
 window. Dipping himself all over, and making such a dash- 
 ing, and shaking, and bobbing, and bustle, that it was quite 
 ridiculous. One comes to Mr. Bigg’s garden, and sings 
 every night and morning quite loud and beautiful; does not 
 this portend a hard winter? We do a great deal of painting, 
 not going out, and I am getting my small commissions off 
 my hands as fast as I can. I will do as you advise, ‘ not 
 undertake little things, but keep to my large pictures.’ But 
 I must make my mind easy as to those I have on hand, 
 namely, * Salisbury Cathedral,’ Mr. Carpenter’s picture, Mr. 
 Ripley’s, Mr. Arrowsmith’s, and Mr. Mirehouse’s picture to 
 be altered. All these are paid for, and one more fortnight 
 will clear them all off; how comfortable I shall then be. I 
 am making my last picture saleable, getting the outline on 
 the ‘ Waterloo,’ etc. 
 
 “ Sunday, October 2nd. Our dear blessed wedding day, 
 owing to which we have five babies. . . . 
 
 “ October 4th. ... In the evening Mr. Stothard called; 
 we walked to Islington together, he came back to tea with 
 me, and I consulted him, fortunately, about the ‘ Waterloo 
 Bridge,’ in which he suggested a very capital alteration. It 
 will increase its consequence, and do so much for it, that I 
 am quite in spirits. Your father wanted me to go to St. 
 Martin’s Court to see three pictures by Morland, one at nine 
 shillings, the others at twelve each. If I considered them 
 to be original, I was to purchase them for him, as he thought 
 them very pretty paintings. I went and found three coloured 
 and varnished engravings from Morland, Mr. Bigg, and 
 1 The mother of the kitten. 
 
Fire at Osmington 129 
 
 Wheatley. The boxing ring is much on the decline: let us 
 hope it will become extinct. I am at work on my large 
 * Waterloo ’ on the real canvas ; in the evening we are busy 
 setting my portfolios in order, etc. ‘ Waterloo ’ promises 
 delightfully.” 
 
 In one of Mrs. Constables letters to her husband, she says, 
 “ I have no treat like your journal and letters. ... I 
 hardly allow myself to wish for you, knowing how well and 
 profitably you are employed; but I endeavour to make 
 myself happy, as the separation is for our mutual good. 
 But when you do come, I trust we shall enjoy our rides and 
 walks. — I long to go with you to the Dyke, and to watch 
 with you the flying shadows on the downs. The Darbys 
 are quite delighted with our cottage. They say we have 
 Hampstead with the addition of the sea.” 
 
 “ Osmington, September. My dear Constable. ... I 
 despair of ever seeing you out of London, but I repeat that 
 I have bed and board at your service. The news is, that 
 Mat. Parham’s (alias Peme’s) mill is burnt to the ground, 
 and exists only on your canvas. A huge misshapen, new, 
 bright, brick, modem improved, patent monster is starting 
 up in its stead. — Do you recollect the situation of Talbot’s 
 barn behind the old Manor House, near the church at 
 Osmington? It took fire on the 28th September, when it 
 was surrounded by fourteen large ricks at the distance of no 
 more than twenty yards. No water, — no engines, — straw 
 on every side, — the barn full of wheat, — and thatched 
 cottages, and comstacks in every direction. Talbot lost his 
 presence of mind, and everybody was at fault. The occasion 
 called me out of my usual indolence. I took the command, 
 gave plenty of beer and good words, worked hard myself, 
 and in twenty minutes we smothered the fire with no other 
 loss than that of the bam. It was distressing to hear the poor 
 rats squalling at one end of the barn as the fire approached 
 them. They could not escape.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, November 12th. My dear Fisher, 
 
 . . . What you say of Mrs. Fisher and yourself and family 
 makes me very happy. I am just returned from Brighton, 
 and am glad that I can give you a good account of my wife 
 and children; my poor boy has gained strength and com- 
 posure. I have been only occasionally with them, being 
 
 1 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 130 
 
 very busy here, where I have done a great deal. I am hard 
 at my ‘ Waterloo/ which shall be finished for the next 
 Exhibition, saving only the fatalities of life. I have nearly 
 completed a second ‘ Cathedral/ and I think you will perhaps 
 prefer it to the first, but I will send it to Salisbury for your 
 inspection. I have much more to say about pictures, but 
 you say I never answer your letters. Your last delighted me. 
 The account of the fire and the rats interested John Dun- 
 thorne and me alike. How fortunate that you were there. I 
 am vexed at the fate of the poor old mill. There will soon be 
 an end of the picturesque in the kingdom. I desire to come 
 to Salisbury, if only for two days, to renew our friendship in 
 those walks where it first took so deep a root. I will come. 
 How did the fire originate? Write for me when you wish for 
 me. You set my mind at rest by the way in which you speak 
 of your picture being at Lisle; they have sent to know the 
 price; I have set them right on that head. I am uncom- 
 monly well; never in better health or spirits.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, November 19th. My dear Fisher. 
 . . . My expectation of the happiness of seeing you at 
 Salisbury will be but a vision. I am so hard run in every 
 way that I know not which canvas to go to first. My 
 ‘ Waterloo/ like a blister, began to stick closer and closer, 
 and to disturb my rest at nights. But I am in a field that 
 knows no favour or affection: * Go on/ is the only order 
 heard. . . . My name will not appear at the opening of the 
 noble institution in Edinburgh. I should like to have struck 
 a blow in that quarter; but I must submit to circumstances. 
 . . . John Dunthorne and I are delighted at the full occupa- 
 tion we have here. He is calm, gentle, clever, industrious, 
 full of prudence, and free from vice.” 
 
 “ November 26th. My dear Fisher, My new picture of 
 Salisbury is very beautiful, and I have repainted entirely that 
 belonging to Mr. Mirehouse: but when I thus speak of my 
 pictures, remember it is to you, and only in comparison with 
 myself. These pictures of the ‘ Cathedral ’ have caused me of 
 late to be almost abiding with you. My finances are sadly 
 deranged, and this, I fear, will cause me to give up my large 
 work. I have just had a visit from Mr. Bannister 1 to request 
 a landscape; he has long desired one of me, from which, as 
 he says, ‘ he can feel the wind blowing on his face.’ Two 
 1 The inimitable “ Jack Bannister.” 
 
Mr. Bannister 
 
 1 3 1 
 
 chimney sweepers were at my door, ‘ What? ’ he said, 
 
 ‘ brother brush.’ ” 
 
 In the journal written for his wife Constable says, “ Novem- 
 ber 25th. Painted all day on Mr. Mirehouse’s little picture 
 of the ‘ Cathedral,’ making in all three ‘ Cathedrums,’ as 
 pretty Minna 1 calls them. Miss Bigg was here to know what 
 we paid for asses’ milk, as they charge six shillings a quart 
 at the Wellington Ass Shop in the New Road. Mr. Strutt 
 called to say they had orders for the play, Drury Lane, and 
 asked me to join them to see ‘ Dr. Faustus and the Devil.’ 
 I declined, so he was kind enough to take Johnny Dunthome, 
 and he was much pleased, though ‘ it was very terrible.’ The 
 Devil was of a flaming red, and had a diabolical countenance, 
 and it was shocking to see how he led on his victim to per- 
 petrate every crime, till he was involved in Hell at last.” 
 
 “ November 28th. Master Billy kicked up a terrible rumpus 
 in the yard to-day; he wanted to have a game of play with 
 the fowls, but they took it in earnest, and made a great noise, 
 especially the cock. John and I went to their assistance. 
 Mr. Balmanno called, and was so delighted with my ‘ Water- 
 loo ’ (though he only saw the sketch and outline), that he 
 says it will be my triumph, and that I shall ‘ certainly set 
 the Thames on fire, if anybody can.’ I am now finishing 
 a copy of my ‘ Lock,’ which rejoices me a good deal; it is 
 a very lovely subject. Mr. Bannister called, and saw all my 
 goings on. He is fond of my landscapes, and says he must 
 have one. I think he likes the 1 Lock ’ so much that I shall 
 reduce it to the size of Fisher’s old mill; how I shall please 
 him, or when, I do not know. He says £ he breathes the 
 open air in my pictures, they are more than fresh, they are 
 exhilarating.’ 
 
 “ Miss Amott called to ask me, with her mother’s compli- 
 ments, to dine there on Christmas Day. I told her I had a 
 wife, and must needs go and see her.” 
 
 1 His eldest daughter. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 1826-1827 
 
 Return of the “ White Horse ” from Lisle. Gold Medal voted to 
 Constable. Letters of N. Poussin. Constable’s Pictures of “ The 
 Cornfield.” Letter from Mr. Phillips. Mr. Fisher’s Description 
 of the Valley of Sutton and Preston. Anecdote of one of Mr. 
 Fisher’s Children. Exhibition at the Royal Academy, 1826. 
 Description of a ruined Man. Paul Pry. Ludicrous Occurrence 
 to the Ghost in Hamlet. The Brighton Gazette. “ The Glebe 
 Farm.” Mr. Fisher and Bishop Burgess. Northcote. Picture 
 by Ruysdael. Exhibition at the Academy, 1827. Constable 
 removes his family to a House in Well Walk, Hampstead. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, January 14th, 1826. My dear Fisher, 
 I begin this hasty note by wishing you a happy new year, 
 hoping Mrs. Fisher and all your children are well, and bearing 
 up against this, to me, dreadful weather. All my family are 
 at Brighton, and I left them well on Thursday. I stayed 
 a fortnight with them, and painted there one of my best 
 pictures, the subject, the ‘ Mill (Perne’s) at Gillingham; ’ it is 
 about two feet, and is so very rich and pleasing that if you 
 are at Salisbury, and would like to see it, I will beg the 
 proprietor, Mr. Hand, to let me send it to you ; Mere Church 
 is in the distance. ‘ The White Horse ’ did me great credit 
 at Lisle. I am honourably mentioned in the final discourse 
 of the prefect, and a gold medal was voted to me, which I 
 received yesterday. The discourse is curious; he speaks of 
 the ‘ raciness and originality of the style, which being 
 founded entirely in nature, is capable of much beauty, but 
 dangerous to all imitators.’ So far the Exhibition has 
 extended my reputation, and I trust you will forgive what I 
 did. There are generally among the works of an artist, one, 
 two, or three pictures, on which hang more than usual 
 interest; this is one of mine. All things considered, the 
 medal should be yours. Much pleasure had I at Brighton, 
 mixed with a sentiment of melancholy, by a book in French 
 which my wife read to me while I was painting the ‘Mill; ’ 
 The Letters of Nicolo Poussin , now first published, having 
 hitherto lain undiscovered. They are written to his em- 
 
 132 
 
“ The Cornfield ” 
 
 J 33 
 
 ployers in Paris, and are to me replete with interest. My 
 wife has discovered that painters now and painters then are 
 little different. The letters contain apologies to friends for 
 not finishing their pictures sooner, anxieties of all kinds, 
 insults from ignorance, etc.; one of them speaks of £ strange 
 news from England, the beheading of King Charles,’ etc. My 
 •large picture is at a stand owing to the ruined state of my 
 finances. You richly deserve all I think of you for your 
 kindness about your picture. ... I am executing all my 
 commissions, amounting in all to four hundred pounds; two 
 months will complete them. J. Dunthorne is painting por- 
 traits in the country.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, February ist. . . . My dear Fisher, 
 Your picture is now standing in my room, and without a 
 speck of injury; do not hurry its departure. All this morn- 
 ing I have been engaged with a sitter; a dissenter, but 
 without knowing why, only that his wife will not let him go 
 to Church.” 
 
 “ Osmington, February 5th. My dear Constable. I plead 
 guilty to neglect, and feel much humbled by the forgiving 
 tone of your last letter. The truth is, my mind has been 
 unusually occupied for the last six months. I do not affect 
 the plea that I could not find time, but I could not find the 
 disengaged mind. When I write to you, I do it with all my 
 heart, and when its impulses are obstructed with care or 
 business, I have no appetite for our agreeable correspondence. 
 . . . Bishop Burgess has, in a most flattering manner, rein- 
 stated me in my old situation as chaplain, and I am just 
 where I was in my uncle’s time. This is a very tall feather 
 in my cap, and I am not a little elevated by it. I sit at the 
 bottom of the old table, but, I confess, I painfully miss old 
 faces. ... I shall be at Salisbury for some days at the end 
 of this month, and I should like much to have Perne’s mill 
 there to look at. J. Fisher.” 
 
 Having laid aside the “ Waterloo,” Constable was engaged 
 on a subject more congenial to his taste, “The Cornfield,” 
 now in the National Gallery. It had been seen by Mr* 
 Phillips of Brighton, who suggested some materials for its 
 foreground in a letter of which the following is a part: 
 “ March ist. My dear Sir, I think it is July in your green 
 lane. At this season all the tall grasses are in flower, bog- 
 rush, bullrush, teasel. The white bindweed now hangs its 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 1 34 
 
 flowers over the branches of the hedge; the wild carrot and 
 hemlock flower in banks of hedges, cow parsley, water plan- 
 tain, etc. ; the heath hills are purple at this season ; the rose- 
 coloured persicaria in wet ditches is now very pretty; the 
 catchfly graces the hedge-row, as also the ragged robin; 
 bramble is now in flower, poppy, mallow, thistle, hop, etc.” 
 
 “ April 8th. My dear Fisher. I should not have remained 
 so long silent after your last kind and friendly letter, had I 
 been wholly without news of you and yours. I am glad to 
 find from my friends in Seymour Street that you are all 
 well, and that I may expect to see you for some continuance 
 of time in London, ‘ after the lilacs have blossomed at 
 Osmington.’ 
 
 “ I will endeavour to answer your letters in future, but 
 when I write to you, I am always full of myself, which is 
 indeed abominable; but you must thank yourself for taking 
 a greater interest in all that concerns me than any other 
 human being. ... I have despatched a large landscape to 
 the Academy, upright, of the size of the ‘ Lock,’ but a subject 
 of a very different nature: inland corn fields, a close lane 
 forming the foreground; it is not neglected in any part; the 
 trees are more than usually studied, the extremities well 
 defined, as well as the stems; they are shaken by a pleasant 
 and healthful breeze at noon: 
 
 ‘ while now a fresher gale 
 
 Sweeping with shadowy gusts the fields of corn,’ etc. 
 
 I am not, however, without my anxieties, though I have not 
 neglected my work, or been sparing of my pains. ... I, 
 at this moment, hear a rook fly over my painting-room, in 
 which I am writing; its call transports me to Osmington, 
 and makes me think I am speaking and not writing to you; 
 it reminds me of our happy walks in the fields, so powerful 
 is the voice of nature. My picture occupied me wholly: I 
 could think of and speak to no one. I felt like a relation of 
 mine in the battle of Waterloo. He said he ‘ dared not turn 
 his head right or left, but always kept it straight forward, 
 thinking of himself alone.’ I hear of some fine pictures that 
 are gone; Callcott has three; Ward, a battle; Collins’, I 
 hear, are very fine, but I have not seen them; Lawrence has 
 but one whole length, Shee only one, Jackson but one, and 
 Phillips none, so there will be a dearth of large canvases. I 
 
Valley of Sutton and Preston 135 
 
 am not writing in the best of spirits. To-day my boy has 
 gone to Brighton to school; John Dunthorne is gone with 
 him. I saw him as far as Charing Cross, and then left him 
 to his fate. I hope for the best, and that the air will do him 
 good. I am much worn, having worked hard, and have now 
 the consolation of knowing I must work a great deal harder, 
 or go to the workhouse; I have some commissions, however, 
 
 and I do hope to sell this present picture. threatens 
 
 me with having to paint his portrait: 
 
 ‘ Angels and ministers of grace defend me ! ’ 
 
 He is hospitable, but there is a coarseness about him that is 
 intolerable.” 
 
 “ To Mr. Samuel Lane. I am just returned from Suffolk. 
 I left London by the mail of Wednesday night in great 
 anxiety and alarm for the state of my brother, who was 
 suddenly attacked by fever. I returned on Sunday morn- 
 ing. He was better, and I hope free from danger. 15th 
 April.” 
 
 “ Osmington, April 22nd. My dear Constable. With this 
 I send you your sketch books, so long detained. But they 
 have propagated your name in heavy soils, where your 
 pictures would never have taken root. My wife, to save the 
 books from rubbing, sends some little memoranda of kindness 
 to our god-children. ... I had rather see you here than in 
 London; this is a country that the more you live in it, the 
 more you discover its beauties. Did you ever look down 
 the little wooded valley of Sutton and Preston from the 
 spring heads in the little amphitheatre formed by the hills ? 
 It has a peep of the blue bay, with Portland in the distance, 
 and two old forlorn ash trees in the foreground; the place is 
 very sequestered, and is frequented by kingfishers and wood- 
 cocks; but fellows from Weymouth with padded chests and 
 vacant faces come there and let off guns, and disturb the 
 quiet genius of the place; this in return for your rook. 
 When your pet, Belim, 1 repeats his Catechism, we cannot 
 make him say otherwise than, ‘ And walk in the same fields 
 all the days of my life; ’ he might have a worse idea of 
 happiness.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, April 26th. My dear Fisher, I received 
 your letter and the books; and the kind recollections of 
 1 William. 
 
136 Life of Constable 
 
 Mrs. Fisher and yourself towards your god-children have 
 afforded me great pleasure. I shall proceed to answer your 
 letter. First, to say that you may have the comfortable 
 room next ours, with either a feather-bed or mattress, as you 
 please, and for as long as you please. Secondly, the spot 
 you speak of, I well recollect, is lovely; the expanse around, 
 contrasted with the deep recesses and solitudes below; but 
 in general these subjects deceive on canvas. The anecdote 
 of dear Belim is very pretty; depend on it, the love of nature 
 is strongly implanted in man. I have lately been into 
 Suffolk, and have had some delightful walks ‘ in the same 
 fields’ Bless the dear boy! our ideas of happiness are the 
 same, and I join with you in praying that he may never seek 
 it in less hallowed places. 
 
 “ When my mind is disturbed it stirs up the mud. How 
 could circumstances ever place me in such a situation as to 
 write so much stuff to an Archdeacon ! 1 
 
 “ I am now busy at the Academy, and am writing early, 
 as-’ after breakfast I must be there. My wife is very good, 
 and is at the breakfast- table by eight; she is now there, and 
 as I have much to do, I will put this letter into my pocket, 
 and finish it at Somerset House. It is quite out of my power 
 to describe the scene of dismay and desolation the rooms 
 present. I could quote Dante and Milton: 
 
 ‘ Dire was the tossing,’ etc. 
 
 but it is a delightful show. Turner never gave me so much 
 pleasure or so much pain before. Callcott has a fine picture 
 of a picturesque boat driven before the wind on a stormy sea; 
 it is simple, grand, and affecting. He has another large 
 work, not so good, rather too quakerish, as Turner is too 
 yellow; but every man who distinguishes himself stands on 
 a precipice. Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portraits of Peel and 
 Canning are very fine. He has a lady playing on a guitar 
 hanging by Turner, and you seem to hear its imperfect 
 sounds over his ‘ wide watered shore.’ ‘ Canning ’ is over 
 the fireplace, ‘ An Entombment ’ by Westall at the bottom 
 of the room, and E tty’s ‘ Judgment of Paris,’ on the west 
 side centre; the details of this show we shall soon analyse 
 
 1 Constable here alludes to parts of his correspondence with Mr. 
 Fisher relating to a third person, and which for that reason are not 
 published. 
 
Illness of Mr. Bicknell 137 
 
 together. Chan trey loves painting, and is always upstairs. 
 He works now and then on my pictures, and yesterday he 
 joined our group, and after exhausting his jokes on my 
 landscape, he took up a dirty palette, threw it at me, and 
 was off. Presently he came back and asked me if I had 
 
 seen a beastly landscape by . It is so indeed. The 
 
 voice in my favour is universal, it is my ‘ best picture.’ 
 
 “ has some of his heartless atrocious landscapes in 
 
 Seymour Street, and has sent to consult me on them. How 
 shall I get out of such an infernal scrape? Truth is out of 
 the question. What part can I then play? ” 
 
 Constable exhibited, with “ The Cornfield,” a smaller 
 landscape, but I do not remember the subject. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, July 7th. My dear Fisher. You will 
 receive Dunthorne’s Wilsons to-morrow; Mrs. Fisher cannot 
 fail to be pleased with them. — I have added a little to your 
 batch of Waterloos, making, I think, a nice bargain for ten 
 guineas. Have you done anything to your walls ? they were 
 of a colour formed to destroy every valuable tint in a picture. 
 . . . A poor wretched man called to see me this morning; 
 he had a petition to the Royal Academy for charitable 
 
 assistance : it was . His appearance was distress itself, 
 
 and it was awful to behold to what ill-conduct may bring us ; 
 yet calamity has impressed even on this man an air of dignity; 
 he looked like Leslie’s Don Quixote. When I knew him at 
 the bishop’s he wore powder, had a soft subdued voice, and 
 always a smile, which caused him to show some decayed 
 teeth, and he carried a gold-headed cane with tassels. Now, 
 how changed! his neck long, with a large head, thin face, 
 nose long, mouth wide, eyes dark and sunken, eyebrows 
 lifted, hair abundant, straight, erect, and very greasy; his 
 body much emaciated and shrunk away from his dismal 
 black clothes, and his left arm in a sling from a fall, by which 
 he broke the left clavicle; I shall try the Artist’s Fund for 
 him. I cannot efface the image of this ghostly man from 
 my mind. . . . Poor Mr. Bicknell is in a sad state; he had 
 an attack of apoplexy about ten days ago; it was coming 
 on when you saw him. ... I have made several visits 
 to the terrace at Lord Pembroke’s; it was the spot of all 
 others to which I wanted to have access. 1 I have added 
 
 1 Part of Lord Pembroke’s house and terrace form the nearest objects 
 in the picture of “ The Opening of Waterloo Bridge.” 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 ! 3 8 
 
 two feet to my canvas. My wife and all here are well. 
 I trust we shall not need a country excursion, in which we 
 leave this convenient house, and pay four guineas a week 
 for the privilege of sleeping in a hen-coop, for the sake of 
 country air.” 
 
 “ September. My dear Leslie, On returning to town this 
 morning, and once more perusing your note, I find myself 
 quite mistaken. I had missed the date, and consequently 
 missed ‘ Paul Pry,’ a serious loss to me; but the word * to- 
 morrow,’ instead of naming the precise day, often leads to 
 such mistakes on the side of the reader, the writer being fully 
 aware of what he means ; but it is my loss, and I assure you 
 I had not a little reckoned on seeing such a master of humour, 
 in company with yourself. I write in the forlorn hope that 
 possibly you and Mrs. Leslie did not go.” 
 
 Few persons more thoroughly relished good acting than 
 did Constable, when he could be prevailed on to witness it. 
 Yet so seldom did he visit the theatres, that he never saw 
 either Kean or Liston, though I had several times proposed 
 to accompany him when those great masters of their art 
 were to perform. 
 
 I have heard him give a ludicrous account of an accident 
 that happened during one of the few visits he ever paid to a 
 theatre. The play was “ Hamlet,” and the ghost, from 
 some derangement of the machinery, stopped in his descent, 
 and remained for a considerable time presenting a half- 
 length figure, shaken occasionally by the efforts of the 
 carpenters to complete his exit, which was at length accom- 
 plished more rapidly than was desirable, amidst roars of 
 applause. Constable happened to mention the circum- 
 stance some years afterwards to his neighbour, Mr. Pope, 
 adding, “ I shall never forget it,” when the latter said, 
 “ Neither shall I, for I was that unlucky ghost.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, September 9th. My dear Fisher, It is 
 a very long time since I have heard from you, and I have 
 now no means of hearing of you elsewhere. Let me have a 
 line soon to dispel the thought that anything may be amiss, 
 or any part of your family out of health. Y ou once said ‘ life 
 is short,’ let us make the most of friendship while we can. 
 I have little to say of what belongs to myself, but that little 
 is good. My children are well, and my wife, for her, very 
 tolerable; they are in a small house on Downshire Hill, to 
 
“ The Glebe Farm ” 139 
 
 which it is an easy walk from home. I have just come back 
 from a day or two at Brighton, where I had been to return 
 my boy to Mr. Phillips. John Dunthome is still in Suffolk 
 very busy; his last job is a large sign of the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. I have written to hasten him; he is wanted here 
 by myself and others. My last landscape is a cottage scene 
 with the Church of Langham, the poor bishop’s first living; 
 it is one of my best in colour, fresh and bright, and I have 
 pacified it into tone and solemnity. My friend Mr. Phillips 
 is commencing a literary journal at Brighton: he wants me 
 to contribute some paper on Art, landscape, of course. What 
 do you say? . . . Rochefoucault says, ‘ Lovers are never 
 tired of each other’s company, because they always talk of 
 themselves.’ ” 
 
 The cottage with Langham Church was a pet subject 
 with Constable; he repeated it frequently, and left one or 
 two unfinished pictures and sketches of it with considerable 
 variations. His best picture of this pretty subject, and one 
 of his most perfect works, is that from which the engraving 
 in the English Landscape, with the title of “ The Glebe 
 Farm ” is taken. The rising ground and trees on the right 
 hand are imaginary, as the ground, in reality, descends 
 rather steeply on that side of the church. 
 
 “ Close, Salisbury, July 1st. My dear Constable. The 
 two pictures arrived safe on Friday, and within an hour 
 were up in their places ; ‘ The White Horse ’ looking very 
 placid, and not as if just returned from the Continent. It 
 is wonderfully improved by Dunthome’s coat of varnish. 
 The ‘ Cathedral ’ looks splendidly over the chimney-piece. 
 The picture requires a room full of light. Its internal 
 splendour comes out in all its power, and the spire sails away 
 with the thunder-clouds.” 
 
 “ Maidenhead, September 27th. My dear Constable. 
 Do not accuse me of neglect. You were never more occu- 
 pied in the month of April preparing for the Exhibition, 
 thin I have been since the month of August. Last week 
 there was an ordination, and I preached the sermon which 
 you will soon see in print. ... I write this sitting in 
 commission upon a dispute between a clergyman and his 
 parishioners, and compose while the parties argue. There is 
 a brother parson arguing his own case, with powder, white 
 forehead, and a very red face, like a copper vessel newly 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 140 
 
 tinned. He is mixing up, in a tremulous tone, with an eager 
 blood-shot eye, accusations, — apologies, — statements, — 
 reservations, — and appeals, till his voice sounds on my ear, 
 as I write, like a distant waterfall. . . . 
 
 “ I am doubtful about your Brighton Gazette. You are 
 in possession of some very valuable and original matter 
 on the subject of painting, particularly on the poetry of the 
 art. I should be sorry to see this seed sown on an unvisited 
 field, where it would blossom in forgetfulness, while some 
 thriving author, like a sparrow, would fly off with a sample, 
 and take the credit from you. Throw your thoughts 
 together as they arise in a book, that they be not lost; when 
 I come to see you, we will look them over, put them into 
 shape, and do something with them. Pray do not forget to 
 put together the history of your life and opinions, with as 
 many remarks on men and manners as may occur to you. 
 Set about it immediately ; life slips. It will perhaps bring 
 your children in a hundred pounds in a day of short com- 
 mons, if it does nothing else; besides, I have been all along 
 desirous of writing your life and rise in the art. . . . 
 
 “ I live with the new bishop as son with father, or brother 
 with brother. Our habits of life similar, our pursuits 
 similar, our modes of thought similar, or only sufficiently 
 different to increase the pleasure of communication. ... I 
 have been unconsciously acquiring, at Osmington, in long 
 winter evenings, a greater share of knowledge than I was 
 myself aware of; and find that I have no reason to be dis- 
 contented with the use I have made of my time. The 
 bishop improves me and drives me on in my classical acquire- 
 ments; while in general divinity and comprehensive views 
 of history I find myself ‘ in easy circumstances/ He is 
 urging me to overcome my indolence and show myself in 
 print, and before I die I shall be out. I have got my nerves 
 steadier, and my understanding more under my control. 
 My ambition is strongly awakened, and I see glimpses of 
 light through the wood.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, November 28th. My dear Fisher, 
 The rumour may have reached you that I have another boy; 
 the number of my children is now six, being three of each. 
 
 “ I gloried in your letter. Its friendship for me was, if 
 possible, forgot in the delight of seeing you at length properly 
 appreciating yourself. You need never fear indulging too 
 
A Picture by Ruysdael 14 1 
 
 much in the exulting tone it breathes. Take care that you 
 launch your boat at the appointed time, and fearlessly 
 appear before the world in a tangible shape. It is the only 
 way to be cured of idle vapours and useless fastidiousness. 
 
 “ My wife is at Hampstead, and both she and the infant are 
 doing well. I am endeavouring to secure a permanent small 
 house there, and have put the upper part of this house into an 
 upholsterer’s hands to let, made my painting room warm and 
 comfortable, and have become an inhabitant of my parlours. 
 I am three miles from door to door, and can have a message in 
 an hour. I shall be more out of the way of idle callers, and 
 above all, see nature, and unite a town and country life, and 
 to all these things I hope to add a plan of economy. . . . 
 
 “ I passed last evening with Northcote; he enjoys a green 
 old age, and is as full of vivacity as ever; he is always 
 instructive and amusing. Talking of excellence, he said, 
 ‘ It should be the aim of an artist to bring something to 
 light out of nature for the first time. Something like that 
 for which in mechanics a patent would be granted; an 
 original invention or a decided improvement; patents are 
 not given for making a time-piece or a telescope, as long as 
 it differs not from others.’ He says, ‘ The failures, and 
 difficulties of success, in the arts and literature are for the 
 most part caused by our early habits and education. Virgil 
 is driven into boys as the height of excellence, whereas he 
 is but a farthing candle compared with Shakespeare.’ The 
 first book he (Northcote) ever read was 4 Jack the Giant- 
 killer,’ and he still believes it unequalled. 
 
 “ I have taken your advice, and not written anything for 
 the Brighton Courier . — I have seen an affecting picture 
 this morning by Ruysdael; it haunts my mind, and clings 
 to my heart, and stands between you and me while I am 
 talking to you ; it is a water-mill ; a man and boy are cutting 
 rushes in the running stream (the tail- water); the whole so 
 true, clear, and fresh, and as brisk as champagne; a shower 
 has not long passed. — I am delighted to see how you live with 
 the bishop; that you avail yourself of his great worth and 
 understanding, and that he does not use his rank nor the 
 wisdom of age, to trip up and overbear the valuable qualities, 
 the vigour and energy, to be found in youth and middle age.” 
 
 In 1827 Constable sent to the Academy a large picture 
 of “ The Marine Parade and Chain Pier at Brighton,” and 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 142 
 
 two smaller ones, “ A Water Mill at Gillingham, Dorset- 
 shire,’ 5 and “ Hampstead Heath.” To the British Institution 
 he sent his “ Cornfield,” and “ The Glebe Farm.” 
 
 “ Sunday Evening, August 26th. My dear Fisher, We 
 sadly neglect much happiness that lies within our reach. 
 Weeks and months have passed since we met, and no com- 
 munication. I know not where you are, and you know not 
 what I have been so long about. Your cares lay far and 
 wide apart, and I am not wholly without mine. Still we 
 do amiss to remain inactive towards each other for both our 
 sakes. No worse account can be given of life than to have 
 neglected the social duties. ... We are at length fixed 
 in our comfortable little house in Well Walk, Hampstead, 
 and are once more enjoying our own furniture, and sleeping 
 in our own beds. My plans in search of health for my family 
 have been ruinous ; but I hope now that our movable camp 
 no longer exists, and that I am settled for life. So hateful 
 is moving about to me, that I could gladly exclaim, ‘ Here 
 let me take my everlasting rest ! 5 The rent of this house 
 is fifty-two pounds per annum, taxes twenty-five, and what 
 I have spent on it, ten or fifteen. I have let Charlotte Street 
 at eighty-two pounds, retaining my two parlours, large front 
 attic, painting-room, gallery, etc. This house is to my 
 wife’s heart’s content; it is situated on an eminence at the 
 back of the spot in which you saw us, and our little drawing- 
 room commands a view unsurpassed in Europe, from West- 
 minster Abbey to Gravesend. The dome of St. Paul’s in the 
 air seems to realise Michael Angelo’s words on seeing the 
 Pantheon: 1 1 will build such a thing in the sky.’ We see 
 the woods and lofty grounds of the East Saxons to the north- 
 east. I read Turner’s History continually, for two reasons: 
 first, I think thereby of you, and secondly, its information is 
 endless, and of the best kind. I have Burnet’s book on 
 colour for you from Carpenter’s; where shall I send it, or 
 shall I meet you at Sarum during your durance, and make 
 a few autumnal sketches on spots endeared to us both? My 
 ‘ Brighton ’ was admired on the walls, and I had a few 
 nibbles out of doors. I had one letter drom a man of rank, 
 inquiring what would be £ its selling price ; ’ is not this too 
 bad? but this comes of the bartering at the Gallery. My 
 
 Dr. 1 has paid, but nothing more; no one will buy 
 
 1 An engraving from one of his portraits. 
 
Lord De Tabley’s Pictures 143 
 
 a schoolmaster, for who would hang up a picture of the 
 keeper of a treadmill, or a turnkey of Newgate, who had 
 been in either place? Mr. Bannister is my neighbour here; 
 a very fine creature he is; very sensible, natural, and a 
 gentleman. 
 
 “ Lord De Tabley’s English pictures have lately sold for 
 eight thousand pounds; two thousand more than he gave 
 for them: a landscape by Wilson, five hundred pounds; 
 
 query, had he fifty for this truly magnificent and affecting 
 picture? ‘May this expiate!’ John Dunthorne has com- 
 pleted a very pretty view of your lawn and prebendal house, 
 with the great alder and the cathedral. He is now in 
 Suffolk, painting a portrait of , whose ugliness is por- 
 
 tentous; how John will get on with him I know not. We 
 long to hear news of you and Mrs. Fisher and your children. 
 We are well here. My pretty infant soon after you saw him 
 was seized with whooping-cough. I find medical men know 
 nothing of this terrible disorder, and can afford it no relief, 
 consequently it is in the hands of quacks. I have been 
 advised to put him three times over and three times under 
 a donkey , as a certain cure. ... I have painted one of my 
 best pictures here.” 
 
 “ Close, Salisbury, September 3rd. My dear Constable, 
 ... I am elected a member of the Royal Literary Society, 
 and must appear in London, in December, to be installed. 
 I shall then have an opportunity of seeing you at the bottom 
 of Well Walk. The arrangement is good in one particular. 
 You will be less disturbed by morning flies than in Charlotte 
 Street. ... I am worn to death with the incessant visiting 
 of the same persons, and the same prate of this busy-idle 
 place. The whole of the diocese is on my hands, I educate 
 my own boys, and there you have sufficient reasons why I 
 write so seldom. T. Fisher.” 
 
 Constable passed the remainder of this year happily with 
 his family at Hampstead, where he painted several small 
 landscapes. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 1828-1829 
 
 Illness of Mr. Abram Constable, and of Mrs. Constable. Birth of 
 Constable’s youngest Child. Pictures of “ Dedham Vale,” and of 
 “ Hampstead Heath.” Death of Mr. Bicknell. His Bequest to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Constable. Exhibition at the Royal Academy, 1828. 
 Death of Archdeacon Coxe. Illness of Mrs. Constable’. Her 
 Death. Constable ill. Receives a commission to paint a Sign. 
 Elected an Academician, 1829. Congratulations from some of his 
 Friends. Sir Thomas Lawrence and Constable. Picture of Had- 
 leigh Castle. Constable engaged in preparing the English 
 Landscape for publication. Mr. David Lucas. 
 
 In the spring of 1828, Constable was called to Flatford by 
 an illness of his brother Abram, Mrs. Constable being at the 
 same time extremely unwell. 
 
 The following note to Mr. Samuel Lane must have been 
 written at this time. “ My dear Lane, I am glad to hear of 
 your return. I hope we shall meet soon. My poor wife is 
 still very ill at Putney, and when I can get her home I know 
 not. We talk of Brighton, but we only talk of it. She can’t 
 make such a journey. I am glad to remain quiet at my work, 
 as I want to rid my mind of some troublesome jobs. I am 
 just returned from Suffolk, where I was again called to see 
 my brother, but I left him so much better that I am cheered. 
 
 I advised him to send away all his doctors. They have left 
 him in possession of his purse only, — now empty, — and of 
 himself, only his skeleton.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, June nth. My dear Fisher, Is it 
 possible that I should have had little or no tidings of you 
 since we parted in November? We do sad injustice to our 
 friendship. This silence is a bad thing, and I am determined 
 not to let this (my birthday) pass without emancipating 
 myself from what appears almost a spell, for I never felt a 
 greater desire to write, nor ever had in reality more to say to 
 you, at least of myself, than now. This has been to me a most 
 eventful year, for half of it has not yet passed, and three 
 things of moment to myself have occurred: first, the birth 
 of a baby boy, whom we have named Lionel Bicknell, 2nd of 
 
 144 
 
Mr. Bicknell’s Bequest 145 
 
 January: secondly, I have painted a large upright landscape, 
 perhaps my best; it is in the Exhibition, and noticed as ‘ a 
 redeemer ’ by John Bull , and another, less in size but equal 
 in quality, purchased by Chantrey : thirdly, and lastly, though 
 not least , Mr. Bicknell has left us a fortune that may be 
 £ 20,000 ! — This I will settle on my wife and children, that I 
 may do justice to his good opinion of me. It will make me 
 happy, and I shall stand before a six-foot canvas with a 
 mind at ease, thank God ! 
 
 “ The Exhibited is poor; but though the talent is small, 
 its produce in money has been very great; £150 per diem, 
 perhaps, on an average. I have little time to speak of it. 
 Lawrence has many pictures, and never has his elegant 
 affettuosa style been more happy. Jackson is the most of a 
 painter, but he does not rank with Lawrence in general 
 talent. Turner has some golden visions, glorious and 
 beautiful; they are only visions, but still they are art, and 
 one could live and die with such pictures. Some portraits 
 that would petrify you. Newton has ‘ The Vicar of Wake- 
 field,’ most affecting. . . . 
 
 “ My wife is sadly ill at Brighton; her letter to-day is 
 however cheerful. Hampstead, sweet Hampstead, is de- 
 serted. I am at work here, and shall take my boy and 
 pretty Minna to Brighton on the 20th.” 
 
 The upright picture mentioned in this letter was a view 
 of “ Dedham Vale,” and the small one, the “ Hampstead 
 Heath.” 
 
 “ Salisbury, June 19th. My dear Constable. . . . Your 
 legacy gave me as much pleasure as it could have communi- 
 cated to yourself. You will now be relieved from the carking 
 cares of leaving a young family to privation and the world. 
 You will feel that your fame and not your bread is dependent 
 upon your pencil. . . . Mr. Bicknell has paid you a high 
 moral compliment. . . . My plan of provision is to leave a 
 home, and bread to eat, round which the weak and unsuccess- 
 ful of my family may rally. Perhaps this should be your plan. 
 
 “ Poor Coxe, as you probably know from Peter, is no more. 
 He died of old age. — A more irreproachable, friendly man 
 did not exist. He was always benevolently employed, and 
 at his funeral, the congregation disturbed the service with 
 sobs. After a great dinner, he used to steal into his kitchen 
 and give his cook a guinea. His domestics never left him. 
 
 K 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 146 
 
 A silent but strong compliment. His regard to truth was 
 remarkable. He is the author of twenty-four quarto volumes, 
 and has hardly been convicted of a mistake. He was quoted 
 as an authority in his lifetime, an event of rare occurrence. 
 . . . J. Fisher.” 
 
 Constable returned with his wife to Hampstead, from 
 whence he wrote on the 22nd of August to John Dunthorne, 
 Jun., who was at Bergholt, “I do hope things are not going 
 on worse here. On the contrary, I believe Mrs. Constable to 
 be gaining ground. Her cough is pretty well gone and she 
 has some appetite, and the nightly perspirations are, in a great 
 measure, ceased. All this must be good, and I am a great 
 deal cheered. Still I am anxious, — she is so sadly thin and 
 weak. I am determined to try and get her out. . . . The 
 Neyland business can soon be decided upon. 1 1 hope you 
 will do it, but only in conjunction with your father. I think 
 it requires not a moment’s hesitation. Take care of cold. 
 Work with the door and windows of the church open, even 
 if that should make it colder. It will drive out damp and 
 smell of graves, etc. Nothing so bad as the air of a large 
 apartment, as it never changes itself, and it always flies to the 
 heart, liver, and lights. I was nearly killed, copying Sir 
 Joshua, at Lady Dysart’s, Hyde Park Corner. . . . Re- 
 member Claude painted sham architecture in churches, and 
 it did not prevent his becoming a painter. But he fell off a 
 scaffold.” 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Dominic Colnaghi, dated September 15th, 
 Constable writes: “ I am greatly unhappy at my dear wife’s 
 illness; her progress towards amendment is sadly slow, but 
 still they tell me she does mend; pray God this may be the 
 case! I am much worn with anxiety.” And in a note to 
 Mr. S. Lane, dated October 2nd, he says: “ . . . My dear 
 wife continues much the same; I do hope she is not worse, 
 and home may yet do wonders.” 
 
 The letter, to which the following is a reply, is missing. It, 
 no doubt, contained a desponding account of the state of Mrs. 
 Constable’s health. “ Close, Salisbury, October 4th. My 
 dear Constable, Your sad letter has just reached me, and I 
 grieve to say, at a time when I fear I cannot move. I am 
 expecting to be called into residence at this place, when I 
 
 1 This seems to have been that John Dunthorne should paint some 
 ornamental work in the interior of Neyland Church. 
 
Death of Mrs. Constable 
 
 H7 
 
 must be a fixture until January. But if this be not the case, 
 and I can get my liberty, I will come and see you soon. I 
 fear your friendship makes you overvalue the use I can be of 
 to you; but what I can give, you shall have. ... I began 
 this letter at Salisbury and I finish it at Osmington, and 
 to-morrow I start for Salisbury again. Support yourself 
 with your usual manliness, and believe me always your most 
 faithful and attached, John Fisher.” 
 
 Mrs. Constable’s sufferings, which she endured with that 
 entire resignation to the will of Providence that she had 
 shown under every circumstance of her life, were occasioned 
 by pulmonary consumption. I was at Hampstead a few 
 days before she breathed her last. She was then on a sofa 
 in their cheerful parlour, and although Constable appeared 
 in his usual spirits in her presence, yet before I left the house, 
 he took me into another room, wrung my hand, and burst 
 into tears, without speaking. She died on the 23rd of 
 November. 
 
 “ Osmington, Weymouth, November 29th. My dear Con- 
 stable, I write with the hope and intention of giving you 
 comfort, but really I know not how ; yet if there be any con- 
 solation to the heart of man to know that another feels with 
 him, you have that consolation. I do sympathise with you, 
 my old and dear friend, most truly, and I pray God to give 
 you fortitude. I am additionally grieved that I cannot come 
 and say this in person, but I am so entangled with my family 
 and numerous affairs, that I cannot reach London until 
 December. Our new but estimable friend, Evans, 1 paid me 
 a most flattering visit. He travelled one hundred miles out 
 of his way to come and see me in my Arcadia for twelve 
 hours only. He arrived over night, and left me next day 
 at noon; we had time, however, to exchange a great deal of 
 mind. Our conversation turned, of course, much upon you; 
 we agreed that for your comfort, during the trial upon you 
 for the exercise of your patience, you should apply yourself 
 rigidly to your profession. Some of the finest works of art, 
 and most vigorous exertions of intellect, have been the result 
 of periods of distress. Poor Wilson painted all his finest 
 landscapes under the pressure of sorrow. 
 
 “ Let us talk of other things. I met in Schlegel a happy 
 
 1 Mr. Evans of Hampstead was the medical friend who had attended 
 Mrs. Constable. 
 
148 Life of Constable 
 
 criticism on what is called Gothic architecture. We do not 
 estimate it aright unless we judge of it by the spirit of the 
 age which produced it, and compare it with contemporary 
 productions. The Gothic Minster was the work which gave 
 birth to that phenomenon, the Crusades, and realised that 
 poetical beautiful monster, the mailed knight, who went forth 
 in purity and honour to preach the Gospel with his mouth, 
 while he broke its laws with his sword. The Minster was 
 raised to hold such worshippers while alive, and to contain 
 their gorgeous tombs when dead ; and we never look at the 
 Cathedral aright, unless we imagine mitred abbots and 
 knights in chained armour, walking in procession down its 
 solemn aisles. I have put Schlegel into our own language, 
 and have enlarged a little on his notion, since he only hints 
 the thing. What a propriety it gives to the tombs of the 
 cross-legged knights ! The monkish priests exacted the 
 tribute of putting off the knightly spur when the Cathedral 
 was entered. Our choristers fine anybody at this day coming 
 in with spurs. — I do not know what to go on writing to you 
 about. I live here apart from the world, and run into con- 
 templative habits. Socrates considered life only as a malady 
 under which the nobler spirit was condemned for a time to 
 linger, and called living, ‘ the learning how to die; 5 he 
 meant that the vexations of life render death desirable. The 
 word malady explains the cock sacrificed to iEsculapius; 
 death was curing him of his malady, and he sacrificed the 
 fowl, in playful allusion to this, to the god of physic. It is 
 singular, but this notion has much helped me under some 
 very vexatious circumstances. Christianity puts the argu- 
 ment higher, and makes the malady preparative to better and 
 lasting health. ... J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ Osmington, December 7th. My dear Constable, As soon 
 as my mother is fixed at Hampstead, I will come and pay 
 you a visit, and help you to bear your privation. . . . 
 Evans’s letter was so far satisfactory that he reported you to 
 be in a state of complete self-possession. I entreat you to 
 retain it, for you have need only to look within yourself, and 
 find satisfaction. I wish, if * Brighton ’ is not out of your 
 possession, you would put it on your easel by your side, and 
 mellow its ferocious beauties. Calm your mind and your 
 sea at the same time, and let in sunshine and serenity. I feel 
 much for your situation, but cannot put these feelings into 
 
Advice from Mr. Fisher 
 
 149 
 
 words. You have a treasure in your new friend Evans, who 
 is always at hand. ... J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ January 8th, 1829. My dear Constable, . . . The tone of 
 your letter to me was very satisfactory. You appear to be 
 smitten, but not cast down. I will lend you any assistance 
 in my power in the education of your children. There is a 
 little book published by the Society for Promoting Christian 
 Knowledge, which is all you want for religious instruction, 
 Crossman’s Introduction, to which you may add Nelson's 
 Practice of True Devotion. It is a most sensible book. . . . 
 J. Fisher.” 
 
 Constable returned with his children to London, but 
 retained the house at Hampstead as an occasional residence. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, January 21st. My dear Leslie, Do not 
 believe me to be either ungrateful or negligent in that I have 
 not called on you, or taken any notice of your kind attentions 
 to me on my coming hither. You know that I have my 
 seven children here. This is a charge I pray God you may 
 never feel as I do. Six of the seven are in lovely health, but 
 I grieve to say my darling boy John is in a sad state. . . . 
 In this sweet youth I see very much that reminds me of his 
 mother; but I must not trust myself on this subject; my 
 grievous wound only slumbers. I hope dear Mrs. Leslie and 
 your children are well. My thoughts are often on your 
 infant, for I well remember, on its being brought into my 
 drawing-room at Hampstead, the gleam of joy that over- 
 spread that countenance which is never absent from my 
 sight. ... I should like to see you, and am anxious to 
 pass an evening with you. I send this note by a messenger, 
 that you may appoint any afternoon that I can come to you. 
 I have been ill, but I have endeavoured to get to work again, 
 and could I get afloat on a canvas of six feet, I might have 
 a chance of being carried away from myself. I have just 
 received a commission to paint a mermaid for a sign to an inn 
 in Warwickshire. This is encouraging, and affords no small 
 solace after my previous labours in landscape for twenty 
 years. However, I shall not quarrel with the lady now, she 
 may help to educate my children.” He then changes the 
 subject, and after some pleasantry, goes on to say, “ I would 
 not write this nonsense at all, were it not to prove to you, my 
 dear Leslie, that I am in some degree, at least, myself again.” 
 Constable made a very pretty and finished sketch of the 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 * 5 ° 
 
 mermaid, but I do not think the matter ever went farther. 
 He gave the sketch to Mr. Evans. 
 
 On the ioth of February, he was elected an Academician. 
 That this distinction should not have been conferred on him 
 at a much earlier period of his life is a proof that the pro- 
 gress of an original style of art, in the estimation even of 
 artists, is very slow. Much as he was pleased at the attain- 
 ment of this honour, he could not help saying, “ it has been 
 delayed until I am solitary, and cannot impart it.” He did 
 not add with Johnson, “ until I am known, and do not want 
 it; ” for no painter of equal genius was ever less known in 
 his own country. Wilkie, who had been for some time 
 abroad, told me that when he saw Constable’s pictures in 
 the Louvre, he could not understand why the painter of such 
 magnificent works had not long been a full member of the 
 Academy. 
 
 “ Lodge, Charter House, February nth. My dear Con- 
 stable, Although I fully expected the event, your note telling 
 me that you are an Academician gave me the greatest plea- 
 sure. Your rewards are at last beginning to flow in upon 
 you, although (as everything is ordained in a state of trial) 
 the painful is mixed with the sweet. My mother sends her 
 congratulations, which are worth the having. To-morrow 
 I go with you to call upon your friends. The event is in 
 every way important to me, since my judgment was em- 
 barked in the same boat with your success. Most faithfully 
 yours, John Fisher.” 
 
 “ My dear John Chalon. Accept my thanks for your kind 
 message to me by your brother. I greatly rejoice in the 
 event of my election, as it is attended with so many gratifying 
 circumstances; but I assure you in none more so than the 
 certainty that it cannot fail to promote and continue our 
 esteem for each other. I beg my kindest regards to your 
 family. Believe me, dear Chalon, your brother’s kind and 
 constant support of me has made an impression on my mind 
 never to be done away by time or circumstances. After he 
 left me last night, there came, ‘ though last, not least,’ 
 Turner and Jones. We parted at one o’clock this morning, 
 mutually pleased with one another. I shall take an early 
 opportunity of calling at your house. . . . Ever, dear 
 Chalon, believe me to be most sincerely yours, John Con- 
 stable. Charlotte Street, February nth. 
 
Elected an Academician 1 5 1 
 
 “ 34, Gerrard Street, Soho, February nth. My dear Con- 
 stable, Our friend Peter Coxe has just called in the highest 
 glee to tell me of your good fortune, or rather of your having 
 attained an honour which ought to have been conferred on 
 you long ago. It is now somewhere about twenty-seven 
 years since you and I first entered the Academy together as 
 students. From that period, in much intercourse, it is to 
 me a gratifying reflection that never on any single occasion 
 did any cloud interpose to interrupt the sunshine of our 
 friendship, nor even the shadow of a cloud, yet you have 
 produced many, but always painted them so well, that 
 they have only increased my great admiration of your very 
 original genius. Our uniform coincidence of opinions on men 
 and things is equally remarkable. — Having gained this elec- 
 tion, you have nothing higher to look up to in this world. 
 I would, therefore, my dear friend, take this opportunity, 
 and the privilege of a friend, to direct your attention more 
 and more to another election which we are all too apt to 
 lose sight of, our election to a glory far above and beyond 
 all the kingdoms of this world, and to secure which is the 
 great purpose for which we are sent into it. I should have 
 had the pleasure of calling to congratulate you, but I am 
 still confined by illness. Believe me to remain on all occa- 
 sions, my dear Constable, ever affectionately yours, Andrew 
 Robertson.” 
 
 Constable called, according to custom, after the honour 
 that had just been conferred on him, to pay his respects to 
 Sir Thomas Lawrence, who did not conceal from his visitor 
 that he considered him peculiarly fortunate in being chosen 
 an Academician at a time when there were historical painters 
 of great merit on the list of candidates. So kind-hearted a 
 man as Lawrence could have no intention to give pain ; but 
 their tastes ran in directions so widely different, and the 
 president, who attached great importance to subject, and 
 considered high art to be inseparable from historical art, had 
 never been led to pay sufficient attention to Constable’s pic- 
 tures to become impressed with their real merit, and there 
 can be no doubt but that he thought the painter of, what he 
 considered, the humblest class of landscape was as much 
 surprised at the honour just conferred on him, as he was 
 himself. Constable was well aware that the opinions of Sir 
 Thomas were the fashionable ones; he felt the pain thus 
 
152 Life of Constable 
 
 unconsciously inflicted, and his reply intimated that he looked 
 upon his election as an act of justice rather than favour. 
 What occurred at this visit, as well as some ill-natured 
 paragraphs in the newspapers, will explain a passage marked 
 by italics in a note to me, dated “ Hampstead, April 5th. 
 Since I saw you I have been shut up here. I have forwarded 
 my picture of ‘ Hadleigh Castle/ which I shall send to Char- 
 lotte Street to-morrow morning. Can you oblige me with a 
 call to tell me whether I ought to send it to the Exhibition? 
 I am grievously nervous about it, as 1 am still smarting under 
 my election. I have little enough either of prudence or self- 
 knowledge, as you know, and I am willing to submit to what 
 you and others whom I value may decide. I shall dine with 
 the Dowager Lady Beaumont to-day, and I hope I shall 
 meet you. I could hardly refuse; yet at this time (for I am 
 in the height of agony about my crazy old walls of the 
 Castle), I could rather wish myself at home. I beg an 
 answer by bearer to tell me how you all are. My children 
 are lovely, and all the better for being here. Last Monday 
 we had a little party, it being the birthday of two of mine, 
 and I sat down to table with fourteen, the eldest of whom 
 was only eleven.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, April 23rd. My dear Fisher, I am glad 
 that you can make this house serviceable to your family 
 on any occasion. My housekeeper will provide all that is 
 necessary, so that the sole attention of your servant can be 
 devoted to your little boy. 1 They could not have come more 
 conveniently; my own family having left this house to-day, 
 where they have been passing Easter, the beds and rooms are 
 well aired. Mrs. Savage, 2 who is anything but what her 
 name implies, proposes that the front bedroom, being large 
 and having two beds, be theirs; one bed is so large that 
 your boy can either sleep with or from your servant; a fire 
 can be kept constantly there or in the drawing-room for them 
 for the day. I live down here (in the parlour), and shall 
 not be put at all out of my way. 
 
 “ I have just got a letter from the Academy. The Pan- 
 demonium opens on Saturday, in which we are allowed every 
 excess for six days (Sunday excepted). 3 
 
 1 Who was sent to town to undergo a slight operation, the removal 
 
 of a spot from his lip. 2 His housekeeper. 
 
 3 The varnishing days allowed to the members of the Academy. 
 
London in March 
 
 1 53 
 
 “ Your sudden departure put me out a good deal and 
 made me angry, and it was a disappointment to my friends 
 in the Academy. Propitiate them on your return, and then 
 you may leave me to myself. — I was sadly ill after you left 
 me. I never had so bad a cold before. However, Hamp- 
 stead and a picture set me tolerably well up. I have sent 
 the great ‘ Castle,’ such as it is, to the Exhibition, and a rich 
 ‘ Cottage.’ Nothing shall prevent my coming to you at Salis- 
 bury in the summer; Evans would be delighted, but he has 
 suffering humanity on his hands. I passed a day or two 
 with my children at Ham House, the Countess of Dysart’s; 
 she was very kind to them, and pleased with them. 
 
 “ Wilkie has eight pictures, Lawrence eight, Jackson, 
 Phillips and Pickersgill eight each. Callcott, though not 
 eight, has one eight feet long, — a classical landscape. Turner 
 has four. They have an immense crash 1 in the hall, and it 
 is evident the Devil must vomit pictures over London. . . . 
 Poor old Northcote was at the edge of death, but revived. 
 I saw him yesterday.” 
 
 “ Osmington, April 27th. My dear Constable, I shall be 
 at Eton with my boy Osmond on the 1st May, and must stay 
 there a fortnight. — I thank you, most gratefully, for your 
 kindness in receiving my little boy Frederick and his nurse. 
 ... I beg your pardon for using you so ill when in London. 
 But the cold, bitter, north-east winds kept me in such a 
 state of irritation, the whole of my stay, that I should have 
 been a most unpleasant inmate to you, and have disturbed 
 your serenity. I felt this, and staid purposely away. I gave 
 you all of my company that I dare ; and at last suddenly 
 left London, and its windy streets, in a precipitate fit of 
 desperation. I have not yet recovered it. There is a deep 
 cellar in the infernal regions reserved for the most desperate. 
 London, in March, is a type of it. See Milton’s Cold Hell. 
 Why did you turn out into an unwholesome room on my 
 account? I cannot hold myself responsible for such in- 
 stances of unwise hospitality. Your life is valuable. 
 
 “ Will you run down to Windsor for a few days, between 
 May 1 st and 14th ? You will find me there in lodgings. Pray 
 do; and let us walk over those delicious scenes again of 
 natural and artificial magnificence; where parsons eat, and 
 stuff, and dream of preferment ; where pedagogues flog little 
 1 He alludes to the quantity of pictures rejected. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 154 
 
 boys, talk burly, and think themselves great men in three- 
 cornered hats; where statesmen . . . ; and where every- 
 body seems indifferent to the splendid scenes that surround 
 them. Ever yours, somewhat cynically, J. Fisher.” 
 
 “ Osmington, April 30th. My dear friend, I discovered in 
 an old pocket-book, this day, an extract from Milton’s prose 
 works. When I made it, and from which of his works, I 
 forget. But this I remember that I meant to send it to 
 you, saying what I now say; that it is the principle upon 
 which my friendship for you is founded. You know that I 
 do not use words in mere flattery. — ‘ As to other points, 
 what God may have determined for me I know not. But 
 this I know, that if he ever instilled an intense love of moral 
 beauty into the breast of any man, he has instilled it into 
 mine. Ceres, in the fable, pursued not her daughter with a 
 greater keenness of inquiry, than I have, day and night, the 
 idea of Perfection. Hence, whenever I find a man despising 
 the false estimates of the vulgar, and daring to aspire, in 
 sentiment, language, and conduct, to what the highest 
 wisdom, through every age, has taught us as most excellent, 
 to him I unite myself by a sort of necessary attachment. 
 And if I am so influenced, by nature or by destiny, that by 
 no exertion or labour of my own, I may exalt myself to the 
 summit of worth and honour, yet no powers of heaven or 
 earth will hinder me from looking with reverence and affec- 
 tion upon those who have thoroughly attained to that 
 glory.’ . . . My dear Constable, ever yours faithfully, 
 John Fisher.” 
 
 The “ Hadleigh Castle,” Constable’s principal picture in 
 the Exhibition of 1829, received rather rougher usage than 
 usual from the newspaper critics; but it finely embodied to 
 the eye the following lines from Thomson’s “ Summer,” with 
 which its title was accompanied in the catalogue of the 
 Exhibition : 
 
 “ The desert joys 
 
 Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds, 
 
 Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep, 
 
 Seen from some pointed promontory’s top, 
 
 Far to the blue horizon’s utmost verge, 
 
 Restless, reflects a floating gleam.” 
 
 I witnessed an amusing scene before this picture at the 
 Academy on one of the varnishing days. Chantrey told 
 Constable its foreground was too cold, and taking his palette 
 
Mr. Evans 
 
 155 
 
 from him, he passed a strong glazing 1 of asphaltum all over 
 that part of the picture, and while this was going on, Con- 
 stable, who stood behind him in some degree of alarm, said 
 to me “ there goes all my dew.” He held in great respect 
 Chantrey’s judgment in most matters, but this did not pre- 
 vent his carefully taking from the picture all that the great 
 sculptor had done for it. 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, July 4th. My dear Fisher. I was most 
 happy to receive Mrs. Fisher’s very kind letter, in which you 
 are so kind as to wish to see me with my children. I have 
 taken places in the coach for Wednesday next, the 7th, and 
 we three shall be with you to tea ; — I am told, before six 
 o’clock, so that we shall be able to walk over the bridge 
 before dark. — The weather may be more settled by the time 
 I come to you, but the fine effects of such a season make 
 ample amends for its inconvenience. My children are all 
 well, and I think I never felt in better health, thanks to Evans. 
 
 “ I took a farewell look with him at the Academy on 
 Thursday. He is impressed with my ‘ Castle.’ ... He will 
 be delighted to join us at Salisbury. — His intellect and culti- 
 vation are, as you discovered, of the first class, and his 
 integrity invaluable. I have just done a small portrait of 
 his mother. — If you have not your book of Claude’s etchings 
 at Salisbury, will you procure it? — as it contains his epitaph 
 and some memoranda, and I am engaged to give a sketch 
 of his character to prefix to a book of engravings, now making 
 from the National Gallery. 
 
 “ I passed the afternoon of yesterday with Jackson at his 
 villa alone. He used a definition which was useful and 
 comprehensive. — He said, ‘ The whole object and difficulty 
 of the art (indeed, of all the fine arts) is to unite imagination 
 
 with nature .’ We were talking of and , etc., etc. — 
 
 The art is now filled with Phantasmagoria . — More when we 
 meet. — ” 
 
 “ Salisbury, September 3rd. My dear Constable. Many 
 thanks for your continual remembrance of me, which is 
 worth more than all; but nevertheless many thanks for your 
 outward signs of remembrance, your venison, and your re- 
 vivification of the Claude. — I shall be at Windsor on Saturday 
 night, September 5th, with my boy. Now either let me see 
 you there, or hear from you. — I yearn to see you tranquilly 
 1 Glazing is the process of using transparent colour alone. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 I 5 6 
 
 and collectedly at work on your next great picture, undis- 
 turbed by gossips good and ill-natured; at a season of the 
 year when the glands of the body are unobstructed by cold, 
 and the nerves in a state of quiescence. You choose February 
 and March for composition, when the strongest men get 
 irritable and uncomfortable, during the prevalence of the 
 N.E. winds, the great destruction of the frame in England. 
 
 “ Minny 1 is the nicest child in the house possible. Nobody 
 would know of her existence if she were not seen. She 
 improves in French and music (her ear is perfect), and she 
 dances quadrilles with the chairs, like a parched pea on a 
 drum head. 
 
 “ and have been together on the visitation for 
 
 three weeks. They have neither broken bread nor spoken 
 together, nor, I believe, seen one another. — What a mistake 
 our Oxford and Cambridge Apostolic missionaries fall into 
 when they make Christianity a stern, haughty thing. Think 
 of St. Paul with a full blown wig — deep shovel hat — apron 
 — round belly — double chin — deep cough — stern eye — rough 
 voice — and imperious manner, — drinking port wine, and 
 laying down the law as to the best way of escaping the opera- 
 tion of the Curates’ Residence Act. I need not, I believe, 
 sign my name. My hand is pretty well known to you.” 
 
 Constable was now engaged in preparing the English 
 Landscape for publication, having secured the valuable 
 assistance of Mr. David Lucas; and it led to the magnificent 
 engravings that gentleman afterwards executed of “ The 
 Cornfield,” “ The Lock,” which Reynolds had contem- 
 plated, and the “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows,” on 
 a large scale, and the “ Stratford Mill ” and “ Hadleigh 
 Castle ” of a lesser size. A prospectus of the English Land- 
 scape was printed, saying, “ It is the desire of the Author in 
 this publication to increase the interest for, and promote the 
 study of the rural scenery of England, with all its endearing 
 associations, and even in its most simple localities; of Eng- 
 land with her climate of more than vernal freshness, in whose 
 summer skies and rich autumnal clouds, ‘ in thousand liveries 
 dight,’ the observer of nature may daily watch her endless 
 varieties of effect.” He was by this time fully aware of the 
 obstacles that existed to a just estimation of his art, and he 
 drew up a preface to his work, in which the following passage 
 1 Maria Constable. 
 
“ English Landscape ” 1 57 
 
 seems to me to be a true statement of the case between the 
 public and himself. “ In art, there are two modes by which 
 men aim at distinction. In the one, by a careful application 
 to what others have accomplished, the artist imitates their 
 works, or selects and combines their various beauties ; in the 
 other, he seeks excellence at its primitive source, nature. 
 In the first, he forms a style upon the study of pictures, 
 and produces either imitative or eclectic art; in the second, 
 by a close observation of nature, he discovers qualities 
 existing in her which have never been portrayed before, and 
 thus forms a style which is original. The results of the one 
 mode, as they repeat that with which the eye is already 
 familiar, are soon recognised and estimated, while the ad- 
 vances of the artist in a new path must necessarily be slow, 
 for few are able to judge of that which deviates from the 
 usual course, or are qualified to appreciate original studies.” 
 
 In the year 1814, when a collection of pictures by Wilson, 
 Hogarth, and Gainsborough, was exhibited at the British 
 Gallery, in the preface to the catalogue it was said, “ The 
 merit of Wilson’s works is now justly appreciated; and we 
 may hope that since the period of his decease, the love and 
 knowledge of art have been so much diffused through the 
 country, that the exertion of such talents may never again 
 remain unrewarded during the lifetime of him who may 
 possess them.” — Who would not say Amen to this? — And 
 yet, long after it was penned, Constable was as much neglected 
 as Wilson had been, and so will it again happen with genius 
 equally original and natural, in landscape, until that branch 
 of the art shall be better understood, with reference to nature, 
 than it is yet by our dispensers of fame. 
 
 In one of Constable’s sketch-books, there is a draught of 
 a letter to Mr. Fisher, in which he says, “ I know not if the 
 landscapes I now offer to your notice will add to the esteem 
 in which you have always been so kind as to hold me as a 
 painter; I shall dedicate them to you, relying on that affec- 
 tion which you have invariably extended to me under every 
 circumstance.” — In another part of this memorandum he 
 mentions Mr. Lucas, of whom he says, “ His great urbanity 
 and integrity are only equalled by his skill as an engraver; 
 and the scenes now transmitted by his hand are such as I 
 have ever preferred. For the most part, they are those with 
 which I have the strongest associations — those of my earliest 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 158 
 
 years, when * in the cheerful morn of life, I looked to nature 
 with unceasing joy.’ ” 
 
 Mr. Fisher died before the work was published, and it 
 appeared without a dedication. 
 
 The first plate engraved was of “ Dedham Mill,” from a 
 very slight sketch; but Constable did not again place any- 
 thing so unfinished in the hands of Mr. Lucas. A few of the 
 many notes he wrote to that gentleman while the work was 
 in progress, will show how much he was disquieted by the 
 undertaking, though in itself of no great magnitude, owing 
 to his fastidiousness in the choice and execution of the sub- 
 jects (five plates that were finished being rejected by him), 
 and to his discovering as he proceeded, that all chances of 
 remuneration for the time and money he was spending upon 
 it were hopeless. Indeed the English Landscape proved in 
 the end to be, as Coleridge said of a work of his own, “ a 
 secret confided to the public, and very faithfully kept.” 
 
 “ September 15th. Dear Lucas, A total change has again 
 taken place; Leslie dined with me yesterday; we have 
 agreed on a long landscape, evening, with a flight of rooks, 
 as a companion to the ‘ Spring,’ and the ‘ Whitehall Stairs,’ 
 in place of the ‘ Castle.’ Prithee come and see me at six 
 this evening, and take the things away, lest I change again. 
 However, I like all the last affairs if you do. I will tell you 
 the reasons for so changing. Pray come at six. Bring some- 
 thing in your hand, I don’t care what.” 
 
 The “ Autumnal Sunset,” the subject mentioned in this 
 note was sketched in his favourite fields near Bergholt. In 
 the distance towards the right is the tower of Stoke Church, 
 and on the left are Langham Hill and Church. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 1830-1831 
 
 Picture of “ Bergholt Churchyard.” Death of Sir Thomas Lawrence. 
 Mr. Shee elected President of the Royal Academy. Notes to Mr. 
 Lucas. Constable on the Committee of Arrangement at the 
 Academy. Picture of “ A Dell in Helmingham Park ” exhibited 
 in 1830. Illness of George IV. Jackson. Bannister. Constable 
 Visitor in the Life Academy. Etty. Wilkie. Illness. Large 
 Picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows ” exhibited, 
 1831. Death of Jackson. Death of Northcote. Watteau. 
 Greuze. John Varley. Coronation of King William IV. and 
 
 Queen Adelaide. Lord B m. Lord Lyttelton and the Ghost. 
 
 Old Sarum. Illness. Reform Bill. E. Landseer. 
 
 I had asked Constable to allow my sister to copy the small 
 picture of “ The Porch of Bergholt Church/’ which has been 
 described in the first chapter, and it came to us with the 
 following note: “ January 1830. My dear Leslie, I send the 
 ‘ Churchyard/ which my friends in Portman Place are wel- 
 come to use for any purpose but to go into it. . . . The 
 motto on the dial is, ‘ Ut umbra, sic vita.’ ” — This note 
 was singularly followed by his next: “ January 8th. My 
 dear Leslie, I have just received the distressing intelligence 
 of the death of poor Sir Thomas Lawrence. This sad event 
 took place last night in consequence of internal inflammation. 
 I could not help sending to you; the council is called in 
 consequence.” 
 
 Constable, though always on friendly terms, had never 
 been very intimate with Sir Thomas Lawrence, but he felt 
 in common with every artist in the kingdom the magnitude 
 of the loss of so eminent a painter, cut off with such apparent 
 suddenness; at a time, too, when he was pursuing his art 
 with all the energy of youth, though in his sixty-first year; 
 and when, indeed, so far from betraying any diminution of 
 power, he seemed to be improving on himself. This, I 
 think, was acknowledged by all who had an opportunity of 
 seeing the scarcely finished but very fine portrait of the 
 Earl of Aberdeen in the exhibition at the Academy that 
 followed the death of its president. 
 
 When the painting materials of Sir Thomas were sold, 
 
 *59 
 
160 Life of Constable 
 
 Constable purchased a palette which had belonged to Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds ; and had been given by him to Sir George 
 Beaumont; who gave it to Lawrence. He presented this 
 interesting relic to the Academy, with its history inscribed 
 on a silver plate inlaid upon it. 
 
 “ January 26th. My dear Lane. Mr. Shee was elected 
 last night by a large majority of the Academy; we expect 
 much from his self-devotion and chivalrous sense of honour. 
 . . . Yours, ever truly, J. C.” Constable lived long enough 
 to witness the ample fulfilment of the highest expectations 
 formed on this occasion. 
 
 “ January 31st. My dear Leslie. I hope your toothache 
 is better. It is an entire illness with me whenever I am so 
 visited. It was a grievous disappointment to all of us, not 
 seeing you and Mrs. Leslie. My little girls were all in 
 £ apple-pie order,’ to be seen. My dear Maria had been 
 practising her steps and music all day that she might appear 
 to advantage. All my boys were in their best, and had 
 allowed a total clearance of the drawing-room of their 
 numerous ships, castles, books, bricks, drawings, etc., etc., 
 etc. I missed you by going to the Gallery where I had 
 invited Newton and Landseer to meet you, neither of whom 
 came; though, as I class them with the nobility, they having 
 adopted their habits, I sat up till twelve to receive them. 
 Not having a tongue of my own, I had ordered one, with two 
 lovely fowls for you, and our best silver candlesticks for your 
 sister. My pretty Minna had ready a little present for my 
 God-daughter, and to prove to you and Mrs. Leslie that 
 though our disappointment was severe, we are not angry, she 
 begs to send it this afternoon.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, February 26th. Dear Lucas. I am 
 anxious to see you, to have farther talk about the plates. 
 First, I want to know how forward the ‘ Evening ’ is, and 
 the retouched ‘ Stoke.’ I have not the wish to become the 
 possessor of the large plate of the ‘ Castle,’ 1 but I am anxious 
 that it should be fine, and will take all pains with it. It 
 cannot fail to be so, if I may judge from what I have seen. 
 I have taken much pains with the last proof of ‘ The Summer- 
 land,’ but I fear I shall be obliged to reject it. It has never 
 recovered its first trip up, and the sky with the new ground 
 is and ever will be rotten. I like your first plates far, very 
 1 “ Hadleigh Castle.” 
 
Plates for “ English Landscape ” 1 6 1 
 
 far, the best; but I allow much for your distractions since, with 
 those devils, the printers, and other matters not in unison 
 with that patient toil which ought always to govern the 
 habits of us both. Do not neglect the * Wood ,’ 1 as I am 
 almost in want of the picture. Bring me another large 
 * Castle,’ or two, or three, for it is mighty fine, though it 
 looks as if all the chimney sweepers in Christendom had 
 been at work on it, and thrown their soot bags up in the air. 
 Yet everybody likes it; but I should recollect that none but 
 friends see my things; I have no doubt the world despises 
 them. Come early to-morrow evening, and bring what you 
 can, and an account of the next; I am nervous and anxious 
 about them. I have made the upright windmill quite 
 perfect. I should like the book to consist of eight; pray tell 
 the writer not to complete his sketch of the title; I have 
 made another.” 
 
 The engraving of the “ Evening,” one of the finest of his 
 small pictures, is the least successful of all Mr. Lucas’s plates. 
 The scene is near Bergholt, with Stoke and Langham in 
 the distance. This plate, the “ Summerland,” and the 
 “ Autumnal Sunset,” all represent the same fields, and from 
 points of view not far distant from each other. 
 
 “ March 2nd. Dear Lucas, . . . Shall I see you on Thurs- 
 day? Alfred Chalon says, ‘ The “ Castle ” is a fine looking 
 thing.’ I am anxious to see a first proof of the ‘ Evening; ’ 
 but take your time ; I will be very good and patient in future. 
 I long to see the Church, now that it is removed to a better 
 spot — two fields off. Take care to avoid rottenness, it is 
 the worst quality of all. Leslie has not the ‘ Stoke; ’ take 
 him one when you next prove it, with the last altera- 
 tion.” 
 
 “ Dear Lucas, I send the 4 Jaques ’ in a flat, yet feel assured 
 you will not make a flat of him. I am much pleased with 
 what we are about so far, only I fear if we do not mind, we 
 shall not have enough of the pastoral. Leslie has just been 
 here, and likes much the sketch in a lane, which I send for 
 you to look at. It is a lovely subject, rich and novel, and 
 what is better than all, natural ; it would be a glorious full 
 subject.” The “ Jaques ” mentioned by Constable in this 
 note was a water-coloured drawing of the often painted 
 scene, the wounded stag. Of this subject he made many 
 
 1 “ Helmingham Park.” 
 
 L 
 
1 62 Life of Constable 
 
 sketches, and contemplated a large picture, the only imaginary 
 landscape he ever thought of painting. 
 
 As a newly-elected Academician, he was now on the com- 
 mittee of arrangement of the Exhibition, and in a note to 
 Mr. Lane he says, 4 4 1 am sadly harassed, and not being able 
 to call on you is most vexatious. I cannot go out, lest my 
 picture and my fire should go out too. How get you on ? . . . 
 I shall be overwhelmed with pictures, especially portraits, 
 the painters of them all believing they can easily fill the shoes 
 of Lawrence.” 
 
 In a note to me written soon after, he says, 44 1 regret the 
 entire confinement I have been in since I saw you. My 
 picture has been, and is, plaguing me exceedingly, for it is 
 always impossible to know what a picture really wants till it 
 comes to the last. However, it shall go. It would amuse 
 you to see how I am beset; I have poets — earls — dukes — 
 and even royalty at my feet; all painted canvas, of course.” 
 His own pictures this year were, the 44 Dell in Helmingham 
 Park,” a small landscape, and 44 A view of Hampstead Heath.” 
 While assisting in the arrangement, he found much trouble 
 from the excessive size of some of the frames; and on remon- 
 strating with an exhibiter on this point, who defended him- 
 self by saying that his frames were made exactly on the 
 pattern of those of Sir Thomas Lawrence, he could not help 
 replying, 44 It is very easy to imitate Lawrence in his 
 frames .” 
 
 I have often observed with surprise, how readily Constable 
 would make alterations in his pictures by the advice of 
 persons of very little judgment. While finishing the picture 
 of the 44 Dell,” he was one day beset with a great many 
 suggestions from a very shallow source, and after adopting 
 some of them, he felt inclined to make a stand, which he did 
 by saying to his adviser, 44 Very true; but don’t you see that 
 I might go on, and make this picture so good, that it would 
 be good for nothing.” 
 
 44 May. My dear Leslie, Can you take a chop with me 
 at five, or a dish of tea at six, on your way to the Academy 
 to the general meeting, where I hope you will be. The 
 debate must be learned, as we are to decide whether plaster 
 casts come under the head of marbles , which they were not 
 able to do at Edinburgh; I shall get there by seven to look 
 round the Exhibition. I feel like the old woman who kept 
 
Bannister and Newton 163. 
 
 a stall at a fair, who ‘ hoped the king would not die during 
 the show/ ” 1 
 
 “ August. My dear Leslie, Will this fine weather tempt 
 you to walk over the fields to my pretty dwelling in Well 
 Walk? If it should, and you can make it the afternoon to 
 dinner, you will find Mr. Bannister and Newton. Prithee 
 come; life is short (and so is my notice); we meet too little. ” 
 
 Mr. Bannister was unable on this occasion to dine with 
 Constable, who received from him the following character- 
 istic note: “ August 17th. My dear Sir, To prevent my 
 place being unsupplied, pray allow me to send you a lame 
 excuse. Certain gouty symptoms convince me that I shall 
 not be able to join your party. My apprehension, however, 
 of mortification, my surgeon says, ‘is a mere farce;’ and 
 adds, ‘ Can’t you be contented with the gout ? ’ My only 
 mortification will be in declining your kind invitation. 
 Believe me, my dear friend, yours most truly, J. Bannister.” 
 
 A young friend of mine, a student of the Academy, whom 
 I had introduced to Constable, had called to ask his advice 
 on the subject of engaging himself as an assistant to an 
 eminent portrait painter; and to this matter the following 
 note chiefly alludes: “ Charlotte Street, December 29th. 
 
 My dear Leslie. K. F calling on me this morning on his 
 
 way to you, I send you my second number of the Landscape ^ 
 the first yet sent out. I have carefully looked out a fine one, 
 and beg you will receive all these trifles as marks of my affec- 
 tion, and if so, they are no longer trifles in my estimation.. 
 
 Poor F has much to say to you about himself and . 
 
 I know not how to advise. is an honourable man, and 
 
 his art is sound and good, but what F will be able to earn 
 
 with him, will, I fear, but ill requite the loss of time. These 
 kind of engagements are seldom attended with satisfaction to 
 either party, because they both want to make all they can of 
 each other. I was much delighted with my day at your 
 house on Sunday, and to complete it, I passed the evening 
 with Turner at Tomkison’s.” 
 
 Though Constable strenuously objected to any style in art, 
 however excellent, being looked at as an object to be attained, 
 rather than as a means towards the attainment of what is 
 always better than the best style, nature , yet he well under- 
 stood how important it is that the student should be directed 
 1 This was written during the last illness of George IV. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 164 
 
 to nature by the assistance of previous art. In the month 
 of January, 1831, he was visitor in the Life Academy. It is 
 the duty of the visitors to determine the attitude of the model, 
 and to give advice to the students; and he placed every 
 figure, during his attendance, from some well-known one by 
 a great master, beginning with an Eve from Raphael, and 
 allowed no evening to pass without a short lecture addressed 
 to the students. 
 
 “ Dear Leslie, I set my first figure yesterday, and it is 
 much liked; Etty congratulates me upon it; do, dear Leslie, 
 come and see it. I have dressed up a bower of laurel, and I 
 told the students they probably expected a landscape back- 
 ground from me. I am quite popular in the Life; at all 
 events I spare neither pains nor expense to become a good 
 Academician. My garden of Eden cost me ten shillings, 
 and my men were twice stopped coming from Hampstead 
 with the green boughs by the police, who thought (as was 
 the case) they had robbed some gentleman’s grounds. . . . 
 The fun is, my garden at the Academy was taken for a 
 Christmas decoration, holly and misletoe. Wilkie called 
 yesterday; I was unfortunately at the Academy; but he 
 good-naturedly came in, and asked to see my children, and 
 was delighted with my dear girl, who was teaching the lesser 
 ones; he ‘hoped they were all good children.’ Jackson 
 also called. I leave home at half-past five every evening, at 
 the latest. Come and walk down with me. It is no small 
 undertaking to make a Paradise of the Life Academy.” In 
 another note, Constable says, “ I shall look for you this even- 
 ing at five, or you will look in on me in my den ; but I must 
 say my lions are exceedingly well behaved. Sass and Etty 
 are never absent; they set an excellent example. ... I 
 have been reading an amusing lecture to my children over 
 the print of your ‘ Sir Roger De Coverley going to Church.’ 
 
 “ I was delighted to find how much I was agreeably 
 reminded of poor dear old Bigg.” 1 
 
 Constable set two male figures at the Academy from “ The 
 Last Judgment ” of M. Angelo; — he afterwards set a female 
 figure which he called an Amazon. — “ January 27th, My 
 dear Leslie, I hope you will find an evening to come down to 
 
 1 Mr. Bigg, R.A., sat to me for the face of Sir Roger. I thought 
 him an admirable specimen both in look and manner of an old-fashioned 
 English gentleman. A more amiable man never existed. 
 
Anxiety and Illness 165 
 
 the Academy and see my Amazon. My labours finish there 
 on Saturday. This figure is liked best of all. Etty is so 
 delighted, that he has asked me to breakfast, to meet some 
 friends, among them Mr. Stothard.” 
 
 Mr. Lucas was interrupted in the work he was engaged on, 
 by the illness of Mrs. Lucas and one of his children, and in 
 a note to him, dated January 4th, Constable says, “ I am so 
 very anxious to hear how things are going on in your house, 
 that I send my man, who I trust will bring me some better 
 account, though for the poor little fellow I cannot feel 
 sanguine. I feel for your distress, and I trust you have seen 
 Dr. Davis ; for if human means can avail they are his. Don’t 
 think of me or my concerns for a moment; your business is 
 with yourself. I mention this only to relieve your mind 
 from all other anxiety, as I well know your great integrity, 
 and that you are always too ready to devote yourself to 
 others, or at least to me.” 
 
 The early part of the spring of every year was a time of 
 anxiety to Constable, as it is to most of our artists, who are 
 just then finishing their works for the Exhibition. He too 
 often found himself behindhand, and the redoubled applica- 
 tion that his pictures demanded, as the time of sending them 
 to the Academy drew near, fatigued his mind, and this, with 
 the effects of the easterly winds of the season, and the in- 
 creased irregularity of his meals, generally disordered his 
 health. His usual time for dining was in the middle of the 
 day, but when very busy it varied, and I have known him 
 eat a few oranges while at work, and sit down to dinner ill 
 with exhaustion, when it was too dark to paint. In addition 
 to all this, his uneasiness about his book had now a share in 
 producing the illness of which the next note speaks. “ March 
 12th. Dear Lucas, My indisposition sadly worries me, and 
 makes me think (perhaps too darkly) on almost every subject. 
 Nevertheless, my seven infants, my time of life and state of 
 health, and other serious matters, make me desirous of 
 lightening my mind as much as possible of unnecessary 
 oppression, as I fear it is already too overweighted. I have 
 thought much on my book; and all my reflections on the 
 subject go to oppress me; its duration, its expense, its hope- 
 lessness of remuneration ; added to which, I now discover that 
 the printsellers are watching it as their lawful prey, and they 
 alone can help me. I can only dispose of it by giving it 
 
1 66 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 away. My plan is to confine the number of plates to those 
 now on hand; I see we have about twenty.. The three 
 present numbers contain twelve; others begun are about 
 eight or ten more, some of which may not be resumed, and 
 we must begin the frontispiece. It harasses my days, and 
 disturbs my rest at nights. The expense is too enormous for 
 a work that has nothing but your beautiful feeling and 
 execution to recommend it. The painter himself is totally 
 unpopular, and ever will be on this side the grave ; the subjects 
 nothing hut the art, and the buyers wholly ignorant of that. 
 I am harassed by the lengthened prospect of its duration; 
 therefore I go back to my first plan of twenty, including 
 frontispiece and vignette, and we can now see our way out of 
 the wood. I can bear the irritation of delay (from which I 
 have suffered so much that I attribute my present illness in 
 part to it) no longer; consider, not a real fortnight’s work 
 has been done towards the whole for the last four months. 
 Years must roll on to produce the twenty-six prints, and all 
 this time I shall not sell a copy. Remember, dear Lucas, I 
 mean not, nor think one reflection on you. Everything, 
 with the plan, is my own, and I want to relieve my mind of 
 that which harasses it like a disease. Do not for a moment 
 think I blame you, or that I do not sympathise with you in 
 those lamentable causes of hindrance which have afflicted 
 your home. Pray let me see you soon. I am not wholly 
 unable to work, thank God! I hope poor Mrs. Lucas is 
 better. Dr. Davis has been to see me and my poor boy John, 
 who is very ill. Mr. Drew gives me pills, so that both their 
 medicines (which I take together) may get me well in double 
 quick time.” 
 
 “ March 23rd. Dear Lucas, Let me know when I shall 
 see you. I am very anxious that you should call, as I am 
 sadly lonely, and do not get well; but I am very much 
 better. I have formed the wish to add a windmill to the 
 set, leaving the title and vignette distinct, and to be given in, 
 which will look handsome. I have made a drawing of the 
 title for you to see, and I wish you to choose the windmill. 
 I have made a great impression on my large canvas. . . . 
 Beechey was here yesterday, and said, £ Why, d n it, Con- 
 stable, what a d d fine picture you are making ; but you 
 
 look d d ill, and you have got a d d bad cold ! ’ so that 
 
 you have evidence on oath of my being about a fine picture, 
 
Death of Jackson 167 
 
 and that I am looking ill. I hope Mrs. Lucas is better, and 
 yourself well.” 
 
 With the large picture of “ Salisbury Cathedral from the 
 Meadows,” the one spoken of in the last note, and which 
 will often again be mentioned, Constable exhibited at the 
 Academy this season a smaller one of “ Yarmouth Pier,” 
 and when the anxiety of preparing for the Exhibition was 
 over, his health improved. 
 
 British art, which had so recently sustained great losses by 
 the deaths of Owen and Lawrence, now again suffered heavily 
 by the death of Jackson, who had stood with them, and 
 occasionally perhaps before either of them, in the first rank 
 of portraiture . 1 He had lingered for some time in a decline, 
 and as his residence was near mine, Constable heard of his 
 death from me. 
 
 “ June 2nd. Dear Leslie, Your note this morning first 
 informed me of the departure of poor dear Jackson. One is 
 so apt to believe that all things which give us pleasure are 
 always to continue, that when these sad events do come, and 
 come they must, we are the more appalled and afflicted. It 
 seems impossible that we are to see that dear fellow no more. 
 He is a great loss to the Academy and to the public. By his 
 friends he will be for ever missed, and he had no enemy. 
 He did a great deal of good, much more, I believe, than is 
 generally known, and he never did harm to any creature 
 living. My sincere belief is, that he is at this moment in 
 Heaven. 
 
 “ The papers still abuse the Exhibition and the painters. 
 A book, The Library of the Fine Arts, has been just left here, 
 in which they speak very properly of your pictures, and 
 perhaps fairly of my * Chaos,’ as they term the Salisbury; 
 they say, after much abuse, ‘ It is still a picture from which 
 it is impossible to turn without admiration.’ I shall hope to 
 see you very soon, but Hampstead breaks me up ; I will, if I 
 can, walk round to-morrow: I want to see Lord Grosvenor’s 
 gallery by you. I must say I like to see my friends in diffi- 
 culties; no good comes without them; but I can hardly 
 understand what yours can be ; I cannot believe your patron 
 and you have chosen a canvas sufficiently large to do you 
 
 1 His portrait of Canova, painted for Chantrey, and the one of 
 Northcote, painted for the Earl of Carlisle, will, I think, bear me out 
 in saying this. As a colourist, Lawrence certainly never approached 
 him. 
 
1 68 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 justice, but I will not pre-judge. I hear a good account of 
 Fisher; he is preaching at Salisbury.” 
 
 “ July 5th. My dear Leslie, I returned from Suffolk 
 yesterday to attend the Council. I left my little girls with 
 my family there, very happy and 4 comfordil.’ Nothing can 
 exceed the beauty of the country; it makes pictures appear 
 sad trumpery, even those that have most of nature; what 
 must those be that have it not? ” 
 
 The following letter is addressed, not to the eminent Aca- 
 demician but to another gentleman of the name of Ward, 
 who was at that time practising portrait painting in London : 
 44 Charlotte Street, July 22nd. Dear Ward, Our mutual 
 loss in poor Northcote makes one cling to what is left, and I 
 now more than ever value the stores you possess of his de- 
 lightful conversation. Do you (as I trust you do) ever mean 
 to give them to the world; they contain a mass of informa- 
 tion, especially on the art. I do think in that respect they 
 are above all things calculated to be useful in guiding students 
 in the right way of thinking and regulating their lives and 
 habits. Let me have the pleasure of seeing you soon. I am, 
 dear Ward, always sincerely yours, John Constable.” 
 
 I had asked Constable to look at a copy of a Watteau, 
 44 The Ball,” from the Dulwich Gallery, on which I was then 
 engaged at the Academy; and to this his next note alludes. 
 
 44 Dear Leslie, I missed you on the day we should have 
 met at the school of painting by about half an hour. Your 
 Watteau looked colder than the original, which seems as if 
 painted in honey; so mellow, so tender, so soft, and so 
 delicious; so I trust yours will be; but be satisfied if you 
 touch but the hem of his garment, for this inscrutable and 
 exquisite thing would vulgarise even Rubens and Paul 
 Veronese. . . . My dear little girls are beautifully bronzed; 
 they have had a happy visit. We are all here. Come to us 
 to-morrow evening.” 
 
 44 August. My dear Leslie, . . . Lady Dysart has sent 
 me half a buck; and I hope to see the President and Howard 
 and Mr. Bannister to partake of it about the middle of next 
 week; will you come? One thing I much want your help 
 in; a request is made to me by a lady (a relation) to make a 
 copy of Mr. W ells’ picture of 4 The Girl and Pigeon ’ by 
 Greuze. This friend of mine had a dear little daughter taken 
 from her; she pines for her child. The picture is the exact 
 
At the Coronation 
 
 169 
 
 image of the soft lovely girl, of whom she is bereft without 
 any memorial. Give me your advice how to act. I called 
 on Landseer, who is now, I find, on a visit to Mr. Wells, and 
 might possibly aid me. Could the picture be left with me 
 after the close of the Gallery, I would copy it, and ensure its 
 safety. ... I looked into the National Gallery yesterday. 
 Carr’s Rembrandts are fine, and the large Gaspar magnificent; 
 indeed, nowhere does landscape stand higher than under that 
 roof. . . 
 
 “ August 22nd. My dear Leslie, On Thursday next at six 
 o’clock they tell me Lady Dysart’s haunch will be in perfec- 
 tion; at all events it will be on my table at that hour. — 
 
 It is indeed very kind of you to name my gallery to . 
 
 But should your endeavours draw him into it, can you give 
 him understanding? ‘ One man may lead a horse to the 
 pond,’ etc. I should be delighted, however, to have him in 
 my room, as it would be nuts, to me, to see him so puzzled. 
 
 Lord N is a better creature, but he esteems ‘ our own 
 
 Glover ’ too much to like our disowned Constable. One 
 picture he had of Glover, the foreground of which consisted 
 of one hundred flower pots all in a row as thus ” (here a 
 sketch), “ the sun was shining bright, but they cast no' 
 shadow. 
 
 “ Varley, the astrologer, has just called on me, and I have 
 bought a little drawing of him. He told me how to ‘ do 
 landscape,’ and was so kind as to point out all my defects. 
 The price of the drawing was ‘ a guinea and a half to a 
 gentleman, and a guinea only to an artist ,’ but I insisted on 
 his taking the larger sum, as he had clearly proved to me 
 that I was no artist.” 
 
 “ September 9th. My dear Leslie, My servant told you 
 of my being at the Coronation. I was in the Abbey eleven 
 hours, and saw with my own eyes the crown of England put 
 on the head of that good man, William IV.; and that too in 
 the chair of a saint ! I saw also the gentle Adelaide crowned, 
 and I trust, what may now be called the better half of Eng- 
 land’s crown has sought its own wearer in this instance. I 
 
 saw also B m with his crown on, a sight than which 
 
 nothing could be more ridiculous, for as his coronet was 
 perched on the top of an enormous wig, he bore the external 
 shape of a Jack in the Green, as he stood with his back 
 towards me a full hour.” (Here the writing is interrupted 
 
17° Life of Constable 
 
 by a sketch.) “ I sat so that I commanded a view of all the 
 peers placed in raised ranks in the south transept. The 
 moment the King’s crown was on, they all crowned them- 
 selves. At the same instant the shouts of ‘ God save the 
 King,’ the trumpets, the band, the drums of the soldiers in 
 the nave, and last, though not least, the artillery, which 
 could be distinguished amid all this din, and the jar even felt, 
 made it eminently imposing. The white ermine of the peers 
 looked lovely in the sun; I shall sketch some of the effects; 
 the tone of the walls was sublime, heightened, no doubt, by 
 the trappings, like an old picture in a newly gilt frame.” 
 
 “ September 12th. My dear Leslie. Accept my third 
 number with my best regards. I hope Mrs. Leslie was not 
 the worse for her visitors yesterday. Her dear infant has 
 never been a moment from my sight since I left you; they 
 were happy days with me when I had infants. Will you 
 come any day when we can look at the old masters in Pall 
 Mall together? I sleep in town to-night. I am glad I saw 
 the show in the Abbey; it was very delightful, and I can 
 now say I have seen a Coronation. Everybody seemed 
 
 amused with B m; the annoyance to him must have 
 
 been great.” 
 
 “ September 26th. My dear Leslie. I have been passing 
 a day or two with Digby Neave at Epsom. I slept on Friday 
 night in the room in which Lord Lyttelton saw the ghost. 1 
 
 1 “ Thomas, the second Lord Lyttelton, had great parts and ambi- 
 tion. He had all his father’s foibles, but without his sound principles 
 of religion and morality; for want of which he fell into great enormities 
 and vices. His pleasures were restrained by no ties of relationship, 
 friendship, or decency. He was a great lover of gaming ; in his younger 
 years he was unsuccessful, but he afterwards became more artful, and 
 at his death he was supposed to have acquired thirty thousand pounds 
 by play. His constitution was feeble, and by his vices so enervated 
 that he died an old man at the age of thirty-five. He was like his 
 father a believer of ghosts, and many stories are told, with considerable 
 confidence, which have relation to his death. About three days before 
 he died, a female figure with a bird in her hand appeared to him, as 
 he imagined, and told him he should die in three days. The day of 
 this supposed appearance he went to the House of Lords, and spoke 
 with great earnestness on some business then in agitation. The next 
 day he went to a villa he had at Epsom, apparently as well as he had 
 been for some time before. The succeeding day he continued there, 
 and was in as good health and spirits as usual, though the apparition 
 still hung upon his mind. He spent the evening in company with the 
 Miss Amphletts, Admiral Wolesely, Earl Fortescue, and some other 
 persons; he seemed perfectly well, and pulling out his watch said 
 jocularly it was ten o’clock, and if he lived two hours he should jockey 
 the ghost. In about an hour he retired to his chamber, and ordered 
 
Old Sarum 
 
 171 
 
 But I neither saw nor heard anything of the lady or the bird. 
 It is a beautiful and romantic old house; deeply fixed in 
 trees and dells and filled with marble statues, dolphins, 
 
 cupids, etc. . . . This morning I have seen ’s studies in 
 
 Italy and Greece; temples, trees, statues, waterfalls, figures, 
 etc., etc.; excellent of their kind, and done wholly for the 
 understanding; bald, and naked, — nature divested of her 
 chiaroscuro, which she never is under any circumstances, for 
 we never see her but through a medium. Yet these things 
 have a wonderful merit, and so has watchmaking .” 
 
 One of Constable’s sketch books contains a beautiful 
 drawing in water colours of the house, formerly Lord Lyttel- 
 ton’s, now belonging to Digby Neave, Esq. The view is 
 taken from the lawn, which is decorated with statues, 
 urns, etc. 
 
 Among the engravings made for the English Landscape 
 which Constable afterwards rejected, when he came to 
 arrange them with the others, was a very powerful one, a 
 view on the Orwell, with two vessels hauled up on the beach, 
 and of this plate the next note speaks. “ September 27th. 
 Dear Lucas, I fear that we must now engrave the * Waterloo.’ 
 The ships are too commonplace and vulgar, and will never 
 unite with the general character of the book. Though I 
 want variety, I don’t want a hotch-potch. We must not 
 have one uncongenial subject; if we have, it cannot fail to 
 tinge the whole book.” In another note he says, “ Dear 
 Lucas, You will be surprised and pleased with the touch 
 proofs ; they quite tempt one to proceed, so clever and artful 
 is the devil! ” 
 
 Constable was now beginning to feel symptoms of what 
 soon proved a very serious illness; and in a note to Mr. 
 Lucas, dated October 27 th, he writes, “ I think myself better, 
 but don’t much care; it gives me an excuse to be idle. Keep 
 the new 4 Old Sarum ’ clear, bright, and sharp, but don’t lose 
 solemnity.” 
 
 A city turned into a landscape, independently of the his- 
 torical associations with Old Sarum, could not but be interest- 
 
 his valet to bring his powder of rhubarb which he frequently took at 
 night. His servant brought it, and forgetting to bring a spoon was 
 going to stir it with a key; upon which his lordship called him a 
 dirty fellow and bid him fetch a spoon. Accordingly he went, and 
 returning in a few minutes, found his lord in the agonies of death.” — 
 Supplement to Nash’s “ History of Worcestershire.” 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 172 
 
 ing to Constable; and not satisfied with Mr. Lucas’s first 
 engraving of it, in which its mounds and terraces were not 
 marked with sufficient precision, he incurred the expense of 
 a second plate. Sir Thomas Lawrence, who had seen the 
 first, greatly admired the treatment of this subject, and told 
 Constable he ought to dedicate it to the House of Commons. 
 
 The plate of “ Old Sarum ” was accompanied with letter- 
 press, of which the following are passages: “This subject, 
 which seems to embody the words of the poet, ‘ Paint me a 
 desolation,’ is one with which the grander phenomena of 
 nature best accord. Sudden and abrupt appearances of light 
 — thunder clouds — wild autumnal evenings — solemn and 
 shadowy twilights ‘ flinging half an image on the straining 
 sight ’ — with variously tinted clouds, dark, cold and grey — 
 or ruddy and bright — even conflicts of the elements heighten, 
 if possible, the sentiment which belongs to it. 
 
 “ The present appearance of Old Sarum, wild, desolate, 
 and dreary, contrasts strongly with its former splendour. 
 This celebrated city, which once gave laws to the whole 
 kingdom, and where the earliest parliaments on record were 
 convened, can only now be traced by vast embankments 
 and ditches, tracked only by sheep-walks. ‘ The plough has 
 passed over it.’ In this city the wily Conqueror in 1086 
 confirmed that great political event, the establishment of 
 the feudal system, and enjoined the allegiance of the nobles. 
 Several succeeding monarchs held their courts here; and it 
 too often screened them after their depredations on the 
 people. In the days of chivalry, it poured forth its Long- 
 spees and other valiant knights over Palestine. It was the 
 seat of the ecclesiastical government, when the pious Osmond 
 and the succeeding bishops diffused the blessings of religion 
 over the western kingdom; thus it became the chief resort 
 of ecclesiastics and warriors, till their feuds and mutual 
 animosities, caused by the insults of the soldiery, at length 
 occasioned the separation of the clergy, and the removal of 
 the Cathedral from within its walls, which took place in 
 1227. Many of the most pious and peaceable of the inhabi- 
 tants followed it, and in less than half a century after the 
 completion of the new church, the building of the bridge 
 over the river at Harnham diverted the great western road, 
 and turned it through the new city. This last step was the 
 cause of the desertion and gradual decay of Old Sarum. The 
 
The Reform Bill 173 
 
 site now only remains of this once proud and populous city, 
 whose almost impregnable castle, with its lofty and embattled 
 towers, whose churches, with every vestige of human habita- 
 tion, have long since passed away. The beautiful imagina- 
 tion of the poet Thomson, when he makes a spot like this 
 the haunt of a shepherd with his flock, happily contrasts 
 the playfulness of peaceful innocence with the horrors of 
 war and bloodshed, of which it was so often the scene: 
 
 ‘ Lead me to the mountain’s brow. 
 
 Where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf 
 Inhaling healthful the descending sun. 
 
 Around him feeds his many-bleating flock, 
 
 Of various cadence; and his sportive lambs, 
 
 This way and that convolved, in friskful glee, 
 
 Their frolics play. And now the sprightly race 
 Invites them forth; when swift the signal giv’n 
 They start away, and sweep the massy mound 
 That runs around the hill, the rampart once 
 Of iron war.’ ” 
 
 In a note to Mr. Benjamin Dawson of Hampstead, Con- 
 stable, speaking of Old Sarum says: “ Who can visit such a 
 solemn spot, once the most powerful city of the West, and 
 not feel the truth and awfulness of the words of St. Paul: 
 1 Here we have no continuing city I ’ ” 
 
 Towards the end of October Constable became very un- 
 well, and was greatly depressed in spirits. I had called on 
 him, and found him in a state of mind which magnified 
 every anticipation of evil. The Reform fever was then at 
 its crisis, and he talked much of all that was to be feared 
 from the measure. I endeavoured to quiet his mind, but 
 fearing that I had done him more harm than good by pro- 
 longing the conversation I wrote to him a day or two after- 
 wards: “ My dear Constable, I have heard of you twice since 
 I saw you; once from Lucas, and once from Vaughan, and 
 I now want to hear that you were not the worse for attending 
 the Council. I came away from you with the uncomfortable 
 feeling that I had excited you to talk too much, and on an 
 irritating subject. I have not a doubt but that at the present 
 time, as it always has been when parties have run high, the 
 evils on both sides are tremendously exaggerated, and I trust 
 you will soon find your fears about the security of the funds 
 to be groundless. ... It is grievous to me to think that 
 a mind like yours may be harassing itself with useless appre- 
 hensions of the future, to no other end than that of impairing 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 r 74 
 
 your health, which is of the greatest consequence to yourself, 
 your children, and your friends. There is no evil more 
 certain than the dread of uncertain ones. Don’t trouble 
 yourself by writing to me unless, as I sincerely hope, you are 
 a great deal better; but send me word that you did not 
 suffer by going to the Academy.” 
 
 “ Dear Leslie, Greatly do I lament going to the Academy. 
 I am much worse than when you and Mrs. Leslie were here. 
 The truth is, I have long been getting ill, and it will surprise 
 you to hear that I have always had the worst tongue possible. 
 The mischief that has been so long hatching has at length 
 come to a head. Evans tells me I must take great care of 
 my health for my children’s sake; I much doubt if my life 
 is of any use to them, but I love them, and they love me, so 
 the parting, at least, will be sad. . . . What makes me 
 dread this tremendous attack on the constitution of the 
 country is, that the wisest and best of the Lords are seriously 
 and firmly objecting to it; and it goes to give the govern- 
 ment into the hands of the rabble and dregs of the people, 
 and the devil’s agents on earth, the agitators. Do you think 
 that the Duke of Wellington, the Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 and Copley, and Eldon, and Abbot, and all the wisest and 
 best men we have, would oppose it if it was to do good to 
 the country? I do not. No Whig Government ever can do 
 good to this peculiar country.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, November 4th. My dear Leslie, I know 
 not how enough to thank you and dear Mrs. Leslie for the 
 kind interest you both take in me. I am now, perhaps, 
 quite well, and I can give you no greater proof of it than by 
 telling you that the Reform Bill now gives me not the least 
 concern. I care nothing about it, and have no curiosity to 
 know whether it be dead or alive, or if dead, whether it will 
 revive from its ashes. I hope to pass a quiet and domestic 
 winter. My illness was much increased by fretting and 
 pining for my children, of whom I saw little or nothing. I 
 shall now call Hampstead my home , Charlotte Street my office. 
 Only think, I had the children here only three or four months 
 all last year, and then took them to Hampstead looking like 
 parboiled rabbits. I have begun the copy of Mr. Wells’ 
 picture.” 
 
 “ November 26th. My dear Leslie, I am sending to poor 
 Lucas, fearing he must be ill, as I have not heard of him so 
 
Maria Constable 
 
 *75 
 
 long. ... I shall bring my children to Charlotte Street at 
 Christmas, where I shall have a pleasant party, and I hope- 
 often to see you and Mrs. Leslie. I was delighted to have 
 Edwin Landseer on Sunday at my retreat ; besides, he fell in 
 love with my eldest daughter, and I could not say nay; it 
 was to paint her.” 
 
 “Well Walk, December 17th. My dear Leslie, I cannot 
 let Lucas depart, without a wretched line or two to you. I 
 have not been in London since we parted last at the Academy. 
 My sad illness has a good deal returned, and the worst is, it 
 is accompanied by an attack of acute rheumatism which has 
 quite disabled me. Thank God, this right hand is left me 
 entire; reminding me, if I could ever forget it, of your dear 
 child’s surprise at ‘ the poor gentleman who was all shot 
 away but his hand ; ’ 1 but my left side and arm prevented my 
 working by pain and helplessness. Fourteen leeches, how- 
 ever, on that shoulder, dislodged part of the enemy, but only 
 that he should make a lodgment in my knee, and now I 
 can’t stand ; but I am so much better in general health that 
 I bear it with tolerable grace, Joy me .” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, Tuesday, December 28th. My dear 
 Leslie. ... I have parted with my dear little Maria for a 
 week on a visit to Putney, a great sacrifice on my part; I 
 miss her exceedingly; she is so orderly in all her plans, and 
 so full of method, — so lady-like by nature, and so firm, and 
 yet so gentle, that you cannot believe the influence this 
 heavenly little monitor has on this whole house, but most 
 of all on me, who watch all her dear ways with mingled 
 smiles and tears. This calls to my recollection two lines of 
 an epitaph in a country churchyard, written by a gentleman 
 on his wife: 
 
 ‘ The voice of all who knew her this contest, 
 
 But chief the voice of him who knew her best.’ 
 
 Should I live, and this dear image of her mother be spared 
 to me, what a blessing and comfort to my old age; I have,, 
 indeed, much to be thankful for. ... I must put Mrs. 
 Leslie’s name to this paper, or how can I convey to you and 
 her my sincere good wishes of the season? I hope you and 
 she may be happy for many many Christmases. For myself^ 
 I am always happy if my children are well, which, thank 
 God, is the case now.” 
 
 1 On seeing an engraving of an antique fragment. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 176 
 
 “ December 29th. I shall try all I can to get well, and 
 ■come to you on Monday with my two little girls, who, I am 
 sure, will be much delighted. But I am still a poor devil; 
 however, to-day I have been painting, and to-morrow I hope 
 to get the Greuze finished. My pretty Minna dressed up 
 my mantel-piece with Christmas boughs, and set out a little 
 table in the dining-room, that I might look pretty in her 
 .absence, which I scrupulously forbid to be disturbed.” 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 1832 
 
 Illness. Turner. Claude. Hobbema. Gainsborough. Stanfield. 
 Picture of “ Waterloo Bridge.” Mr. Lawlev. Callcott. Constable’s 
 Mode of Proceeding with his Pictures. The Palette Knife. Ex- 
 hibition at the Academy, 1832. Constable’s eldest Daughter 
 dangerously 111 . Illness of John Dunthorne, Jun. New Apart- 
 ments for the Academy. Death of Archdeacon Fisher. Copy 
 of de Hooge. Death of J. Dunthorne, Jun. Constable attends his 
 Funeral at Bergholt. Vale of Dedham. E. Landseer. Mr. George 
 Constable. Picture of “ Englefield House.” 
 
 “ Hampstead, January 1832. My dear Leslie, We intend 
 reaching Charlotte Street, pack and package, with my seven 
 children, about Thursday. I am not certain, however, 
 of myself, for Evans says I may not be fit for removal by 
 that time. He is a skilful and honest doctor, a very sensible 
 man with great acquirements, and a most sincere friend, so 
 that I have many blessings yet. I am not sorry to have 
 missed the visitorship in the Life this year, and next year 
 I shall be ineligible; my youth being gone, I can hardly 
 stand the fags I lay on myself. I hope all is well with you.” 
 The painful illness from which Constable had lately 
 suffered so severely, had not yet left him. I had written 
 from Petworth describing some of the pictures there, and 
 received the following letter, dictated by him, for he was 
 disabled by rheumatism in his hand from holding a pen: 
 “ From my bed, Charlotte Street, January 14th. My dear 
 Leslie, Accept my thanks for your kind letter. I rejoice 
 to hear that you and Mrs. Leslie and the dear children got 
 through your journey so comfortably. For myself, I have 
 had rather a severe relapse, but I passed last night almost 
 wholly free from pain, the first, I believe, for these three 
 weeks. I had great pleasure in seeing my brother, by whom 
 I was much excited on family matters, he entering with 
 great cordiality into all my wishes regarding my children. 
 The exertion was, no doubt, too great for me, but Evans 
 assured me, last night, he had not seen me so well. I am 
 much interested with your account of the pictures at Pet- 
 
 177 M 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 178 
 
 worth. I remember most of Turner’s early works; amongst 
 them was one of singular intricacy and beauty; it was a 
 canal with numerous boats making thousands of beautiful 
 shapes, and I think the most complete work of genius I ever 
 saw. The Claude I well know; grand and solemn, but cold, 
 dull and heavy; a picture of his old age. Claude’s exhila- 
 ration and light departed from him when he was between 
 fifty and sixty, and he then became a professor of the ‘ higher 
 walks of art,’ and fell in a great degree into the manner of 
 the painters around him; so difficult it is to be natural, so 
 easy to be superior in our own opinion. When we have 
 the pleasure of being together at the National Gallery, I 
 think I shall not find it difficult to illustrate these remarks, 
 as Carr has sent a large picture 1 of the latter description. 
 Hobbema, if he misses colour, is very disagreeable, as he has 
 neither shapes nor composition. Your mention of a solemn 
 twilight by Gainsborough has awakened all my sympathy; 
 do pray make me a sketch of it of some kind or other, if it is 
 only a slight splash. 
 
 “As to meeting you in these grand scenes, dear Leslie, 
 remember the Great were not made for me, nor I for the 
 Great; things are better as they are. My limited and 
 abstracted art is to be found under every hedge and in every 
 lane, and therefore nobody thinks it worth picking up; but 
 I have my admirers, each of whom I consider an host. My 
 kindest regards to Mrs. Leslie.” 
 
 “ My dear Leslie, After three weeks inability to hold my 
 pen, I resume it for the first time to write to you. ... So 
 far had I written when your letter arrived. I am now 
 recovering, I may say fast, and am beyond the fear of 
 relapses; but certainly, as you say, ‘ excitement under 
 illness is a much worse thing than is generally imagined.’ 
 I sat up yesterday, dressed, by the fire, and ate a small fish 
 for my dinner, to the great delight of Alfred, who would 
 dine with me, as he it was, he said (and truly), * who nursed 
 me so well.’ How heavenly it is to wake, as I now do, after 
 a good night, and see all these dear infants about my bed, 
 all up early to know how papa passed the night. Even 
 little Lionel puts out his little face to be kissed, and smacking 
 his lip, says, ‘Are you well, better to-day? ’ I am often 
 
 1 The subject of this picture, which is called “ Sinon before Priam / 9 
 is evidently David at the cave of Adullam. 
 
Convalescence 
 
 l 79 
 
 inquired after by kind friends, and the sympathy of my 
 real, own, and dear friends is great indeed. I have got my 
 ‘ Church ’ from Hampstead, to hang at the foot of my bed 
 to amuse me. 
 
 “How kind of you to think of the Gainsborough; 1 the 
 ‘ Lord Rodney ’ 2 I remember at Mr. Bigg’s, who did it up 
 very well, and of whom Lord Egremont bought it. Bigg 
 had it to sell for a gentleman ; he showed it to Lord Egre- 
 mont, who seemed hardly to notice it, but on going away, 
 he suddenly turned round at the door, and said, * You may 
 send me the Admiral.’ I knew the grandson of Lord Rodney, 
 who was enough like the picture to have sat for it. 
 
 “ I had a terrific visit from K. F on Sunday morning. 
 
 He was brushed up and ‘ bearded like the pard,’ and going 
 to hear Irving, who, he said, was the only man to preach 
 the Bible, explain the prophecies, etc. I cautioned him 
 against enthusiasm in religion, which, as it has no foundation, 
 is apt to slip from under a man, and leave infidelity or 
 madness; but I talked to a tree. However, touching his 
 picture of ‘ Circe ’ told better, and he went away with a 
 ghastly smile, nearly crushing my hand in that grasp of his. 
 This visit really did excite me, and I fell into a passion, 
 which did me good. . . . P has just been here, accom- 
 
 panied by Newton’s dog, who has presented me with two 
 fleas, lest I should now sleep. God bless you all. Alfred 
 close at my elbow. . . . Jones likes my preface. ... I 
 have seen Stanfield, and am much struck with him alto- 
 gether as a sound fellow; he has great power.” 
 
 “ March 3rd. My dear Leslie, Many thanks for your 
 visit yesterday. I have got my large ‘ Waterloo ’ beautifully 
 strained on a new frame, keeping every inch of canvas. It 
 gives me much pleasure in the present occupation, but how 
 long that will last I know not. Archdeacon Fisher used to 
 compare himself in some situations to a lobster in the boiler; 
 very comfortable at first, but as the water became hotter and 
 
 hotter, grievously perplexed at the bottom. P called 
 
 yesterday. 3 I joked with him at first on the folly of fighting 
 with windmills, but he is quite confirmed in the boundless 
 
 1 Of which I was making a sketch for him. 
 
 3 By Sir Joshua Reynolds, one of his finest pictures. 
 
 3 A friend of Constable and of mine, whose good heart and strong 
 understanding should have kept him aloof from that class of politicians 
 who would overturn the established institutions of the country. 
 
i8o Life of Constable 
 
 notions he entertains on the wrong side of everything. My 
 best regards; I shall soon come and see you; I am quite 
 tired and out of patience at being so long ill and disabled.” 
 
 “ March 4th. My dear Leslie, I have not the power to 
 come so far as your house, but I want much to see you, and 
 to thank Mrs. Leslie for her very kind note of yesterday, of 
 which Alfred has taken possession for his ‘ real own,’ as he 
 says it was intended for him, for he is mentioned in it. Mrs. 
 Leslie was so good as to speak of me in the usual kind way 
 in which you are both pleased to consider me, to Mr. Lawley, 1 
 who called yesterday afternoon, and nothing could be 
 more agreeable than we both were to one another; he 
 admiring my pictures, and I admiring him for doing so ; but 
 he has not admired only, he has taken a great fancy to my 
 * Heath,’ and to my book, which is now assuming a tangible 
 shape. ... He desired the India copies of my book to 
 be put up for him, and he will send one of his ‘ lazy fellows ’ 
 for them on Monday morning; all this is very delightful to 
 me. He was much pleased with my Harlequin's jacket , and 
 said he should often call and see it, for it was ‘ a most 
 amusing picture, the houses — the bridge — St. Paul’s — the 
 numberless boats — etc. I wish I could get to your house, 
 but my knee is so bad I could not walk to the top of my own 
 street.” 
 
 In a note to Mrs. Leslie, dated March 28th, Constable, 
 speaking of Alfred Chalon’s very fine water-colour drawing, 
 the whole length portrait of Mrs. la Touche, says, “ Has 
 Leslie seen Chalon’s old lady in black? it is the grandest ‘ II 
 Penseroso ’ ever done in the world.” 
 
 “ April 9th. My dear Leslie, I hope you get on with your 
 picture to your liking; I am in a dreadful state about mine, 
 for I am determined to send it. I should like much to see 
 yours, but that has not been possible, as you will do me the 
 justice to believe. I met Callcott at dinner the other day; 
 lie said he regretted much that you had determined not to 
 send the ‘ Sterne; ’ I regret it also; he said it ‘ was quite 
 fit, and very fit for the Exhibition; ’ I think so too. At all 
 events, I thought you might like to hear his opinion, and I 
 assure you it was the only one in which we did agree during 
 the evening. He thinks I do not believe what I say, and 
 only want to attract attention by singularity; but my 
 1 Now Sir Francis Lawley. 
 
Mode of Proceeding 1 8 i 
 
 pictures being my acts, show to my cost that I am sincere, 
 for 
 
 ‘ He who hangs, or beats his brains, 
 
 The devil’s in him if he feigns.’ 
 
 But he is on the safe side. . . . My boys are all here. I 
 saw my little girls on Sunday, all well — so the world is light 
 as a feather to me.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, April 24th. My dear Leslie, All my little 
 girls are here. Can Mrs. Leslie and your sister and yourself 
 come and pass an hour with us on Thursday at seven or so. 
 On Wednesday, the levee, which they are to view from a 
 window in St. James’ Street. If they see only the soldiers, 
 they are worth the seeing, and ‘ little things are great to 
 little minds.’ I have never been more restless about a 
 picture than with the premature dismissal of this, and it 
 has not even my redeeming quality, the rural.” 
 
 Two opposite modes of proceeding are adopted by painters 
 in the execution of their works. With some it is the practice 
 to finish part by part as the picture proceeds, so that while 
 it is in progress, portions entirely or very nearly completed 
 are seen on a canvas, the remainder of which is blank. 
 Other artists carry on the whole together; beginning with 
 a faint dead colour, in which the masses only are laid in, and 
 proceeding with the details gradually, and without suffering 
 one part to advance much beyond the rest, until the whole is 
 finished. The first mode is the most favourable to precision 
 of touch, the last to richness of surface and truth of tone. I 
 need not say this was the mode adopted by Constable. 
 Indeed, in landscape it seems impossible that those almost 
 imperceptible gradations of colour and light and shadow 
 which form so much of its charm, should be obtained by any 
 other process. It has, however, the disadvantage of tempt- 
 ing the artist at times to sacrifice parts too much to the 
 general effect. With Constable chiaroscuro was the one 
 thing to be obtained at whatever cost. “ I was always 
 determined,” he said, “ that my pictures should have 
 chiaroscuro, if they had nothing else.” In the pursuit of 
 this indispensable quality, and of that brightness in nature 
 which baffles all the ordinary processes of painting, and 
 which it is hardly possible to unite with smoothness of sur- 
 face, he was led by degrees into a peculiar mode of execution, 
 which too much offended those who were unable to see 
 
£82 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 the look of nature it gave at the proper distance. In the 
 ** Waterloo Bridge ” he had indulged in the vagaries of the 
 palette knife (which he used with great dexterity) to an 
 excess. The subject challenged a comparison with Canaletti, 
 the precision of whose execution is wonderful, and the com- 
 parison was made to Constable’s great disadvantage; even 
 his friend, Mr. Stothard, shook his head and said, “ Very 
 unfinished, sir,” and the picture was generally pronounced 
 a failure. It was a glorious failure, however; I have seen 
 it often since it was exhibited, and I will venture to say, 
 that the noonday splendour of its colour would make almost 
 any work of Canaletti, if placed beside it, look like moon- 
 light. But such pictures ought not to be compared, each 
 has its own excellence, and nothing can be more true than 
 Constable’s remark, that “ fine pictures neither want nor will 
 hear comparison .” 1 It might be at this time that he wrote 
 what I found on a scrap of paper among his memoranda: 
 * l My art flatters nobody by imitation , it courts nobody by 
 smoothness, it tickles nobody by petiteness, it is without either 
 fal de lal or fiddle de dee, how then can I hope to be popular? ” 
 With the “ Waterloo Bridge,” Constable exhibited a very 
 small picture of “ Sir Richard Steele’s Cottage, Hampstead ; ” 
 with two others, “ A Romantic House, Hampstead,” and 
 “ Moonlight,” and four drawings, among which was the 
 “ Jacques and the wounded Stag.” 
 
 When the following note was written, every thought of 
 art was banished from Constable’s mind by the sudden illness 
 of his eldest daughter with scarlet fever: “ Charlotte Street, 
 June 22nd. My dear Leslie, Thank you for your kind note. 
 I knew you would be anxious, and I regret to say this note of 
 mine will not allay your anxiety. My dear child is alarm- 
 ingly ill; her pulse to-day is at a hundred and fifty. My 
 hope is this may be the worst day, so Evans hopes also. 
 Mr. Haines says her throat is not worse to-day than yester- 
 day, but God only knows how it will terminate. I have, as 
 you and Mrs. Leslie know, looked to this sweet infant as the 
 hope and comfort of my old age; but hope is futile, and on 
 what joy can we reckon on this side the grave? ... I am 
 also very anxious about the two other little dears, who must 
 remain at school, it being not advisable to have them home 
 or even away. All our endeavour is to keep this most cruel 
 1 Chapter XV. 
 
H is Daughter’s Illness 183 
 
 disorder out of the way of my boys. How providential it 
 was that she was not already at home; she is managed far 
 better where she is, but it is a case of hard necessity, and 
 poor Roberts 1 is crying all day at not being able to adminis- 
 ter to the dear darling child’s comfort. Poor John Dun- 
 thorne 2 is getting daily, nay hourly, worse ; he cannot long 
 remain to me. I do not contemplate a happy old age even 
 if I should attain it.” 
 
 “ June 24th. My dear Leslie, I send you a packet which 
 I had made up last night for Lucas to take to you, but he 
 did not come. I think I have rather a better account to 
 send you of my little girl; it is not impossible but the worst 
 is past. To-day her pulse is lessened and her throat better, 
 but she is in a fearful state. It is cruel I cannot see her, and 
 it is hard for the other little girls that they cannot come 
 home; but little Emily told Miss Noble that it was not 
 4 near so disagreeable and nasty to stay the holidays as she 
 expected. . . ” 
 
 “ June 25th. Dear Lucas, I send you the picture with 
 my best hopes and wishes, and which I assure you are not 
 slight nor disinterested; but I am more anxious for your 
 sake than my own; anxious that your enthusiasm may not 
 be thrown away nor prove unpropitious. My dear little girl 
 is better, God be praised! and with His blessing she may 
 recover. She got some sweet sleep yesterday, but otherwise 
 it was my most anxious day, though the fever was greatest 
 (pulse one hundred and fifty) on Friday. I am full of 
 anxiety about the other two little dears, who of necessity 
 must be left at the school, but apart from her.” 
 
 The picture mentioned in this note was the “ Cornfield,” 
 now in the National Gallery, which Mr. Lucas undertook to 
 engrave at his own risk; the plate was afterwards purchased 
 and published with its companion, the “ Lock,” by Mr. 
 Moon. 
 
 I received the following letter at Brighton: “ July 6th. 
 My dear Leslie, I was much delighted with your letter this 
 morning, and lose no time in replying to it. My dear child, 
 thank God, is wonderfully recovered; I can take her away 
 safely to herself, though not to others, next week. Which 
 
 1 Her nurse. 
 
 2 Constable’s young friend had been for some time suffering from 
 a disease of the heart. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 184 
 
 to do, I know not, take her to Brighton or Suffolk. I fear 
 most for my boys. Poor dear John Dunthorne is very much 
 worse ; he had several doctors with him yesterday, who have 
 relieved him a little, but this state of things cannot last long. 
 It makes me sadly melancholy; I shall lose a sincere friend, 
 whose attachment to me has been like that of a son, from 
 his infancy. He is without fault, and so much the fitter for 
 Heaven. I wake in the night about him. . . . Pray make 
 my kindest regards to Mrs. Leslie, and God bless the dear 
 children ! I trust you have not thrown the lovely baby into 
 the sea; it has been the ruin of thousands of young infants. 
 . . . Some noble pictures at the Gallery, along with a good 
 deal of rubbish.” 
 
 “ July 9th. My dear Leslie, Our meeting at the Academy 
 was to address the king on his ‘ happy and providential 
 escape.’ 1 The plan of a new house is quite flourishing, and 
 at present there is no obstacle save what may be appre- 
 hended from the Commons’ House, it being possible it may 
 
 be filled with common minds. K. F was with me when 
 
 your letter was put into my hands. He seemed amused at 
 your mode of life; he, chivalrous man, goes on 
 
 * Scorning delights, living laborious days; ’ 
 
 and so far he realises the poet’s words, in that he finds ‘ no 
 guerdon.’ He is an excellent fellow. His drawings are 
 now before me, and he certainly sees and feels the grandeur 
 of the great painters in the Gallery. I have presented him 
 with a set of proofs of my work. I shall send my little girl 
 to Brighton as soon as she is able to be removed. Miss 
 Noble will go with her and take charge of her, in a post- 
 chaise, as I should not like any other dear child who might 
 be in a stage-coach to take any harm. To-day I thought 
 she looked like herself; this is only the second time of my 
 seeing her. The other little prisoners are as yet well. . . . 
 Evans is to be married on Saturday. No man deserves more 
 happiness, and so far as we short-sighted mortals can promise 
 it to ourselves, he has every prospect of it; but as Arch- 
 deacon Fisher’s father’s coachman told him, ‘ It is all a 
 mystery, this same matrimony.’ . . . Poor dear John Dun- 
 thorne is so very ill, that I do fear his time is now short 
 indeed. My visits to him are so melancholy, that I do not 
 1 A stone had been thrown at the King at Epsom. 
 
Death of Archdeacon Fisher 185 
 
 get over them all day; still he works a little. A nice friend 
 and relative is now staying with him, and this is a great 
 comfort.” 
 
 While Constable’s mind was agitated by the near prospect 
 of losing John Dunthorne, to whom he had been a useful 
 patron, having assisted to establish and to procure him em- 
 ployment as a picture cleaner, he heard of the death of that 
 friend who had been his own and only patron, when patron- 
 age was of the greatest importance to him. 
 
 “ September 4th. My dear Leslie, You will be grieved to 
 hear that I have lost my dear friend, Archdeacon Fisher. 
 He went with Mrs. Fisher to Boulogne, hoping there to find 
 some relief from a state of long and severe suffering. He 
 was benefited at first, began to take an interest in w T hat was 
 about him, and poor dear Mrs. Fisher was cheered with the 
 prospect of his being speedily restored to health and spirits, 
 when on Friday, August 24th, he was seized with violent 
 spasms, and died on the afternoon of Saturday, the 25th. 
 This sudden and awful event has strongly affected me. The 
 closest intimacy had subsisted between us for many years; 
 we loved each other, and confided in each other entirely, 
 and his loss makes a sad gap in my w r orldly prospects. He 
 would have helped my children, for he was a good adviser, 
 though impetuous, and he was a truly religious man. I 
 cannot tell you how singularly his death has affected me. 
 I shall pass this week at Hampstead, to copy the ‘ Winter ,’ 1 
 for which, indeed, my mind is in a fit state. Evans has 
 returned with his nice bride.” 
 
 Hoping to amuse Constable, I had sent him a copy of a 
 small picture by De Hooge, of which a sunbeam, and that 
 alone, may be considered the subject; but it shines through 
 a window on the wall of a clean little Dutch room, from 
 which it is reflected on the return of the wall and other 
 objects with extreme elegance, and a degree of truth perfectly 
 illusive. 
 
 “ September 22nd. My dear Leslie, I came here last 
 evening, and saw the pictures. I am delighted with the 
 copy of De Hooge. How completely has he overcome the 
 art, and trampled it under foot, yet how full of art it is. No 
 painter that ever lived could change a single thing in it, 
 either in place, or light or dark, or colour, warm or cold, 
 1 By Ruysdael, belonging to Sir Robert Peel. 
 
1 86 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 Such things are in short quite above the art, and it is a 
 blessing they are done. I must take the De Hooge to 
 Hampstead.” 
 
 “ October ist. Dear Lucas, ... I have sad accounts, 
 indeed, of poor John Dunthorne from Suffolk. He will 
 never see London again. He is confined to his bed and 
 cannot write.” 
 
 “ Dear Lucas, I have added a Ruin to the little ‘ Glebe 
 Farm,’ 1 * * for not to have a symbol in the book of myself, and 
 of the work which I have projected, would be missing the 
 opportunity. The proof of the new ‘ Old Sarum ’ looks well 
 this morning, half-past seven. October 2nd, J. C.” 
 
 “ November 6th. My dear Lucas, I go to Suffolk on 
 Thursday to attend the last scene of poor John Dunthorne; 
 but he 4 fought a good fight,’ and I think must have left the 
 world with as few regrets as any man of his age I ever met 
 with. . . . His fond father, who has been here to-day, is 
 gone back entirely broken-hearted ; he was so proud of him, 
 and well he might be. Do not cut the plate of the new 
 ‘ Old Sarum ’ yet. I have touched another proof to-day, and 
 it looks so well, I think you may like it, and perhaps adopt 
 it. I did it on seeing poor John Dunthorne’s rainbow this 
 morning. . . . They like the ‘ Stonehenge.’ I mean Leslie, 
 and the gentleman who lectured on it, and tried to prove it 
 antediluvian; the thing was ingenious.” 
 
 “ Well Walk, November 14th. My dear Lucas, I re- 
 turned last night, after seeing the last of poor John; no one 
 can supply his place with me. God’s will be done! The 
 text of the sermon of the Rev. D. C. Rowley for poor John 
 was from Isaiah, chap. iv. ver. 2 : ‘In that day shall the 
 branch of the Lord be beautiful and glorious, and the fruit 
 of the earth shall be excellent and comely for them that are 
 •escaped of Israel.’ . . . To-day is dear Alfred’s birthday, 
 and they have kept me a willing guest. ... An angry 
 neighbour has killed my fine black cat, who used to call me 
 up in the morning, but she had been naughty, and killed 
 one of his ducks. ... In the coach yesterday, coming 
 from Suffolk, were two gentlemen and myself, all strangers 
 
 1 This was a plate rejected by Constable, and which its general 
 
 masses enabled him to turn into a view of Castle Acre Priory. It 
 
 was not published, though I believe he intended it, with some other 
 
 plates, to form an appendix to the book. 
 
John Constable, Jun. 187 
 
 to each other. In passing the vale of Dedham, one of them 
 remarked, on my saying it was beautiful, ‘ Yes, sir, this is 
 Constable’s country.’ I then told him who I was, lest he 
 should spoil it.” 
 
 The lovely engraving, in the English Landscape, called 
 “ Summer Morning,” is a view of Dedham vale, very much 
 as it is seen from the high road. Its foreground and sky 
 were greatly altered by Constable while the plate was in 
 progress. The plough, the two cows, and the milkmaid, 
 were introduced in the place of a single figure of a man with 
 a scythe on his shoulder. 
 
 “ Well Walk, November 20th. My dear Leslie, My man 
 is going from here to Lucas, and I avail myself of the 
 opportunity to return the De Hooge, which has afforded me 
 much pleasure. These mutual communications of study are 
 a great help to the happiness of life. ... I shall send my 
 god-daughter Bishop Horne’s sermon on a kiss when she is 
 a little bigger. 1 I was in Charlotte Street, fortunately, 
 yesterday, when Newton called with his wife, and was 
 pleased to see a lady so genteel and so amiable, and so free 
 from affectation or false pride. ... It is delightful to see 
 Landseer’s unaffected kindness to his sisters.” 
 
 Constable’s eldest son seemed now to have outgrown the 
 ailments that had caused so much anxiety to his parents, and 
 in a note to me, dated December 4th, he says, “ This is dear 
 John’s birthday. — Poor dear Maria, if she could see him 
 now! . . 
 
 “ Charlotte Street. My dear Leslie, It is long since I 
 have seen you, or heard of you and Mrs. Leslie; but we 
 have got settled here after the agony of three days’ moving. 
 The first detachment of my forces went off with Roberts, 
 and consisted of all my boys, and a servant or two besides, 
 and I followed with my girls and innumerable boxes — ships 
 — dolls — fire engines — pictures — easels — and other useless 
 lumber; and now we are all looking round with astonishment 
 at having been so long away from so comfortable a house as 
 
 1 In the following year he presented her with the first and best 
 book ever written expressly for children, Dr. Watts' Songs. It is 
 illustrated by wood-cuts from Stothard, and Constable not only 
 coloured them very beautifully, but added some designs of his own, 
 as a bird singing over its nest to the song against quarrelling, and a 
 bee settling on a rose to that on industry; while over the lines begin- 
 ning, “ Let dogs delight to bark and bite,” he wrote with a pencil, 
 “ For Landseer.’ 
 
1 8 8 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 this. I am in possession of half a doe, which I shall not at 
 all enjoy unless you and Mrs. Leslie and your sister partake 
 of it. My wish is to entrap Newton and his bride. I have 
 not been out into the street since my return, but have 
 finished, or shall to-morrow, a small wood, and a head, both 
 commissions of long standing, and so far I secure some peace 
 of mind. As to the exhibition, the ‘ House that Jack built 1 
 will be enough to me.” 
 
 Constable had recently formed an acquaintance with a 
 gentleman of his own name, though not a relation, Mr. 
 George Constable of Arundel, and this was the beginning of 
 a warm friendship which contributed much to the happiness 
 of the last years of his life. The next letter is addressed to 
 this gentleman: “ Charlotte Street, December 14th. My 
 dear Sir, I beg to send the copies of my work for your choice. 
 The proofs that are sealed have had my close inspection; 
 but I send those you had last evening to compare with the 
 India ones. I send also the prints, which are equally good, 
 for all are printed by ourselves. 1 I should feel happy in 
 the belief that my book should ever remunerate itself, for 
 I am gratifying my vanity at the expense of my children, 
 and I could have wished that they might have lived on 
 me, not the reverse. My only consolation is, that my fortune 
 has not sheltered me in idleness, as my large canvases, 
 the dreams of a happy but unpropitious life, will prove. 
 Pray forgive the unreserved tone of this hasty scrawl. I 
 remain, my dear sir, always your obliged servant, John 
 Constable.” 
 
 He was now engaged on a portrait of Englefield House, 
 Berkshire, for its possessor, Mr. Benyon de Beauvoir; and 
 of which, though the subject was unpromising, he made a 
 beautiful picture. The commission had been obtained for 
 him by the recommendation of Mr. Samuel Lane. 
 
 “ December 17th. My dear Leslie, I was sadly dis- 
 appointed at missing you and Mrs. Leslie here on Tuesday. 
 
 I am glad Bonner showed you what I am about with the 
 house, as it produced your very kind note. It reached me 
 at tea time that day, and before bed time I had made all 
 the cows in the foreground of the house picture bigger, and 
 put in another bigger than all the rest. This has had the 
 effect you anticipated, and sent the house back, and also 
 1 Mr. Lucas had fitted up a press in his own house. 
 
Englefield House 189 
 
 much recovered and helped to realise my foreground, which 
 indeed this blank canvas wants to aid it; but I must try 
 at one of the elements, namely, air, and if that include 
 light, I ought not to despair. What you say generally of 
 my canvases is too delightful for me to dispute; I ought 
 to be satisfied that you think so; to please one person is no 
 joke, nowadays.” 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 i833 
 
 Messrs. Chalon. The Palette Knife. Mr. Seguier. Mr. Beauchamp’s 
 Establishment. Picture of the Cenotaph erected by Sir G. Beau- 
 mont to the Memory of Reynolds. Constable visited by a Con- 
 noisseur. Lady Morley. Letters to Mr. George Constable. 
 Stothard. Letter to Mr. Thomas Dunthorne. Exhibition at the 
 Royal Academy. Picture of “ Englefield House.” Allusion to the 
 Loss of the Abergavenny , Captain Wordsworth. The Author’s 
 Visit to America. Constable’s First Lecture on the History of 
 Landscape. Captain Cook. Letters to Mr. George Constable. 
 Notes to Mr. Lucas. Picture of “ Waterloo Bridge.” 
 
 “ My dear Leslie. ... I called on the Chalons; John’s 
 landscape is very promising, one of his best. As to Alfred’s 
 ‘ Samson,’ it is just what Paul Veronese would have made 
 it, if he could have combined expression with colour; it is 
 full of power, full of splendour. They are both adopting 
 the palette knife, while I have laid it down, but not till I 
 had cut my own throat with it. The Dalilah is lovely in her 
 supplicating posture. January 7th, 1833.” 
 
 The dexterity with which Constable used the palette knife 
 has been mentioned, and when he speaks of having “ cut his 
 own throat with it,” he alludes to a recent charge brought 
 against his pictures, that they consisted “ only of palette 
 knife painting.” But if he had now laid the knife down, he 
 very soon took it up again. 
 
 “ January nth, 1833. My dear Leslie, ... I have had 
 a friendly visit from a much greater man than the Duke of 
 Bedford — Lord Westminster — Lord Egremont — the presi- 
 dent of the Royal Academy — or even the king himself, — 
 Mr. Seguier ! 1 He seemed rather astonished to find so 
 good an appearance, or rather, an appearance so far beyond 
 his expectation, and bestowed much praise, such as, ‘ Did 
 you do this ? really ! Who made that drawing, you ? really ! 
 very good indeed.’ . . . John Chalon has spread a report 
 
 1 Mr. Seguier was supposed to be the principal director of the taste 
 of the nobility and gentry in all that related to pictures. He was a 
 good-natured and honest man. 
 
 190 
 
Mr. Beauchamp’s Establishment 191 
 
 respecting myself that has reached me from two or three 
 quarters much to my advantage, namely, that he actually 
 saw four small sable pencils in my hand, and that I was 
 bond fide using them in the art of painting. ... I must 
 
 give up on Saturday morning, as I have much to do 
 
 to the great ‘ Salisbury,’ and am hard run for it. I have 
 
 written to to beg off hearing for the hundredth time 
 
 that his are the best pictures in the world.” 
 
 I had introduced Constable to Mr. Beauchamp, to whose 
 manufactory of British plate in Holborn he paid a visit with 
 his sons, of which he gave me the following amusing account: 
 “ January 20th. My dear Leslie, I went with John and 
 Charles to Mr. Beauchamp’s last evening; their delight was 
 great, not only at the very great kindness of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Beauchamp and their boys, but at the sight of all that was 
 to their heart’s content; forges — smelting pots — metals — 
 turning lathes — straps and bellows — coals — ashes — dust — 
 dirt — and cinders; and everything else that is agreeable 
 to boys. They want me to build them just such a place 
 under my painting-room; and had I not better do so, and 
 give up landscape painting altogether? Poor Mrs. Beau- 
 champ was suffering with the tooth-ache, but her politeness 
 made her assure me that I succeeded in talking it off. 
 
 “ I have called on poor . I did not think his things 
 
 were quite so bad. They pretend to nothing but an imita- 
 tion of nature; but then it is of the coldest and meanest 
 kind. He is immersed in white lead, and oil, and black, all 
 of which he dashes about the canvas without the smallest 
 remorse. All is, thence, utterly heartless.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, February 13th. Dear Leslie, . . . 
 May I beg of you to let your servant take the little parcel to 
 Edwin Landseer; it is my first number, in which is the 
 ‘ Mill ’ he wanted. I have sent it with the four other prints, 
 which is like getting rid of a bad shilling among half-pence.” 
 
 In a note to me, not dated, but written in the early part 
 of this year, Constable says, “ I have laid by the ‘ Cenotaph ’ 1 
 for the present. I am determined not to harass my mind 
 and health by scrambling over my canvas as I have too often 
 done. Why should I? I have little to lose and nothing 
 to gain. I ought to respect myself for my friends’ sake, and 
 
 1 He had begun a picture of the cenotaph erected by Sir George 
 Beaumont to the memory of Reynolds. 
 
192 Life of Constable 
 
 my children’s. It is time, at fifty-six, to begin, at least, to 
 know oneself, — and I do know what I am not ...” He 
 then speaks of the qualities at which he chiefly aimed in his 
 pictures, — “ light — dews — breezes — bloom — and freshness; 
 not one of which,” he adds, “ has yet been perfected on the 
 canvas of any painter in the world.” 
 
 “ April 2nd. Dear Leslie, Do not pass my door if you 
 come to town. I have brushed up my £ Cottage ’ into a 
 pretty look, and my ‘ Heath ’ is almost safe, but I must 
 stand or fall by my ‘ House.’ I had on Friday a long visit 
 
 from Mr. alone; but my pictures do not come into his 
 
 rules or whims of the art, and he said I had ‘ lost my way.’ 
 I told him that I had, £ perhaps, other notions of art than 
 picture admirers have in general. I looked on pictures as 
 things to be avoided, connoisseurs looked on them as things to 
 be imitated ; and that, too, with such a deference and humble- 
 ness of submission, amounting to a total prostration of mind 
 and original feeling, as must serve only to fill the world with 
 abortions.’ But he was very agreeable, and I endured the 
 visit, I trust, without the usual courtesies of life being 
 violated. — What a sad thing it is that this lovely art is so 
 wrested to its own destruction ! Used only to blind our eyes, 
 and to prevent us from seeing the sun shine — the fields 
 bloom — the trees blossom — and from hearing the foliage 
 rustle; while old — black — rubbed out and dirty canvases 
 take the place of God’s own works. I long to see you. I 
 love to cope with you, like Jaques, in my £ sullen moods,’ 
 for I am not fit for the present world of art. . . . Lady 
 Morley was here yesterday. On seeing the £ House,’ she 
 exclaimed, £ How fresh, how dewy, how exhilarating ! ’ I 
 told her half of this, if I could think I deserved it, was worth 
 all the talk and cant about pictures in the world.” 
 
 Constable often did himself harm by attempting to set 
 right those whom he might have known, from the very con- 
 stitution of their minds, it was impossible to set right, in 
 matters of taste. Such strong expressions, as those men- 
 tioned in the last letter, though easily comprehended by the 
 few who understood his views of art, only gained him the 
 character of a dealer in paradox with those who did not. 
 An affronted taste is very unforgiving, and he not only 
 wasted his time, but too often made enemies by attempting 
 to ££ cut blocks with a razor.” 
 
Mr. Stothard 
 
 *93 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. April 12th. My dear Sir, 
 I am delighted to hear of the steady improvement of your 
 health, and I most sincerely hope it will continue to improve ; 
 the coming season is in your favour. I have always heard 
 of the autumn being the painter's season, but give me the 
 spring, though 
 
 * With tears and sunshine in her fickle eyes.’ 
 
 I send the drawing by Varley, and I venture to accompany it 
 
 with two others; they all belonged to my poor friend , 
 
 who died in the autumn, leaving a widow and dear little 
 girl; the disposal of these drawings would essentially serve 
 them. That by Varley is six pounds, the others two pounds 
 each; they would be pretty accompaniments to the ‘ Curfew ’ 
 on a mantel-piece; they are by Ziegler. ... I beg my 
 best compliments to Mrs. Constable, and believe me, my dear 
 sir, with sincere regards, yours truly, John Constable.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. April 17 th. My dear Sir, 
 Accept my best thanks for your very kind letter which I 
 received this morning, enclosing ten pounds, which with 
 
 great pleasure I transmitted to Mrs. . I feel assured 
 
 your friend will never repent the possession of those very 
 beautiful drawings. I hear the Exhibition will be excellent; 
 the quantity sent exceeds all precedent; Wilkie and Leslie 
 are strong, Phillips and the president are strong, Landseer is 
 strong, and so on; but perhaps you wish me to speak of 
 myself; Constable is weak this year. We shall probably all 
 know our fate on Thursday se’nnight, and the public may 
 sabre us at their pleasure on the first Monday in May. . . . 
 I passed an hour or two with Mr. Stothard on Sunday evening. 
 Poor man! the only elysium he has in this world is found 
 in his own enchanting works. His daughter does all in her 
 power to make him happy and comfortable. Lucas has 
 been so busy about the portrait of Sir Charles Clark, that 
 till now he could not take up my appendix, which I shall be 
 happy to present to you when ready. I am, my dear sir, 
 always your obliged friend, John Constable.” 
 
 “ To Mr. Thomas Dunthorne. 1 April 19th. Dear Sir. I 
 was prepared to receive the melancholy account of the death 
 of poor Mrs. Folkard, 2 which Mr. Wright has just told me of. 
 
 1 Brother of Constable’s early friend, J. Dunthorne, Senr. 
 
 2 A daughter of J. Dunthorne, Senr. 
 
 N 
 
194 Life of Constable 
 
 How truly melancholy is the history of all this excellent 
 family! How well I remember the birth of all of them — 
 Ann, James, poor John, and Hannah; — little thinking I 
 should live to lament the death of every one. My poor old 
 friend, the father of this hapless race, must be in a fearful 
 condition. But since the death of poor John I well know 
 he has made up his mind to everything that can happen. 
 He now neither cares to stay or go. He told me he did not 
 care how soon he was laid in the same grave with poor John . 1 
 There seemed an unsoundness in the constitution of all; 
 from the mother probably. There has been a young lady 
 here to enquire for John, to whom he gave lessons. She 
 wished to know if anything was owing to him, and had he 
 been living, to have had more lessons. . . . With the 
 kindest regards, I am truly yours, J. Constable.” 
 
 “ April. Dear Leslie. I send Pitt to know how you are 
 
 all getting on. R assured me that and all of them 
 
 did all in their power to help me to a change of the place of 
 my picture, but could not manage it. They have immense 
 trouble this year, but I am easy now, and they all say it 
 
 looks very well. But S and H are so strictly 
 
 academical that they deny the painter the power of making 
 a picture out of nothing, or out of a subject not to their liking, 
 though they do not deny it to the poet. The frames have 
 annoyed them beyond measure, and the cold-blooded selfish- 
 ness of more than all. The council have written to 
 
 him two mild letters entreating to change a monstrous piece 
 of gilded wood, as it ruined the hopes of at least five others 
 who only look for the crumbs that fall from the Academic 
 table, while at the same time it spoiled his own picture, — 
 
 but he would not comply. ’s frames are shameful, or 
 
 rather shameless. The council are determined to regulate 
 these things next year. My “ Heath ” is admired, and is 
 well placed.” 
 
 “ Dear Leslie. I send to know how your dear family and 
 yourself get on. . . . John Chalon has just been here. He 
 is full of anxiety about his picture. I told him I would 
 change places with him at a venture. . . . Thank you, 
 dear Leslie, for your kind note. — One ambition I will hold 
 
 fast. I am determined never to deserve the praise of S , 
 
 H , C , D , W R- , etc., etc., etc.” 
 
 1 Mr. Dunthorne survived until October 1844. 
 
“ Weymouth Bay ” 
 
 1 95 
 
 Constable’s pictures at the Academy, this year, were 
 “ Englefield House, Berkshire, morning;” a “Heath, 
 showery, noon;” “Cottage in a Cornfield;” “Landscape, 
 sunset,” and three drawings in water colours, namely, “ An 
 old Farmhouse,” “ A Miller’s House,” and “ A Windmill, 
 squally day.” 
 
 “ May 14th. Dear Lane. Thank you for your admira- 
 tion of my book; the intention is good. I wish it gave me 
 the same unalloyed pleasure; but the extravagant, useless, 
 and silly expenditure I have been led into distracts me, now 
 that the hour of reflection is come. . . . The Morning 
 
 Post speaks beautifully of my ‘ House.’ S told me it 
 
 was ‘ only a picture of a house , and ought to have been put 
 into the Architectural Room.’ I told him it was * a picture 
 of a summer morning, including a house. 1 ” 
 
 Mrs. Leslie had seen in Charlotte Street a proof impression 
 of the “ Weymouth Bay,” in some respects imperfect, but 
 in others very beautiful, and had expressed a wish to have 
 it, to which I objected, thinking it was of value to Constable. 
 He sent it the next day with the following note: “ Dear 
 Mrs. Leslie. I have no idea that husbands should control 
 their wives, any more than that wives should control their 
 husbands, at least, in trifles; I therefore make no scruple 
 to send you what is good for nothing. It is, I hope, a suffi- 
 cient excuse for me that you expressed a wish for it, and I 
 felt at the same time assured that its being useless was the 
 reason of your doing so; thus * much ado about nothing.’ 
 I shall now, to give value to the fragment I send you, apply 
 to it a line of Wordsworth: 
 
 ‘ This sea in anger, and that dismal shore .’ 1 
 
 I think of Wordsworth, for on that spot perished his brother 
 in the wreck of the Abergavenny .” 
 
 That Constable’s next note may be understood, I must 
 mention that I contemplated taking my family to America, 
 with the probability of remaining there. 
 
 “ June nth. My dear Leslie. As it may not be ordained 
 that I write to you again on my birthday (at least in England), 
 I cannot omit the occasion, though the pleasure is a melan- 
 
 1 From “ Elegiac Stanzas, suggested by a picture of Peele Castle, 
 in a storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont.” The death of Captain 
 Wordsworth is also alluded to, in another most affecting poem, by his 
 brother, addressed “ To the Daisy.” 
 
196 Life of Constable 
 
 choly one in every way to me. . . . The loss of you is a 
 cloud casting its shade over my life, now in its autumn. I 
 never did admire the autumnal tints, even in nature, so 
 little of a painter am I in the eye of common-place connois- 
 seurship. I love the exhilarating freshness of spring. My 
 kindest regards to Mrs. Leslie; I hope all your children are 
 well. . . . Remember I play the part of Punch on Monday 
 at eight, at the assembly-room at Hampstead.” 
 
 “ The part of Punch ” alludes to his first appearance as a 
 lecturer. His subject was “ An outline of the History of 
 Landscape Painting,” which he afterwards filled up in a 
 course of four lectures delivered in London. 
 
 “ June. Dear Leslie. . . . My godchild is a delightful 
 little creature, and I shall be glad to live long, if it is only to 
 cross the Atlantic to give her away. When Captain Cook 
 stood sponsor for a little girl in Barking Church, he said, 
 ‘ If this infant lives, I will marry her; ’ he fulfilled his pro- 
 mise, and she was living until lately. Only think of the 
 vicissitudes of life; what may we not hope and almost 
 expect? you may return. Don’t separate any ties in this 
 country. Keep your diploma.” 
 
 “Well Walk, August 16th. My dear Leslie. I have 
 wished much to write to you. I have not thanked you for 
 your long and delightful letter, but I am not now so much 
 master of that cceur dejoie which used to cheer me, especially 
 when I took pen in hand to write to you. The thought that 
 I am to be deprived of the consolations of your and Mrs. 
 Leslie’s society — of such happy hours as you and I have 
 passed together — and of our communications on art, and 
 everything else, weighs heavy on me; so much so, indeed, 
 as to depress my mind, and prevent the enjoyment of even 
 the little that remains of our personal intercourse; this is 
 not right on my part, I know. 
 
 “ I had a delightful visit into Suffolk. We ranged the 
 woods and fields, and searched the crag-pits for shells, and 
 the bones and teeth of fossil animals for John; and Charles 
 made drawings, and I did nothing at all, but I felt happy to 
 see them enjoy themselves. All my family were very kind 
 to the boys. ... I have just lost a valuable Suffolk friend, 
 Sir Thomas Ormsby, who would have served me always. 
 He was son-in-law to General Rebow, an old friend of my 
 father’s; thus I am almost daily bereft of some friend or 
 
Mr. George Constable’s Accident 197 
 
 other. ... I am glad you are going to Lord Egremont’s; 
 he is really a great patron of art. ... I can hardly write 
 for looking at the silvery clouds; how I sigh for that peace 
 (to paint them) which this world cannot give (to me at 
 least). Yet well I know ‘ happiness is to be found anywhere 
 or nowhere ; ’ but this last year, though, thank God, attended 
 with no calamity, has been most unpropitious to my happi- 
 ness. To part with my dear John is breaking my heart, 
 but I am told it is for his good.” 
 
 Constable’s two eldest sons were about to leave him for a 
 school at Folkstone. 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Well Walk, December 9th. 
 My dear Sir. I am grieved at the letter I have received 
 from you. To have had such a serious accident, 1 and at a 
 time, too, when your health was so much improving, is 
 extremely distressing, as it must prevent your general habits 
 of enjoying the air, and of exercise. Gigs are bad things, 
 one is so much at the mercy of the horse. I hope, however, 
 from the almost cheerful tone in which you have dictated 
 your letter, that all will do well with you, and that your 
 next letter will bring satisfactory accounts ; at least, that the 
 inflammation is gone, and the bone set. The former is 
 much within the reach of the professors, our friends of the 
 ditches, the leeches. These humble creatures have the 
 power and the will, too, to render mankind essential benefits ; 
 and this grateful argument will hold good of everything in 
 nature, more or less. I have been sadly ill, and during the 
 last week, particularly so, still I have ventured to embark 
 on a large canvas, and have thus set forth on a sea of trouble, 
 but it is a sea that generally becalms as I proceed; I have 
 chosen a rich subject. . . . To-morrow I pass a long even- 
 ing at the Academy; the ioth being its anniversary. We 
 give the prizes for all kinds of art. I lament to say we must 
 give away an abundance of our beautiful medals to little 
 purpose. How are we to account for this? perhaps as 
 Fuseli once told me, ‘ as the conveniences and instruments 
 of study increase, so will always the exertions of the students 
 decrease.’ Now, my dear sir, how can I oblige you, or 
 contribute to your amusement during your sad calamity? 
 Can I send you anything to look at? ” 
 
 1 Mr. G. Constable had been thrown out of a gig, and his left arm 
 was broken above the elbow. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 198 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Well Walk, Hampstead, 
 December 17th. My dear Sir, I would not have kept you 
 so long in suspense, had it been in my power to do other- 
 wise ; but I can’t get well. I have been long in a disordered 
 state of health, and my spirits are not as they used to be. I 
 have not an idea that I shall be able to part with the ‘ Salis- 
 bury; 11 the price will of necessity be a very large one, for 
 the time expended on it was enormous for its size. I am 
 also unwilling to part with any of my standard pictures; they 
 being all points with me in my practice, and will much 
 regulate my future productions, should I do any more large 
 works. The picture by Cuyp which you send is agreeable, 
 and its colour and sunshine will no doubt please many; I 
 wish not, however, to add any more old pictures to my stock. 
 If you wish for any information about its money value, I 
 can get some professional friends to see it; of that I am no 
 judge; I only know good from bad things in art, and that 
 goes but little way in being of use to my friends. I shall 
 greatly rejoice to hear that you are so far recovered as to be 
 out again. I will look for some little matters to return with 
 the Cuyp, when you desire to have it.” 
 
 “ To Mr. John Constable. Arundel, December 18th. 
 ... I sincerely wish I could prevail on you to take a trip 
 to Arundel, I am sure you would derive great benefit from 
 it. I am from experience quite satisfied that the occasional 
 removal from the monotony of domestic scenes and circum- 
 stances is very beneficial both to mind and body. . . . 
 Respecting one of your pictures, I shall certainly do my 
 utmost to possess what I think your best in some respects, 
 the ‘ Salisbury Cathedral; ’ but more on this subject when I 
 have the pleasure of seeing you. Could you without much 
 trouble enclose me a bit of your sparkling colour to copy, I 
 should be more than I can express obliged. I am, my dear 
 sir, your sincere friend, George Constable.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Well Walk, Hampstead, 
 December 20th. My dear friend. I thank you most sin- 
 cerely for your kind and friendly letter. I am sadly out of 
 order, but you seem determined that I shall not knock under. 
 I am too unwell to go to town, but my friend Bonner has 
 just set off to Charlotte Street to pack your picture and 
 
 1 One of his repetitions of the beautiful picture of the “ Cathedral 
 from the Bishop’s Grounds.” 
 
Picture by Cuyp 199 
 
 forward it; it is a beautiful representation of a summer’s 
 evening; calm, warm, and delicious; the colour on the man’s 
 face is perfect sunshine. The liquid pencil of this school is 
 replete with a beauty peculiar to itself. Nevertheless, I don’t 
 believe they had any nostrums, but plain linseed oil; £ honest 
 linseed ,’ as old Wilson called it. But it is always right to 
 remember that the ordinary painters of that day used, as 
 now, the same vehicle as their betters, and also that their 
 works have all received the hardening and enamelling effects 
 of time, so that we must not judge of originality by these 
 signs always. Still your picture has a beautiful look; but 
 I shall not collect any more. I have sent most of my old 
 men to Mr. Davidson’s gallery in Pall Mall to be sold. I 
 find my house too much encumbered with lumber, and this 
 encumbers my mind. My sons are returned from Folks tone 
 for Christmas. John is delighted with the collection 1 you 
 have sent him; he says they are very valuable indeed, and 
 he highly prizes them. To me these pieces of ‘ time-mangled 
 matter ’ are interesting for the tale they tell ; but above all, 
 I esteem them as marks of regard to my darling boy, the 
 darling, too, of his dear mother.” 
 
 Perhaps the following notes to Mr. Lucas, without date, 
 may not be far from their proper place here. 
 
 “ Dear Lucas. Poor, infatuated printer, 2 has done 
 
 nothing for me for three weeks: not a single India copy nor 
 one plain one can I get. But he has sent me a large piece 
 of wedding-cake, and this, too, just as he has been begging 
 assistance to buy bread and butter ! The devil undoubtedly 
 finds much fun in this town, or we never should hear of such 
 acts of exceeding folly.” 
 
 “ Dear Lucas. All who have seen your large print like it 
 exceedingly; it will be, with all its grandeur, full of detail. 
 Avoid the foot-bag, and you are safe; Rembrandt had no- 
 foot-bag, you may rely on it. Be careful how you etch it,, 
 that you do not hurt the detail; but there is time enough. 
 I hope you will not injure your family by so large a print.” 
 
 “ Dear Lucas. I should .think the ‘ Yarmouth ’ would 
 make by far the best companion to ‘ Old Sarum.’ At the 
 same time ‘ Old Billy Lott’s House,’ if it could be regrounded 
 at the sides, is a lovely subject. The Lord Mayor’s Show, I 
 
 1 Of fossils. 
 
 2 The printer of the letterpress to the English Landscape. 
 
200 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 do believe, is too good a joke to be received into our church. 
 Nothing can make it either apostolic or canonical, so uncon- 
 genial is any part of this hideous Gomorrah. J. C. — And 
 yet, after all, the ‘ Waterloo ’ is a famous composition, and 
 ought to give much pleasure; — but it is the devil, — and I 
 am sore perplexed.” 
 
 By the “ Lord Mayor’s Show ” he means the “ Opening 
 of Waterloo Bridge ” (his lordship’s barge being a conspicu- 
 ous object on that picture). — The reader cannot fail to have 
 observed how uncertain Constable always felt of the success 
 of this composition. In the year 1819, it first entered his 
 mind to paint it; and between that time and 1832 (when it 
 was exhibited) it was often taken up and as often laid aside, 
 with many alternations of hope and fear. The expanse of 
 sky and water tempted him to go on with it, while the 
 absence of all rural associations made it distasteful to him; 
 and when at last it came forth, though possessing very high 
 qualities, — composition, breadth, and brightness of colour, 
 it wanted one which generally constituted the greatest charm 
 of his pictures — sentiment , — and it was condemned by the 
 public; though perhaps less for a deficiency which its sub- 
 ject occasioned, than for its want of finish. What would he 
 have felt, could he foresee that, in little more than a year 
 after his death, its silvery brightness was doomed to be 
 clouded by a coat of blacking , laid on by the hand of a 
 picture dealer! — Yet that this was done, by way of giving 
 tone to the picture, I know from the best authority, the lips 
 of the operator, who gravely assured me that several noble- 
 men considered it to be greatly improved by the process. 
 The blacking was laid on with water, and secured by a coat 
 of mastic varnish. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 1834-1835 
 
 Illness of Constable and his eldest son. Death of Lady Beechey. 
 Constable ill again. Mr. Purton. Pictures at the British Gallery 
 and at the Academy 1834. Visit to Arundel. Mr. George Con- 
 stable. Petworth. Lord Egremont. Large Picture of “ Salisbury 
 Cathedral.” Lady Dysart. Gainsborough. Ham House. Pic- 
 tures there. Cuyp. Visit to Petworth. Cowdry Castle. Old 
 Mills. Barns. Farm Houses. Constable’s Habits. Conflagra- 
 tion of the Houses of Parliament. Large Picture of “ Salisbury 
 Cathedral.” Wilkie’s “ Columbus.” Picture called “ The Valley 
 Farm ” exhibited at the Academy, 1835, and purchased by Mr. 
 Vernon. Cozens. Pictures by David. Second Lecture at Hamp- 
 stead. Attacks on the Academy. Committee of the House of 
 Commons, etc. Charles Constable. Mr. Vernon’s Picture. 
 Bryan’s Dictionary. 
 
 “ Well Walk, January 20th, 1834. My dear Leslie. I have 
 been sadly ill since you left England, and my mind has been 
 so much depressed, that I have scarcely been able to do 
 any one thing, and in that state I did not like to write to 
 you. I am now, however, busy on a large landscape; I 
 find it of use to myself, though little noticed by others. 
 Still the trees and the clouds seem to ask me to try and do 
 something like them. Poor John has been very ill; walking 
 in his sleep at school, he fell and brought on erysipelas; 
 he was six weeks in bed, and on his return to Hampstead 
 for the holidays, he took a rheumatic fever, and was con- 
 fined for a month. I do not think I shall send the boys 
 again to Folkestone. Bonner is still with me, and Alfred 
 and Lionel are getting on in their studies with him. ... I 
 dined with Mr. Bannister, who is much delighted with your 
 print of ‘Uncle Toby and the Widow.’ 1 . . . Poor Sir 
 William Beechey has lost Lady Beechey; she was taken ill 
 on a Saturday, and died the next day; but so happy a 
 death, it was more like a translation; she said, ‘ Now I have 
 no more to do or to say. I have done my best for you all 
 here, and I will go and see my three dear children in Heaven ; ’ 
 those she had lost early. . . . The Chalons were here on the 
 1 Mr. Bannister sat for the face of Uncle Toby. 
 
 201 
 
202 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 Heath for six weeks, and it was delightful weather. ... I 
 have been busy in making a fly-leaf to each of my prints, 
 and I send a specimen or two that are ready, to know what 
 you think of that plan. Many people can read letterpress 
 who cannot read mezzotinto. I shall send you my discourse. 
 They want me to preach again in the same place. ... I 
 dine with Sir Martin to-morrow; Chalon will be there.” 
 
 Constable had another, and very painful illness, which is 
 thus described by Mr. Evans in a note addressed to Mr. Wm. 
 Purton of Hampstead : “It was a severe attack of acute 
 
 rheumatism (or rheumatic fever, as it is usually called), 
 which began in February, and lasted for the greater part of 
 two months. In the early part of this period the suffering 
 was very great; all the joints became the seat of the disease 
 two or three times over, and the pain and fever were of the 
 most aggravated kind. These sufferings he bore with great 
 patience for one of so sensitive a frame; and on the occasion 
 of my visits to him, his cheerfulness was generally restored, 
 and his conversation was of the same delightful character 
 which you know so well. I only wish I could recollect all 
 that I heard from his lips on these and all similar occasions. 
 I think he was never so well after this severe illness; its 
 effects were felt by him, and showed themselves in his looks 
 ever afterwards ; so that I think it may be said to have had 
 some share in his removal from us.” 
 
 Among the most valuable friendships Constable formed 
 during the last years of his life, was that with the gentleman 
 to whom Mr. Evans’ note is addressed. Fond of devoting 
 his leisure hours to landscape painting, and wholly unin- 
 fluenced by that “ cant of criticism,” against which Constable 
 waged unceasing war, Mr. Purton was led by the study of 
 nature alone to form a just estimate of the art of his new 
 friend. 
 
 In 1834, Constable exhibited three pictures at the British 
 Gallery, “ A Cottage in a Field of Com,” “ A Heath,” and 
 the “ Stour Valley, with Dedham and Harwich in the dis- 
 tance; ” these had all been exhibited before. His long 
 continued ill health disabled him from sending any large 
 work to the Academy, where he exhibited drawings only; 
 three in water colours, “ The Mound of the City of Old 
 Sarum,” “ Stoke Pogis Church, the Scene of Gray’s ‘ Elegy,’ ” 
 “An Interior of a Church,” also an illustration of the 
 
Visit to Arundel 
 
 203 
 
 “ Elegy,” 1 and a large drawing in lead pencil, “ A Study of 
 Trees made in the grounds of Charles Holford, Esq., at 
 Hampstead.” I returned to England in time to see this 
 exhibition. 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Charlotte Street, July 2nd. 
 Your prompt and very kind reply to my dear boy makes us 
 quite happy; he is exceedingly impatient to be with you, 
 and to be introduced to his young friend. 2 I am sorry that 
 a meeting of the Artists’ General Benevolent Fund, of which 
 I am a vice-president, will take place on Monday evening. 
 It is for the relief of cases, many of which are of my own 
 recommendation ; and if I am not present, it may be materi- 
 ally to their disadvantage; therefore I can’t come to you 
 on the day you name; but we have arranged, if it is quite 
 agreeable to yourself and Mrs. Constable, to take a place for 
 John on Saturday, and that I follow him on Tuesday, by 
 which he will get two or three days the start of me in the 
 pleasure of our visit. I am brushing up my c Waterloo 
 Bridge,’ and shall make it look like something before I have 
 done with it. The difficulty is to find a subject fit for the 
 largest of my sizes; I will talk to you about one; either a 
 canal or a rural affair, or a wood, or a harvest scene ; which, 
 I know not, but I could hardly choose amiss; certainly not, 
 if, as Wilkie says, it could be ‘ painted well.’ 3 I rejoice to 
 hear such a good account of your health.” 
 
 “ Arundel, July 16th. My dear Leslie. In all my walks 
 about this delightful spot I think of you, and how much I 
 should like you to enjoy with me the beautiful things that 
 are continually crossing my path. The chalk cliffs afford 
 John many fragments of oyster shells and other matters that 
 fell from the table of Adam, in all probability. Our friend, 
 Mr. George Constable, is fond of all matters of science, and 
 he has won John’s heart by a present (the arrival of which 
 in Charlotte Street I shall dread) of an electrifying machine. 
 The castle is the chief ornament of this place; but all here 
 sinks to insignificance in comparison with the woods and 
 hills. The woods hang from steeps and precipices, and the 
 trees are beyond everything beautiful. Some parts of the 
 
 1 These beautiful drawings of the church were purchased by Mr. 
 Rogers. 
 
 2 Mr. George Constable’s son. 
 
 3 If a young artist consulted Wilkie as to what he should do to a 
 picture, his usual answer was, “ Paint it well.” 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 204 
 
 castle, such as the keep and some of the old walls, are as 
 grand as possible, but the more modem part is not unlike a 
 London show place. The Baron’s hall is a grand room, 
 though strangely vulgarised by some hideous figures larger 
 than life on painted glass ; these ruffian-looking fellows look 
 like drunken bargemen dressed up as Crusaders, and are 
 meant to represent the ‘ Barons bold,’ the former lords of the 
 estate, who spread the English name over Palestine; but 
 ‘ how are the mighty fallen ! ’ you would take them to be 
 the very men who are watering the streets of London this 
 hot weather. These things make true what Horace Walpole 
 says, in speaking of the painters of the middle or dark ages, 
 as we call them: ‘ It would not be easy to know where to 
 go to order a painted window’ like one he was describing. 
 The meadows are lovely, so is the delightful river; and the 
 old houses are rich beyond all things of the sort; but the 
 trees are above all, yet everything is beautiful. Only last 
 night I stumbled on an old barn situated amid trees of 
 immense size, like this ” (here the writing is interrupted 
 by a sketch); “ it is of the time of King John. 
 
 “ But we have been to Petworth, and I have thought of 
 nothing since but that vast house and its contents. The 
 earl was there; he asked me to stay all day, nay more, he 
 wished me to pass a few days in the house. I excused 
 myself, saying, I should like to make such a visit when you 
 were there, which he took very agreeably, saying, ‘ Be it so, 
 then, if you cannot leave your friends now; ’ he came to us 
 two or three times. I had a very kind letter of introduction 
 to him from Phillips.” 
 
 On his return to London, in a letter of thanks to his 
 amiable host at Arundel, Constable speaks of his visit as one 
 of the most happy and intellectually delightful he ever paid. 
 “ You thought,” he says, “ of everything you could to make 
 John and me happy, and the same motive actuated every 
 member of your delightful and kind family.” 
 
 “ 35, Charlotte Street, July 29th. My dear Purton. 
 Should you have time to look in to-morrow or next day, I 
 should be glad. I have done wonders with my great ‘ Salis- 
 bury; ’ I have been preparing it for Birmingham, and I am 
 sure I have much increased its power and effect; I do hope 
 you will say so. I should much like you to see it, because 
 as you are so good as to look at my things at all, I argue you 
 
Ham House 
 
 205 
 
 see something to admire in them, and I have no doubt of this 
 picture being my best now. ... I am, dear Purton, yours 
 most truly, John Constable.” 
 
 In September, Constable accepted an invitation to Pet- 
 worth, where I was at that time with my family, sharing 
 with other guests, among whom were Mr. Phillips, R.A., 
 and his family, Lord Egremont’s hospitality. 
 
 “ My dear Leslie. I was happy to receive your kind letter, 
 and I hope in a few days to avail myself of Lord Egremont’s 
 kindness. I have been two days at Ham. Lady Dysart is 
 old, and rather more infirm, but well. You and I must go 
 there together. It seems as if its inmates of a century and 
 a half back were still in existence, and on opening the doors 
 some of them would appear. ... I shall write to say when 
 I hope to be at Petworth, which, as they want to see me 
 again at Ham on Sunday or Monday, will, I think, be about 
 Wednesday or Thursday. How I long to be again in that 
 house of art where you are. I amused Lady Dysart with 
 the story of the sky-rocket; at all events it proved she had 
 been taught where God was to be found. 1 . . . The Gains- 
 borough was down when I was there. I placed it as it 
 suited me, and I cannot think of it even now without tears 
 in my eyes. With particulars he had nothing to do; his 
 object was to deliver a fine sentiment, and he has fully 
 accomplished it; mind, I use no comparisons in my delight 
 in thinking of this lovely canvas; nothing injures one’s 
 mind more than such modes of reasoning; no fine things will 
 bear, or want comparisons; every fine thing is unique.” 
 
 “ September 6th. My dear Leslie. I hope nothing will 
 happen to prevent my being with you on Tuesday. Perhaps 
 it is now unnecessary to write to Lord Egremont to say that 
 I am coming, but if you think I ought, write on the receipt 
 of this. You see how awkward I am with the great folks. 
 ... I wish I had said nothing about pictures in my letter. 
 So much has expression to do with words, that writing 
 and talking are not the same thing. I did not in the least 
 misunderstand you. I should like to have a keen eye 2 for 
 
 1 Constable alludes to my having told him of the exclamation of 
 one of my children on seeing some fireworks in Petworth Park. As 
 the rockets ascended she said, “ Won’t God be shot? ” 
 
 2 1 was painting a picture at Petworth for Lord Egremont, and I 
 had said in my reply to Constable’s last letter, “ I do not think I 
 shall show you what I am about, as I fear your keen eye.” 
 
206 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 myself and for my friends, as a thing I should prize above all 
 the attributes of our profession; only I don’t think in that I 
 deserve your good opinion to the degree you believe. How 
 beautifully, how justly does Dr. Johnson somewhere speak 
 of epistolary correspondence; 1 but he cautions the writers 
 against complimenting each other, and warns them of the 
 danger of its self-deception. See what the evangelicals have 
 done to one another in this way, till at last they have for- 
 gotten the first principles of Christianity, and treated the rest 
 of the world with contempt. I am going to-morrow to 
 Ham; we must see it together. I expect always in wander- 
 ing through the rooms there, to meet either King Charles 
 II., or the Duke of Marlborough, or Addison. It has the 
 art, in portraiture, on its walls, from Cornelius Jansen to Sir 
 Joshua Reynolds, including Hopkins and Cooper in minia- 
 ture. There is there a truly sublime Cuyp; still and tran- 
 quil, the town of Dort is seen with its tower and windmills 
 under the insidious gleam of a faint watery sun, while a 
 horrid rent in the sky almost frightens one, and the lightning 
 descends to the earth over some poor cottages with a glide 
 that is so much like nature that I wish I had seen it before 
 I sent away my ‘ Salisbury.’ ” 
 
 “ September 8th. My dear Leslie. Calculating from your 
 letter that there was a coach to Petworth every day, I sent 
 for a place for Tuesday, when I found the coach was on 
 alternate days, therefore I have taken one for Wednesday 
 next. I have not thought it worth while to trouble Lord 
 Egremont about this trifling change of a day, and I hope 
 you will set the matter right for me. I have my picture 
 back from Worcester, and my house is now full of old jobs 
 and lumber. My glass is very low, but I hope we may still 
 have fine weather. I shall put off Worcester, as I hope to 
 be better engaged. I have almost determined to attack 
 another canal for my large frame. — How beautiful did old 
 Father Thames look yesterday, scattered over with swans 
 above Richmond! and when they flew over the water, the 
 clapping of their wings was very loud indeed. — How lovely 
 the trees are just now ! ” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Petworth, September 14th. 
 
 I am much obliged by your kind letter. If I can see you at 
 Arundel before I leave this, I shall be delighted, but of that, 
 
 3 He probably alludes to a passage in The Life of Pope. 
 
At Petworth 
 
 207 
 
 as my time is short, I can say nothing. I am glad you are 
 so well, but how could you send your boys to France? I 
 don’t think I could; but I dare say you are right, I act so 
 sadly always on my prejudices. — Leslie has commenced a 
 picture here, a companion to his ‘ Duchess.’ — Mr. Phillips 
 leaves this place in a few days. Mrs. Phillips is going to 
 take me to see a castle about five miles off. Yesterday I 
 visited the river banks, which are lovely indeed; Claude nor 
 Ruysdael could not do a thousandth part of what nature 
 here presents. Yours, my dear sir, always truly, John 
 Constable.” 
 
 Lord Egremont, with that unceasing attention which he 
 always paid to whatever he thought would be most agree- 
 able to his guests, ordered one of his carriages to be ready 
 every day, to enable Constable to see as much of the neigh- 
 bourhood as possible. He passed a day in company with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and myself, among the beautiful 
 ruins of Cowdry Castle, of which he made several very fine 
 sketches; but he was most delighted with the borders of the 
 Arun, and the picturesque old mills, barns, and farm-houses 
 that abound in the west of Sussex. I recollect spending a 
 morning with him, he drawing the outside, while I was 
 sketching the interior, of a lonely farm-house, which was 
 the more picturesque from its being in a neglected state, and 
 which a woman we found in it told us was called “ wicked 
 Hammond’s house; ” a man of that name, strongly suspected 
 of great crimes, having formerly been its occupant. She 
 told us that in an old well in the garden some bones had not 
 long ago been found, which the “ doctor said were the arm 
 bones of a Christian .” — While at Petworth, where Constable 
 spent a fortnight, he filled a large book with sketches in 
 pencil and water colours, some of which he finished very 
 highly. 
 
 It was on this occasion only, that as an inmate of the 
 same house, I had an opportunity of witnessing his habits. 
 He rose early, and had often made some beautiful sketch 
 in the park before breakfast. On going into his room one 
 morning, not aware that he had yet been out of it, I found 
 him setting some of these sketches with isinglass. His 
 dressing-table was covered with flowers, feathers of birds, 
 and pieces of bark with lichens and mosses adhering to them, 
 which he had brought home for the sake of their beautiful 
 
2o8 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 tints. Mr. George Constable told me that while on the 
 visit to him, Constable brought from Fittleworth Common 
 at least a dozen different specimens of sand and earth, of 
 colours from pale to deep yellow, and of light reddish hues 
 to tints almost crimson. The richness of these colours 
 contrasted with the deep greens of the furze and other 
 vegetation on this picturesque heath delighted him exceed- 
 ingly, and he carried these earths home carefully preserved 
 in bottles, and also many fragments of the variously coloured 
 stone. In passing with Mr. G. Constable some slimy posts 
 near an old mill, he said, “ I wish you could cut off, and send 
 their tops to me.” 
 
 On the 1 6th of October the Houses of Parliament were 
 burnt; and Constable witnessed the scene from a hackney 
 coach, in which, with his two eldest sons, he took a station 
 on Westminster Bridge. The evening of the 31st he spent 
 with me; and while describing the fire, he drew with a pen, 
 on half a sheet of letter paper, Westminster Hall, as it showed 
 itself during the conflagration; blotting the light and shade 
 with ink, which he rubbed with his finger where he wished 
 it to be lightest. He then, on another half sheet added the 
 towers of the Abbey and that of St. Margaret’s Church, — 
 and the papers, being joined, form a very grand sketch of the 
 whole scene. 
 
 He was now again at work on the “ Salisbury from the 
 Meadows.” This was a picture which he felt would prob- 
 ably in future be considered his greatest; for if among his 
 smaller works there were many of more perfection of finish, 
 this he considered as conveying the fullest impression of the 
 compass of his art. But it met with no purchaser. “ De- 
 cember 4th. My dear Leslie, I have never left my large 
 ‘ Salisbury ’ since I saw you. It would much delight me if 
 in the course of to-day or to-morrow you could see it for a 
 moment. I cannot help trying to believe that there may be 
 something in it that in some measure, at least, may warrant 
 your too high opinion of my landscape in general.” 
 
 “ December 15th. My dear Leslie, I write to beg of you 
 
 to let me put off our visit to for a little. I was all 
 
 day on Saturday at Ham, and shall be all this day with 
 Wilkie, and I can hardly spare so much of my valueless time, 
 for though my life and occupation are useless, still I trifle on 
 in a way that seems to myself like doing something; and my 
 
Wilkie’s “ Columbus ” 
 
 209 
 
 canvas soothes me into a forgetfulness of much that is 
 
 disagreeable. I could not get on with ; how could I? 
 
 you will say.' . . Constable was at this time disturbed 
 by some transactions with the last person mentioned in this 
 note, and with some other unpleasant occurrences, and which, 
 as it generally happened, his imagination magnified, and he 
 continued: “Every gleam of sunshine is withdrawn from 
 
 me, in the art, at least. Can it be wondered at, then, that 
 I paint continual storms : 1 
 
 ‘ Tempest o’er tempest roll’d; ’ 
 
 Still the darkness is majestic, and I have not to accuse myself 
 of ever having prostituted the moral feeling of the art. . . . 
 I saw Mr. Bannister yesterday, so well, so happy, and more 
 delightful than ever. I told him I had venison in the house, 
 and that I wanted you and Mrs. Leslie to dine with me, if 
 he would but come; he did not say no.” 
 
 “ December 17th. My dear Purton. I am obliged to you 
 for the quotations; the second is excellent, 2 and shall be 
 used in the title-page of my book; but I must take care of 
 being an author, it is quite enough to be a painter. I beg 
 my best respects to Mrs. Purton. I shall like to see what 
 you are doing, and will try to catch a glimpse by daylight, 
 but I am in a terrible turmoil with all my things. I seem 
 foolishly bent on a large canvas. I was at Wilkie’s all day 
 on Monday; he has painted a noble picture, Columbus with 
 the monk, when he shows him his plan for overtaking another 
 world.” 
 
 Constable had been asked by Wilkie to sit for one of the 
 heads in the picture of “ Columbus,” that of the physician 
 Garcia Fernandez. Among his papers I found a slight 
 pencil sketch of the whole composition of that fine picture, 
 no doubt made from recollection while describing the subject 
 to some friend. Wilkie also asked Constable to sit to him 
 for a portrait, and it is much to be regretted that he declined 
 doing so. 
 
 The following letter to Mr. Dunthorne accompanied a 
 
 1 One of the objections made to his pictures by those who could 
 not deny them nature. He was fond of representing the passing 
 shower, but I know of no other instance in his pictures of a storm, 
 and here it is breaking away. 
 
 2 From Crabbe. “ It is the soul that sees; ” etc. Constable made 
 use of this in the third lecture he delivered at the Royal Institution. 
 
 O 
 
210 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 present of Mr. Lucas’s large engravings of the “ Lock,” and 
 the “ Cornfield.” “ My dear friend. I hope you will 
 receive the prints safe. Mr. Lucas bids me tell you that he 
 shall send two more which he is now about, ‘ Salisbury ’ 
 and ‘ Stratford Mill.’ If you can lend me two or three of 
 poor John’s studies of the ashes in the town meadow, and a 
 study of plants that grew in the lane below, Mr. Coleman’s, 
 near the spouts which ran into the pond, I will take great 
 care of them and send them safe back to you soon. I am 
 about an ash or two now. The prints will come to you 
 from Flatford, as I have sent a pair to Abram. Yours very 
 truly, John Constable. Charlotte Street, February 14th.” 
 
 “ March. My dear Leslie, Our friend Bonner 1 is on his 
 way to bid my children good-bye at Hampstead. He is 
 going to Germany, whence his family originates, and he 
 cannot leave England without shaking you by the hand. I 
 have been wholly shut up, so much so that I do not know 
 what is going on since you have been here. My picture 
 must go, but it is wofully deficient in places. Yesterday 
 
 Mr. called, and though he said, ‘ perhaps it is a little 
 
 better,’ yet he added, ‘ you know I like to be honest; ’ but, 
 fortunately for me, I am sure it was not at all to his liking. 
 Mr. Vernon called soon after with the Chalons; he saw it 
 free from the mustiness of old pictures, he liked its daylight, 
 and bought it; it is his, only I must talk to you about it; 
 he leaves all to me. ...” Constable told me that Mr. 
 Vernon asked him if the picture on his easel was painted for 
 any particular person; to which he replied: “Yes, sir, it 
 is painted for a very particular person, — the person for whom 
 I have all my life painted.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. April 8th. Your trips to 
 France must be delightful, and John bids me tell you that 
 of all things he should like to go with you at some time or 
 other. At present, however, it is impossible, as all his lec- 
 tures now are in regular course ; he is a pupil of Faraday’s 
 at the Institution in Albemarle Street on chymistry, he is 
 also a pupil at the London University in surgery and physi- 
 ology, and he is attending a course of lectures on anatomy 
 in Windmill Street. To all these things he is as regular as 
 a clock; all I pray for is, that his health will continue to 
 
 1 Mr. Bonner had been for some time domesticated with Constable 
 as private tntor to his sons. 
 
The Exhibition 
 
 2 1 i 
 
 bear it; nevertheless, he must take some trips in the summer, 
 and he, as well as I, look with great pleasure to a repetition 
 of our most unalloyed and delightful visit to Arundel. 
 Having spoken of the young chymist and surgeon, let me 
 speak of the old landscape painter. I have got my picture 
 into a very beautiful state; I have kept my brightness 
 without my spottiness, and I have preserved God Almighty’s 
 daylight, which is enjoyed by all mankind, excepting only 
 the lovers of old dirty canvas, perished pictures at a thou- 
 sand guineas each, cart grease, tar, and snuff of candle. 
 
 Mr. , an admirer of commonplace, called to see my 
 
 picture, and did not like it at all, so I am sure there is some- 
 thing good in it. Soon after, Mr. Vernon called, and bought 
 it, having never seen it before in any state.” 
 
 This beautiful work, a view of “ Willy Lott’s House ” from 
 an early sketch, had the rare luck, when exhibited, of pleas- 
 ing even some of the newspaper critics; it was the only 
 picture Constable sent to the Academy this year. 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Charlotte Street, June 6th. 
 John has declared this morning, that if I defer writing to 
 you any longer, he will never speak to me again. I have 
 had almost every sort of occupation, and if I do not write 
 almost directly to any letter I receive, I am too apt to delay 
 it for a very long time, as you, my dear friend, have so often 
 experienced, and so often been kind enough to forgive. The 
 Exhibition is a successful one, it is profitable and productive ; 
 t speak now of pictures under the line, the large pictures are 
 very so so. . . . But there are some excellent works of art 
 on the walls. ‘ Columbus and his little Son/ the ‘ Gulliver/ 
 the ‘ Scotch Drovers/ and Eastlake’s ‘ Pilgrims.’ — Turner’s 
 light, whether it emanates from sun or moon, is exquisite. — 
 Collins’ skies and shores are true, and his horizons always 
 pretty.” 
 
 “ My dear William Carpenter. Some years ago, a lady got 
 away my copy of Bryan’s Dictionary , and this has ever since 
 been an inconvenience to me. I want to know when the 
 younger Cozens 1 was born; his name was John, and he was 
 
 1 “ This artist was the son of Alexander Cozens, a Russian by birth, 
 who established himself in London as a landscape painter and drawing- 
 master about the year 1770. He followed the same profession, and 
 with great ability and elegance. He produced some drawings which 
 possessed extraordinary merit, executed in a style which was after- 
 wards adopted and improved by the ingenious Mr. Girtin. He died 
 
212 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 the greatest genius that ever touched landscape. He was 
 the son of Alexander Cozens, drawing-master of Eaton, and 
 John died in 1796, still rather young. I want this for my 
 lecture on Monday to be given at Hampstead. My best 
 regards to your father. Very truly yours, J. Constable. 
 Perhaps Days or Edwards mentions his birth.” What Con- 
 stable here says of Cozens is startling, although all who are 
 acquainted with the beautiful works of that truly original 
 artist will admit that his taste is of the highest order; but 
 the reader must have observed that in other instances Con- 
 stable speaks in similar unqualified terms of admiration of 
 that which at the moment engaged his attention. 
 
 “ The longest day. My dear Leslie. ’Tis true we have 
 got you back from America, but you are still too far away, 
 too far for indolent friends like me. . . . Alfred, to my 
 surprise and delight, seems quite happy at Mr. Brooks’. 
 He plays first fiddle there at everything but his book. But, 
 poor dear boy, his whole life has been one of affliction, 1 
 which, as well as his drollery, has endeared him to me, per- 
 haps unduly. I have been closely shut up doing — nothing. 
 
 Lord N saw my pictures at Tiffin’s; he wanted the 
 
 ‘ Church,’ and offered his Hobbema for it. I daresay his 
 Hobbema is good for nothing. All this time the painter 
 is to be had, but they still wait for his quiet departure. . . . 
 I have seen David’s pictures; they are indeed loathsome, 
 and the room would be intolerable but for the urbane and 
 agreeable manners of the colonel. David seems to have 
 formed his mind from three sources, the scaffold, the hospital, 
 and a brothel. ... I give my lecture at Hampstead 
 to-morrow evening at a quarter before eight. I have sent 
 up young Uwins’ beautiful copy of Ruysdael; it will be of 
 infinite service to me; also Partridge’s ‘ Peter Martyr.’ I 
 have written little, and shall depend most on being conver- 
 sational. I have got a lovely drawing of young Bone’s of 
 Guido’s ‘ Aurora.’ ... I never saw the elder bushes so 
 full of blossom, and some of the flowers, fore-shortened as 
 
 in 1799.” — Bryan’s Dictionary, Appendix, vol. ii. p. 680. In an 
 octavo edition of Pilkington’s Dictionary printed in 1829, speaking of 
 John Cozens, it is said, “ His drawings were sold at Christie’s in 1805 
 for five hundred and ten pounds. He died in a state of mental derange- 
 ment in 1799.” I think Pyne, in those articles he contributed to 
 The Literary Gazette under the title of “ Wine and Walnuts,” gave 
 some notices of Cozens. 
 
 1 From ill health. 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 2 1 3 
 
 they curve round, are extremely elegant ; it is a favourite of 
 mine, but ’tis melancholy; an emblem of death.” 
 
 The pictures by David mentioned in this letter were of 
 “ Buonaparte crossing the Alps,” “ Mars and Venus,” the 
 “ Death of Marat,” and some drawings of revolutionary scenes 
 which were exhibited in Leicester Square; and “ the colonel ” 
 was a French gentleman who attended in the room during 
 the exhibition. 
 
 Of Constable’s second lecture delivered at Hampstead I 
 have preserved no notes; but the reader will find much of 
 it incorporated with what I have been able to preserve of 
 those he gave in London. I remember that the sky was 
 magnificent on the day on which it was delivered; and as I 
 walked across the West End fields to Hampstead, towards 
 evening, I stopped repeatedly to admire its splendid com- 
 binations and their effects over the landscape, and Constable 
 did not omit in his lecture to speak of the appearances of 
 the day. 
 
 Mr. Lucas was now proceeding with his large plate of the 
 “ Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadows,” which Constable 
 had commissioned him to undertake, and it is of this the 
 next note speaks: “ June 30th. Dear Lucas. I should be 
 glad if you would leave the plate here a day or two. Leslie 
 is so much impressed with the proof, that he would give any 
 money to possess one; so am I, and would give anything to 
 possess two at least. Now would you mind printing a few, 
 five or six? would it hurt the plate? I know you don’t like 
 to do so, but I would gladly pay all expenses. It never can 
 nor will be grander than it is now; it is awfully so. You 
 shall be amply paid for this indulgence. I do think with 
 you, it is well to stay your hand with my works when these 
 large ones are all done, and pause for some time ; and if you 
 take up a portrait or so, it may be advisable, lest that branch 
 of the art should be shut out from you, and your forming a 
 connection that way be cut off. All this I meant to say 
 yesterday, but you availed yourself of Rembrandt’s light 
 and shadow, and were lost.” 
 
 Mr. Lucas had parted from Constable in a crowded exhi- 
 bition room containing the drawings by Rembrandt, which 
 formed part of the Lawrence collection. 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. 35, Charlotte Street, July 
 2nd. I had the pleasure of seeing the lady yesterday bearing 
 
214 Life of Constable 
 
 your note, in which you speak so highly of the services she 
 has rendered your dear children. I can, indeed, well appre- 
 ciate such benefits, as my own dear girls have received them 
 at the hands of my friend, Miss Noble, for seven, eight, and 
 nine years. I agree with you in its being the least we can 
 do to express our gratitude to such benefactors. This excel- 
 lent lady introduced herself to me by saying she had ‘ had 
 two hundred and fifty children; ’ I was alarmed, — but an 
 explanation soon took place, and I told her the contents of 
 your note. My poor boy John and myself are panting for 
 a little fresh air. He is gone to Hampstead to look for a 
 mouthful, leaving me with a promise that I write to you 
 this evening, to say that if it is quite agreeable to yourself 
 and Mrs. Constable, he and I will come to you on Tuesday 
 to pass a few days, and if also agreeable, I will bring my 
 eldest girl with me. I long to be among your willows again, 
 and in your walks and hanging woods; among your books 
 of antiquities, and enjoying your society as I did before; 
 without reserve, restraint, coldness, or form. I am much 
 worn with a long and hard winter and spring campaign, 
 though a successful one. I gave my lecture last Monday 
 week at Hampstead, and did it much better this time; I 
 was thanked by the committee; it was all conversational; 
 but all this wears me; and to crown the whole, I was led 
 up to the stake in a court of justice (for it proved one in 
 this instance) to give evidence about a Claude.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. August 3rd. I have been 
 sadly vexed with myself for not writing to you long ago; 
 but I am sorely perplexed with sundry matters which day 
 after day eat up my time. I have been with Maria to 
 Kingston, and have just brought her home; and now that 
 all my girls and my little boys are safely deposited at school, 
 I begin to breathe, and to recollect that I was a week or two 
 ago at Arundel, passing a most delightful time with my dear 
 friends, and amid most heavenly scenery; or was it a dream? 
 for it seems much like one. John was determined that this 
 day should not pass without my writing to you; his words 
 are, ‘ Papa, remember how happy you were, and how kind 
 Mr. and Mrs. Constable were.’ — I have no news, excepting 
 that the Exhibition was prosperous. But the attacks on 
 the Royal Academy have commenced, and a Mr. Foggo has 
 written a pamphlet, and a committee in the House of Com- 
 
Charles Constable 
 
 215 
 
 mons are enquiring into our affairs. I should say, that the 
 country, ignorant and ungrateful as it is in all liberal matters, 
 does not deserve the Academy. — My picture is in my room; 
 it is going to its destination in Mr. Vernon’s great house in 
 Pall Mall.” 
 
 The thoughts and wishes of Constable’s second son, 
 Charles, had been turned towards the sea from his child- 
 hood; he seemed, indeed, to have been born a sailor as 
 certainly as his father was born a painter. It cost Constable 
 many pangs to conquer his repugnance to such a destiny 
 for his boy, but he found it fruitless to oppose it, and placed 
 him under the care of Captain Hopkins of the Buckingham- 
 shire, East Indiaman. 
 
 “ Dear Leslie, I send you a proof of the great ‘ Salisbury ’ 
 in its pristine grandeur. My poor Charley’s time is now 
 very short in the land of comfort. The ship sails this week, 
 and the house has been long in a stir with his outfit. There 
 is no end to his wants. What would Diogenes, or an old 
 sow (much the same thing), say to all the display of trowsers, 
 jackets, etc., by dozens, blue and white shirts by scores, and 
 a supply of rattlin for his hammock, as he expects to be often 
 cut down! — Poor dear boy! I try to joke about him, but my 
 heart is broken at parting with him.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Charlotte Street, September 
 12th. John’s return, and so exceedingly well, has made me 
 quite happy; he is delighted with his tour, and with your 
 and Mrs. Constable’s great kindness to him. I know not 
 how I can be sufficiently thankful to you and her. It has 
 set up his health, and it is essential to his ensuing winter’s 
 studies that he should be strong enough to meet the fag. 
 I have had, as you may suppose, a most anxious and busy 
 time with Charles. I have done all for the best, and I 
 regret all that I have done, when I consider that it was to 
 bereave me of this delightfully clever boy, who would have 
 shone in my own profession , 1 and who is now doomed to be 
 driven about on the ruthless sea. It is a sad and melancholy 
 life, but he seems made for a sailor. Should he please the 
 officers and stick to the ship, it will be more to his advantage 
 than being in the navy, — a hateful tyranny, with starvation 
 into the bargain. Barrow told me not long ago that they 
 
 1 Charles Constable drew and etched beautifully for so young a 
 practitioner. 
 
2l6 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 had twelve hundred midshipmen they did not know what 
 to do with at the Admiralty. In the midst of my perplexi- 
 ties I have made a good portrait, and finished and sold my 
 little £ Heath.’ Mr. Vernon has luckily paid me, for it has 
 cost me two hundred pounds to get Charles afloat. My 
 pictures have come back from Worcester; I wish I could get 
 off going there to lecture, especially as C has been drivel- 
 
 ling a parcel of sad stuff in the Worcester paper in the name 
 of Lorenzo; God knows, not Lorenzo de Medici; but it is 
 all about ideal art, which in landscape is sheer nonsense, 
 as they put it. Even Sir Joshua is not quite clear in 
 this.” 
 
 “ Charlotte Street, September 14th. My dear Leslie, 
 Nothing but my almost entire occupation within doors by 
 my poor Charley, and various other matters, could have 
 caused me so long to delay writing to you. 1 I have several 
 letters from Charles from the ship, and at length a final one 
 off Start Point, when the ship was leaving the land. He 
 is a true sailor, and makes up his mind to combat all diffi- 
 culties in calms or storms with an evenness of mind that 
 little belongs to me, a landsman. They have had a rough 
 business of it so far. He says Captain Hopkins is a delight- 
 ful man. . . . Poor Charles hung about me when I parted 
 from him; Roberts and Alfred were with me; he asked if 
 I could stay in the ship till next day, but I knew we must 
 part, so we shook hands, and I saw him no more. It is a 
 noble ship, the size of a seventy-four. . . . John is returned 
 from France, much pleased and wonderfully strong and well, 
 ready and willing for a winter fag in London, where he enters 
 his course of chymistry, anatomy, and materia medica. He 
 was amused with France, but with the food he was annoyed, 
 as he says they put vinegar into everything they eat and 
 drink. I have made a beautiful drawing of Stonehenge; 
 I venture to use such an expression to you. — I called on 
 Mr. Bannister, who is well, but sadly low about the poor 
 young men who were drowned; they were brothers of his 
 
 son’s wife. — The Academy has given Mrs. forty pounds, 
 
 so I hope Parliament will not put it down. — I must go to 
 Worcester, or they will think me shabby and a charlatan. 
 
 I have got my picture back; they tell me I played first 
 fiddle. John tells me of Lord Egremont shooting three 
 1 1 was then out of town. 
 
Mr. Vernon's Picture 
 
 217 
 
 brace of partridges and a hare on the 1st of September; 
 wonderful at his age. 
 
 “ To Mr. J. J. Chalon. October 29th. I much regret 
 not seeing you last night, but I want most to see you by day- 
 light, as I have been very busy with Mr. Vernon’s picture. 
 Oiling out, making out, polishing, scraping, &c., seem to 
 have agreed with it exceedingly. The ‘ sleet ’ and ‘ snow ’ 
 have disappeared, leaving in their places, silver, ivory, and 
 a little gold. I wish you could give me a look, as it will go 
 in a few days. I am glad you are all on the return, and I 
 was exceedingly glad to hear you are all well.” 
 
 “To Mr. George Constable. November nth. We shall 
 be delighted to see your son and any part of your family; 
 John has a bed to spare in his own room. For myself, I 
 only wish to be left to my painting-room. I do not think 
 of much canvas this year; a size smaller will be better, and 
 more of them; such as will suit my friends’ pockets; though 
 ’tis too late in life for me to think of ever becoming a popular 
 painter. Besides, a knowledge of the world, and I have 
 little of it, goes farther towards that than a knowledge of 
 art.” 
 
 “ December 1st. My dear Leslie, Will you be so kind 
 as to call in your way to-morrow, so that we may go to the 
 Academy together, and this will give me a fair opportunity 
 of begging you to look at Mr. Vernon’s picture by daylight. 
 I don’t wonder at your working so much on the same picture, 
 now that I see what can be done by it. I want you, of all 
 things, to see it now, for it has proved to me what my art 
 is capable of when time can be given sufficient to carry it 
 home. So much you will take from me.” 
 
 “ December 9th. My dear Leslie, I have had a letter 
 from your sister, with another from Mr. Carey, who has 
 desired me to send him a picture which I have not got, nor 
 ever had. Through the kindness of your sister, he has seen 
 my book, and has taken a liking to the c Sea Beach,’ think- 
 ing, no doubt, it was done from something more than a 
 sketch. I know not what to say, perhaps you will call on 
 me to-morrow evening, and we will go together to hear Sir 
 Martin. Mr. Vernon’s picture is not yet gone to him; he 
 wants it, but it never was half so good before, and I will do 
 as I like with it, for I have still a greater interest in it than 
 anybody else.” 
 
218 Life of Constable 
 
 “ To Mr. William Carpenter. Dear Sir, Accept my best 
 thanks for the book, James’ Italian School , which I return. 
 The Dictionary is a most valuable work, but as I go on 
 referring to it, I occasionally meet with errors; and how 
 can it be otherwise, when the sources from whence the infor- 
 mation is derived are so often erroneous? I shall not fail, 
 however, to make memoranda when I meet with them to 
 submit to you. My character of Ruysdael I have not yet 
 found, but I can always write it for you, and better and 
 better. 1 — I have never ceased to work on Mr. Vernon’s 
 picture since I saw you; it is at present with him in Pall 
 Mall, but is coming back by the bearer for £ more last words.’ 
 — My painter’s library is now getting very considerable. — 
 I wrote a long note to you the other day, full of nonsense, 
 which my man lost by the way.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Charlotte Street, December 
 1 6th. We shall be delighted so see you and any of your 
 family; our own plans are thus. My daughters come home 
 to-morrow, and will go in a few days to their aunt at Wimble- 
 don. John and I have engaged to eat our Christmas dinner 
 at Bergholt, with my own family. We shall leave town on 
 the 24th, and stay a week; in the second week of January, 
 therefore, we shall look for you. Can you bring with you 
 the little Gainsborough, and the sketch I made of your 
 * Mill ’? John wants me to make a picture of it. I had a 
 nice excursion to Worcester, and got on quite well with my 
 sermons; you will see my placards, and how well they are 
 arranged. I would make a book, but I recollect the saying, 
 
 ‘ O that mine enemy would write a book! ’ John is now at 
 the door, by which I know it is exactly ten minutes past 
 four.” 
 
 1 1 regret to say it was not found among his papers. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 1836-1837 
 
 Mr. Vernon’s Picture. Contemplated Pictures of *' Arundel Mill,” and 
 of “ Stoke.” Description of Stoke Church. Engraving of “ Salis- 
 bury.” Breakfast with Mr. Rogers. Lectures at the Royal 
 Institution. Exhibition of 1836. Picture of the “ Cenotaph ” 
 erected by Sir George Beaumont to Sir J. Reynolds. Drawing 
 of Stonehenge. Constable’s two eldest Sons. Clouds and Skies. 
 Death of Westall. Constable Visitor in the Life Academy. 
 Picture of “ Arundel Mill.” Engraving of “ Salisbury Cathedral 
 from the Meadows.” Probable Causes of the decline of Con- 
 stable’s Health. His Death. His Funeral. 
 
 “To Mr. George Constable. January 12th, 1836. ... I 
 have never left my picture till now, when Mr. Vernon has 
 allowed it to go to the British Gallery, and I am glad to 
 get it there in its present state, as you will be able to see it. 
 When you come, will you bring the little sketch of ‘ Arundel 
 Mill,’ as I contemplate a picture of it of a pretty good size.” 
 “ Charlotte Street, February 6th. My dear Purton. I 
 am sure these dear children would be disappointed were they 
 not to have the pleasure of joining the young folks at your 
 party on Saturday. We all, therefore, gladly avail ourselves 
 of your and Mrs. Purton’s kind invitation, and will be with 
 you at four o’clock that day, John, myself, and the sailor; 
 though for myself there is always an uncertainty, I like to 
 be poking about among my lumber, and loathe to go from 
 home. I am glad you encourage me with ‘ Stoke.’ What 
 say you to a summer morning? July or August, at eight 
 or nine o’clock, after a slight shower during the night, to 
 enhance the dews in the shadowed part of the picture, under 
 
 ‘ Hedge-row elms and hillocks green.’ 
 
 Then the plough, cart, horse, gate, cows, donkey, etc., are 
 all good pain table material for the foreground, and the size 
 of the canvas sufficient to try one’s strength, and keep one 
 at full collar. Now pray keep to your canvas, and get up 
 a heath scene, to which you are now fully competent, having 
 the advantage of previous experience of that kind of practice 
 
 219 
 
220 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 on your large picture . 1 I am happy with these boys about 
 me. My monitor, John, I always give up to, he is always 
 in the right. Charley is a good boy, but a straw will draw 
 him aside, — his character is easily mistaken. He is every 
 other night with his navigation master. Both boys are now 
 reading their studies by my side/’ 
 
 The large picture of “ Stoke ” was never painted; but a 
 sketch of the subject furnished a plate for the English Land- 
 scape. Of his intention in this sketch, Constable says, 
 “ The impressive solemnity of a summer’s noon, when at- 
 tended as it often is during the heats of the season, by thunder 
 clouds, is attempted to be expressed in this picture; at the 
 same time, the appearance of a noon-day rainbow is hinted 
 at, when the arc it describes is at its lowest. — Suffolk, and 
 many of the other eastern counties, abound in venerable 
 Gothic churches, many of them of a size which cannot fail 
 to strike the stranger with admiration and surprise; and a 
 melancholy but striking characteristic of these churches is, 
 their being found in situations now comparatively lonely, 
 some of them standing in obscure villages containing a few 
 scattered houses only, and those but ill according with such 
 large and beautiful structures; but it is thus accounted for: 
 these spots were the seats of those flourishing manufactories 
 once so numerous in these counties, where they had from a 
 remote period been established, and were during the reigns 
 of Henry VII . 2 and VIII. greatly increased by the continual 
 arrival of the Flemings, who found here a refuge from the 
 persecutions of the Low Countries; as well as afterwards in 
 the reign of Elizabeth, whom the course of events had raised 
 to be the glory and the support of Protestant Europe. The 
 vast size of these noble structures, with the charm that the 
 mellowing hand of time has cast over them, gives them an 
 aspect of extreme solemnity and grandeur, and they stand 
 lasting monuments of the power and splendour of our eccle- 
 siastical government, as well as of the piety and skill of our 
 ancestors. Stoke, though by no means one of the largest, 
 certainly ranks with the churches alluded to. It was pro- 
 bably erected about the end of the thirteenth century. The 
 
 1 Constable said to Mr. Purton, “A large canvas will show you 
 what you cannot do, a small one will only show you what you can.” 
 
 2 Dedham Church was built by Margaret Tudor, the mother of 
 Henry VII. and bears her initials in many of its ornaments. 
 
22 1 
 
 Mr. Rogers 
 
 length of the nave, with its continuous line of embattled 
 parapet, and its finely proportioned chancel, may challenge 
 the admiration of the architect, as well as its majestic tower, 
 which from its commanding height may be said to impart a 
 portion of its own dignity to the surrounding country. In 
 the church are many interesting monuments; and here, as 
 well as at Neyland, are many of the tombstones of the 
 clothiers; being mostly laid in the pavement, they are much 
 defaced, but are known to belong to them by the small brasses 
 still remaining.” 
 
 “ February 15th. My dear Lucas. The ‘ Salisbury ’ is 
 much admired in its present state, but still it is too heavy, 
 especially when seen between the * Lock ’ and the ‘ Drink- 
 ing Boy.’ Yet we must not break it up, and we must bear 
 in recollection that the sentiment of the picture is that of 
 solemnity, not gaiety, nothing garish, but the contrary; yet 
 it must be bright, clear, alive, fresh, and all the front 
 seen.” 
 
 “ March 18th. My dear Leslie. I never had such a 
 morning in my life as that which I passed with Mr. Rogers. 
 I long to see you, but the grievous place in which you are 
 cuts off everything. All that know you agree that the spot is 
 fatal to your friendships; you will justly say, ‘ What are such 
 friendships worth? ’ But I am angry because I have wanted 
 of late so very much to see you. Mr. Rogers thinks I am 
 in the right road in my pursuit of landscape. He likes my 
 plan of its history, and says, * nobody can do it so well; ’ this 
 is encouraging. He was pleased with my pointing out the 
 falling or shooting star in his exquisite Rubens. 1 But he is 
 very quiet in his likes and dislikes; a delightful man, all 
 intelligence, all benevolence and justice, and a generous 
 upholder of art, living and dead. What pictures he has got ! 
 the best in London; and he has some noble old wood-cuts. 
 It was pleasing to see him feed the sparrows while at break- 
 fast, and to see how well they knew him. But he has some 
 melancholy ideas of human nature. He said £ it is a debt 
 genius must pay to be hated.’ — I doubt this in general, but 
 there is something like it in nature. I told him if he could 
 catch one of those sparrows, and tie a bit of paper about its 
 
 1 A moonlight ; a scene of such perfect stillness, that the entire orb 
 of the moon is reflected in a pool of water. There is a horse in the 
 foreground, and you seem to hear him cropping the grass. 
 
222 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 neck, and let it off again, the rest would peck it to death for 
 being so distinguished” 
 
 “ March 26th. My dear Leslie. I send you a few skies, 
 such as we thought might suit your picture. Perhaps a 
 mountain ash among the shepherds might be useful; I send 
 a rough sketch of one I made from a bedroom window 
 where I slept; they are pretty with the berries. ... I am 
 sorely perplexed with concerns not my own, in the picture 
 way; I have in my house several works supplicating for 
 places in the Exhibition; they are sent to me because it is 
 well known what a fool I am. 1 . . . What stuff I am writing 
 to you, but the worst is, I am really serious in all I ask of 
 you. I enclose a card of the Royal Institution, that you 
 may be convinced of my folly and activity, but I am not 
 yet selling spruce beer in the streets, like .” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. May 12th. I am pretty 
 full handed, and sorely perplexed for time, owing to the 
 numerous irons I have put in the fire. I have engaged to 
 deliver four lectures, as the card I enclose will let you see; 
 they will comprehend a pretty full account of the history of 
 landscape. ... I got up a tolerably good picture for the 
 Academy, not the ‘ Mill,’ which I had hoped to do, and which 
 was prettily laid in as far as chiaroscuro, but I found I 
 could not do both; and so I preferred to see Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds’ name and Sir George Beaumont’s once more in 
 the catalogue, for the last time at the old house. I hear it 
 is liked, but I see no newspaper, not allowing one to come 
 into my house. I send you a catalogue, and marked, I 
 believe, pretty fairly. The Exhibition is much liked. 
 Wilkie’s pictures are very fine, and Turner has outdone 
 himself; he seems to paint with tinted steam, so evanescent 
 and so airy. The public think he is laughing at them, and 
 so they laugh at him in return. The non-members are very 
 powerful; Charles Landseer, Herbert, Partridge, Knight, 
 and Roberts. The president was never better, but his 
 health gives way under his duties. I dined with Wilkie 
 last week, and met Allan, who is very entertaining. Wilkie 
 recommended to me to paint a large picture for over the line 
 next year.” 
 
 The picture mentioned in the beginning of this letter was 
 of the “ Cenotaph ” erected by Sir George Beaumont to the 
 1 I was then on the arranging committee at the Academy. 
 
Royal Institution Lectures 223 
 
 memory of Reynolds. It might seem as if Constable had 
 consulted the taste of his late friend in choosing the autumnal 
 tints for the foliage of a scene taken from Sir George’s 
 grounds, but his doing so arose naturally from his having 
 made his studies from it late in the autumn. In this fine 
 picture, every way worthy of so interesting a subject, Con 
 stable introduced nothing living, except a deer in the fore- 
 ground, and a robin red-breast perched on one of the angles 
 of the monument. In describing the “ Cenotaph ” in the 
 catalogue, he quoted the lines inscribed on it, written by 
 Wordsworth at Sir George Beaumont’s request: 
 
 “ Ye lime trees ranged before this hallow’d urn, 
 
 Shoot forth with lively power at spring’s return ; 
 
 And be not slow a stately growth to rear 
 Of pillars branching off from year to year, 
 
 Till they have learn’d to frame a darksome aisle. 
 
 That may recall to mind that awful pile 
 Where Reynolds, ’mid our country’s noblest dead. 
 
 In the last sanctity of fame is laid. 
 
 There, though by right the excelling painter sleep 
 Where death and glory a joint Sabbath keep. 
 
 Yet not the less his spirit would hold dear 
 Self-hidden praise and friendship’s private tear: 
 
 Hence in my patrimonial grounds have I 
 Raised this frail tribute to his memory; 
 
 From youth a zealous follower of the art 
 That he profess’d, attach’d to him in heart; 
 
 Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride 
 Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.” 
 
 Constable exhibited with this picture a magnificent drawing 
 in water-colours of Stonehenge, of a large size. 
 
 He was now wholly occupied in preparing the lectures 
 which he delivered in the summer of this year at the Royal 
 Institution, Albemarle Street, beginning on the 26th of May. 
 The ticket mentioned in the following note was an admission 
 to these lectures. 
 
 “ Dear William Carpenter, I send a ticket, as you requested, 
 to Mrs. Carpenter; and if your son is, as I sincerely hope, 
 better, he may accompany her and yourself, as both may 
 possibly be included among her friends. Don’t trouble 
 yourself about Lanzi any farther, as I have now pretty well 
 done with him. He is an old twaddler, but the labour he 
 spares is immense, and certainly his arrangement, his history, 
 and the marking of the epochs is admirable and very useful. 
 Yours truly, J. Constable.” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. Charlotte Street, September 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 224 
 
 16th. My dear Friend. It is a very long time since I have 
 written to you, or since I have had the pleasure of hearing 
 from you. I am anxious to know how you and Mrs. Con- 
 stable and all your family are, and what have been your 
 occupations in the way of the arts, in antiquities, and in 
 natural history. My dear John is always engrossed with 
 some study or other; he is remarkably well, and is wholly 
 devoted to Latin and Greek. I know not, nor does he know 
 himself, exactly, what he will ultimately be, but either a 
 clergyman or a physician. He is brushing up for Cambridge; 
 this I regret, but it is a selfish feeling; I cannot bear to part 
 with him. I live a life of more solitude than you would 
 suspect for the midst of London, and in such a pursuit, so 
 wide a field as the arts. My son Charles is returned from 
 the East Indies; the voyage has been a hard one, but it is 
 all for the best. All his visionary and poetic ideas of the 
 sea and a seaman’s life are fled, the reality only remains; 
 and a sad thing the reality is. But in the huge floating mass 
 there is an order, and an habitual good conduct, which must 
 be of advantage to a youth of ardent mind, and one who 
 has never been controlled. Charley is preparing for another 
 voyage, and the ship sails in the middle of November for 
 China. ... I have not been out of town once this year, 
 but for an hour or two. I dislike to leave home, but enjoy 
 an excursion very much when I am away. I have an 
 invitation to the Isle of Wight, but I daresay I shall not 
 go. I must go into Suffolk, and take my sailor boy with 
 me. John was there this summer for five weeks; he was a 
 great favourite with his aunts and my brothers; indeed, 
 John is sure to win his way, for he never gives offence to 
 any living creature. I have lately painted a f Heath ’ that I 
 prefer to any of my former efforts; it is about two feet six, 
 painted for a very old friend, an amateur, who well knows 
 how to appreciate it, for I cannot paint down to ignorance. 
 Leslie was here to-day; he is going to Petworth in ten days. 
 I have never seen such scenery as your country affords; I 
 prefer it to any other for my pictures; — woods — lanes — 
 single trees — rivers — cottages — barns — mills — and, above all, 
 such beautiful heath scenery.” 
 
 “ October 29th. My dear Leslie. It seems a very long 
 time since we met, or that I have heard from you. I should, 
 as you will believe, be delighted to have a letter, if it is only 
 
Death of Westall 
 
 225 
 
 to give me a hint of what is going on at Petworth. I trust 
 you will hardly quit so hospitable a roof till this ebullition 
 of premature winter is past; the snow is very deep indeed, 
 and all since four o’clock this morning. My boys are very 
 good boys. I have not left home for a day, nor can I till 
 John is at Cambridge and Charley at sea. 0 what a melan- 
 choly, dirty life is a sailor’s ! but he is going out again with 
 the ship to China. There are to be twelve or thirteen 
 midshipmen, and where they find a pighole for so many, I 
 know not. ... I hear a sad account of poor Mr. Bannister, 
 who will never leave his room again, nor see any more of his 
 friends, nor sing any more of his delightful songs.” 
 
 “ My dear Leslie. . . . My poor Charley has had sad 
 weather in his progress to the Downs, where he is now 
 possibly wind-bound. The frightful gale on Tuesday is well 
 described by him. The ship was anchored by the Nore 
 light, and rode out the storm with little damage; but the 
 wrecks around and within two hundred yards were shocking; 
 one large ship floated past, bottom upwards, and after the 
 gale he saw seven large hulls in tow with steam boats. In 
 their passage to the Downs they saw some on the Goodwin 
 Sands, and some on the beach under the Foreland.” 
 
 “ December 8th. My dear Leslie. . . . Mr. Sheep- 
 shanks means to have my * Glebe Farm ’ or ‘ Green Lane,’ 
 of which you have a sketch; this is one of the pictures on 
 which I rest my little pretensions to futurity. ... I hope 
 you are all well, and safely returned, and the better for the 
 excursion. Will you come to the last lecture given in the 
 old house? if so, call and dine here. . . . Poor Westall! ” 
 
 “ To Mr. George Constable. December 12th. I return 
 the book which you lent me so long ago. My observations 
 on clouds and skies are on scraps and bits of paper, and I 
 have never yet put them together so as to form a lecture, 
 which I shall do, and probably deliver at Hampstead next 
 summer. I wish I had secured your fine old willow, which 
 you say is now no more (what a pity), for my lecture on 
 trees. If you want anything more about atmosphere, and I 
 can help you, write to me. Foster’s is the best book; he is 
 far from right, still he has the merit of breaking much 
 ground. . . . Poor Westall! I went to his funeral on 
 Saturday.” 
 
 “ December 30th. My dear Leslie. I am vexed with 
 
 p 
 
226 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 myself for having so long delayed to write to you, to thank 
 you for your kind invitation to these dear children. This 
 fearful weather intimidates me, but it seems little likely to 
 change; and all my dreads, and all I can say about the 
 danger of such an excursion into the country at such a time, 
 gives no alarm whatever to the children, and they insist on 
 my coming out of my lurking place, where I thought I had 
 lain up for the winter, and so I must accompany them to 
 your house on Monday to keep New Year’s Day. Now all 
 this I do, and let them do, only on condition that Mrs. Leslie 
 and you dine with me on Wednesday. We have venison 
 from my old friend, Lady Dysart, and are almost alone; 
 only Mr. and Miss Spedding, very old and esteemed friends 
 of my poor wife. Prithee come, ‘ life is short, friendship is 
 sweet ; ’ these were the last words of poor Fisher to me in 
 his last invitation. — My month in the Life School is March. 
 I have concluded on setting the three figures of the ‘ St. 
 Peter Martyr,’ for I am determined to sift that picture to 
 the bottom . 1 I have by me a very old print of the subject 
 five years before Titian’s picture, done from the one which 
 occupied the same place in the Dominican Church. The 
 picture was by Jacopo del Fiore, or £ Jemmy of the flower; ’ 
 the flower stands for his name in the print, forming a very 
 expressive figure.” 
 
 The invitation contained in this letter was Constable’s last 
 written one to me. Without attaching to coincidences such 
 as these, any superstitious importance, they are too affecting 
 to pass unnoticed. The expression, also, which follows, with 
 regard to March, which proved to be the last month of his 
 life, is very remarkable. 
 
 In a note to Mr. Lucas, after thanking him for some proofs 
 of the “ Salisbury,” and making some remarks on them, he 
 continues: “ God preserve your excellent wife, and give her 
 a happy hour; I have not forgotten my own anxieties at 
 such times, though they are never to return. I beg to thank 
 you again and again for the most lovely winter piece I ever 
 saw . 2 You have caused the last of the old year to slip 
 
 1 His lectures, in which he says much of the “ Peter Martyr,” will 
 explain this. 
 
 15 An impression of the “ Salisbury ” taken when the plate was 
 imperfectly filled with ink, and which had accidentally the appear- 
 ance of winter. Mr. Lucas had sent it to Constable as a curiosity. 
 
“ x^rundel Mill ” 227 
 
 away from me with pleasurable feelings; we have now only 
 a quarter of an hour left of the year 1836 ! Farewell.” 
 
 “ January 19th, 1837. Dear Lucas. We must keep this 
 proof as a criterion, and get as much of it as we can. The 
 bow is grand whole, provided it is clear and tender. How 
 I wish I could scratch and tear away with your tools on the 
 
 steel, just as old 1 wanted to fly up to Langham Hill, 
 
 and tear the trees and hedges all up by the roots; but I 
 can’t do it, and your quiet way is, I well know, the best and 
 only way.” 
 
 “To Mr. George Constable. February 17th. .. . I 
 cannot give much account of myself, but we have all been 
 well, and have escaped this sad influenza, which has been the 
 desolation of so many hundreds of all ages. John is the most 
 tender of us all; he works hard, as he wishes so much to 
 get himself fit for Cambridge. I believe he goes in October. 
 As the spring gets up he would be delighted to pass a few 
 days with you ; he looks for an hour at his old fishing place 
 near the Black Duck. For myself, I am at work on a 
 beautiful subject, ‘ Arundel Mill,’ for which I am indebted 
 to your friendship. It is, and shall be, my best picture; 
 the size, three or four feet; it is safe for the Exhibition, as 
 we have as much as six weeks good. We hold our first 
 general meeting at the new house on Monday, and a very 
 noble house it is. 2 1 am visitor next month in the Life 
 Academy, which I regret, as it cuts up my time; but I 
 relieve, by exchange, Turner. My great ‘ Salisbury ’ print is 
 done ; I shall call it the ‘ Rainbow ; ’ you shall soon receive 
 a proof of it. Remember me most kindly to Mrs. Constable, 
 and all your family. Pray write to me soon ; I long to know 
 that all is well with you.” 
 
 “February 25th. My dear Leslie. I know not how to 
 reply to your kind request to come to you on Monday, as I 
 am engaged with my assassin on that day, and shall be 
 employed with him all the week; in other words, I com- 
 mence my visitorship at the Academy, and I shall set Titian’s 
 figure of the assassin in the ‘ Peter Martyr.’ I shall turn 
 
 1 A farmer, who by his restless grasping disposition having made 
 some of his neighbours as well as himself very uncomfortable, uttered 
 this singular wish. 
 
 2 Constable never joined in the popular cry against the architect of 
 the National Gallery, for not building a larger house than the ground 
 given for the purpose permitted. 
 
228 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 Fitzgerald into the fallen saint, and the remaining figure of 
 the monk I give to Emmet, who is an obliging and well- 
 behaved man, and anxious for a turn at the Academy; will 
 not this flying monk sicken him ? I have been sadly hindered, 
 and my picture is not worth anything at present. Roberts 
 was at Hampstead on Thursday. All my little girls are well 
 and happy, and I really believe they cannot be in better 
 hands than with that excellent woman, Miss Noble.” 
 
 “ March 18th. Dear Lucas. Mr. Cook, the Academician, 
 said yesterday, that the * “ Salisbury ” was a grand-looking 
 thing.’ I hope that obliging, and most strange and odd 
 ruffian, your printer, will be allowed to have just his own 
 way in printing the plate, for I now see we must not be too 
 full, otherwise it will, as he says, ‘ only be fit for a parcel 
 of painters.’ ” 
 
 No date. “ Dear Lucas. The print is a noble and beau- 
 tiful thing; entirely improved and entirely made perfect; 
 the bow is noble, and is now a neck or nothing business; it 
 is startling and unique. I have mentioned to your clever 
 and agreeable ruffian, who is in high good humour, two 
 things ; the light on the tower under the trees must be made 
 thus ” (here a sketch) “ instead of thus ” (another sketch); 
 “ also the little spot on the cloud your ruffian will show you, 
 and he pointed out a good way of doing it; half an hour 
 will alter both. Thank you for the pains you have taken 
 with the bow; it is lovely. I hope you are better. I must 
 now dismiss the ruffian, for he is getting too knowing for 
 John and me.” 
 
 “ Dear Lucas. Your man has told me that there is every 
 reason to know that the ‘ Salisbury ’ will print both full and 
 rich. Tone, tone, is the most seductive and inviting quality 
 a picture or print can possess; it is the first thing seen, and 
 like a flower, invites to our examination of the plant itself. 
 
 . . . Your man is a droll fellow. I have given him two 
 shillings, but it was before he had told me that he ‘ is given 
 to break out of a Saturday night, but it does not last long, and 
 generally goes off on the Sunday morning.’ He cannot help 
 it, he cannot even account for it, but so it is. This is his 
 own gratuitous account of himself. What a creature is man, 
 either cultivated or not, either civilised or wild! I offered 
 him some rum and water, and gin and water, all of which 
 he refused almost with loathing; perhaps his hour is not yet 
 come.” 
 
Last Address to the Students 229 
 
 “ To Mr. Samuel Lane. March. My dear Lane. . . . 
 Pray keep your children within doors this grievous weather; 
 I am told nothing breeds whooping cough so much as such 
 bitter easterly winds as are now prevailing. I am out every 
 evening from five to nine at the old Academy, visitor in the 
 Life.” 
 
 The recollection that Constable was very sensitive to atmo- 
 spheric influences, and that his health had many times 
 suffered in the early part of the spring, recalls to my mind the 
 passage from Shakespeare I have most often heard him repeat: 
 
 “ daffodils, 
 
 That come before the swallow dares, and take 
 The winds of March with beauty, — ” 
 
 they were, now, indeed, winds of ominous import to him. 
 
 He was the last visitor who officiated in the Life Academy 
 within the walls of Somerset House. On the concluding 
 evening of his attendance, he made a short address to the 
 students, pointing out to them the many advantages our 
 Academy affords, and cautioning them not to be in too great 
 haste to exchange these for instruction in the schools of 
 France, Germany, or Italy. He was of opinion that the 
 best school of art will always exist in that country where 
 there are the best living artists, and not merely where there 
 are the greatest number of works of the old masters. He 
 did not admit that the French excel the best of the English 
 artists in drawing, a point generally conceded to them; 
 and in support of his own opinion he quoted that of Mr. 
 Stothard, who said, “ The French are very good mathematical 
 draughtsmen, but life and motion are the essence of drawing, 
 and their figures remind us too much of statues. In the 
 slightest pen and ink sketches of Raphael, however irregular 
 the proportions, you have the real principle of good drawing, 
 — his figures live and move.” 
 
 This is but a recollection, at some distance of time, of what 
 Constable told me he said. I wrote to Mr. Maclise, who 
 was then a student in the Life School, to ask if he could 
 help me to anything more, and that gentleman very kindly 
 sent me the following note, enclosing a pencil sketch he had 
 made of Constable in the Academy. 
 
 “ 14, Russell Place. My dear Sir. I cannot call to mind 
 the substance of any particular address of Constable when he 
 was visitor, but I recollect that he constantly addressed us 
 
230 Life of Constable 
 
 collectively; or rather, whatever observation he had to make, 
 he made aloud ; and this was very frequent. Every evening 
 he said something, generally relating to the model he had 
 set, and in favour of certain picturesque accompaniments 
 which he thought might always be introduced with pro- 
 priety; 1 he was, with the students, a most popular visitor. 
 The little sketch was made under the disadvantage of my 
 being on the upper and back seat, looking down on him as 
 he sat on the front and lower one in the Life School, and 
 must have been when he set the Eve, although I should not 
 have thought it was so long ago as 1830. — I remain, very 
 faithfully yours, D. Maclise.” 
 
 “ March 29th. Dear Lucas. I am greatly pleased to see 
 how well you are preparing for the new bow; 2 the proof is 
 about what I want; I mean that you took hence. I took 
 from the elder bush a blossom to the left, you will possibly do 
 the same. Go on as you think proper. I go to a general 
 meeting on Thursday, to-morrow evening, and I dine at the 
 Charter House on Saturday. We cannot fail with a proper 
 bow. The ruffian is so delightful, that no one would for a 
 moment judge him to be one; so bland, so delighted with 
 John, and John with him; they are both in the room.” 
 
 This note may, perhaps, be the last Constable ever wrote. 
 The engagement mentioned in it to dine with Dr. Fisher, 
 the father of Archdeacon Fisher, at the Charter House, was 
 for Saturday, the 1st of April, but the dawn of that day he 
 never saw. His constitution was undermined to a degree of 
 which he was not himself aware, far less his friends, for 
 
 1 This reminds me of what I have often heard Constable say, that 
 he “ never could look at any object unconnected with a background 
 or other objects,” and he thought the students might very advan- 
 tageously to themselves be taught at an early age to look at nature 
 in this way. For this reason all his figures were set with backgrounds 
 and other accompaniments. A difference of opinion exists as to the 
 expediency of this method of teaching, and it is one of the charges 
 brought against the Academy, that the students are placed under the 
 care "of various instructors, who have each their own notions; and yet 
 this may possibly be an advantage, when it is considered that the 
 opinions of any one man can scarcely be right on all points; and also 
 that the Life is the highest school in the Academy, and that in which 
 the students may be supposed to have arrived at an age to judge in 
 some measure for themselves; and that they are not placed under 
 more than one master until they have entered the Life School. 
 
 2 From the manner in which this is expressed, it would appear that 
 the rainbow had been taken out, and a new one was to be put in, 
 but this was not the case; the “ new bow ” was the one with which 
 Constable had before expressed himself so much pleased. 
 
Causes of Ill-health 
 
 231 
 
 sedentary and irregular as were his habits, he had not the 
 look of a valetudinarian, nor would his age have been easily 
 guessed from his appearance. Not long before the time of 
 which I am writing, I had remarked to him that I should 
 guess him to be younger than he really was, to which he 
 answered, 
 
 “In my youth I never did apply 
 Hot and rebellious liquors to my blood,” etc. 
 
 But the reader has seen how far his mind was from being an 
 equable one. In reference to his art, he would sometimes 
 say he “ thanked Heaven he had no imagination,” though in 
 reality few men ever had more; and if it heightened all his 
 enjoyments, it greatly deepened all his sorrows. He had 
 fully proved the truth of Burns’ lines: 
 
 “ Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
 Finer feelings can bestow; 
 
 Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
 Thrill the deepest notes of woe.” 
 
 Had Constable been even less sensitive, the perpetual activity 
 of a mind that could not rest must have affected his consti- 
 tution at no very late period. His very amusements con- 
 sisted of study. I do not think he ever read a novel in his 
 life. It was on no narrow principle that he objected to 
 works of fiction, but they did not interest him. I remember 
 soon after the death of Mrs. Constable, when books were 
 proposed to him as a relief to his mind, he said, “ I should 
 be delighted to read Tom Thumb if it could amuse me.” 
 If her loss had been but that of an assistant in his parental 
 duties, and a partaker of the cares of a family, he must have 
 felt it daily; how much more heavy, then, must have been 
 his affliction for the loss of a wife in whom no hope formed 
 by him during the days of courtship had been disappointed, 
 excepting the hope of her longer continuance on earth. His 
 married years were unquestionably the happiest of his exist- 
 ence. In Fisher and the younger Dunthorne, he was also 
 bereft of friends whose places were never supplied to him; 
 and his professional life had been a continual struggle for 
 the estimation which he felt he deserved, but which he had 
 now ceased to expect. If his intimate friends were but 
 imperfectly acquainted with the real state of his feelings, 
 those who knew him but slightly, and who seldom saw him 
 
232 Life of Constable 
 
 unless surrounded by smiles of his own creating, could not 
 have believed how much he was now a prey to melancholy 
 and anxious thoughts; thoughts, no doubt, in part, both 
 the cause and effect of declining health. The reader will 
 remember a passage in one of his letters to Mr. Fisher, in 
 which he says, “ all my indispositions have their source in 
 my mind. It is when I am restless and unhappy that I 
 become susceptible of cold, damp, heats, and such nonsense.” 
 
 On Thursday, the 30th of March, I met him at a general 
 assembly of the Academy, and as the night, though very cold, 
 was fine, he walked a great part of the way home with me. 
 The most trifling occurrences of that evening remain on my 
 memory. As we proceeded along Oxford Street, he heard 
 a child cry on the opposite side of the way; the griefs of 
 childhood never failed to arrest his attention, and he crossed 
 over to a little beggar girl who had hurt her knee; he gave 
 her a shilling and some kind words, which, by stopping her 
 tears, showed that the hurt was not very serious, and we 
 continued our walk. — Some pecuniary losses he had lately 
 met with had disturbed him, but more because they involved 
 him with persons disposed to take advantage of his good 
 feelings, than from their amount. He spoke of these with 
 some degree of irritation, but turned to more agreeable 
 subjects, and we parted at the west end of Oxford Street, 
 laughing. — I never saw him again alive. 
 
 The whole of the next day he was busily engaged finishing 
 his picture of “ Arundel Mill and Castle.” One or two of 
 his friends who called on him saw that he was not well, but 
 they attributed this to confinement and anxiety with his 
 picture, which was to go in a few days to the Exhibition. 
 In the evening, he walked out for a short time on a charitable 
 errand connected with the Artists’ Benevolent Fund. He 
 returned about nine o’clock, ate a hearty supper, and feeling 
 chilly, had his bed warmed, a luxury he rarely indulged in. 
 It was his custom to read in bed; between ten and eleven 
 he had read himself to sleep, and his candle, as usual, was 
 removed by a servant. Soon after this, his eldest son, who 
 had been at the theatre, returned home, and while preparing 
 for bed in the next room, his father awoke in great pain, 
 and called to him. So little was Constable alarmed, however, 
 that he at first refused to send for medical assistance; he 
 took some rhubarb and magnesia, which produced sickness, 
 
Death and Funeral 
 
 2 33 
 
 and he drank copiously of warm water, which occasioned 
 vomiting; but the pain increasing, he desired that Mr. 
 Michele, his near neighbour, should be sent for, who very 
 soon attended. In the meantime Constable had fainted, his 
 son supposing he had fallen asleep; Mr. Michele instantly 
 .ordered some brandy to be brought, the bedroom of the 
 patient was at the top of the house, the servant had to run 
 downstairs for it, and before it could be procured, life was 
 extinct; and within half an hour of the first attack of pain. 
 
 A post mortem investigation was made by Professor 
 Partridge in the presence of Mr. George Young and Mr. 
 Michele, but strange to say, the extreme pain Constable had 
 suffered could only be traced to indigestion; no indications 
 of disease were anywhere discovered sufficient, in the opinion 
 of those gentlemen, to have produced at that time a fatal 
 result. Mr. Michele, in a letter to me, describing all he had 
 witnessed, says, “It is barely possible that the prompt 
 application of a stimulant might have sustained the vital 
 principle, and induced reaction in the functions necessary to 
 the maintenance of life.” 
 
 Constable’s eldest son was prevented from attending the 
 funeral by an illness, brought on by the painful excitement 
 he had suffered; but the two brothers of the deceased and a 
 few of his most intimate friends followed the body to Hamp- 
 stead , 1 where some of the gentlemen residing there, who had 
 known Constable, voluntarily joined the procession in the 
 churchyard. The vault which contained the remains of his 
 wife was opened, he was laid by her side, and the inscription 
 which he had placed on the tablet over it, 
 
 “ Eheu! quam tenui e filo pendet 
 Quidquid in vita maxime arridet ! ” 
 
 might well be applied to the loss his family and friends had 
 now sustained. The funeral service was read by one of those 
 friends, the Rev. T. J. Judkin, whose tears fell fast on the 
 book as he stood by the tomb. 
 
 1 1 cannot but recall here a passage in a letter to Mr. Fisher, written 
 by Constable nearly ten years before his death, in which, after speak- 
 ing of having removed his family to Hampstead, he says, “ I could 
 gladly exclaim, here let me take my everlasting rest! ” 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Picture of “ Arundel Mill and Castle ” exhibited, 1837. Presentation of 
 the Picture of the “ Cornfield ” to the National Gallery. Letter 
 from Mr. Andrew Robertson. Constable and Hogarth compared. 
 Traits of Constable’s Character described by Mr. George Field. 
 Farther Particulars. Selections from Constable’s miscellaneous 
 Memoranda. Note from Mr. Collins. Pictures injured by cutting, 
 enlarging, etc. Forgeries of Constable’s Pictures. Recollections 
 of his Sayings and Opinions. The Author’s Visit to East Bergholt, 
 in company with Mr. Purton and John Constable, Junior. Mr. 
 Purton’s Remarks on Constable’s Art. Sketch Books. . 
 
 By a law of the Royal Academy, works, not before exhibited, 
 of a deceased artist are allowed to appear in the first exhibi- 
 tion, and that one only, which follows his death; and Con- 
 stable’s picture of “ Arundel Mill and Castle ” was considered 
 by his friends sufficiently completed to be sent to the 
 Academy. He had begun two smaller pictures, but they 
 were not forward enough to be admitted even as sketches; 
 and the “ Mill ” was therefore the only work of his pencil 
 that graced the Exhibition of 1837, the first in Trafalgar 
 Square. The scene was one entirely after his own heart, 
 and he had taken great pains to render it complete in all 
 its details; and in that silvery brightness of effect which 
 was a chief aim with him, in the latter years of his life, it 
 is not surpassed by any production of his pencil. It remains 
 in the possession of his children, being one of those reserved 
 from the sale of his works by his eldest son. 
 
 Before the property Constable left, in pictures, was dis- 
 persed, it was suggested by Mr. Purton that one of his works 
 should be purchased by a subscription among the admirers 
 of his genius, and presented to the National Gallery. He 
 proposed that the large picture of “ Salisbury from the 
 Meadows,” should be chosen as being from its magnitude, 
 subject, and grandeur of treatment, the best suited to the 
 public collection. But it was thought by the majority of 
 Constable’s friends that the boldness of its execution rendered 
 it less likely to address itself to the general taste than others 
 of his works, and the picture of the “ Cornfield,” painted 
 in 1826, was selected in its stead. — As I felt much interested 
 
 234 
 
Letter from Mr. A. Robertson 235 
 
 in this proceeding, I wrote on the subject to those of Con- 
 stable’s friends whom I thought likely to join in it, and from 
 among the replies I received, I trust Mr. Andrew Robertson 
 will forgive the publication of his. 
 
 “ 19, Berners Street, August 21st, 1837. My dear Sir, I 
 have had this day the melancholy gratification, if I may 
 combine such terms, of again visiting the gallery of our 
 lamented friend Constable. The great number of his works 
 left in his possession proves too clearly how little his merits 
 were felt by those who could afford, and ought to have 
 possessed them; and that unless some such a measure had 
 been adopted as that which, to the honour of his friends, has 
 been carried into effect, it is too probable that his works 
 would have fallen into the hands of artists only, for a mere 
 trifle, and remained comparatively buried, till dug up, as 
 it were, and brought to light in another age. Much, indeed, 
 should I regret to have lost the opportunity of having my 
 name enrolled in the list of those who bear testimony to the 
 merits of genius so original, so English, so alive to the 
 beauties of simple nature, and of whom it may be said so 
 truly, that he was 
 
 ‘ Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri.’ 
 
 He had his peculiarities, but they were not in conception, 
 nor in the way in which he looked at nature; he saw clearly, 
 and not through a glass darkly, nor through other men’s 
 eyes. His peculiarities were only in his execution, and in 
 the admirable picture selected for his monument in the 
 National Gallery, we find all his truth of conception, with 
 less of the manner that was objected to, than in most of his 
 later works. I remain, my dear sir, always truly and 
 sincerely yours, A. Robertson.” 
 
 In some points of Constable’s character a striking resem- 
 blance may be traced to that of Hogarth. Though their 
 walks of art were wide apart, yet each formed a style more 
 truly original than that of any of his contemporaries, and 
 this, in part, prevented each from enjoying the fame to which 
 he was entitled. 1 They both incurred the imputation of 
 
 1 Hogarth’s prints were popular; for his wit, his satire, and his 
 matchless power of expression were felt; — but the taste and richness 
 of his compositions, and the beauty of his colour, in other words his 
 art , was not. One circumstance alone proves this, — he could not 
 obtain for the six pictures of the “ Marriage- &-la-Mode,” together 
 more than one hundred and ten guineas. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 236 
 
 vanity, perhaps from much vainer men, because they vindi- 
 cated their own merits. — Hogarth expressed in a witty 
 etching (“ The Battle of the Pictures ”) his sense of the 
 injustice he suffered from the connoisseurs, and Constable 
 spoke his opinions openly of the critics; and with point, 
 truth, and freedom, as did Hogarth, of contemporary artists, 
 and each by so doing, made bitter enemies. — In conclusion, 
 they were both genuine Englishmen; warmly attached 
 to the character and institutions of their country; alike 
 quick in detecting cant and quackery, not only in religion 
 and politics, but in taste and in the arts; and though they 
 sometimes may have carried the prejudices of their John 
 Bullism too far, they each deserved well of their country, 
 as steady opponents to the influence of foreign vice, folly, 
 and bad taste ; in which, however, Hogarth’s class of subjects 
 enabled him to exert himself with far the most effect. 
 
 The object I have endeavoured to keep in view throughout 
 the preceding pages being to give an account of Constable’s 
 life and occupations as much as possible in his own words, 
 my extracts from his letters have been necessarily limited 
 to passages relating chiefly to himself; but had not this, 
 and the reserve due to other persons, prevented my quoting 
 these papers more at length, it would be seen that in very 
 many of them his own affairs occupied the least part of 
 his attention. Many indeed of his notes and letters have 
 been entirely unavailable to me on this account, excepting 
 in as far as they have added to the high opinion I had before 
 formed of the kindliness of his nature. 
 
 My friend, Mr. George Field, who knew him long and 
 intimately, says, in a letter to me, “ Of Constable’s benevo- 
 lent feelings and acts a volume of instances might be recorded, 
 and no better proof of his genuine worth can be adduced 
 than that affluence did not spoil the artist, while it very 
 much improved the man.” 
 
 In another of his obliging communications to me, Mr. 
 Field says, “ At all times of the day, at night, and in all 
 seasons of the year, Constable had inexpressible delight in 
 viewing the works of nature. I have been out with him 
 after all colour of the landscape had disappeared, and objects 
 were seen only as skeletons and masses, yet his eye was still 
 active for his art. 4 These were the things,’ said he, 4 that 
 Gainsborough studied, and of which we have so many 
 
Mr. George Field 237 
 
 exquisite specimens in his drawings .’ 1 Constable found 
 undecorated beauties in the nakedness of winter when he 
 lavished admiration on the anatomy of trees, etc. He well 
 knew the language of a windmill, and by its expressions 
 could tell you of the winds, and of the skies, and besides this 
 he knew many other tongues that are not written, and are 
 too little studied and understood for the boundless authorities 
 they furnish to artists, to poets, to philosophers, and all 
 true lovers of the wisdom of nature. To this attachment 
 to nature and averseness to factitious studies, he probably 
 owed the originality of thought, expression, and manners 
 by which he was distinguished; which, however sometimes 
 savouring of rusticity and destitute of the artifice and con- 
 vention of society, were marked by an unrestrained amiable- 
 ness and real refinement which were his own. This clash 
 of nature and artifice appears also to have given rise to the 
 incessant workings of a humorous satire, by which he con- 
 tinually levelled the pretensions of others, which although 
 not entirely inoffensive was generally just, and few ventured 
 to face it. It subjected him and his peculiarities, however, 
 to assailments from anonymous, injudicious, and pointless 
 criticism, which a less genuine and more courtly carriage 
 might have saved him from, or transformed into praise or 
 fame, patronage or profit. These anonymous attacks served 
 him for a spur, and his satirical humour for a theme, with 
 which he entertained his friends at the time, although his 
 heart was naturally too affectionate to all the world to be 
 insensible to praise, for affection seeks affection, and praise 
 is love. It is remarkable of our most eminent landscape 
 painters, in common with genius in other shapes, that they 
 have been subjected by this natural independence of thought 
 and action to frequent misprise and neglect during their 
 lives, and the incomparable Wilson was an instance of it. 
 But in him this quality wrought more asperity than in 
 Constable. Was this to be attributed to difference in the 
 circumstances of fortune or of disposition in these great 
 painters? ” 
 
 These extracts from the letters of Mr. Field contain but 
 a part of the assistance with which he has favoured me. 
 
 In the winter seasons, after he could afford it, Constable 
 
 1 Several very fine sketches by Gainsborough, in black and white 
 chalk, hung in Constable’s parlour. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 238 
 
 frequently sent clothes and blankets to be distributed among 
 the poor of his native village; indeed no feature of his 
 character was more amiable than his sympathy with the 
 sufferings of the humbler classes, and his consideration for 
 their feelings in all respects. He possessed that innate, and 
 only real gentility, of which the test is conduct towards 
 inferiors and strangers; he was a gentleman to the poorest 
 of his species, — a gentleman in a stage coach, nay more, — 
 a gentleman at a stage coach inn dinner. 
 
 A mind like Constable’s, united to a nervous temperament 
 so sensitive, could not be indifferent to music. In his youth 
 he was a good flute player, but he laid the instrument aside 
 as he found that painting required his whole attention. 
 Preferring simplicity and expression to an ostentatious 
 display of art, I remember that at a musical party during 
 a trio in Italian, with which his ears were stunned, and which 
 was only fit for the vast area of the Opera House, he whis- 
 pered to me, “ I dare say it is very fine, for it is very dis- 
 agreeable; but if these people were to make such a noise 
 before your door or mine, we should send for the police to 
 take them away.” 
 
 The following may be placed here as connected with this 
 subject. I found it among his papers in his handwriting; 
 and it was no doubt a draught of a paragraph inserted by him 
 in a provincial newspaper. 
 
 “ Died on the 29th ult. at Great Wenham, Thomas Chever- 
 ton, aged 48 years, leaving a widow and nine children. This 
 individual, although in the humble condition of a day 
 labourer, may fairly claim some further notice in our obituary 
 from the circumstance of his being gifted with a most extra- 
 ordinary voice; one of the fullest, richest, and sweetest 
 counter tenors ever, perhaps, heard. He could with ease 
 ascend to D, and even to E in Alt. His knowledge in the 
 science of music was by no means inconsiderable, and his 
 appearance in the humble choirs of the village churches in 
 his immediate neighbourhood was always hailed with silent 
 satisfaction even by the best educated people. He was gentle 
 and affectionate to his family, who are now thrown on a 
 world, too busy, it is feared, to cast a look on beings so 
 humble, or to extend the hand of charity to objects so 
 unobtrusive and friendless. August 1st, 1831.” 
 
 Among the papers with which I found this, were many 
 
Selections from Constable’s Papers 239 
 
 separate scraps, containing notes, memoranda, and quota- 
 tions, many of them, no doubt, intended to assist him in his 
 lectures. The following are selections from them, and from 
 a few of his unpublished letters. 
 
 “ When young, I was extremely fond of reading poetry, 
 and also fond of music, and I played myself a little ; but as I 
 advanced in life and in art, I soon gave up the latter; and 
 now after thirty years, I must say that the sister arts have 
 less hold on my mind in its occasional ramblings from my 
 one pursuit than the sciences, especially the study of geology, 
 which, more than any other, seems to satisfy my mind. 
 November 10th, 1835.” 
 
 “ The difference between power and truth is very material 
 in painting, as it is in other matters of taste. It may be 
 illustrated by an anecdote of Barry and Garrick. Few actors 
 had more power than Barry; indeed, he was able for some 
 time to divide the admiration of the town with Garrick. 
 They played Lear in competition fifty nights ; but the public 
 were set right by an epigram, which placed the distinction 
 between them in the proper light, the last line of which 
 was 
 
 ‘ To Barry we give loud applause, to Garrick only tears.’ ” 
 
 “ * System can by no means be thrown aside. Without 
 system, the field of nature would be a pathless wilderness; 
 but system should be subservient to, not the main object of, 
 our pursuit.’ — White of Selborne .” 
 
 “ This imitation of an elegantly touched drawing by 
 Waterloo was one of my earliest instructors. — J. C. — Pre- 
 sented to me by J. T. Smith, 1798.” — (Written on the back 
 of a pen drawing.) 
 
 “ Connoisseurs think the art is already done.” 
 
 “ I have never seen anything in the art yet with which I 
 have been entirely satisfied. The least mannered, and con- 
 sequently the best pictures I have seen, are some of the works 
 of De Hooge, particularly one of an outdoor subject, at Sir 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 240 
 
 Robert Peel’s. His indoors are as good, but less difficult, 
 as being less lustrous.” 1 
 
 “ The world is wide; no two days are alike, nor even two 
 hours; neither were there ever two leaves of a tree alike 
 since the creation of the world; and the genuine productions 
 of art, like those of nature, are all distinct from each other.” 
 
 “ In such an age as this, painting should be understood , 
 not looked on with blind wonder, nor considered only as a 
 poetic aspiration, but as a pursuit, legitimate , scientific , and 
 mechanical .” 
 
 “ The old rubbish of art, the musty, commonplace, 
 wretched pictures which gentlemen collect, hang up, and 
 display to their friends, may be compared to Shakespeare’s 
 
 ‘ Beggarly account of empty boxes, 
 
 Alligators stuffed,’ etc. 
 
 Nature is anything but this, either in poetry, painting, or 
 in the fields.” 
 
 “ Barry thought, to be great he must reject the attributes 
 of painting; hence the iron-bound outline and brazen lights 
 of his pictures in the Adelphi.” 
 
 “ The most perfect of all masters of real chiaroscuro are 
 Claude and Ostade. The chiaroscuro of Rembrandt is 
 decidedly an artificial feature in his works; he painted 
 expressly for it; it was his own peculiar language, and used 
 by him to express the sentiment.” 
 
 “What were the habits of Claude and the Poussins? 
 though surrounded with palaces filled with pictures, they 
 made the fields their chief places of study.” 
 
 “ Cowper numbered it among his advantages as a com- 
 poser that he had read so little poetry; for ‘ imitation,’ said 
 he, ‘ even of the best models is my aversion ; it is servile and 
 
 1 Constable would not have said that such works were the greatest 
 achievements of art; he merely meant that they were the most per 
 feet, in the sense in which some minor poems may be considered more 
 perfect than the Iliad , or the Paradise Lost. 
 
Selections from Constable's Papers 241 
 
 mechanical; a trick that has enabled many to usurp the 
 name of author, who could not have written at all, if they 
 had not written upon the pattern of somebody indeed 
 original.’ ” 1 
 
 “ The folly of imitation is well shown in the fable of 
 ‘ The Ass and the Lap-dog.’ ” 
 
 “ ‘ I hate e’en Garrick when at secondhand.’ — Churchill.” 
 
 “ Mr. W is conscious of being a great mannerist, and 
 
 that he is thought so. He was told how much trouble his 
 picture had given the Council on that account, for that it 
 would hang with nothing else; he was hurt, and said, 
 4 manner might be either good or bad;’ but Fuseli makes 
 the true distinction between style and manner .” 
 
 “ Lord Bacon says, ‘ Cunning is crooked wisdom. Nothing 
 is more hurtful than when cunning men pass for wise.’ — 
 This is mannerism in painting. The mannerists are cunning 
 people; and the misfortune is, the public are not able to 
 discriminate between their pictures and true painting.” 
 
 “ Manner is always seductive. It is more or less an 
 imitation of what has been done already, — therefore always 
 plausible. It promises the short road, the near cut to present 
 fame and emolument, by availing ourselves of the labours 
 of others. It leads to almost immediate reputation, because 
 it is the wonder of the ignorant world. It is always accom- 
 panied by certain blandishments, showy and plausible, and 
 which catch the eye. As manner comes by degrees, and is 
 fostered by success in the world, flattery, etc., all painters 
 who would be really great should be perpetually on their 
 guard against it. Nothing but a close and continual obser- 
 vance of nature can protect them from the danger of becoming 
 mannerists.” 
 
 “ 1 Is it not folly,’ said Mr. Northcote to me in the Exhi- 
 bition, as we were standing before ’s picture, ‘ for a 
 
 1 The last book Constable had been reading, and on which his atten- 
 tion had probably been engaged little more than an hour before his 
 death, was a volume of Southey’s Life of Cowper, containing the poet’s 
 letters. 
 
 Q 
 
242 Life of Constable 
 
 man to paint what he can never see? is it not sufficiently 
 difficult to paint what he does see? ’ 1 — This delightful lesson 
 leads me to ask, what is painting but an imitative art? an 
 art that is to realise, not to feign. I constantly observe that 
 every man who will not submit to long toil in the imitation 
 of nature, flies off, becomes a phantom, and produces dreams 
 of nonsense, and abortions. He thinks to screen himself 
 under ‘ a fine imagination,’ which is generally, and almost 
 always in young men, the scapegoat of folly and idleness.” 
 
 “ ‘ Rien est beau que le vrai.’ — Boileau.” 
 
 “ ‘ Observe that thy best director, thy perfect guide is 
 Nature. Copy from her. — In her paths is thy triumphal 
 arch. She is above all other teachers; and ever confide in 
 her with a bold heart '—especially when thou beginnest to feel 
 that there is a sentiment in drawing. — Day after day never 
 fail to draw something, which however little it may be, will 
 yet in the end be much; and do thy best.’ 
 
 “ Extracted from Cennino Cennini’s book on painting 
 written four hundred years ago, now first printed in 1821, 
 from the manuscript in the Vatican. He was a pupil of 
 Angiolo Gaddi, whose father painted under Giotto twenty- 
 four years.” 
 
 “ None of the greatest painters were eccentric in their 
 works. They were too consistent with themselves to merit 
 such an epithet; too sensible of what they were about.” 
 
 “ The rage of what may be called protege-ism among the 
 rich and great, arising from the expectation either of being 
 the first to discover genius in obscurity, or of turning some 
 young man of ordinary talent into a genius, though it may 
 now and then be of use, is far more often prejudicial to the 
 real interests of art, and even to the individual so patronised. 
 Very worthy men, possessed with this vanity, become com- 
 pletely blinded to the injustice they commit to all who have 
 fairly won the field, and whom they would not hesitate to 
 drive from it, to make room for some favourite of their own, 
 
 1 Northcote’s objection did not apply to the supernatural in painting, 
 but to the unnatural. The picture before which they stood professed 
 to be a real scene, but treated in what the artist conceived to be a 
 poetic manner. 
 
Selections from Constable's Papers 243 
 
 who is, by their instruction as well as patronage, to be placed 
 on the pinnacle of fame. — Thus, Rasselas, in recalling the 
 visions he had indulged in of a perfect government when he 
 should come to the throne, acknowledges that he afterwards 
 was startled to think with how little regret he had contem- 
 plated the death of his father and elder brothers.” 
 
 “ There should be a moral feeling in the art, as well as 
 in everything else, and it is not right in a young man to 
 assume great dash, or great completion, without study or 
 pains.” 
 
 “ There has never been a boy painter, nor can there be. 
 The art requires a long apprenticeship, being mechanical, as 
 well as intellectual.” 
 
 “ It was at Rome Claude became the real student of 
 Nature. He came there a confirmed mannered paintet. 
 But he soon found it necessary to ‘ become as a little child,’ 
 and he devoted himself to study with an ardour and a patience 
 of labour perhaps never before equalled. He lived in the 
 fields all day, and drew at the Academy at night, for after 
 all Art is a plant of the conservatory, not of the desert.” 
 
 “ £ D. O. M. 1 
 
 CLAUDIO . GELLEE . LOTHARINGO . 
 
 EX . LOCO . DE . CHAMPAGNE . ORTO . 
 
 PICTORI . EXIMIO . 
 
 QUI . IPSOS . ORIENTIS . ET . OCCIDENTIS . 
 
 SOLIS . RADIOS . IN . CAMPESTRIBUS . 
 
 MIRIFICE . PINGENDIS . EFFINXIT . 
 
 HIC . IN . URBE . UBI ■ ARTEM . COLUIT, 
 SUMMAM . LAUDEM . INTER . MAGNATES . 
 
 CONSECUTUS . EST . 
 
 OBIIT . IX . KALEND . DECEMBRIS . MDCLXXXII. 
 
 AETATIS . SUAE . ANNO . LXXXII. 
 
 JOANN . ET . JOSEPHUS . GELLEE . 
 
 PATRUO . CHARISSIMO . MONUM . HOC . 
 
 SIBI . POSTERISQUE . SUIS . 
 
 PONI . CURARUNT.’ 
 
 1 Diis omnibus manibus. “ To all the infernal Gods.” So the 
 ancient Romans inscribed their monuments. This inscription was 
 turned by the Christians into Deo optimo maximo, “ To the good and 
 great God,” thus preserving the same initial letters. 
 
244 Life of Constable 
 
 “ ‘ To Claude Gellee Lorraine, a most eminent painter, 
 born in the province of Champagne, who, in painting land- 
 scape, represented to admiration the very rays of the rising 
 and setting sun. In this city, where he practised his art, he 
 obtained the highest celebrity among the great. He died 
 the 9th of the Kalends of December 1682 ( i.e . 23rd of 
 November), aged 82. 
 
 “ 1 John and Joseph Gellee caused this monument to be 
 erected to their beloved uncle, for themselves and their 
 posterity.’ 
 
 “ The above inscription was on the monument of Claude 
 Lorraine (now destroyed) in the church of the Trinita al 
 Monte at Rome. Sir George Beaumont, who had seen it, 
 and again sought for it when there about 1820, informed 
 me that it was mural, and moderately ornamented, having a 
 palette and pencils carved on it. Had he been successful in 
 finding the fragments, it was his intention to have brought 
 them to his seat at Cole-Orton, and put them up in the 
 church or on his grounds.” 1 
 
 Constable seldom failed to penetrate the real characters of 
 men through the disguises of manner. In an unpublished 
 letter he says, of one of a class of persons not very uncommon, 
 “ More overbearing meekness I never met with in any one 
 man.” 
 
 To these few gleanings from Constable’s papers I will 
 add some recollections of his sayings. His manner of talk- 
 ing was perpetually digressive, yet he never lost sight of the 
 subject with which he set out, but would always return to 
 it, though often through a long and circuitous path. This 
 rambling habit made his talk, which was amusing enough in 
 itself, sometimes still more so, but it unfitted him in a great 
 degree for an extemporaneous lecturer. His conversation 
 might be compared to a dissected map or picture, of which 
 the parts, as seen separately, appear to have no connection, 
 
 1 My friend, Mr. T. Uwins, has obliged me with the following account 
 of the destruction of Claude’s monument: “ When the French republi- 
 can troops devastated Italy in 1798, their great delight was to turn 
 out the monks and nuns from the convents and other religious houses, 
 which houses they converted into barracks. This happened to the 
 Church and Convent of the Frati Minori on the Trinita al Monte at 
 Rome, and it was during this barbarous occupation that Claude’s 
 monument was obliterated.” 
 
Forgeries 245 
 
 yet each is capable of being so placed as to form a complete 
 whole. 
 
 In reply to an application to my friend Collins for his 
 assistance in this part of my undertaking, I received the 
 following note : 
 
 “ Dear Leslie, I have been cudgelling my brains on the 
 subject of the Constable anecdotes, and the result is, the 
 recollection of a great number of good things, calculated, 
 alas, only for table-talk among friends. This, as I told you, 
 I feared would be the case. The great charm of our lamented 
 friend’s conversation upon art was not only its originality, 
 but its real worth, and the evidence it afforded of his heartfelt 
 love of his pursuit, independent of any worldly advantages to 
 be obtained by it. . . . I mentioned to you his admirable 
 remark upon the composition of a picture, namely, that its 
 parts were all so necessary to it as a whole, that it resembled 
 a sum in arithmetic; take away or add the smallest item, and 
 it must be wrong. His observations, too, on chiaroscuro 
 were all that could be made on that deep subject. How 
 rejoiced am I to find that so many of the great things he 
 did will at last be got together for the benefit of future 
 students.” 
 
 The comparison mentioned by Mr. Collins of a picture to 
 a sum in arithmetic was intended by Constable to expose 
 the unpardonable liberties sometimes taken by the possessors 
 of the works of deceased artists, in cutting, enlarging, or 
 otherwise altering them. “ Would you take from or add,” 
 he would say, “to a physician’s prescription? . . .” An- 
 other proceeding, perhaps not more justifiable, may be here 
 adverted to, — the employment of artists to finish pictures 
 left incomplete by their predecessors. The best painters 
 know that a work of any value can only be carried through 
 by the head and hand of him who planned it, and conse- 
 quently, those only undertake to complete unfinished pictures 
 who are the least capable of divining the intentions of their 
 authors . 1 Some of Constable’s sketches have thus been 
 finished into worthlessness, and what is a still greater injury 
 to his reputation, entire forgeries have been made of his 
 works. Multitudes of these I have seen, and with astonish- 
 ment that their wretchedness should impose upon purchasers. 
 
 1 1 have known some deplorable instances of the finishing of Wilkie’s 
 incompleted pictures, and many more of works, so left, by Lawrence. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 246 
 
 But they are put forth, in safe reliance on the little real 
 knowledge of his style that, at present, exists among our 
 connoisseurs. 
 
 To return from this digression to the more agreeable 
 subject of Constable’s conversation, I remember to have 
 heard him say, “ When I sit down to make a sketch from 
 nature, the first thing I try to do is, to forget that I have ever 
 seen a picture.” 1 He well knew that, in spite of this en- 
 deavour, his knowledge of pictures had its influence on every 
 touch of his pencil, for in speaking of a young artist who 
 boasted that he had never studied the works of others, he 
 said, “ After all, there is such a thing as the art.” 
 
 On hearing somebody say of the celebrated collection of 
 Raphael’s drawings that belonged to Sir Thomas Lawrence, 
 “ They inspire,” he replied, “ They do more, they inform.” 
 
 The amiable but eccentric Blake, looking through one of 
 Constable’s sketch books, said of a beautiful drawing of an 
 avenue of fir trees on Hampstead Heath, “ Why, this is not 
 drawing, but inspiration ; ” and he replied, “ I never knew 
 it before; I meant it for drawing.” 
 
 “ My pictures will never be popular,” he said, “ for they 
 have no handling. But I do not see handling in nature.” 
 
 He said also, “ Whatever may be -thought of my art, it is 
 my own; and I would rather possess a freehold, though but 
 a cottage, than live in a palace belonging to another.” 
 
 To a lady who, looking at an engraving of a house, called 
 it an ugly thing, he said, “ No, madam, there is nothing ugly; 
 1 never saw an ugly thing in my life : for let the form of an 
 object be what it may, — light, shade, and perspective will 
 always make it beautiful. It is perspective which improves 
 the form of this.” 
 
 Speaking of the taste for the prodigious and the astounding , 
 a taste very contrary to his own, he made use of a quotation 
 
 1 A curious proof of the stillness with which he had sat one day 
 while painting in the open air, was the discovery of a field mouse in 
 his coat pocket. 
 
Sayings 247 
 
 from the 1st Book of Kings. “ A great and strong wind 
 rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the 
 Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the 
 wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earth- 
 quake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was 
 not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.” 
 
 There were many occasions on which Constable quoted 
 the aphorism of Dr. Johnson: “That which is greatest is 
 not always best.” 
 
 His fondness for children has been mentioned. I have 
 often heard him say, but as a quotation (I think from Plato), 
 “ Children should be respected” 
 
 He was asked how soon a relish for the works of Dome- 
 nichino might be acquired, and replied, “ In about the same 
 time in which you may acquire a relish for the works of 
 Homer.” 
 
 An artist who undervalued every class of art but the heroic, 
 said in his presence, “ that he could not conceive to what 
 Jan Steen owed his great reputation, unless to the high 
 encomiums Sir Joshua Reynolds had passed on his style; ” 
 “ And could he,” replied Constable, “ owe it to a better 
 authority? ” 
 
 He was struck with a remark of Dr. Gooch, that he found 
 “ every individual case of disease a new study.” Constable 
 applied this to painting, and said, “ In like manner every 
 truly original picture is a separate study, and governed by 
 laws of its own; so that what is right in one, would be often 
 entirely wrong if transferred to another.” 
 
 A friend of Constable expressing to him his dissatisfaction 
 at his own progress in art, received (as he told me) the 
 greatest encouragement to proceed he ever met with, in the 
 following answer: “ If you had found painting as easy as 
 you once thought it, you would have given it up long ago.” 
 
 He could not easily resist theTtemptation of making an 
 unexpected reply, and when Archdeacon Fisher, one Sunday, 
 
248 Life of Constable 
 
 after preaching, asked him how he liked his sermon, he 
 said, “ Very much, indeed, Fisher; I always did like that 
 sermon.” But Fisher had too much wit himself not to 
 relish this; and if he kept any account of such hits with 
 his friend, it was no doubt a fairly balanced one. 
 
 If Constable had occasion to find fault with a servant or a 
 tradesman, it was seldom unaccompanied with a pleasantry, 
 though often a sharp one. To the person who served his 
 family with milk, he said, “ In future we shall feel obliged 
 if you will send us the milk and the water in separate cans.” 
 
 A picture of a murder sent to the Academy for exhibition 
 while he was on the Council was refused admittance on 
 account of a disgusting display of blood and brains in it; 
 but he objected still more to the wretchedness of the work, 
 and said, “ I see no brains in the picture.” 1 
 
 I regret that among his papers I have not met with the 
 observations on skies and clouds, which he mentions in a 
 letter to Mr. George Constable. I recollect hearing, at 
 different times, remarks by him on atmospheric effects, but 
 I can scarcely recall anything he said with sufficient distinct- 
 ness to repeat it. I remember that he pointed out to me 
 an appearance of the sun’s rays, which few artists have 
 perhaps noticed, and which I never saw given in any picture, 
 excepting in his “ Waterloo Bridge.” When the spectator 
 stands with his back to the sun, the rays may be sometimes 
 seen converging in perspective towards the opposite horizon. 
 Since he drew my attention to such effects, I have noticed 
 very early in the morning the lines of the rays diminishing 
 in perspective through a rainbow. 
 
 I have seen him admire a fine tree with an ecstasy of 
 delight like that with which he would catch up a beautiful 
 child in his arms. The ash was his favourite, and all who 
 are acquainted with his pictures cannot fail to have observed 
 how frequently it is introduced as a near object, and how 
 beautifully its distinguishing peculiarities are marked. I 
 remember his pointing out to me in an avenue of Spanish 
 
 1 This recalls to my recollection a saying, still better, which is 
 related of Opie, who, when a young artist asked him what he mixed 
 his colours with, replied, “ Brains." 
 
The Conventional in Art 
 
 2 49 
 
 chesnuts, the great elegance given to their trunks by the 
 spiral direction of the lines of the bark. 
 
 He would never admit of a distinction which is sometimes 
 made between poetry and truth. He felt that the super- 
 natural need not be the unnatural . 1 Neither did he admit 
 that the conventional in art, though it may be found in the 
 works of the greatest masters, was to be considered in any 
 other light than as an evidence of human imperfection. He 
 looked upon the imitation by modern painters of that which 
 is conventional in the works of their predecessors, as one 
 great cause of the deterioration of art. “ Raphael and 
 Michael Angelo,” he said, “ would be greatly astonished 
 could they rise from their graves, at the theories on which 
 it has been supposed their works were formed; as, for 
 instance, that the charms of colour, or chiaroscuro, would 
 detract from the intellectual dignity of their inventions.” 2 
 He has often pointed out to me, even in the imperfect en- 
 gravings we have from the Sistine Chapel, the admirable 
 conduct of the light and shade; and he told me that 
 Stothard, looking at these things with him, said, “ Michael 
 Angelo always composed for chiaroscuro.” Constable con- 
 sidered that the union of various excellence proposed by 
 the Carracci might not be impossible, but that their failure, 
 where they did fail, was mainly owing to their attention 
 being too much confined to the works of their predecessors. 
 He preferred the advice given by Wilkie when consulted by 
 young artists, “ paint it well” to the elaborate recommenda- 
 tions contained in the sonnet of Agostino Carracci . 3 He 
 considered the analogy to hold good in all respects between 
 religion and taste. He told me that one of Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds’ discourses had been turned into a sermon, and 
 was found not to require any alteration in the general scope 
 of the arguments. 
 
 When the opinions scattered through Constable’s letters 
 
 1 Why do “ the Gods of Homer continue to this day the gods of 
 poetry,” but because they are endued with human passions? And 
 for the same reason do the weird sisters, the Oberon, Titania, Puck, 
 Ariel, and Caliban interest us. 
 
 2 Such a theory, it appears to me, may be overturned at once by 
 two remarks of Fuseli: “The Jeremiah among the Prophets glows 
 with the glow of Titian, but in a breadth unknown to Giorgione and 
 him.” And “ The Eve under the Tree has the bland pearly harmony 
 of Correggio.” 
 
 3 See Fuseli’s Second Lecture. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 250 
 
 are compared with those expressed in his lectures, it will 
 not be necessary for me to say that his love of nature did 
 not blind him to the real value of art. I never remember to 
 have stood with him before a fine picture, either ancient or 
 modern, without his directing my attention to some excel- 
 lence in it which I had not before noticed; and if his inti- 
 mate acquaintance with nature made him more than usually 
 fastidious in his admiration of pictures, it gave him a relish 
 for the best, of which no mere connoisseur can form the 
 least conception. But the light in which Constable con- 
 sidered works of art was exactly that in which Lord Bacon 
 places the sciences, when he says, “ It is a fatal mistake to 
 suppose that they have gradually arrived at a state of per- 
 fection, and then been recorded by some one writer or other; 
 and that as nothing better can afterwards be invented, men 
 need but cultivate and set off what is thus discovered and 
 completed : whereas in reality, this registering of the sciences 
 proceeds only from the assurance of a few, and the sloth and 
 ignorance of many.” — And again, “ As water ascends no 
 higher than the level of the first spring, so knowledge derived 
 from Aristotle will at most rise no higher again than the 
 knowledge of Aristotle. And therefore, though a scholar 
 must have faith in his master, yet a man well instructed must 
 judge for himself; for learners owe to their masters only a 
 temporary belief, and a suspension of their own judgment till 
 they are fully instructed, and not an absolute resignation, or 
 perpetual captivity. Let great authors, therefore, have their 
 due; but so as not to defraud time, which is the author of 
 authors, and the parent of truth.” 
 
 Need I mention how very little Constable cared for the 
 usual classifications of art? he judged as all who have taste, 
 and who give their taste fair play, judge of pictures, by their 
 intrinsic merit alone. Good art was with him high art, how- 
 ever humble the subject; and mediocre art, let the attempt 
 be ever so sublime, was in his estimation low art . 1 
 
 1 All men of genius have something in common, however dissimilar 
 their productions, but genius and mediocrity have nothing in common ; 
 Raphael and Ostade may be classed together, but never Raphael and 
 Carlo Maratti. Since this note was first printed, I have met with the 
 following passage in Cunningham’s Life of Wilkie. Speaking of 
 Raphael and M. Angelo, Wilkie says, “ They have that without which 
 the Venus and Apollo would lose their value, and with which the 
 forms of Ostade and Rembrandt become instructive and sublime; 
 namely expression and sentiment.” 
 
His Native Scenery 251 
 
 In the summer of 1840, I accompanied Mr. Purton on an 
 excursion to Suffolk. We were received at Flatford with 
 the greatest hospitality by Mr. Abram Constable and his 
 sisters, and were accommodated with facilities for exploring 
 what to us was classic ground, in which we had the advantage 
 of being accompanied by Constable’s eldest son, and his 
 nephew, the Rev. Daniel Whalley. 
 
 We visited the house in which Constable was born. — It 
 was a large and handsome mansion, at that time untenanted, 
 and has since been pulled down. A view of the back of it 
 forms the frontispiece to the English Landscape, with these 
 lines inscribed under it, 
 
 “ Hie locus aetatis nostrae primordia novit 
 Annos felices laetitiseque dies: 
 
 Hie locus ingenuis pueriles imbuit annos 
 Artibus et nostrae laudis origo fuit.” 
 
 Of which, in one of his sketch books, is the following trans- 
 lation by Mr. Fisher. 
 
 “ This spot saw the day-spring of my life, 
 
 Hours of Joy and years of Happiness; 
 
 This place first tinged my boyish fancy with a love of the Art, 
 This place was the origin of my Fame.’* 
 
 We found that the scenery of eight or ten of our late 
 friend’s most important subjects might be enclosed by a 
 circle of a few hundred yards at Flatford, very near Berg- 
 holt; within this space are the lock, which forms the subject 
 of several pictures — Willy Lott’s House — the little raised 
 wooden bridge and the picturesque cottage near it, seen in 
 the picture engraved for Messrs. Finden’s work, and intro- 
 duced into others — and the meadow in which the picture of 
 “ Boat-building ” was entirely painted. So startling was 
 the resemblance of some of these scenes to the pictures of 
 them, which we knew so well, that we could hardly believe 
 we were for the first time standing on the ground from which 
 they were painted. Of others, we found that Constable had 
 rather combined and varied the materials, than given exact 
 views. In the larger compositions, such as “ The White 
 Horse ” and “ The Hay Wain,” both from this neighbour- 
 hood, he has increased the width of the river to great advan- 
 tage; and wherever there was an opportunity, he was fond 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 252 
 
 of introducing the tower of Dedham Church, which is seen 
 from many points near Flatford. At Stratford we missed 
 the picturesque little water-mill, with which the picture 
 given by Fisher to Mr. Tinney had made us acquainted, in 
 place of which now stands a large brick building. We 
 visited Stoke; and at Neyland, which adjoins it, we saw the 
 altar-piece of the Saviour blessing the elements; we saw, 
 likewise, the altar-piece at Brantham; and visited Langham, 
 where all is so much changed excepting the church, that we 
 could scarcely recognise it as the scene of the “ Glebe Farm.” 
 The appearance of Dedham mill is greatly improved in every 
 picture Constable painted of it, by his showing the water- 
 wheel, which in reality is hidden. 
 
 In the education of an artist, it is scarcely possible to fore- 
 see what circumstances will prove advantageous, or the 
 reverse; it is on looking back only that we can judge of 
 'these things. Travelling is now the order of the day, and 
 it may sometimes prove beneficial, — but to Constable’s art 
 there can be little doubt that the confinement of his studies 
 within the narrowest bounds in which, perhaps, the studies 
 of an artist ever were confined, was in the highest degree 
 favourable; for a knowledge of atmospheric effects will be 
 best attained by a constant study of the same objects under 
 every change of the seasons, and of the times of day. His 
 ambition, it will be borne in mind, was not to paint many 
 things imperfectly, but to paint a few things well. 
 
 The impression made on the minds of Mr. Purton and 
 myself by these beautiful scenes was, that Constable being 
 born among them, and being born a painter, was almost of 
 necessity born a landscape painter. As we were leaving 
 them, my companion made some remarks which seemed to 
 me so just and so happily expressed, that I begged he would 
 give them to me on paper, and his kind compliance with 
 my request enables me to add them to this brief account of 
 our excursion. 
 
 “ In looking,” says Mr. Purton, “ at such faithful tran- 
 scripts of nature as are exhibited in the landscapes of Con- 
 stable, it would be difficult to point out any one quality or 
 excellence which pre-eminently distinguishes them ; and per- 
 haps it will be found that this oneness or individuality 
 constitutes their principal charm: one pervading animus, 
 one singleness of intention runs through the whole ; and this. 
 
Mr. Purton’s Remarks 253 
 
 it may be observed, has been pronounced on the best autho- 
 rity, the sine qua non in poetical composition: 
 
 ‘ Denique sit quidvis simplex duntaxat et unum.’ 1 
 
 Whether he portray the solemn burst of the approaching 
 tempest — the breezy freshness of morning — or the deep still- 
 ness of a summer noon — every object represented, from the 
 grandest masses to the smallest plant or spray, seem instinct 
 with, as it were, and breathing the very spirit of the scene. 
 His figures, too, seem naturally called forth by, and form 
 part of, the landscape: we never ask whether they are well 
 placed, there they are, and unless they choose to move on, 
 there they must remain. His quiet lanes and covert nooks 
 never serve to introduce a romantic or sentimental episode 
 to divide, not heighten the interest; all is made subservient 
 to the one object in view, the embodying a pure apprehen- 
 sion of natural effect. Hence it is that the true lover of 
 nature admires not at sight the beauty of the lines, or the 
 truth of colouring displayed in his works; his first impulse 
 is, as with Fuseli, to call for his umbrella, or with Bannister, 
 he feels the breeze blowing on his face . 2 I do not presume 
 to point out what high qualities of art he must have attained, 
 or what difficulties overcome, before he could have effected 
 so deep a feeling of the natural; but I imagine that the 
 highest attainments of art, even all his patient study had 
 been vain, had they not been engrafted on the purest and 
 warmest admiration and affection for the scenes and effects 
 which he represented.” 
 
 An extremely interesting portion of Constable’s works is 
 known only to his intimate friends, — I mean the contents of 
 his numerous sketch books. In these are many complete 
 landscapes in miniature, often coloured, and when not tinted 
 the chiaroscuro is generally given in lead pencil, sometimes 
 with great depth of effect, and always with exquisite taste. — 
 The name of nearly every spot sketched is added, and in 
 
 1 “ In a word, it may be what you will, only let it be simple (or 
 rather single) and one.” — Horace on the Art of Poetry. 
 
 2 The reader will remember Mrs. Fisher’s remark on the arrival of 
 the “ White Horse ” at Salisbury, that she carried her eye from the 
 picture to the garden, and observed “ the same sort of look in both; ” 
 and Lady Morley’s exclamation on seeing the view of “ Englefield 
 House,” “ How fresh, how dewy, how exhilarating! ” It was for those 
 who feel and judge in this way Constable painted; but connoisseurs, 
 and even artists, are not always such judges. 
 
254 Life of Constable 
 
 looking through these books one thing is striking, which may 
 be equally noticed of his pictures, that the subjects of his 
 works form a history of his affections. — Bergholt and its 
 neighbourhood — Salisbury — Osmington — Hampstead — Gil- 
 lingham — Brighton — Folkstone (where his boys were at 
 school) — and scenes in Berkshire visited by him with Mr. 
 Fisher. With the exception of his excursion in Derbyshire, 
 and afterwards to the English Lakes, he never travelled 
 expressly for subjects. Chiaroscuro, as I have said, was an 
 all-important thing in his estimation. Many artists see it 
 nowhere, but Constable saw it everywhere, and in all its 
 beauty. Why then should he go in quest of subjects, when 
 the spots endeared to him from his infancy, or from the 
 associations of friendship, had not only in general great 
 attractions of their own, but where they had least of beauty 
 could be elevated by this power to sublimity? 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Notes of Six Lectures, delivered by Constable, on Landscape Painting. 
 
 The lectures Constable delivered at the Hampstead Assembly 
 Rooms, — at the Royal Institution in Albemarle Street, — 
 and at Worcester, were never written. He prepared some 
 brief notes only, but he depended more on a collection of 
 copies and engravings from the pictures to which he had 
 occasion to allude, with large placards containing the names 
 of the principal painters who had contributed to the advance- 
 ment of landscape painting, chronologically arranged. These 
 sufficiently served to refresh a memory well stored with infor- 
 mation on the subject of his lectures. — Many of his friends 
 urged him after the delivery of the first discourse to write 
 it, and he probably intended to amplify the following abstract 
 which was found among his papers, and which, he says, “ is 
 little more than a recollection of a discourse delivered at the 
 Hampstead Assembly Rooms in June 1833.” 
 
 “ In offering a few observations on the history of land- 
 scape painting to the members of the Literary and Scientific 
 Society of Hampstead, it will be necessary, before I proceed, 
 to exonerate the gentlemen forming its committee from 
 blame for the appointment to this talk of one so inefficient, 
 at least as a speaker; and perhaps I cannot better excuse 
 their choice, nor illustrate the position in which both the 
 committee and myself are placed, than by the following 
 words of Lord Bacon. 
 
 “ ‘ He who questioneth much will learn much; and will 
 content much; but especially if he apply his questions to 
 the skill of those whom he asketh; for he shall give them 
 occasion to please themselves in speaking.’ — And again: 
 ‘ There is small doubt but that men can write best and most 
 really and sincerely on their own professions; only there is 
 one vice which accompanies them that write on their own pro- 
 fessions, that they magnify them in excess; but generally it 
 were to be wished as that which would make learning indeed 
 
 255 
 
256 Life of Constable 
 
 solid and fruitful, that active men would or could become 
 writers.” 
 
 “ In tracing the history of landscape, although my limits 
 necessarily permit me to give but an outline, I shall endea- 
 vour to render it clear, useful, and interesting, by pointing 
 out the epochs which mark the development, progress, and 
 perfection of this department of art, — a department than 
 which there is none more efficient, impressive, or delightful, 
 — none that has more completely succeeded in the attain- 
 ment of its object. — My endeavour shall be to separate it 
 from the mass of historical art in which it originated, and 
 with which it was long connected. Considering, as I do, 
 that landscape has hitherto escaped a distinction to which 
 it is entitled, I propose to trace it to its source, to follow its 
 progress to its final success, to show how by degrees it 
 assumed form until at last it became a distinct and separate 
 class of painting, standing alone, when, from being the 
 humble assistant, it became the powerful auxiliary to that 
 art which gave it birth, greatly enriching the dignity of 
 history. 
 
 “If we are to form any opinion of the state of landscape 
 painting among the ancients from the specimens displayed 
 on the walls of Herculaneum, the Baths of Diocletian, and 
 in other places of more recent discovery, it would appear 
 that, although they practised it with much grace and ele- 
 gance, they merely seemed to consider it as forming a part 
 of their arabesques. Trees, like candelabra, formally spread 
 on a plain blue sky, for instance; — but we have no specimen 
 in their landscape in which we can trace any attempt at 
 chiaroscuro, without which it can never be rendered im- 
 pressive. Yet if we are to believe Pliny and other ancient 
 writers, chiaroscuro as well as colour was thoroughly under- 
 stood and practised by the great historical painters. 
 
 “All was, however, lost in the general wreck of Europe; 
 and it is hardly to be expected that in the early time of the 
 middle ages anything of so refined a character should re- 
 appear. The Bayeux tapestry, which is indeed little better 
 than a Mexican performance, scarcely hints at it. The 
 illuminated manuscripts and missals, when they represent 
 the agony of Christ, indicate the garden only by a flower, 
 or a flower pot, the rest of the field of the picture being 
 dark. But when historical painting was attempted on a 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 257 
 
 larger scale, and the Passion, the Crucifixion, and the En- 
 tombment of our Saviour afforded its most important sub- 
 jects, landscape, and even some of its phenomena, became 
 indispensable. The cross must be fixed in the ground, — 
 there must be a sky, — the shades of night must envelop the 
 garden (the scene of the agony), — and a more awful darkness 
 the Crucifixion; — while rocks and trees naturally made a 
 part of the accompaniments of the sepulchre. Here, then, 
 however rude and imperfect, we are to look for the origin of 
 landscape. It was first used as an assistant in conveying 
 sentiment, and being found completely successful, was 
 cultivated by succeeding painters, until at length it became 
 a distinct branch of art. 
 
 “Pictures are books; and they were especially so con- 
 sidered in the earliest ages of painting in Europe, when so 
 few even of the highest classes could either read or write. 
 The great importance of painting, therefore, as a means of 
 instruction, will account for the whole history of our Saviour 
 being painted on one panel. The artists, very justly, con- 
 sidered themselves engaged in works of piety, and they 
 employed all their powers to tell their stories with the greatest 
 perspicuity. In the first simple ages of painting there was 
 no display of the technicalities of art; they were indeed 
 unknown. The holy truths of Christianity were told with 
 sincerity, in pictures filled with natural expression and 
 purity of sentiment. The works of Cimabue, Giotto, etc., 
 were carried in procession to the churches, there to remain, 
 to enlighten the ignorant, and to add to the fervours of the 
 devout. 
 
 “ It was fortunate, therefore, for landscape, destined as 
 it was to become so material a feature of the art, that it 
 originated and was in its infancy nursed in the hands of men 
 who were masters of pathos. As early, I believe, as Cimabue, 
 and certainly Giotto, landscape became impressive. I am 
 told that in the Campo Santo at Pisa, the frescoes exhibit 
 wonderful proofs of its use and power. The names of 
 Ghirlandaio, Barnardo, and Paolo Uccello (the first master 
 of perspective), follow. By these artists architecture, 
 vistas, and other materials, were added with great intelli- 
 gence; so much so, as to cause us not to be surprised at the 
 future advance of landscape, as an accompaniment, in the 
 hands of Raphael. In his early pictures, generally holy 
 
 R 
 
258 Life of Constable 
 
 families, and many of which may be seen in England, it is 
 most beautifully and appropriately introduced; the single 
 leaves of plants, flowers, and that religious emblem the 
 trefoil, in his foregrounds are very elegantly detailed; and 
 the soothing solitudes of his middle distances find a corre- 
 sponding serenity in the features of the benign and lovely 
 subjects of these works. In the first of the grand series of 
 frescoes with which he adorned the chambers of the Vatican, 
 he has placed the Eucharist on the table in the open air. 
 The low horizon just permits the tops of trees, spires, and 
 gently rising hills to be seen over the altar, and the serenity 
 imparted to the picture by an exceedingly elegant landscape, 
 aids the religious feeling which reigns over the whole. In 
 many of his smaller subjects in the Loggia of the Vatican, 
 the landscape backgrounds are of extreme beauty, and of 
 great importance; and the lovely pastoral scenery of that 
 noble cartoon, the ‘ Charge to Peter,’ is probably familiar 
 to all my auditors. 
 
 “ Thus was landscape cradled in the lap of history, at a 
 time when its grandeur, simplicity, and powers of expression 
 were carried to their greatest perfection by the schools of 
 Italy; and it thus early gained a strength and dignity which 
 has never since wholly forsaken it. 
 
 “ Although I shall have occasion to notice its obligations 
 at a later period to the German, Dutch, and Flemish colour 1 
 and delicacy of finish, it may be worth while to advert to 
 what would probably have been the result, had its cultivation 
 at the time at which we have arrived been carried on by the 
 German and Dutch painters only. In their hands dignity 
 of subject never excluded meanness, and the wretched 
 material introduced into their historical pictures could have 
 led to nothing, or worse than nothing, impressive. The 
 accompaniments even of the Nativity were often, with them, 
 an assemblage of the mean and ridiculous. An owl, seen 
 through a hole in a thatched roof, sitting on a beam just over 
 the head of the Virgin, with a mouse dangling by its tail from 
 his claw; pigs quarrelling at the trough, etc. — But Albert 
 Durer and Lucas Van Leyden, though they have been guilty 
 
 1 The exquisite colour of the early Flemish art as seen in the works 
 of Van Eyck, Hemmelinck, etc., is not more surprising than the state 
 of perfect preservation in which the tints of their pictures, some of 
 which are more than four hundred years old, still remain. 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 259 
 
 of these things, have occasionally rendered a very different 
 account of landscape. The background to the figure of 
 ‘ Fortune ’ is a grand exception, as well as those to the 
 ‘ Prodigal Son ’ and the ‘ Armed Knight; ’ and indeed in all 
 Albert Durer’s landscape, notwithstanding the objections 
 I have mentioned, there is much that is striking. 
 
 “ It was, however, at Venice, the heart of colour, and 
 where the true art of imitation was first understood, that 
 landscape assumed a rank and decision of character that 
 spread future excellence through all the schools of Europe. 
 Giorgione and Titian, both historical painters, were early 
 disciplined in the schools of the brothers Bellini, where they 
 were taught to imitate nature in what has been termed a 
 servile manner. But it appears to have been the true way 
 of proceeding if we may judge from the result; for after- 
 wards, when those great painters had attained the plenitude 
 of their powers, they never lost their respect for nature, nor 
 for a moment wandered from the materials which were 
 about them, and which they had been taught to copy so 
 admirably, into the vacant fields of idealism. In the 
 Venetian school, landscape formed a very important study, 
 and whether separate or united with history, it was here 
 carried to a degree of perfection it had never before attained. 
 
 “ In the year 1520, Titian, then in his fortieth year, 
 produced his celebrated picture of the martyrdom of the 
 Dominican Peter, the background of which, although not 
 the model, may be considered as the foundation of all the 
 styles of landscape in every school of Europe in the following 
 century. In this admirable union of history and landscape, 
 the scene is on the skirts of a forest, and the time verging 
 towards the close of day, as we may judge from the level and 
 placid movement of the clouds on the deep blue sky, seen 
 under the pendent foliage of the trees which overhang the 
 road. The choice of a low horizon greatly aids the grandeur 
 of the composition; and magnificent as the larger objects 
 and masses of the picture are, the minute plants in the 
 foreground are finished with an exquisite but not obtrusive 
 touch, and even a bird’s nest with its callow brood may be 
 discovered among the branches of one of the trees. Amid 
 this scene of amenity and repose, we are startled by the rush 
 of an assassin on two helpless travellers, monks, one of whom 
 is struck down, and the other wounded and flying in the 
 
260 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 utmost terror. At the top of the picture, through the 
 loftiest branches of the trees, a bright and supernatural 
 light strikes down on the dying man, who sees in the glory 
 a vision of angels bearing the emblems of martyrdom; and 
 illuminating in its descent the stems and foliage, contrasts 
 with the shadowy gloom of the wood. — The elder bush, with 
 its pale funereal flowers, introduced over the head of the 
 saint, and the village spire in the distance, the object of his 
 journey, increase the interest and add to the richness of the 
 composition. Admirable also is the contrivance of the tight- 
 drawn drapery, part of the garment of the martyr, which, 
 pressed by the foot of the assassin, pins his victim to the 
 earth. — The noble conception of this great work is equalled, 
 I am told, by its breadth and its tone, while the extreme 
 minuteness and variety of its details no way impair the unity 
 of its impression. 
 
 “ However justly the historic art of the Bolognese school 
 may be termed ‘ eclectic,’ the landscape of the Caracci and 
 Domenichino cannot be so considered, as each possesses a 
 character of its own. — The landscape of Annibal Caracci, 
 though severe, is grand and poetic, not to meddle with the 
 ambiguous term classic, and is admirably adapted to the 
 fauns and satyrs, and other mythological beings with which 
 he peopled it, as may be seen in that most felicitous concep- 
 tion of Pan and Apollo in our National Gallery. 
 
 “ The Bolognese landscape, although founded mainly on the 
 Venetian, is not wholly so. Denis Calvart, bom at Antwerp 
 in 1555, died at Bologna in 1619, having come to Italy as a 
 landscape painter, on purpose to perfect himself in the study 
 of the figure. He learned perspective under P. Fontana, 
 studied at Rome, and left it to set up his school at Bologna, 
 in which Albano, Domenichino and Guido became his pupils. 
 
 “ The landscape of Domenichino is of the highest order; 
 and although it bears the stamp of composition, yet we 
 recognise the features and hues of nature in every part of it. 
 His pictures in the National Gallery are poetic, but not of so 
 high a character as the Orleans picture called ‘ le Batelier/ 
 now in the possession of Lord Francis Egerton. The subject 
 is pastoral; sheep flocking to a river, over which a romantic 
 bridge discovers through its lofty arch a wide sheet of water 
 falling into a lake. Two elegant ash trees gently overhang 
 a neighbouring steep. The lake expands in the centre of the 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 261 
 
 picture, on which the boatman is seen, and a group of figures 
 recline on the grass on the near bank. The grandeur of the 
 composition, and the urbanity of tone which pervades it, 
 place this picture in the highest class of landscape. 
 
 “In the ‘St. Jerome’ of Domenichino, the landscape is 
 accessory only, yet most important. The subject of the 
 picture is an aged and decrepit man, dying, attended by the 
 ministers of religion. Through columns and a lofty arch are 
 seen some religious buildings, perhaps often the scene of the 
 dying saint’s good works, on a gentle eminence, and over- 
 shadowed by a single group of trees. The placid aspect of 
 this simple landscape seems like a requiem to soothe the 
 departing spirit: its effect is like that of solemn music heard 
 from an adjoining apartment. On the serene blue sky, 
 hovering cherubs fill and complete the composition. This 
 noble and pathetic picture, if not so startling as the ‘ Peter 
 Martyr,’ leaves an impression as lasting. — Yet it v/as rejected 
 by the authorities of the church for which it was painted, 
 until Nicolo Poussin restored it to the world, and in a public 
 harangue (the lecture of a painter) pointed out its beauties. 
 It is mournful to reflect that neither age, worth, nor tran- 
 scendent talents could screen the virtuous Domenichino 
 from the bad passions of intriguing contemporaries, who 
 blighted, and it is supposed, ultimately destroyed a life they 
 ha,d long embittered. 1 
 
 1 “ Domenichino was so persecuted and overborne by the partisans 
 of Guido, that his picture of the “ Communion of St. Jerome ” had been 
 torn from its place in the church of San Girolamo della Carita, and 
 thrown into a garret, where it remained forgotten, until the monks, 
 desirous of having a new altar-piece, requested Poussin to paint one 
 for them, and sent him Domenichino’s picture as old canvas to paint 
 it upon. He no sooner saw it, than, struck with its extraordinary 
 merit, he carried it to the church for which it had been painted, and 
 gave a public lecture upon it, in which he dared to compare it with the 
 “ Transfiguration,” and called these two, with the “ Descent from the 
 Cross,” by Daniel de Volterra, the three finest pictures in Rome. As 
 to the accusation that the composition was a theft, from the sketch 
 by the Caracci on the same subject, he showed that the Caracci had 
 never finished their picture, and that as it was altered and improved 
 in every particular, that was no ground for condemnation; for, far 
 from injuring them by his appropriation of their idea, he had shown 
 what a noble use might be made of it, and from it had composed one 
 of the finest pictures in the world. The public had only to be roused 
 by a steady and right-judging criticism; the elegant but weaker 
 attractions of the rival school gave way, and Domenichino thence- 
 forward was placed in his just rank among the great painters of Italy.” 
 — Life of Nicolo Poussin , by Maria Graham, afterwards Lady Callcott. 
 — Domenichino was still living when his picture was restored to its 
 place by Poussin. He died in 1641, it is supposed by poison. 
 
262 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 “ Although no distinct landscape is known by the hand of 
 Guido, yet in a history of this particular branch it may not 
 be improper to notice its immense importance as an accessory 
 in his picture of ‘ Aurora.’ It is the finest instance I know of 
 the beauty of natural landscape brought to aid a mythological 
 story, and to be sensible of its value we have only to imagine 
 a plain background in its stead. But though Guido has 
 placed us in the heavens, we are looking towards the earth, 
 where seas and mountain tops are receiving the first beams 
 of the morning sun. The chariot of Apollo is borne on the 
 clouds, attended by the Hours and preceded by Aurora, who 
 scatters flowers; and the landscape, instead of diminishing 
 the illusion, is the chief means of producing it, and is indeed 
 most essential to the story. 
 
 “ Every walk of landscape — historic — poetic — classic — 
 and pastoral, were familiar to Nicolo Poussin; and so various 
 were his powers, that each class, in his hands', vies with the 
 rest for preference. He was gifted with a peculiarly sound 
 judgment; tranquil, penetrating, and studious of what was 
 true rather than of what was novel and specious. His best 
 performances are perhaps to be found among what may be 
 called his local landscapes, composed often from the scenery 
 near Rome, such as the 1 Snake at the Fountain,’ and that 
 admirable picture in the National Gallery, erroneously called 
 * Phocian; ’ and if he did not often reach the lofty energy 
 of the Caracci, or the sentiment and romantic grandeur of 
 Domenichino, yet in the poetry of art his ‘ Polyphemus ’ 
 remains unequalled, and in the awful sublimity of the 
 conception of his picture of ‘ Winter,’ generally known as 
 the ‘ Deluge,’ he has surpassed every other painter who has 
 attempted the subject; nor can there be a greater proof of 
 the effective power of landscape than that this portentous 
 event should have been best told by landscape alone, the 
 figures being few and entirely subordinate. 
 
 “ My present limits do not allow me to dwell on Gaspar 
 Poussin, although a painter of exquisite taste; his style being 
 for the most part compounded from that of his brother-in- 
 law and Claude Lorraine. Perhaps his best works are his 
 storms, of which we have two noble specimens in the national 
 collection; the ‘ Dido and iEneas,’ and its companion. 
 
 “ It was reserved for Paul Bril, who arrived at Rome 
 about the end of the sixteenth century, bringing with him 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 263 
 
 from Antwerp a style of landscape peculiarly his own, and 
 less severe than that of the Caracci, to exercise an influence 
 on the art which was destined in the seventeenth century to 
 extend through Bril’s pupil, Agostino Tassi, to Claude Lor- 
 raine, and to lead to that more minute imitation of particular 
 nature which was the practice of the French and German 
 artists of the time. By thus engrafting a certain portion of 
 Flemish art on that of Italy, a more perfect and beautiful 
 transcript of nature was achieved by the inimitable Claude, 
 and conduced to the production of those exquisite works of 
 his pencil which are wholly without rivalry in the quality 
 which distinguishes them of placid brightness. In his sea- 
 views, his golden sunsets, his wild and romantic shores, and 
 his exquisitely poetic pastoral scenes, the luminous beauties 
 of the painter are so clearly developed as to require less 
 explanation than the qualities of many of the works already 
 referred to. He has been deemed the most perfect landscape 
 painter the world ever saw, and he fully merits the distinc- 
 tion. The characteristics of his pictures are always those 
 of serene beauty. Sweetness and amenity reign through 
 every creation of his pencil; but his chief power consisted 
 in uniting splendour with repose, warmth with freshness, 
 and dark with light. — Although he was a painter of fairy- 
 land, and sylvan scenery of the most romantic kind, he is 
 nowhere seen to greater advantage than in his seaports, 
 which, while they possess many of the most charming 
 qualities of his more sequestered landscapes, are full of 
 business and bustle. 
 
 “ The names of Salvator Rosa and Sebastian Bourdon 
 come next in an account of the art in which they so much 
 excelled. The one, wild and terrific in his conceptions of 
 natural scenery, formed his mind amid the savage recesses 
 of the Abruzzi, and painted subjects which best accorded 
 with its character. The other equally romantic, but more 
 visionary, selected as the materials of his pictures solitudes 
 among rocks, waterfalls, and solemn-looking buildings which 
 he peopled with monks and hermits. 
 
 “ In following the art to Flanders we find the magnificent 
 Rubens, with his numerous followers, Vadder, Fouquieres, 
 Artois, Huysman, Van Uden, etc. In no other branch of 
 the art is Rubens greater than in landscape; — the freshness 
 and dewy light, the joyous and animated character which he 
 
264 Life of Constable 
 
 has imparted to it, impressing on the level monotonous 
 scenery of Flanders all the richness which belongs to its 
 noblest features. Rubens delighted in phenomena; — rain- 
 bows upon a stormy sky, — bursts of sunshine, — moonlight, — 
 meteors, — and impetuous torrents mingling their sound with 
 wind and wave. Among his finest works are a pair of 
 landscapes, which came to England from Genoa, one of which 
 is now in the National Gallery. 
 
 “ In Holland, Rembrandt’s ‘ Mill ’ is of itself sufficient to 
 form an epoch in the art. This is the first picture in which 
 a sentiment has been expressed by chiaroscuro only, all 
 details bieng excluded. — Nor must the names of Ruysdael 
 and Cuyp be overlooked as distinguished from numerous 
 other painters by traits peculiarly their own. 
 
 “ On the death of these great men Landscape rapidly 
 declined; and during almost the whole of the succeeding 
 century, little was produced beyond mannered and feeble 
 imitations of their art, — the painters of this period adding 
 nothing to the general stock, as their predecessors had done 
 by original study, but referring always to the pictures of 
 their masters instead of looking to the aspects of nature 
 which had given birth to those pictures. From this degraded 
 and fallen state it is delightful to say that landscape painting 
 revived in our own country, in all its purity, simplicity, and 
 grandeur, in the works of Wilson, Gainsborough, Cozens, and 
 Girtin. 
 
 “ It is a striking feature in the history of all the arts and 
 sciences, though it has not perhaps been noticed in ours, 
 that the great names by which they have each been supported 
 are about equal in number in any given space of time. The 
 names of the painters I have mentioned and which have 
 become points marking the epochs of landscape, correspond 
 numerically with those of the eminent men who have materi- 
 ally enlarged the boundaries of each of the other departments 
 in art, literature, and science. It will not be easy to add 
 to those I have enumerated, as forming the fixed stars in 
 the hemisphere of art, and although others of great talent 
 crowd in, 1 Thick as autumnal leaves,’ to fill the interstices, 
 yet they all emanate from, or converge into those which 
 form the great points, and my limits do not permit an 
 account of them here. Should, however, at any future time 
 my humble services be employed in any further inquiry of 
 
Lecture at Hampstead 265 
 
 this kind, they must in justice be brought forward, as each 
 brings in his hand a flower snatched by himself from the 
 lap of nature. 
 
 “ I shall conclude with a brief allusion to a certain set of 
 painters, who, having substituted falsehood for truth, and 
 formed a style mean and mechanical, are termed mannerists. 
 Much of the confusion of opinions in art arising from false 
 taste is caused by works of this stamp, for if the mannerists 
 had never existed, painting would always have been easily 
 understood. The education of a professed connoisseur being 
 chiefly formed in the picture gallery and auction room, 
 seldom enables him to perceive the vast difference between 
 the mannerist and the genuine painter. To do this requires 
 long and close study, and a constant comparison of the art 
 with nature. So few among the buyers and sellers of pictures 
 possess any knowledge so derived, that the works of the 
 mannerists often bear as large a price in the market as those 
 of the genuine painters. The difference is not understood 
 by picture dealers, and thus, in a mercantile way, has a kind 
 of art been propagated and supported from age to age, 
 deserving only to be classed with the showy and expensive 
 articles of drawing-room furniture. To this species of 
 painting belong the works that have marked the decay of 
 styles and filled the intervals between the appearances of 
 the great artists. They are the productions of men who 
 have lost sight of nature, and strayed into the vacant fields 
 of idealism; sometimes, indeed, with talent, and even with 
 power, as in Wouvermans , 1 Berghem, Both, Vernet, Zuc- 
 
 1 The great merit of Wouvermans only makes it the more important 
 that the wide departure from nature in his highly-wrought works 
 should be pointed out. No perfection of execution can atone for inky 
 foregrounds, slaty trees and distances, and leaden skies; but it may 
 well be doubted whether that execution should be called perfect which 
 reduces every object to a Lilliputian scale. They are exactly such 
 painters as Wouvermans, so near excellence in the minutias of a picture, 
 and at the same time so false in the whole together, of whom Constable 
 has well said, “ had they never existed, painting would always have 
 been easily understood.” 
 
 There is a class of the Dutch painters of familiar life, men of much 
 talent, ingenuity, and patience, at the head of which Gerard Dow 
 may be placed, whose works call forth the wonder of ignorance rather 
 than the admiration of taste, though from their scarcity they often 
 command higher prices than the pictures of Jan Steen, Ostade, Ter- 
 burgh, Metzu, De Hooghe, and Nicholas Maas, the great masters of 
 familiar life of the Dutch school, and in some of whose best works is 
 perhaps to be found the most perfect art the world ever saw. 
 
266 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 cherelli, and Loutherbourg; but oftener with feebleness and 
 imbecility, as in Jacob Moore, Hackert, etc.” 
 
 Previously to the delivery of Constable’s lectures in London, 
 the following card was printed: 
 
 “ ROYAL INSTITUTION OF GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 ALBEMARLE STREET, 23RD APRIL, 1 836. 
 
 SYLLABUS 
 
 OF 
 
 A COURSE OF LECTURES, 
 
 ON 
 
 THE HISTORY OF LANDSCAPE PAINTING, 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN CONSTABLE, Esq., R.A. 
 
 TO BE DELIVERED ON THURSDAY, MAY 26TH, AND THE THREE FOLLOWING 
 THURSDAYS AT THREE O’CLOCK. 
 
 “ Lecture ist, May 26th. The Origin of Landscape — 
 Coeval in Italy and Germany in its rise and early progress 
 — Farther advanced in Germany in the Fifteenth Century 
 — Albert Durer — Influence of his Works in Italy — Titian 
 impressed by them; in his hands Landscape assumed its 
 real dignity and grandeur, and entitled him to the appellation 
 of the Father of Landscape — The ‘ St. Peter Martyr.’ 
 
 “ Lecture 2nd, June 2nd. Establishment of Landscape — 
 The Bolognese School. By this School Landscape was first 
 made a separate Class of Art — The Sixteenth and Seven- 
 teenth Centuries — The Caracci — Domenichino — Albano — 
 Mola — Landscape soon after perfected in Rome — The 
 Poussins — Claude Lorraine — Bourdon — Salvator Rosa — The 
 ‘ Bambocciate ’ — Peter de Laar — Both — Berghem — The De- 
 terioration of Landscape — Its Decline in the Eighteenth 
 Century. 
 
 “ Lecture 3rd, June 9th. Landscape of the Dutch and 
 Flemish Schools — Emanates from the School of Albert Durer, 
 forming distinct branches — Rubens — Rembrandt — Ruysdael 
 — Cuyp — The marks which characterise the two Schools — 
 Their decline, also, in the Eighteenth Century 
 
First Lecture at the Royal Institution 267 
 
 “ Lecture 4th, June 16. The decline and revival of Art. 
 Imitation of preceding excellence opposed to original study, 
 the main cause of the decline — The Restoration of Painting 
 takes place in England — Hogarth — Reynolds — Wilson — 
 Gainsborough — West — When Landscape at length resumes 
 its birthright, and appears with new powers.” 
 
 LECTURE I 
 
 May 26 th 
 
 “ I am here on the behalf of my own profession, and I trust 
 it is with no intrusive spirit that I now stand before you; 
 but I am anxious that the world should be inclined to look 
 to painters for information on painting. I hope to show 
 that ours is a regularly taught profession; that it is scientific 
 as well as poetic ; that imagination alone never did, and never 
 can, produce works that are to stand by a comparison with 
 realities ; and to show, by tracing the connecting links in 
 the history of landscape painting, that no great painter was 
 ever self-taught. 
 
 “ The art of painting may be divided into two main 
 branches, history and landscape; history including portrait 
 and familiar life, as landscape does flower and fruit painting. 
 
 “ Landscape is the child of history, and though at first 
 inseparable from the parent, yet in time it went alone, and 
 at a later period (to continue the figure), when history 
 showed signs of decrepitude, the child may be seen sup- 
 porting the parent, as in the works of Pietro da Cortona. 
 Although it was in the school of the Caracci landscape first 
 stood quite alone, yet as early as the year 1546 there were 
 distinct landscape painters in Germany.” Constable showed 
 an enlarged drawing from an engraving of a landscape by 
 Albert Durer, in which a cannon placed on an eminence over- 
 looking an extensive country, forms a foreground object. 
 He pointed out the grandeur of this work, and said, “ There 
 can be no doubt but that Titian had received early and deep 
 impressions from the works of Albert Durer and other 
 Germans.” 
 
 “ The writers on art employ the word School to denote 
 a similarity of feeling and practice in many individuals arising 
 
268 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 from the example of one powerful mind, yet by no means 
 implying a want of originality in the rest. The greatest 
 masters were largely indebted to their predecessors. Each 
 sprang from, and in turn founded, a school ; but in the com- 
 plicated art of painting so many avenues to excellence are 
 open, that every painter, in every school, whose fame has 
 outlived his age, is distinguished from all the rest by some 
 perfection which is to be found with himself only.” 
 
 Near the commencement of this lecture, Constable exhi- 
 bited a drawing from a very grand and simple composition 
 by Paolo Uccello, of Noah and his family kneeling round an 
 altar, while the birds and beasts are leaving the ark, the 
 whole arched by the rainbow. “ Uccello was either the 
 inventor or the perfector of parallel perspective, and this 
 new art is beautifully shown in the flight of the birds. Titian’s 
 Comaro family somewhat resembles this picture.” 
 
 In speaking of the “ Peter Martyr ” of Titian, he said, 
 “ The monk, afterwards canonised as St. Peter, was a general 
 of the Dominicans and an inquisitor. In the zeal displayed 
 by him in the last of these offices he had given great offence to 
 a powerful family, who employed an assassin to waylay and 
 murder him. In the representation of this subject Titian 
 has brought together a rich assemblage of picturesque objects 
 producing a felicitous combination of the two most important 
 walks of art, — history and landscape; and contrasting them 
 so as to enhance the sentiment of each. We see a deed of 
 horror perpetrated with the utmost energy of action, in a 
 scene, hitherto one of stillness and repose.” Constable then 
 spoke of the probable manner in which Titian proceeded with 
 the composition of the picture, and whether in every respect 
 he guessed rightly or not, he accomplished his principal 
 object, which was to show that the greatest works of genius 
 are not thrown off as if by inspiration, but on the contrary, 
 are the result of patient labour, and often undergo many 
 changes of plan during their progress. He showed an old 
 print bearing the name of Titian, in which the saint is look- 
 ing down and writing with his finger on the ground the word 
 credo, while the assassin who holds him by his drapery is 
 about to strike a death blow with his sword. “ This,” he 
 said, “ was possibly a mode in which it was suggested by the 
 monks that the subject should be treated, and the engraving 
 may have been made from a first design. But Titian could 
 
First Lecture at the Royal Institution 269 
 
 not rest contented with the unnatural incident of a man 
 writing while in the grasp of an assassin, and he therefore 
 turned the face of the victim towards the murderer, and 
 afterwards still more so, with an expression of great horror.’ * 
 Constable here showed a copy of an original sketch by 
 Titian (one of the Lawrence collection), in which the saint 
 has the outlines of three heads drawn one over the other, 
 the first looking down, the others more and more turned up, 
 and said, — “ still this made the subject nothing more than 
 a common murder by the roadside, and it wanted the dignity 
 of a martyrdom. The composition was then heightened, the 
 vision of angels introduced, and the head of the saint again 
 altered, so as to look up to the glory that now beamed down 
 on him.” Several sketches supposed to be by Titian seemed 
 to confirm these conjectures, and by these it also appeared 
 that the tall tree on the right of the picture, with small 
 round leaves, was an after-thought, and made necessary by 
 the additional height given to the picture; it is not in the 
 sketch of the landscape alone. “ It is striking,” said Con- 
 stable, “ to observe with what consummate skill the painter, 
 like a great musician, has varied his touch and execution 
 from slow movements to those of extreme rapidity. Thus 
 the quick and vivid sparks of light near and upon the 
 assassin’s arm, hand, and sword, give inconceivable energy 
 to his action, and contrast finely with the solemn quiet of 
 the retiring forest . 1 
 
 “ Reynolds has censured Count Algarotti for admiring the 
 minute discrimination of the leaves and plants in the fore- 
 ground, but Sir Joshua was swayed by his own practice of 
 generalising to such a degree that we often find in his fore- 
 grounds rich masses of colour, of light and of shade, which, 
 when examined, mean nothing. In Titian there is equal 
 breadth, equal subordination of the parts to the whole, but 
 the spectator finds, on approaching the picture, that every 
 touch is the representative of a reality ; and as this carries on 
 the illusion, it cannot surely detract from the merit of the 
 work. 
 
 1 The murderer has the shirt sleeve stripped from his right arm. 
 as in the old pictures of decapitations by the sword, the right arm of 
 the executioner is bared. This circumstance which makes the figure 
 more picturesque, aids the story by showing that the crime was pre- 
 meditated. In the earlier design of the subject, the assassin is entirely 
 dressed. 
 
2jo Life of Constable 
 
 “ Mr. West said of the £ Peter Martyr/ that ‘ it had re- 
 quired three hundred years to produce such a work ; ’ and this 
 will be found to be about the time from the revival of the 
 art in the middle ages to that in which it was painted. 
 
 “ Titian was by no means high in reputation when he 
 produced this great work, and so inadequate was the remu- 
 neration he received for it, and for many others that had 
 preceded it, that he was in a condition little removed from 
 indigence. Albert Durer, who at that time visited Venice, 
 does not mention him in speaking of the most eminent 
 painters there ; it was not, indeed, until through the praises 
 bestowed on his works by his friend Peitro Aretino, the poet, 
 he was called to Bologna to paint the portrait of Charles V. 
 in 1530, that he became the great idol of popularity in Italy, 
 and indeed, of Europe.” 1 
 
 LECTURE II 
 
 June 2nd 
 
 Constable began this lecture with the Caracci, in whose 
 school landscape first became permanently a distinct branch 
 of the art, and recapitulated what he had said at Hampstead 
 of Domenichino. He characterised also the art of Albano 
 and Mola, but of this part of his discourse I have no notes. 
 
 He spoke of Claude Lorraine as “ a painter whose works 
 had given unalloyed pleasure for two centuries. In Claude’s 
 landscape all is lovely — all amiable — all is amenity and 
 repose; — the calm sunshine of the heart. He carried land- 
 scape, indeed, to perfection, that is, human perfection. No 
 doubt the greatest masters considered their best efforts but 
 as experiments, and perhaps as experiments that had failed 
 when compared with their hopes, their wishes, and with 
 what they saw in nature. When we speak of the perfection 
 
 1 In a note to Mr. Purton, dated May 28th, 1836, Constable says, 
 “ How did I get on? Faraday said it pleased him; Sir Martin and 
 Howard liked it; Phillips did not like my unbigoted mention of Sir 
 Joshua’s observation on Algarotti, and said I was wrong: I knew I 
 was quite right. 1 trust you will follow me through my sermons, and 
 help me in putting them together afterwards. I hope to murder 
 Both and Berghem on Thursday next at a quarter to four o’clock. 
 The rest that come after are not worth murdering.” 
 
Second Lecture 
 
 271 
 
 of art, we must recollect what the materials are with which 
 a painter contends with nature. For the light of the sun 
 he has but patent yellow and white lead, — for the darkest 
 shade, umber or soot. 
 
 “ Brightness was the characteristic excellence of Claude; 
 brightness, independent on colour, for what colour is there 
 here? ” (holding up a glass of water.) 
 
 “ The * St. Ursula,’ in the National Gallery, is probably 
 the finest picture of middle tint in the* world. The sun is 
 rising through a thin mist, which, like the effect of a gauze 
 blind in a room, diffuses the light equally. There are no 
 large dark masses. The darks are in the local colours of the 
 foreground figures, and in small spots; yet as a whole, it is 
 perfect in breadth. There is no evasion in any part of this 
 admirable work, every object is fairly painted in a firm style 
 of execution, yet in no other picture have I seen the evanes- 
 cent character of light so well expressed. 
 
 “ Claude, though one of the most isolated of all painters, 
 was still legitimately connected with the chain of art. Els- 
 heimer and Paul Bril opened the way to him, coming after 
 the Caracci, with a softer and richer style than theirs. — 
 Could the histories of all the fine arts be compared, we should 
 find in them many striking analogies. Corelli was to Handel 
 what Elsheimer and Paul Bril were to Claude. Claude (as 
 he is) could not have existed without them. He was, there- 
 fore, not a self-taught artist, nor did there ever exist a great 
 artist who was so. A self-taught artist is one taught by a very 
 ignorant person. 
 
 “ Claude neglected no mode of study that was calculated 
 to extend his knowledge, and perfect his practice. His 
 evenings were passed at the Academy, and his days in the 
 fields; and though it is the fashion to find fault with his 
 figures indiscriminately, yet in his best time they are so far 
 from being objectionable, that we cannot easily imagine any- 
 thing else according so well with his scenes; — as objects of 
 colour, they seem indispensable. Wilson said to a friend 
 who was talking of them in the usual manner, ‘ Do not fall 
 into the common mistake of objecting to Claude’s figures.’ — 
 In the little picture of ‘ Cephalus and Procris,’ the expression 
 of the former is very touching; and, indeed, nothing can be 
 finer than the way in which Claude has told that affecting 
 story throughout. Procris has come from her concealment 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 272 
 
 to die at the feet of her husband. Above her is a withered 
 tree clasped by ivy, an emblem of love in death, — while a 
 stag seen on the outline of a hill, over which the rising sun 
 spreads his rays, explains the cause of the fatal mistake. 
 Claude’s own figures always accord better with his scenes 
 than those sometimes introduced for him by other artists. 
 Painting does not readily admit of partnership. 
 
 “ But of Claude, it may be proper to remark, that his style 
 and mode of execution, and even of thinking, varied much at 
 different periods of life. Of his very early manner we know 
 little; in middle age he appeared in the most perfect state, 
 and from which he fast declined, so much so that the dates 
 of his pictures (which can for the most part be ascertained) 
 will serve as a criterion of their merit. Between the ages of 
 forty and sixty he produced most of those works in which 
 are seen his peculiar attribute, brightness, in its greatest 
 perfection. Some of his best pictures are in the National 
 Gallery, — the ‘ Narcissus,’ painted at forty-four, the * Hagar ’ 
 at forty-six, and the ‘ St. Ursula,’ under sixty. Those of his 
 latter time are cold, heavy, and dark, though stately, — for 
 he seemed as if trying to make up by grandeur of subject 
 and conception for the loss of that excellence which, in the 
 decline of life, and in the absence of his former habits of 
 incessant observation of nature, was now departing from 
 him. It is in these last pictures that his figures are defective 
 in their proportions; and though it must be admitted that 
 some of his most important works (as the 1 Doria ’ and the 
 4 Altieri ’) were painted in his old age, still with all their 
 grandeur, they are in his black, his cold, or his green manner. 
 There are undoubted productions of his pencil, however, so 
 destitute of his distinguishing excellence, that it may be 
 said purchasers are not always buying a Claude when they 
 are buying a picture painted by him . 1 
 
 “ The landscapes of Sebastian Bourdon are all poetry; 
 visionary, romantic, abstracted. Sir George Beaumont said 
 of this imaginative painter that ‘ he was the prince of the 
 dreamers, yet not without nature .’ ” — Constable showed a 
 drawing of some pine trees from nature, of peculiarly wild 
 
 1 The story so often repeated of Claude’s apprenticeship to a pastry- 
 cook rests on no foundation whatever. The best account of the 
 little known of his early life is given by Mr. Smith, in his Catalogue 
 Raisonne of the works of the Dutch, Flemish, and French painters. 
 
Second Lecture 
 
 2 73 
 
 and eccentric forms, and compared them with trees ex- 
 tremely like them in an engraving after Bourdon, to prove 
 that the latter were not imaginary. — He spoke of “ The 
 Return of the Ark ” in the National Gallery as a very fine 
 specimen of the style of this painter. 
 
 “ The circumstances attending the life and education of 
 Salvator Rosa were peculiar, and show how his character and 
 that of his art were formed, or rather confirmed. He was 
 first placed with Francesco Francanzani, and he then became 
 one of the desperate school of Anniello Falcone, a battle 
 painter, who formed the ‘ Company of Death ’ at Naples, in 
 the revolt with Masaniello. He was afterwards for a short 
 time in the school of Spagnoletto; — thus he had savages 
 for his masters in painting, and he painted savage subjects. 
 Salvator Rosa is a great favourite with novel writers, parti- 
 cularly the ladies ; and it has lately been attempted to show 
 that he deserved the reputation to which he always aspired, 
 of a great historical painter. But there is a meanness in all 
 his conceptions of history which must ever exclude him from 
 its first ranks, and Fuseli, with true judgment, admits him 
 to be a great genius only in landscape. 
 
 “ A class of artists now appeared, in all respects the 
 reverse of the last, and whose style Salvator has satirised 
 in one of his sonnets with more justice than when he pre- 
 sumed to censure Michael Angelo. 
 
 “ Peter de Laar, who travelled from Holland into Italy, 
 and was there surnamed ‘ Bamboccio,’ probably from the 
 class of subjects he painted, which were the various sports of 
 the populace and the transactions of vulgar life, gave rise to 
 a school called by the Italians, ‘ The Bambocciate/ Of this 
 school were Both and Berghem, who, by an incongruous 
 mixture of Dutch and Italian taste, produced a bastard style 
 of landscape, destitute of the real excellence of either. In 
 their works, all the commonplace rules of art are observed; 
 their manipulation is dextrous, and their finish plausible; 
 yet their pictures carry us in imagination only into their 
 painting rooms, not as the pictures of Claude and Poussin 
 do, into the open air. They rarely approach truth of atmos- 
 phere. Instead of freshness they give us a clean and stony 
 coldness, and where they aim at warmth they are what 
 painters call foxy. Their art is destitute of sentiment or 
 poetic feeling, because it is factitious, though their works 
 
 s 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 274 
 
 being specious, their reputation is still kept up by the dealers, 
 who continue to sell their pictures for high prices. 1 Land- 
 scape was afterwards still farther debased by Vernet, Hakert, 2 
 Jacob Moor, and the English Woo ton, the last of whom, 
 without manual dexterity, left it in unredeemed poverty 
 and coarseness, until Hogarth and Reynolds aroused the 
 minds of our countrymen, and directed them to nature by 
 their own splendid examples; then, with Wilson and Gains- 
 borough, the high and genuine qualities of landscape 
 appeared in England at a time when they were utterly 
 unknown in any other part of the world. 
 
 “ The deterioration of art has everywhere proceeded from 
 similar causes, the imitation of preceding styles, with little 
 reference to nature. In Italy, the taste was for the beautiful, 
 but the beautiful in the hands of the mannerists became the 
 insipid, and from that descended to the unmeaning. In 
 Germany a clumsy imitation of Italian art, -and particularly 
 of M. Angelo, produced inflation and bombast, as in the 
 works of Goltzius and Sprangher; while in Flanders and 
 Holland, the taste for the picturesque, when colour, chiaros- 
 curo, and execution were gone, left only the coarse and the 
 mean. 
 
 “ The decline of history was parallel with that of land- 
 scape. What is termed the * French taste ’ (as opposed to 
 good taste), and which may be characterised as romantic 
 hyperbole, began with Lucatelli, a pupil of Pietro da Cortona, 
 who died about 1717. He was an Italian, and practised his 
 art chiefly in Rome; but his style soon spread itself in 
 France, where it destroyed whatever may have remained 
 of the influence of Poussin, Le Sueur, or Sebastian Bourdon. 
 He painted chiefly historical subjects for churches, and was 
 like his master, a compendious painter — a mannerist — 
 a self- worshipper; he preferred forms of his own imagination 
 to those of nature. In his works may be seen the beginning 
 of that prettiness which soon afterwards in Marco Ricci, 
 Paulo Panini, and Zuccherelli, and Vernet in landscape, 
 displayed itself so offensively. In history, Mengs, Cipriani, 
 
 1 After this lecture, one of Constable’s auditors, a gentleman posses- 
 sing a fine collection of pictures, said to him, “ I suppose I had better 
 sell my Berghems,” to which he replied, “ No, sir, that will only 
 continue the mischief, burn them." 
 
 2 Not Hackaert, a Dutch painter, bom in 1635, but Hakert, a 
 Prussian, born a century later. 
 
Second Lecture 
 
 275 
 
 Angelica Kauffman, etc., followed this emasculated taste, 
 to the exclusion of all that is found in art. 
 
 “ But the climax of absurdity to which the art may be 
 carried, when led away from nature by fashion, may be best 
 seen in the works of Boucher. Good temper, suavity, and 
 dissipation, characterised the personal habits of this per- 
 fect specimen of the French School of the time of Louis 
 XV., or the early part of the last century. His landscape, 
 of which he was evidently fond, is pastoral; and such 
 pastorality! the pastoral of the opera-house. But at this 
 time, it must be remembered, the court were in the habit of 
 dispersing into the country, and duchesses were to be seen 
 performing the parts of shepherdesses, milkmaids, and dairy- 
 maids, in cottages ; and also brewing, baking, and gardening, 
 and sending the produce to market . 1 These strange anoma- 
 lies were played off on the canvases of Boucher. His 
 scenery is a bewildered dream of the picturesque. From 
 cottages adorned with festoons of ivy, sparrow pots, etc., 
 are seen issuing opera dancers with mops, brooms, milk pails, 
 and guitars; children with cocked hats, queues, bag wigs, 
 and swords, — and cats, poultry, and pigs. The scenery is 
 diversified with winding streams, broken bridges, and water 
 wheels; hedge stakes dancing minuets — and groves bowing 
 and curtsying to each other; the whole leaving the mind in a 
 state of bewilderment and confusion, from which laughter 
 alone can relieve it. 2 — Boucher told Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
 ‘ that he never painted from the life, for that nature put him 
 out.’ 
 
 “It is remarkable how nearly, in all things, opposite 
 extremes are allied, and how they succeed each other. The 
 style I have been describing was followed by that which 
 sprung out of the Revolution, when David and his contempo- 
 raries exhibited their stern and heartless petrifactions of men 
 and women, — with trees, rocks, tables, and chairs, all equally 
 
 1 Vagaries like these were practised by Madame de Pompadour at 
 the Parc-aux-cerfs to amuse Louis XV., and afterwards by Marie 
 Antoinette at the Petit Trianon to amuse herself. 
 
 2 Watteau reconciles us by his natural grace and expression, and 
 his exquisite colour, to an ideal union of the pastoral and the fashion- 
 able, and to which he alone gives an air of probability. The manners 
 he painted were French, but his art is essentially Flemish, being founded 
 on Rubens, whose “ Garden of Love,” no doubt, suggested a class of 
 subjects in which Watteau has excelled all other painters. Boucher 
 is Watteau run mad, — bereaved of his taste and his sense. 
 
Life of Constable 
 
 276 
 
 bound to the ground by a relentless outline, and destitute of 
 chiaroscuro, the soul and medium of art.” 
 
 Constable spoke of the want of sense in David’s large 
 picture, in which the Romans and the Sabines are about to 
 join battle, stark naked, but with helmets on their heads, 
 and shields and spears in their hands. “What,” he said, 
 “ would be the impression of a spectator of such a scene, 
 but that he saw before him a number of savages who had 
 accidentally found and snatched up these weapons and 
 accoutrements? ” 
 
 LECTURE III 
 
 June gth 
 
 “ I shall consider four works as marking four memorable 
 points in the history of landscape, and all by historical 
 painters. The ‘ Peter Martyr ’ by Titian — ‘ The Deluge ’ 
 by Poussin — ‘ The Rainbow ’ by Rubens — and ‘ The Mill ’ 
 by Rembrandt.” 
 
 Having spoken of the “ Peter Martyr,” Constable showed 
 an engraving of the “ Deluge,” and said, “ Towards the end 
 of the life of Nicolo Poussin, he was employed by Cardinal 
 Richelieu to paint four pictures, each to represent a season. 
 For the spring, he chose the terrestrial Paradise; for the 
 summer, the story of Boaz and Ruth ; for the autumn, the 
 two Israelites bearing the bunch of grapes from the promised 
 land ; and for the winter, the deluge. This picture, 
 though small, and with little contrast of light and shadow, 
 and almost no colour, stands as much alone in the world as 
 the ‘ Magdalen ’ of Correggio. The good sense of Poussin, 
 which was equal to his genius, taught him that by simplicity 
 of treatment, the most awful subjects may be made far more 
 affecting than by overloading them with imagery. In 
 painting the “ Deluge,” he has not allowed his imagination 
 to wander from the Mosaic account, which tells us of rain 
 only . 1 Human habitations, rocks, and mountains are 
 
 1 Poussin seems to have reasoned as Coleridge did, who said, “ I 
 think it absurd to attribute so much to the deluge. An inundation, 
 which left an olive-tree standing, and bore up the ark peacefully on 
 its bosom, could scarcely have been the sole cause of the rents and 
 dislocations observable on the face of the earth.” — Coleridge’s Table 
 Talk. 
 
Third Lecture 
 
 277 
 
 gradually disappearing, as the water rises undisturbed by 
 earthquakes or tornadoes; and the very few figures intro- 
 duced, interest us the more deeply from the absence of all 
 violence or contortion of gesture. But of this picture Fuseli 
 says truly, ‘ It is easier to feel than to describe its powers. 
 We see the element itself, and not its image. Its reign is 
 established, and by calm degrees ingulfs the whole. It 
 mocks the food it feeds on. Its lurid haze has shorn the 
 sun of his beams. Hope is shut out, and nature expires ! 5 
 
 “ By the Rainbow of Rubens, I do not allude to a particular 
 picture, for Rubens often introduced it; I mean, indeed, 
 more than the rainbow itself, I mean dewy light and fresh- 
 ness, the departing shower, with the exhilaration of the 
 returning sun, effects which Rubens, more than any other 
 painter, has perfected on canvas.” — Constable described the 
 large picture in the National Gallery, in which a fowler is 
 seen watching a covey of partridges, as a fine specimen of 
 Rubens’ power in landscape, and lamented that it was 
 separated from its companion, “ which had doubtless been 
 painted to give more effect to it by contrast.” He said, 
 “ When pictures painted as companions are separated, the 
 purchaser of one, without being aware of it, is sometimes 
 buying only half a picture. Companion pictures should 
 never be parted, unless they are by different hands, and then, 
 in general the sooner they are divorced the better. 
 
 “ The art of Rubens and Teniers 1 is essentially Flemish, 
 and though it is usual to speak of the Dutch and Flemish 
 schools as one, they are no more so than are the Lombard 
 and Venetian schools. The Dutch art is more influenced by 
 chiaroscuro, the Flemish by colour, by brightness, and 
 hilarity. 
 
 “ Rembrandt’s ‘ Mill ’ 2 is a picture wholly made by 
 chiaroscuro; the last ray of light just gleams on the upper 
 sail of the mill, and all other details are lost in large and 
 simple masses of shade. Chiaroscuro is the great feature 
 that characterises his art, and was carried farther by him 
 than by any other painter, not excepting Correggio. But 
 
 1 It must have been from inadvertence that Constable omitted any 
 further mention of the younger Teniers, whose landscape compositions 
 form a distinct and very beautiful class of art. Had these lectures 
 been written, a paragraph would, no doubt, have been devoted to 
 this delightful painter. 
 
 * A windmill on an eminence overlooking a stream. 
 
278 Life of Constable 
 
 if its effects are somewhat exaggerated by Rembrandt, he 
 is always so impressive that we can no more find fault with 
 his style than we can with the giant forms of Michael Angelo. 
 Succeeding painters have sometimes, in their admiration of 
 the ‘ Mill,’ forgotten that Rembrandt chose the twilight to 
 second his wishes, and have fancied that to obtain equal 
 breadth, they must leave out the details of nature in broad 
 daylight; this is the danger of mistaken imitation. 
 
 “Chiaroscuro is by no means confined to dark pictures; 
 the works of Cuyp, though generally light, are full of it. It 
 may be defined as that power which creates space ; we find it 
 everywhere, and at all times in nature; opposition, union, 
 light, shade, reflection, and refraction, all contribute to it . 1 
 
 1 All effects of light and dark are but modifications of reflection and 
 refraction, with the exception of the appearances of things self-lumin- 
 ous, as fire, the sun, etc., which occasion what we call lights on other 
 objects by being reflected from or refracted through their surfaces; 
 leaving, where such reflections or refractions are interrupted by inter- 
 vening bodies, the reflections of inferior lights from other objects, 
 which being less powerful appear as shadows. 
 
 It has been said that water receives no shadow; but this is either 
 equally true of all other bodies, or not true of water, which is un- 
 doubtedly subject to effects that we can no otherwise describe than 
 by the word shadow. — When, for instance, the sun is shining on the 
 sea, were it possible that the water could be as smooth as a mirror, 
 we should see his disc exactly reflected and once only, the surface of 
 the water in other places giving an inverted image of the sky; but 
 as such perfect stillness never occurs, the light of the sun is spread 
 on the surface by innumerable reflections of his disc from the waves 
 and refractions through them, — the spaces between each of these 
 lights (as we call them) reflecting the sky, — where again the upper 
 parts of the clouds reflect the sun, and other portions the blue sky, 
 or the sea. The blue of the sky is occasioned by still more minute 
 reflections and refractions of the sun from particles of vapour more 
 subtle than those that compose the clouds, and but for which in place 
 of the azure there would be a void of utter darkness. Where clouds 
 or other objects intercept the reflections of the sun from the waves, 
 the reflection of the sky remains, causing those patches of shadow 
 which, seen from a low point, stripe the sea with long lines of blue. — 
 The effects are exactly similar on a meadow; the light of the sun being 
 reflected from or refracted through every blade of grass, and where 
 intercepted leaving the reflection of the sky; and on a road, the light 
 is spread by reflection from every particle of sand, gravel, or clay. — 
 Again, if we look close at a polished ball of metal we find a picture of 
 every surrounding object, and this at a distance forms that appearance 
 of light and shade that gives it rotundity to the eye. Let the ball 
 be dimmed or roughened and the same general appearance of light 
 and dark is left, — equally, though not so palpably, caused by reflection, 
 the forms and colours of the objects pictured on the ball being more 
 or less blended as its surface is more or less dimmed. 
 
 Of what consequence, it may be said, is it that the artist should 
 know this if he copy faithfully what he sees? To which the reply is. 
 
Third Lecture 
 
 2 79 
 
 By this power, the moment we come into a room, we see 
 that the chairs are not standing on the tables, but a glance 
 shows us the relative distances of all the objects from the 
 eye, though the darkest or the lightest may be the farthest 
 off — It has been said no man has enough of certain qualities 
 that has them not in excess, so Rembrandt, of whose art 
 chiaroscuro is the essence, certainly carried it to an extreme. 
 The other great painters of the Dutch school were more 
 artless; so apparently unstudied, indeed, are the works of 
 many of them, for instance, Jan Steen and De Hooge, that 
 they seem put together almost without thought; yet it 
 would be impossible to alter or leave out the smallest object, 
 or to change any part of their light, shade, or colour, with- 
 out injury to their pictures, — a proof that their art is 
 consummate. 
 
 “ The landscapes of Ruysdael present the greatest possible 
 contrast to those of Claude, showing how powerfully, from 
 
 that it may enable him to see better what he copies. — All good colour- 
 ists have, no doubt, recognised the results I have spoken of in nature 
 whether or not they investigated the principle, — and the purity and 
 evanescence of their colouring has been in proportion to their percep- 
 tion of these results. Paul Veronese saw nature thus with a truer 
 eye than did Rubens, and a perfect sense of the influence of reflections 
 constitutes that extraordinary charm in the works of De Hooge which 
 we scarcely find elsewhere, on canvas, excepting in the best pictures 
 of Claude. — An investigation of these principles will protect the young 
 artist from the danger of many unfounded aphorisms that he is likely 
 to hear from his elders, and meet with in books, as that shadow is 
 colourless — that lights should be warm and shadows cool , or shadows 
 warm and lights cool, etc. A knowledge of these laws will explain, 
 what his eye will soon perceive, that the tones both of lights and 
 shades are infinitely varied according to circumstances; — that as 
 perspective alters every line to the eye, so reflection and refraction 
 change more or less every colour, — harmonising the crude and giving 
 variety to the monotonous; — and that shadow, as far as regards 
 painting, can never be colourless, for it is never solely the result of 
 the absence of light excepting in situations with which the painter 
 can have nothing to do, the interior, for instance, of a cave to which 
 every opening is closed. 
 
 I am glad to be able, in support of these conclusions, to quote so 
 high an authority as that of my friend Mr. George Field, whose valu- 
 able works on the philosophy of colour are known to most artists, 
 and should be to all. In his Chromatography Mr. Field says) 
 “ Colour, and what in painting is called transparency, belong princi- 
 pally to shade; and the judgment of great authorities by which they 
 have been attached to light as its properties merely, has led to error 
 in an art to which colour is pre-eminently appropriate; hence the 
 painter has considered colour in his practice as belonging to light only, 
 and hence many have employed a uniform shade tint, regarding 
 shadows only as darkness, blackness, or the mere absence of light, 
 when in truth shadows are infinitely varied by colour.” 
 
280 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 the most opposite directions, genius may command our 
 homage. In Claude’s pictures, with scarcely an exception 
 the sun ever shines. Ruysdael, on the contrary, delighte d 
 in, and has made delightful to our eyes, those solemn days, 
 peculiar to his country and to ours, when without storm, 
 large rolling clouds scarcely permit a ray of sunlight to break 
 the shades of the forest. By these effects he enveloped the 
 most ordinary scenes of grandeur, and whenever he has 
 attempted marine subjects, he is far beyond Vandervelde.” 
 
 Constable showed a copy of a picture of this class by 
 Ruysdael. “ The subject,” he continued, “ is the mouth of 
 a Dutch river, without a single feature of grandeur in the 
 scenery; but the stormy sky, the grouping of the vessels, and 
 the breaking of the sea, make the picture one of the most 
 impressive ever painted. 
 
 1 It is the Soul that sees; the outward eyes 
 Present the object, but the Mind descries.’ 
 
 We see nothing truly till we understand it. An ordinary 
 spectator at the mouth of the river which Ruysdael has 
 here painted, would scarcely be conscious of the existence 
 of many of the objects that conduce to the effect of the 
 picture; certainly not of their fitness for pictorial effect. 
 
 Constable pointed to a copy of a small evening winter- 
 piece by Ruysdael. “ This picture,” he said, “ represents an 
 approaching thaw. The ground is covered with snow, and 
 the trees are still white ; but there are two windmills near the 
 centre; the one has the sails furled, and is turned in the 
 position from which the wind blew when the mill left off 
 work, the other has the canvas on the poles, and is turned 
 another way, which indicates a change in the wind; the 
 clouds are opening in that direction, which appears by the 
 glow in the sky to be the south (the sun’s winter habitation in 
 our hemisphere), and this change will produce a thaw before 
 the morning. The occurrence of these circumstances shows 
 that Ruysdael understood what he was painting. He has 
 here told a story; but in another instance he failed, because 
 he attempted to tell that which is out of the reach of the art. 
 In a picture which was known, while he was living, to be 
 called ‘ An Allegory of the Life of Man ’ (and it may there- 
 fore be supposed he so intended it) — there are ruins to indi- 
 cate old age, a stream to signify the course of life, and rocks 
 
Fourth Lecture 281 
 
 and precipices to shadow forth its dangers; — but how are we 
 to discover all this ? 
 
 “ The Dutch painters were a stay-at-home people , — hence 
 their originality. They were not, however, ignorant of 
 Italian art. Rembrandt had a large collection of Italian 
 pictures and engravings, and Fuseli calls the school of the 
 Bassans the ‘ Venetian prelude to the Dutch school.’ We 
 derive the pleasure of surprise from the works of the best 
 Dutch painters in finding how much interest the art, when 
 in perfection, can give to the most ordinary subjects. Those 
 are cold critics who turn from their works, and wish the 
 same skill had been rendered a vehicle for more elevated 
 stories. They do not in reality feel how much the Dutch 
 painters have given to the world, who wish for more; and 
 it may always be doubted whether those who do not relish 
 the works of the Dutch and Flemish schools, whatever 
 raptures they may affect, in speaking of the schools of Italy, 
 are capable of fully appreciating the latter; for a true taste 
 is never a half taste. Whatever story the best painters of 
 Holland and Flanders undertook to tell, is told with an un- 
 affected truth of expression that may afford useful lessons 
 in the treatment of the most sublime subjects; and those 
 who would deny them poetic feeling, forget that chiaroscuro, 
 colour, and composition, are all poetic qualities. Poetry is 
 not denied to Rembrandt, or to Rubens, because their effects 
 are striking. It does not, however, the less exist in the works 
 of many other painters of the Dutch and Flemish schools 
 who were less daring in their style.” 
 
 LECTURE IV 
 
 June 16th 
 
 Of Constable’s fourth lecture, I regret to find that even less 
 is preserved than of the preceding ones. He recapitulated 
 the history of landscape since the revival of the arts, com- 
 prising a space of about six hundred years, Titian’s “ Peter 
 Martyr ” forming a central epoch. 
 
 He showed engravings from Patel of imitations of Claude, 
 and from Verne t of imitations of Salvator Rosa, and pointed 
 out the inferiority. 
 
282 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 “ The absurdity of imitation/’ he remarked, “ is nowhere 
 so striking as in the landscapes of the English Wooton, who 
 painted country gentlemen in their wigs and jockey caps, and 
 top-boots, with packs of hounds, and placed them in Italian 
 landscapes resembling those of Gaspar Poussin, except in 
 truth and force. Lambert, another English imitator of 
 Italian art, but even below Wooton, is now remembered only 
 as the founder of the ‘ Beef Steak Club.’ 
 
 “ The art of painting was in all its branches in the most 
 degraded state, not only in England but throughout Europe, 
 when Hogarth and Reynolds appeared, and thought and 
 studied for themselves. Burke has said that Reynolds ‘ was 
 the first Englishman who added the praise of the elegant arts 
 to the other glories of this country.’ But he forgot that 
 Hogarth was born twenty-six years before Sir Joshua, and 
 had published his engravings of the * Harlot’s Progress ’ 
 when Reynolds was but eleven years old; or it may be he 
 was influenced by the common opinion of that time which 
 we find echoed by Walpole, that Hogarth was no painter. 
 It is, however, to Reynolds that the honour of establishing 
 the English school belongs. Hogarth had no school, nor has 
 he ever been imitated with any tolerable success.” 
 
 Among the engravings Constable exhibited at this lecture, 
 he placed Sir Joshua’s lovely group of the three Ladies 
 Waldegrave under the Ugolino, and remarked, “ how great 
 must be the range of his genius, who could fill the space of 
 art included between two such subjects; Romney, when 
 some of his friends thought to please him by disparaging 
 Reynolds, said, £ No, no, he is the greatest painter that ever 
 lived, for I see an exquisite beauty in his pictures which I see 
 in nature, but not in the works of any other painter.’ 1 
 “ To Wilson, who was ten years the senior of Reynolds, 
 may justly be given the praise of opening the way to the 
 genuine principles of Landscape in England; he appeared at 
 a time when this art, not only here, but on the Continent, 
 was altogether in the hands of the mannerists . 2 It was in 
 
 1 This is true, in a greater or less degree, as Constable has himself 
 remarked in the first of this course of lectures, of every original painter; 
 indeed it is evident that this is the only test of originality. 
 
 2 The biographers of Wilson attribute his leaving portraiture for 
 landscape, to the suggestion of one of these mannerists, Zuccherelli; 
 and of his obligations to another, Allan Cunningham gives this account. 
 “ One day, while sitting in Wilson’s painting-room, Vernet was so 
 struck with the peculiar beauty of a newly-finished landscape that he 
 
Fourth Lecture 283 
 
 Italy that he first became acquainted with his own powers; 
 and no doubt the influence of the works of Claude and the 
 Poussins enabled him to make the discovery. But he looked 
 at nature entirely for himself, and remaining free from any 
 tincture of the styles that prevailed among the living artists, 
 both abroad and at home, he was almost wholly excluded 
 from any share of the patronage which was liberally bestowed 
 on his contemporaries. Barrett, and the Smiths of Chi- 
 chester, whose names are now nearly forgotten, accumulated 
 wealth while Wilson might have starved had he not been 
 appointed librarian to the Royal Academy. Stothard used 
 to relate an anecdote of Wilson which showed how much he 
 was disposed to turn to nature even in the midst of art. 
 Stothard, when a student, asked Wilson in the library, to 
 recommend something for him to copy. Wilson at the 
 moment was standing at one of the windows, which, as the 
 quadrangle of Somerset House was then unfinished, com- 
 manded a fine view of the river. ‘ There,’ said the librarian 
 pointing to the animated scene, ‘ is something for you to 
 copy.’ 
 
 “ The landscape of Gainsborough is soothing, tender, and 
 affecting. The stillness of noon, the depths of twilight, and 
 the dews and pearls of the morning, are all to be found on 
 the canvases of this most benevolent and kind-hearted man. 
 On looking at them, we find tears in our eyes, and know not 
 what brings them. The lonely haunts of the solitary shep- 
 herd,— the return of the rustic with his bill and bundle of 
 wood, — the darksome lane or dell, — the sweet little cottage 
 girl at the spring with her pitcher, — were the things he 
 delighted to paint, and which he painted with exquisite 
 refinement, yet not a refinement beyond nature. Gains- 
 borough has been compared to Murillo by those who cannot 
 distinguish between the subject and the art. Like Murillo 
 he painted the peasantry of his country, but here the resem- 
 blance ceases. His taste was in all respects greatly superior 
 to that of the Spanish painter.” 
 
 desired to become its proprietor, and offered in exchange one of his 
 best pictures. This was much to the gratification of the other; the 
 exchange was made, and, with a liberality equally rare and com- 
 mendable, Vemet placed his friend’s picture in his exhibition room 
 and when his own productions happened to be praised or purchased 
 by English travellers, the generous Frenchman used to say, ‘ Don’t 
 talk of my landscapes alone when your own countrvman Wilson paints 
 so beautifully.’ ” 
 
284 Life of Constable 
 
 Constable spoke of Cozens and Girtin as possessing genius 
 of the very highest order, though their works being com- 
 paratively few and in water colours chiefly, they are less 
 known than they deserve to be. 
 
 “West showed great ability in the composition of land- 
 scape, which he sometimes practised for itself, with figures 
 entirely subordinate. His picture of the reception of Tele- 
 machus and Mentor by Calypso after their shipwreck, is an 
 extremely beautiful combination of landscape and figures.” 
 Constable exhibited a fine engraving of this picture, begun 
 by Woollett, and finished by Pye. 
 
 “ As your kind attention,” he said, “ has so long been 
 given to my description of pictures, it may now be well to 
 consider in what estimation we are to hold them, and in what 
 class we are to place the men who have produced them. — It 
 appears to me that pictures have been over-valued ; held up 
 by a blind admiration as ideal things, and almost as standards 
 by which nature is to be judged rather than the reverse; and 
 this false estimate has been sanctioned by the extravagant 
 epithets that have been applied to painters, as ‘ the divine/ 
 ‘ the inspired/ and so forth . 1 Yet, in reality, what are the 
 most sublime productions of the pencil but selections of some 
 of the forms of nature, and copies of a few of her evanescent 
 effects; and this is the result, not of inspiration, but of long 
 and patient study, under the direction of much good sense. — 
 It was said by Sir Thomas Lawrence, that ‘ we can never 
 hope to compete with nature in the beauty and delicacy of 
 her separate forms or colours, — our only chance lies in selec- 
 tion and combination.’ Nothing can be more true, — and it 
 may be added, that selection and combination are learned 
 from nature herself, who constantly presents us with com- 
 positions of her own, far more beautiful than the happiest 
 
 1 “ To say the truth, men do not appear to know their own stock 
 and abilities, but fancy their possessions greater, and their faculties 
 less, than they are; whence either valuing the received arts above 
 measure, they look out no farther; or else despising themselves too 
 much, they exercise their talents upon lighter matters, without attempt- 
 ing the capital things of all. And hence the sciences come to be 
 considered as Hercules’ Pillars, which are to bound the desires and 
 hopes of mankind. But as a false imagination of plenty comes among 
 the principal causes of want, and as too great a confidence in things 
 present leads to a neglect of future assistance, it is necessary that we 
 here admonish mankind that they do not too highly value or extol 
 either the number or usefulness of the things hitherto discovered.” — 
 Lord Bacon. 
 
Last Lecture 
 
 285 
 
 arranged by human skill. I have endeavoured to draw a 
 line between genuine art and mannerism, but even the 
 greatest painters have never been wholly untainted by 
 manner. — Painting is a science, and should be pursued as 
 an inquiry into the laws of nature. Why, then, may not 
 landscape painting be considered as a branch of natural 
 philosophy, of which pictures are but the experiments? ” 1 
 Constable thanked his audience for the attention with 
 which they had listened to him, and said, “ I cannot better 
 take my leave of you than in the words of my friend, Arch- 
 deacon Fisher, who, in an address to the clergy, on one of his 
 visitations said, ‘ In my present perplexity, the recollection 
 comes to my relief that when any man has given an undi- 
 vided attention to any one subject, his audience willingly 
 yield him for his hour the chair of instruction ; he discharges 
 his mind of its conceptions, and descends from his temporary 
 elevation to be instructed in his turn by other men.’ ” 
 
 LAST LECTURE DELIVERED BY CONSTABLE 
 
 On the 25th July 1836, Constable delivered a lecture before 
 the Literary and Scientific Institution at Hampstead, on 
 the subject of Landscape generally. 
 
 In adding the notes I took on this occasion to the remain- 
 ing memoranda preserved among his papers, I shall omit 
 passages in which he repeated parts of his previous lectures. 
 
 He began by saying, “ The difference between the judg- 
 ments pronounced by men who have given their lives to a 
 particular study, and by those who have attended to that 
 study as the amusement only of a few leisure hours, may be 
 thus illustrated. I will imagine two dishes, the one of gold, 
 the other of wood. The golden dish is filled with diamonds, 
 rubies, and emeralds, — and chains, rings, and brooches of 
 gold; while the other contains shell-fish, stones, and earths. 
 
 1 Turnbull, whose folio on ancient painting Hogarth sent to the 
 trunk-maker with less justice than the 9999th volume of Politics, 
 which he placed in the same hamper with it, considers landscape 
 painting as belonging to natural philosophy, and historical painting 
 to moral philosophy. But Constable was not acquainted with Turn- 
 bull’s work when this lecture was delivered. He first saw it at my 
 house in January 1837. 
 
286 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 These dishes are offered to the world, who choose the first; 
 but it is afterwards discovered that the dish itself is but 
 copper gilt, the diamonds are paste, the rubies and emeralds 
 painted glass, and the chains, rings, etc. counterfeit. In the 
 meantime, the naturalist has taken the wooden dish, for he 
 knows that the shell-fish are pearl oysters and he sees that 
 among the stones are gems, and mixed with the earths are 
 the ores of the precious metals. 
 
 “ The decline of painting, in every age and country, after 
 arriving at excellence, has been attributed by writers who 
 have not been artists to every cause but the true one. The 
 first impression and a natural one is, that the fine arts have 
 risen or declined in proportion as patronage has been given 
 to them or withdrawn, but it will be found that there has 
 often been more money lavished on them in their worst 
 periods than in their best, and that the highest honours 
 have frequently been bestowed on artists whose names are 
 scarcely now known. Whenever the arts have not been 
 upheld by the good sense of their professors,' patronage and 
 honours so far from checking their downward course, must 
 inevitably accelerate it. 
 
 “ The attempt to revive styles that have existed in former 
 ages may for a time appear to be successful, but experience 
 may now surely teach us its impossibility. I might put on a 
 suit of Claude Lorraine’s clothes and walk into the street, and 
 the many who know Claude but slightly would pull off their 
 hats to me, but I should at last meet with some one more 
 intimately acquainted with him, who would expose me to 
 the contempt I merited . 1 
 
 “It is thus in all the fine arts. A new Gothic building, 
 or a new missal, is in reality little less absurd than a new ruin. 
 The Gothic architecture, sculpture, and painting, belong to 
 peculiar ages. The feelings that guided their inventors are 
 unknown to us, we contemplate them with associations, 
 many of which, however vague and dim, have a strong hold 
 on our imaginations, and we feel indignant at the attempt to 
 cheat us by any modem mimicry of their peculiarities . 2 
 
 1 Archdeacon Fisher, in one of his letters that has not been printed, 
 says, “ I have just met with the following observation in Leonardo da 
 Vinci, ‘ One painter ought never to imitate the manner of any other, 
 because in that case he cannot be called the child of nature, but the 
 grand-child.’ ” — Constable sometimes called imitators “ Poachers on 
 other men’s grounds.” 
 
 2 See Fisher’s letter on the death of Mrs. Constable, page 148. 
 
Last Lecture 
 
 287 
 
 “It is to be lamented that the tendency of taste is at 
 present too much towards this kind of imitation, which, as 
 long as it lasts, can only act as a blight on art, by engaging 
 talents that might have stamped the Age with a character 
 of its own, in the vain endeavour to reanimate deceased Art, 
 in which the utmost that can be accomplished will be to 
 reproduce a body without a soul . 1 
 
 “ Attempts at the union of uncongenial qualities in 
 different styles of Art have also contributed to its decline/’ 
 In illustration of this, Constable showed a print from Vernet, 
 the trees of which were in a mannered imitation of Salvator 
 Rosa, without his nature and wildness, while the rocks were 
 in the artificial style of Berghem. “ In the foreground,” 
 he said, “ you will perceive an emaciated French dancing 
 master, in a dress something like one of Salvator’s banditti, 
 but intended by Vernet for a fisherman. It is thus the art 
 is deteriorated by the mannerists who employ themselves in 
 sweeping up the painting-rooms of preceding ages. Imitators 
 always render the defects of their model more conspicuous. 
 Sir George Beaumont, on seeing a large picture by a modern 
 artist, intended to be in the style of Claude, said, ‘ I never 
 could have believed that Claude Lorraine had so many faults, 
 if I had not seen them all collected together on this canvas.’ 
 It is useful, therefore, to a painter to have imitators, as they 
 will teach him to avoid everything they do. 
 
 “ The young painter, who, regardless of present popularity, 
 would leave a name behind him must become the patient 
 pupil of nature. If we refer to the lives of all who have 
 distinguished themselves in art or science, we shall find they 
 have always been laborious. The landscape painter must 
 walk in the fields with an humble mind. No arrogant man 
 was ever permitted to see nature in all her beauty. If I may 
 be allowed to use a very solemn quotation, I would say most 
 emphatically to the student, { Remember now thy Creator 
 in the days of thy youth.’ The friends of a young artist 
 should not look or hope for precocity. It is often disease 
 
 1 Nine years have elapsed since these observations were made and 
 the tendency of taste is still more confirmed in the direction of which 
 Constable speaks. The present age, distinguished as it is by the 
 advance of the other sciences, has become, in all that relates to paint- 
 ing, sculpture, and architecture, little else than an antiquarian age. 
 — It is well, in all things, as we go on, to look behind us, — but what 
 advance can we hope to make with our faces constantly turned back- 
 wards? 
 
288 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 only. Quintilian makes use of a beautiful simile in speaking 
 of precocious talent. He compares it to the forward ear of 
 corn that turns yellow and dies before the harvest. Preco- 
 city often leads to criticism, — sharp, and severe as the feel- 
 ings are morbid from ill health. Lord Bacon says, ‘ when a 
 young man becomes a critic, he will find much for his amuse- 
 ment, little for his instruction.’ The young artist must 
 receive with deference the advice of his elders, not hastily 
 questioning what he does not yet understand, otherwise his 
 maturity will bear no fruit. The art of seeing nature is a 
 thing almost as much to be acquired as the art of reading 
 the Egyptian hieroglyphics. The Chinese have painted for 
 two thousand years, and have not discovered that there is 
 such a thing as chiaroscuro . 1 
 
 Constable then gave some practical rules for drawing from 
 nature, and showed some beautiful studies of trees. One, a 
 tall and elegant ash, of which he said “ many of my Hamp- 
 stead friends may remember this young lady at the entrance 
 to the village. Her fate was distressing, for it is scarcely too 
 much to say that she died of a broken heart. I made this 
 drawing when she was in full health and beauty; on passing 
 some time afterwards, I saw, to my grief, that a wretched 
 board had been nailed to her side, on which was written in 
 large letters, ‘ All vagrants and beggars will be dealt with 
 according to laiv .’ The tree seemed to have felt the disgrace, 
 for even then some of the top branches had withered. Two 
 long spike nails had been driven far into her side. In another 
 year one half became paralysed, and not long after the other 
 shared the same fate, and this beautiful creature was cut 
 down to a stump, just high enough to hold the board.” 
 
 Constable exhibited an outline of the principal figure in 
 Fuseli’s “ Lazar house,” and showed that the swellings and 
 depressions in the outline of a figure in fine action never occur 
 exactly on the opposite sides, and the same, he said, would be 
 found true of trees when healthy. 
 
 He quoted from Thomson’s Seasons the sixteen intro- 
 
 1 Some of the Chinese painters have lately produced pictures with 
 powerful effects of light and shade, in imitation of European art. 
 Specimens of this kind may be seen in the splendid Chinese Museum, 
 lately opened. Still they are but imitations of art, and are black, 
 heavy and cold; and destitute of the real charm of chiaroscuro. 
 Indeed the earlier works of the Chinese, in which light and shade are 
 not thought of, are more agreeable. 
 
Last Lecture 
 
 289 
 
 ductory lines to the “ Winter ” as a beautiful instance of the 
 poet identifying his own feelings with external nature. He 
 noticed also Milton’s love of landscape, and how often in his 
 poems the most simple imagery is mingled with the most 
 sublime. “ Thus he has compared the army of the Cheru- 
 bim attendant on the Archangel, while conducting our first 
 parents from Paradise, to an evening mist. 
 
 ‘ The Archangel stood, and from the other hill 
 To their fix’d station, all in bright array 
 The Cherubim descended; on the ground. 
 
 Gliding meteorous, as evening mist 
 Ris’n from a river o’er the marish glides, 
 
 And gathers ground fast at the lab’rer’s heel, 
 
 Homeward returning.’ 
 
 Introducing the homely incident of the labourer’s return, and 
 calling up all the rustic fireside associations connected with it 
 in the midst of a description of the host of Heaven. 
 
 “ There has,” said Constable, “ never been an age, how- 
 ever rude or uncultivated, in which the love of landscape has 
 not in some way been manifested. And how could it be 
 otherwise? for man is the sole intellectual inhabitant of one 
 vast natural landscape. His nature is congenial with the 
 elements of the planet itself, and he cannot but sympathise 
 with its features, its various aspects, and its phenomena in 
 all situations. How beautifully has Milton described the 
 emotions of Adam in the full maturity of mind and percep- 
 tion, his eyes opening for the first time on the wonders of the 
 animate and inanimate world: 
 
 * Straight toward Heav’n my wond’ring eyes I turn’d 
 And gaz’d awhile the ample Sky, . . . 
 
 About me round I saw 
 
 Hill, Dale, and shady Woods, and sunny Plains, 
 
 And liquid lapse of murm’ring streams; by these 
 Creatures that liv’d and mov’d, and walk’d, or flew. 
 
 Birds on the branches warbling; all things smil’d 
 With fragrance, and with joy my heart o’erflow’d; 
 
 .... Thou Sun, said I, fair light, 
 
 And thou enlighten’d Earth, so fresh and gay, 
 
 Ye Hills and Dales, ye Rivers, Woods, and Plains, 
 
 And ye that live and move, fair Creatures, tell. 
 
 Tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here? ’ 
 
 “ ‘ When I behold,’ says Martin Luther, ‘ the beautiful 
 azure vault of Heaven, besprinkled with constellations of 
 shining orbs, the prospect fills my mind, and I feel the highest 
 gratification at such a glorious display of Omnipotence. 
 
 T 
 
290 Life of Constable 
 
 Melancthon wishes to know where are the pillars that 
 support this magnificent arch.’ 
 
 “At a time when Europe was agitated in an unusual 
 manner; when all was diplomacy, all was politics, Machia- 
 vellian and perfidious; Cardinal Bembo wrote thus to the 
 Pope, who had been crowning the Emperor Charles V. at 
 Bologna. ‘ While your Holiness has been these last days on 
 the theatre of the world, among so many lords and great 
 men, whom none now alive have ever seen together before, 
 and has placed on the head of Charles V. the rich, splendid, 
 and honoured crown of the Empire, I have been residing in 
 my little village, where I have thought on you in a quiet, 
 and, to me, dear and delicious solitude. I have found the 
 country above the usage of any former years, from the long 
 serenity of these gliding months, and by the sudden mildness 
 of the air, already quite verdant, and the trees in full leaf. 
 Even the vines have deceived the peasantry by their luxuri- 
 ance, which they were obliged to prune. I do not remember 
 to have seen at this time so beautiful a season. Not only 
 the swallows, but all other birds that do not remain with us 
 in the winter, but return to us in the spring, have made this 
 new, and soft, and joyous sky resound with their charming 
 melodies. — I could not therefore regret your festivities at 
 Bologna. Padua, April 7th, 1530.’ 
 
 “ Of the good Bishop Andrews it is related by Fuller, 
 1 that he would often profess that to observe the trees — 
 earth — corn — grass — water, — hearing any of the creatures, — 
 and to contemplate their qualities — natures — and uses — was 
 ever to him the greatest recreation — content — and mirth — 
 that could be.’ 
 
 “ Paley observed of himself, that ‘ the happiest hours of a 
 sufficiently happy life were passed by the side of a stream; ’ 
 and I am greatly mistaken if every landscape painter will not 
 acknowledge that his most serene hours have been spent in 
 the open air, with his palette on his hand. ‘ It is a great 
 happiness,’ says Bacon, ‘ when men’s professions and their 
 inclinations accord.’ ” 
 
 From these outlines but a faint impression can be formed 
 of Constable’s lectures, as he delivered them, and in rooms 
 of which one side was covered with pictures and prints to 
 which he constantly referred. Many of his happiest turns 
 
Conclusion 
 
 291 
 
 of expression were not to be found in his own notes; they 
 arose at the moment, and were not to be recalled by a 
 reporter unskilled in shorthand; — neither can the charm of 
 a most agreeable voice (though pitched somewhat too low), 
 the beautiful manner in which he read the quotations, 
 whether of prose or poetry, or the play of his very expressive 
 countenance, be conveyed to the reader by words. 
 
<3 tKjLdfc c Ki v t °\ 0. ( f 
 
 t -'M i ^ ^ t c-h.A^'- o^ f lH-'V j 
 
 '\f C\A*' 0~^ 0\__ I v =* 
 
 -V 
 
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 A -w ^ ' t: y l O 
 
 Voirsxts., Jf t, tA-v..., i‘ t- tv\- 
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 X..- 
 
 
INDEX 
 
 Aberdeen, Earl of, 36, 159 
 Abingdon, 70 
 Adelaide, Queen, 169 
 Agostino, Tassi, 263 
 Albano, Francesco, 260, 266, 270 
 Allen, Lieutenant, 49 51 
 
 Allnutt, J., 40-2 
 Angerstein, Mr., 71, 115 
 Appleton, Mr., no 
 Aretino, Peitro, 270 
 Arnott, Miss, 131 
 Arrowsmith, Mr., 109, 128 
 
 Bacon, Lord, 241, 250, 255, 284 «., 
 288, 290 
 
 Balmanno, Mr., 131 
 Bannister, J., 130 and n., 131, 163, 
 168, 201, 209, 216, 253 
 Barnardo, 257 
 Bath, 121 
 
 Beauchamp, Mr., 191 
 Beaumont, Dowager Lady, 4, 5, 
 152 
 
 Beaumont, Lady, 93 
 Beaumont, Sir George, 4, 5, 8, 13, 
 15 «., 20, 28, 67, 70-1, 85, 91-7, 
 103, no, 116, 128, 160, 191 n., 
 195 n., 222, 244, 272, 287 
 Beauvoir, Benyon de, 188 
 Beech y, Sir William, 166, 201 
 Bellini, the brothers, 259 
 Bembo, Cardinal, 290 
 Berghem, 265, 266, 273, 287 
 Bergholt, East, 1, 2, 6, 7, 10, 13, 
 15-21, 25, 29, 42-58, 65, 146, 
 158, 161, 218, 254 
 Bicknell, Charles, 21-3, 38, 47, 
 51 »., 54, 137, 145 
 Bicknell, Maria (afterwards Mrs. 
 Constable), 21-2, 27, 36, 39-61, 
 102, 144, 147 
 
 Bigg, Mr., 90, 92, 128, 164, 179 
 Bologna, 260, 270, 290 
 Bonner, Mr., 210 and n. 
 
 Both, John, 265, 266, 273 
 Boucher, Francis, 275 and n. 
 Bourdon, Sebastian, 263, 266, 
 
 272-4 
 
 | Bourgeois, Sir Francis, 14 
 Bradford, Lord, 37 
 Brantham, 15, 17, 252 
 Bridgman, Rev. George, 3 7 
 Brighton, 44, 45, 119, 126, 129, 
 132, 135, 144, 183, 254 
 Brighton Gazette, 140-1 
 Bril, Paul, 262, 263, 271 
 Brockedon, W., 116 
 Brookes, Joshua, 10 
 Bryan, Michael, 9 
 Bures, 2 
 
 Burgess, Bishop, 133 
 Bums, Robert, 81, 231 
 Burton, L. Archer, 66 
 Byron, Lord, 36, 50, 107 
 
 Callcott, Dr., 33 
 
 Callcott, Sir Augustus, 41, 87, 
 134-6, 153, 180 
 j Calvart, Denis, 260 
 I Canaletti, Antonio, 182 
 j Caracci, Antonio, 8, 94 
 j Carraci, the, 260, 263, 267, 270, 
 
 | 271 
 
 | Carey, Mr., 217 
 J Carlisle, Earl of, 167 
 I Caroline, Queen, 66 n. 
 
 \ Carpenter, James, 40, 128 
 j Carpenter, William, 78 n., 211, 
 218, 223 
 
 | Cephalus and Procris, 95 
 j Chalon, Alfred, 180, 190 
 Chalon, John, 150, 190, 194 
 I Charleton, 109 
 
 Charlotte Street, 31, 40, 44, 48, 
 
 I 81 
 
 j Chatham, 14 
 Cheverton, Thomas, 238 
 J Choiseul, Due de, 12 1 
 I Choiseul Gallery, 120 
 J Cimabue, Giovanni, 257 
 i Cipriani, Giovanni Battista, 274 
 I Clark, Sir Charles, 193 
 Claude (Lorraine), 5, 30, 71, 74, 
 81-5, 88, 90-3, 102, 115, 146, 
 155, 178, 240-4, 262-6, 270-3, 
 279-87 
 
 293 
 
294 Life of Constable 
 
 Cole-Orton Hall, 94-95 and n., 
 96, 100-3, 244 
 Collins, F., 109, no, 134 
 Collins, William, 70 
 Colnaghi, Dominic, 146 
 Conroy, Mrs., 44 
 
 Constable, Abram, 4, 39, 112, 144, 
 
 251 
 
 Constable, Ann, 47 n., 57, 251 
 Constable, Archibald, 116 
 Constable, George, 188, 197 and n., 
 203 and 210, 248 
 Constable, Golding, 2, 3, 22, 24, 57 
 Constable, Hugh, 2 
 Constable, John (Jun.), 200-20, 
 
 224, 251 
 
 Constable, Mary, 26, m 
 Cooper, Astley, 91 
 Correggio, 76, 77, 89, 94, 277 
 Cortona, Pietro da, 267, 274 
 Cowper, William, 29, 240 
 Coxe, Peter, 39 and n., 15 1 
 Coxe, William, 32, 76, 145 
 Cozens, Alexander, 19, 64, 71, 
 211 n. 
 
 Cozens, John, 21 1, 212, 264, 284 
 Curtis, Sir Wm., 89, 90 and n. 
 Cuyp, Albert, 264, 266, 278 
 
 Danbury, 42 
 
 Darby, Francis, 125 
 
 D’ Artois, Jaques, 263 
 
 David, James Louis, 275-6 . 2J 2. 
 
 Davidson, Mr., 199 
 
 Davis, Dr., 165-6 
 
 Dawe, George, 48, 49 
 
 Dawson, Benjamin, 173 
 
 Deal, 13, 14 
 
 Dedham, 2, 10, 98, 101, no, 187, 
 
 252 
 
 De Hooge, Peter, 185-7, 239, 
 
 279 
 
 Derbyshire, 9, 10, 254 
 De Vris, C., 90 
 Dolci, Carlo, 77 
 
 Domenichino, 260, 261 and n., 
 262, 266, 270 
 Dorigny, Nicholas, 4 
 Dover, 14 
 
 Dow, Gerard, 265 «. 
 
 Driffield, Rev., 42, 58 
 Dudley, Lord, 72 «. 
 
 Dunthome, John, 3, 7, 8 and w., 
 9, 10, 13, 39, 193 »., 194 and »., 
 209 
 
 Dunthome, John (Jim.), 39,108-11, 
 114 and «., 126, 130-43, 146, 
 183-6, 231 
 
 Dunthome, Thomas, 193 
 Durer, Albert, 258-9, 266-7, 270 
 Dysart, Countess of, 16, 91, 105, 
 126, 146, 153, 168-9, 205, 226 
 Dysart, Earl of, 16, 28 
 
 Egerton, Lord Francis, 260 
 Egremont, Lord, 179, 205 - 7, 
 
 216 
 
 Elsheimer, Adam, 271 
 English Landscape , 78, 139, 158, 
 171, 187 
 
 Etty, William, 164-5 
 Evans, Mr., 147 and n., 149, 150, 
 155, 182, 185 
 
 Exeter, 28, 33 
 Eyck, Van, 258 n. 
 
 Falcone, Anniello, 273 
 Farrington, George, 5, 25-26, 32, 
 
 Feenng! 42 ^ 
 
 Field, Air. George, 236, 279 n. 
 Finden, Messrs., 251 
 Fiore, Jacopo del, 226 
 Fisher, Dr. (afterwards Bishop of 
 Salisbury), 12, 13, 25, 28, 33, 65, 
 68, 7 3, 75, 80-3, 86, 103, 107, 
 230 
 
 Fisher, General, 44 
 
 Fisher, Mrs., 25, 28, 33, 68, 86, 
 
 185, 253 n. 
 
 Fisher, Rev. John, 27, 32, 44, 
 59-62, 64 n., 66-9, 80-2, 86, 125, 
 132, 147, 179, 185, 230, 247-52, 
 285-6 ». 
 
 Fitzwilliam, Lord, 109 
 Flatford, 2, 40, 43, 78, 210, 251, 
 252 
 
 Flaxman, John, 36 
 Foggo, Mr., 214 
 Folkard, Mrs., 193 
 Folkestone, 254 
 Fontaine, 127 
 Fontana, P., 260 
 Fonthill, 91, 92 
 Forbin, Count, 116 
 Forster, Captain, 80 
 Fouquieres, James, 263 
 Francanzani, Francesco, 2 73 
 Fuseli, Henry, 87, 197, 241, 249 
 and n., 253, 273, 277, 281, 288 
 
 Gaddi, Angiolo, 242 
 Gainsborough, Thomas, 8 and w., 
 19, 90 n., 157, 178, 179, 264, 267, 
 274, 283 , LV % f 
 
Index 
 
 295 
 
 Gallery of British Art, 78 
 Gessner, Solomon, 6, 57 
 Ghirlandaio, 257 
 Gillingham, 100-1, 104, 254 
 Giorgione, 259 
 Giotto, 257 
 
 Girtin, Thomas, 5, 19, 264, 284 
 Glover, Richard, 69, 72, 169 
 Godfrey, Peter, 1 
 Gooch, Dr., 86, 91, 97, 247 
 Gordon, Sir Willoughby, 87 n. 
 Gravesend, 14 
 Greenwich, 56 
 Greuze, J. B., 168 
 Grim wood, Rev. Dr., 2 
 Grosvenor, Lord, 167 
 Gubblns, Captain, 49 n., 51 n. 
 Gubbins, Colonel, 51 
 Gubbins, Richard, 127 
 Guido Reni, 260-2 
 
 Hackert, James Philip, 266, 274 
 Hadleigh, 42 
 
 Hampstead, 142-7, 164, 174, 182, 
 186, 196, 203, 212-3, 233 n., 
 254-5, 285 
 
 Hampstead, Lady, 128 
 Hand, Mr., 132 
 Hand, Mrs., no 
 Hamham, 172 
 Hayley, William, 29 
 Heathcote, Lady, 25, 27, 31, 37 
 Heem, John David de, 90 
 Helmingham Park, 9 
 Hemmelinck, 258 n. 
 
 Henderson, Mr., 31 
 Herbert, 222 
 Hobbema, 178 
 
 Hogarth, William, 157, 235, 267, 
 274, 282, 285 M. 
 
 Holford, Charles, 203 
 Hopkins, Captain, 215-6 
 Hoppner, John, 27, 29 
 Home, Bishop, 187 
 
 Ipswich, 8 
 
 Irving, Washington, 109, 113 
 Italy, 88 
 
 Jackson, John, 17, 70, 77, 109, 
 134, 145, 153, 155, 164, 167 
 John Bull, 113, 145 
 Johnson, Dr., 206, 247 
 Judkin, Rev. T. J., 233 
 
 Kaufmann, Angelica, 275 
 Kneller, Sir Godfrey, 88 
 Knight, 222 
 
 Laar, Peter de, 266, 273 
 Lambert, Mr., 1 19-120 
 Lambert, George, 282 
 Landseer, Charles, 222 
 Landseer, Edwin, 40, 160, 169, 175, 
 187 »., 191 
 
 Lane, Samuel, 76, 135, 144, 146, 
 160, 162, 188, 229 
 Langham, 252 
 La Touche, Mrs., 180 
 Lavenham, 2 
 
 Lawley, Francis, 180 and n. 
 Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 25, 26, 38, 
 71, 89, 102, 109, 115, 120, 126, 
 134, 136, 145, 151, 153, 159, 160, 
 162, 172, 213, 245-6, 284 
 Leicester, 94 and «. 
 
 Leicester, Sir John, 88 
 Lennard, Lady, 35 
 Lennard, Sir Thomas, 38 
 Leslie, Charles Robert, 109, 113, 
 138, 149, 160, 170 
 Le Sueur, Peter, 274 
 Lin wood, Miss, 10, 94 
 Lisle, 126, 132 
 Longford, 64 
 Lott, Willy, 40 
 
 Loutherbourg, Philip James de, 
 266 
 
 Louvre, the, 107, 117, 120, 150 
 Lucas, Mr., 67 and n., 124, 157-71, 
 187, 199, 210, 213, 221, 226 
 and »., 228 
 
 Lucas Van Leyden (Jacobs), 258 
 Lucatelli, 274 
 
 Lyttelton, Thomas, Lord, 170 and 
 «., 171 
 
 Maclise, Daniel, 229 
 Malden, 42 
 
 Manners, Lady Louisa, 27-9 
 Maratti, Carlo, 84, 250 n. 
 Marlborough, Duke of, 139 
 Masaniello, 273 
 Matthews, 70 «., 72 
 Mellon, Miss, 128 
 Mengs, Anton Raphael, 274 
 Michael Angelo, 72 n., 142, 249, 
 250 «., 274, 278 
 Michele, Mr., 233 
 Milman, Dean, 81 
 Mirehouse, Mr., 128-31 
 Mola, Pietro Francesco, 266, 
 270 
 
 Moor, Jacob, 266, 274 
 Moon, Mm 183 
 Morland, George, 128 
 Morley, Lady, 192, 253 n. 
 
296 
 
 Life of Constable 
 
 Morrison, Mr., 106, 109 
 Murillo, 283 
 
 Neave, Digby, no, 170-1 
 Newbury, 70 
 New Forest, 17 
 Newton, 160, 187 
 Neyland, 252 
 Noble, Miss, 214, 228 
 Northcote, J., 78, 117, 141, 153, 
 167 168, 241, 242 n. 
 
 Opie, John, 248 n. 
 
 Ormsby, Sir Thomas, 196 
 Osmington, 60-1, 64, 80, 92, 120-3, 
 129, 140, 147, 254 
 Ostade, I., 120, 240, 250 n., 
 
 265 n. 
 
 Ottley, Mr., 110-11 
 Owen, Mr., 26, no, 167 
 
 Paley, William, 12 1 
 Panini, Paulo, 274 
 Partridge, 222 
 Patel, Peter, 281 
 Peel, Sir Robert, 185, 240 
 Pembroke, Lord, 137 
 Petworth, 204-6, 225 
 Phillips, Mr., 108, 139 
 Phillips (painter), 134, 153 
 Pickersgill, 153 
 Pisa, 257 
 Pope, Mr., 138 
 Portici, 7 1 
 
 Poulson’s History of Holderness, 
 116 n. 
 
 Poussin, Gaspar, 9, 14, 69, 70 n., 
 82, 99, 262, 266, 282, 283 
 Poussin, Nicholas, 72, 132, 261 
 and n., 262, 266, 273-6, 283 
 Prince Regent, 51 
 Purton, Wm., 202, 204, 209, 219, 
 234, 251, 252, 270 n. 
 
 Putney Heath, 50, 51, 57-59, *44, 
 175 
 
 Pye, 284 
 
 Radnor, Lord, 33 
 Raphael, 4, 72 n., 82, 164, 229, 
 246, 249, 250 n., 257 
 Reading, 70 
 
 Rebow, General, 30, 58, 65, 196 
 Rebow, Mrs., 58, 65 
 Reinagle, Mr. 8 
 
 Rembrandt, Paul, 250 «., 264-6, 
 276-81 
 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 13, 16, 27- 
 30, 35-6, 72 n., 74, 95, 100, 146, 
 
 156, 160, 179 n., 216, 222, 247-9' 
 267-9, 274-5, 282 
 Reynolds, S. W., 117, 124 
 Rhudde, Rev. Dr., 1, 21-2, 25, 
 47-9, 53, 61 
 Ricci, Marco, 274 
 Richardson, Jonathan, 88 
 Richmond, 28-9, 206 
 Ripley, 81, 128 
 Robertson, Andrew, 15 1, 235 
 Roberts, Mrs., 1, 10 
 Roberts, 222, 228 
 Rochard, in 
 Rochester, 14 
 Rochford, 42 
 Rodney, Lord, 179 
 Rogers, Miss, 79 
 Romney, George, 282 
 Rubens, Peter Paul, 32, 33 n., 
 84, 90, 100, 263-6, 275-7, 279 
 281 
 
 Ruysdael, Jakob, 6-8, 72, 81, 90, 
 115, 185, 264, 266, 279, 280 
 
 Salisbury, 75-6, 80, 91-2, 107, 112, 
 130, 132, 147, 155, 167-8, 253 
 254 
 
 Salvator Rosa, 74, 263, 266, 273, 
 281, 287 
 Sass, 164 
 Savage, Mrs., 152 
 Schlegel, F., 147-8 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 104 
 Seguir, Mr., 190 
 Shaftesbury, Lord, 73 
 Shakespeare, Wm., 81, 93, 229 
 Shee, Martin Archer, 134, 160 
 Siddons, Mrs., 36 
 Smith, John Thomas, 5-8, 239 
 Sober, Mrs., 108 
 Southend, 42 
 Southey, Miss, 97 
 Southey, Robert, 97, 100, 101, 241 
 Southgate, 89 
 Spedding, Miss, 226 
 Spedding, Mr., 226 
 Spencer, Lady, 51 
 Spilsbury, 48 
 
 Stafford, Marquis of, 29, 36 
 Steele, Sir Richard, 19, 183 
 Steen, Jan, 279 
 Stoke, 252 
 
 Stothard, Tomas, 28-9, 50, 1 67, 
 70, 78, 128, 165, 182, 187 
 229, 249, 283 
 Stour, River, 124 
 Stratford, 252 
 Strowger, Samuel, n 
 
Index 
 
 Strutt, Mr., 13 1 
 Swaneveldt, Herman, 30 
 
 Tabley, Lord de, 143 
 Tales of a Traveller, 113 
 Teniers, David, 2 77 n. 
 
 Thomond, Marchioness of, 28 
 Thomson, John, 26, 114, 172 
 Tinney, Mr., 67, 69, 70, 73, 79, 
 80 «., 91-3, 101, 109, 120, 252 
 Tintern Abbey, 48 
 Titian, 74, 82, 22 7, 259, 266-9, 
 276, 281 
 
 Tollemache, Mrs. Charles, 126-7 
 Torin, Captain, 13 
 Travis, Mr., 56 
 Turnbull, 285 n. 
 
 Turner, J. M. W., 26, 37, 38, 145, 
 178, 222, 227 
 
 Uccello, Paulo, 268 
 Uwins, T., 244 n. 
 
 Vadder, Louis de, 263 
 Vanbree, Mr., 107 
 Vander Neer, 73 
 Vander Velde, 82, 114, 280 
 Varley, John, 169, 193 
 Venice, 259 
 
 Vernet, Claude, 265, 274, 281, 
 282 n., 287 
 Vernon, Miss, 126 
 Vernon, Mr., 210, 215, 217 
 Veronese, Paul, 84, 190, 279 n. 
 Volterra, Daniel de, 261 n. 
 
 Wakefield, Priscilla, 5 
 Wales, 43, 48 
 
 Ward, Edward Matthew, 134 
 Watteau, 275 n. 
 
 U «et-c-o <w >'t 
 
 297 
 
 1 Watts, Ann (Mrs. Constable, Sen.), 
 2, 4, 45-8 
 
 Watts, David Pike, 16, 23, 31, 33, 
 35, 40, 51, 53*55 , hi 
 W eight, Mr., 31, 32 
 Wellington, Duke of, 66 
 Wells, Mr., 168-9, 174 
 West, Benjamin, 12, 25-6, 35, 
 38, 102, 267, 270, 284 
 Westall, Richard, 136, 225 
 Whalley, Mrs., 9, 56, 57, 94 
 Whalley, Rev. Daniel, 251 
 Wheatley, Mr., 129 
 White, Gilbert, 69-70 
 Wilkie, Sir David, 12, 17, 27, 70, 
 83, 87, 96 n., 109, 126, 150, 153, 
 164, 203 «., 208-9, 222, 245, 
 249, 250 M. 
 
 William IV., 169 
 
 “ Willy Lott’s House,” 40, 211, 
 
 251 
 
 Wilson, Richard, 8, 19, 20, 88, 90, 
 143, 147, 157, 237, 264, 26 7, 
 274, 282, 283 
 Wilton, Joseph, 64 
 Wood, Alderman, 113 
 Woodbum, Mr., 71, 91 
 Woodmanstone, 119 
 Woollett, William, 284 
 Wooton, 274, 282 
 Worcester, 255 
 
 Wordsworth, William, 88, 95, 195, 
 223 
 
 Wouvermans, P., 73, 91, 265 and n. 
 York, Duke of, 87 n. 
 
 Zeigler, 193 
 
 Zuccherelli, Francesco, 266, 274, 
 282 n. 
 
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