At first he had to struggle for ten years for bread and recognition. It seems hardly credible that his landscapes, even after 1848, when they had obtained entry into the Salon, were a source of irritation there for years, simply because they were green. The public was so accustomed to brown trees and brown grass, that every other colour in the landscape was an offence against decency, and before a green picture the Philistine immediately cried out, "Spinage!" "_Allez, c'était dur d'ouvrir la brêche_," said he, in his later years. And at last, at the World Exhibition of 1855, when he had made it clear to Europe who Théodore Rousseau was, the evening of his life was saddened by pain and illness. He had married a poor unfortunate creature, a wild child of the forest, the only feminine being that he had found time to love during his life of toil. After a few years of marriage she became insane, and whilst he tended her Rousseau himself fell a victim to an affection of the brain which darkened his last years. Death came to his release in 1867. As he lay dying his mad wife danced and trilled to the screaming of her parrot. He rests "_dans le plain calme de la nature_" in the village churchyard at Chailly, near Barbizon, buried in front of his much-loved forest. Millet erected the headstone--a simple cross upon an unhewn block of sandstone, with a tablet of brass on which are inscribed the words: [Illustration: _Hanjstaengl._ COROT. LA ROUTE D'ARRAS.] THÉODORE ROUSSEAU, PEINTRE.