to you?  I heard for the first time, from the Peytons, of your being at Pau, and then you were expected at home.  So innocent I am, and because it is a pleasure rather rare to make a sincere profession of innocence, I meant to write to you at least ten days ago; and then (believe me you will, without difficulty) the dreadful death of poor Mr. Haydon,[141] the artist, quite upset me, and made me disinclined to write a word beyond necessary ones.  I thank God that I never saw him—­poor gifted Haydon—­but, a year and a half ago, we had a correspondence which lasted through several months and was very pleasant while it lasted.  Then it was dropped, and only a few days before the event he wrote three or four notes to me to ask me to take charge of some papers and pictures, which I acceded to as once I had done before.  He was constantly in pecuniary difficulty, and in apprehension of the seizure of goods; and nothing of fear suggested itself to my mind—­nothing.  The shock was very great.  Oh!  I do not write to you to write of this.  Only I would have you understand the real case, and that it is not an excuse, and that it was natural for me to be shaken a good deal.  No artist is left behind with equal largeness of poetical conception!  If the hand had always obeyed the soul, he would have been a genius of the first order.  As it is, he lived on the slope of greatness and could not be steadfast and calm.  His life was one long agony of self-assertion.  Poor, poor Haydon!  See how the world treats those who try too openly for its gratitude!  ‘Tom Thumb for ever’ over the heads of the giants.

So you heard that I was quite well?  Don’t believe everything you hear.  But I am really in a way to be well, if I could have such sunshine as we have been burning in lately, and a fair field of peace besides.  Generally, I am able to go out every day, either walking or in the carriage—­’walking’ means as far as Queen Anne’s Street.  The wonderful winter did not cast me down, and the hot summer helps me up higher.  Now, to keep in the sun is the problem to solve; and if I can do it, I shall be ‘as well as anybody.’  If I can’t, as ill as ever.  Which is the resume of me, without a word more....

Your ever affectionate
BA.

[Footnote 141:  He committed suicide on June 22, under the influence of the disappointment caused by the indifference of the public to his pictures, the final instance of which was its flocking to see General Tom Thumb and neglecting Haydon’s large pictures of ‘Aristides’ and ‘Nero,’ which were being exhibited in an adjoining room of the Egyptian Hall.]

To H.S.  Boyd June 27, 1846 [postmark].

Dearest Mr. Boyd,—­Let me be clear of your reproaches for not going to you this week.  The truth is that I have been so much shocked and shaken by the dreadful suicide of poor Mr. Haydon, the artist, I had not spirits for it.  He was not personally my friend.  I never saw him face to face.  But we had corresponded, and one of his last acts was an act of trust towards me.  Also I admired his genius.  And all to end so!  It has naturally affected me much.