Chapter VII: Part 7

Three months previous to the date when the ashes of Sir Godfrey Kneller mingled with kindred dust, the first Englishman who, according to the eloquent eulogium of Burke, added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country, was cradled, with time-honored formalities, in a borough town of Devonshire.

Joshua Reynolds was the tenth of the numerous family with which his parents――a worthy and old-fashioned couple――were blessed. His father was a scholar and divine, known and valued in the province for the respectability of his learning, the innocence of his heart, and the simplicity of his mind. Besides, he is stated to have been of so singularly absent a tendency, that once, while performing a journey on horseback, he dropped one of his top-boots by the way, without perceiving the unusual and inconvenient loss he had met with. Doubtless when he arrived at home, this laughable and disastrous incident would furnish his fruitful dame, Theophila, with the text of a diffuse and impassioned curtain-lecture, and, perhaps, make the reverend personage considerably more careful when in future he escaped for a while from his toils and fatigues as head-master of the grammar-school of Plympton. There his distinguished son was born on the 16th of July, 1723; and there he was ere long inspired with the ambition of linking his name indestructibly with that glorious art of which he became so successful a cultivator.

The occasion of the high-fated infant’s presentation at the baptismal font was rendered memorable by a mistake so awkward and peculiar, as to furnish reasonable grounds for believing the mental characteristics of the elder Reynolds to have been then at work. In any case, the officiating clergyman was led by some process to pronounce the Christian name of Joseph instead of that by which the child then presented has since been known to the world, as well as registered in the records of fortune and the rolls of fame. On the education of young Reynolds much less attention was bestowed than might have been expected from the circumstances of his birth; and he did not profit to any large extent by such instruction as he received. He did not obtain any great stock of classical knowledge; but his deficiency in this important respect, though never supplied, was, in after days, countervailed and thrown into the background by the information which he had acquired in untiring study of Nature and perseverance in Art, in that commerce with the most refined portion of the British public, of which, for many long years, he had the advantage, and in the constant and familiar intercourse which, during prosperous manhood, he maintained with men of genius, intellect, and erudition. But, however little inclined to pore over Latin and Greek books, his heart was, without loss of time, turned toward an accomplishment which he afterward found of infinitely greater value. Almost in infancy he began to show signs of his vocation for the pursuit which made him one of the most remarkable men, and the greatest painter, of his age; and his first effort was the copying of some drawings made by his sisters. He was then in early boyhood, and he next applied the artistic skill he possessed to the imitation of such prints as illustrated the volumes in his father’s library; particularly those in an old Book of Emblems, which was inherited, along with her Dutch blood, from a grandmother, who had come from Holland. The clerical pedagogue did not smile on these juvenile attempts, nor did he look with a propitious eye on the direction his son’s talents were taking. However absent scholars may be in regard to other matters, especially those which chiefly concern themselves, they are usually observant enough when the welfare and interests of their children are at stake. Even Adam Warner awoke from day-dreams about the Eureka when he saw the lordly chamberlain whispering soft tales in the ear of his beauteous daughter; and Parson Reynolds, though so much occupied with sage reflections that he could only find time to indicate to his wife by monosyllables whether he would have tea or coffee on an afternoon, opened his eyes to the fact, that Joshua’s industry in drawing and coloring, with the rude materials within his reach, contrasted disagreeably with his remissness in attending to the lessons of the school over which he presided. Thus he denounced the boyish essays as the offspring of pure idleness, and the author of them was destined for the medical profession. Though, perhaps, this was decided on with little consideration for his own wishes, Reynolds stated in after life, that if such had been his fortune, he would have exerted himself as strenuously to become an eminent physician as he strove with success to be a great painter. However, the paternal views were suddenly and fortunately changed.

Having, about his eighth year, met with the “Jesuit’s Perspective,” young Reynolds read and digested its contents with so much earnestness, that he was enabled to execute a drawing of the school-house on the principles asserted in the treatise. This, when exhibited in the family circle, quite astonished the anxious father, who, with gratified pride, pronounced the execution wonderful; and he began to regard the juvenile artist’s predilections with comparative complacency. Upon this, Reynolds devoted himself more arduously to his chosen studies, took likenesses of the inmates of the house, improved perceptibly in execution, and quite neglected his school exercises. He was confirmed in his love of art by reading Richardson’s “Treatise on Painting,” which so captivated and inspired his mind and imagination, that Raphael seemed to him the most marvelous name in ancient or modern annals. Thus charmed and stimulated, he continued to make numerous sketches and portraits, which were recognized by his friends as evidencing progressive improvement. Nothing was now wanting but a field in which to practice and bring to perfection the talents with which he had been bountifully endowed, to confer pleasure on his fellow men, and to refine their tastes.

While Reynolds was in his nineteenth year, a neighbor and acquaintance of the family, observing that a provincial place was too limited a sphere for the proper cultivation of such powers, recommended that the aspiring lad should be placed under proper tuition in London. Accordingly, in the autumn, the future knightly President of the Royal Academy was on his way to the metropolis, and consigned to the care and superintendence of Hudson, who, though at the period much employed in the manufacture of portraits, was not possessed of any surpassing skill or taste in art. A contract was entered into, that if the veteran approved of his pupil’s conduct, he was to retain the latter’s services for a term of four years; but he reserved the power of discharging the assistant at pleasure. Perhaps, in this position Reynolds was merry enough; for there were other youths in Hudson’s studio, and on warm summer days they had opportunities of making agreeable excursions, rambling about the country and admiring the scenery.

While thus situated, Reynolds had the gratification of exchanging courtesies with a famous poet, who had aspired, without any particular success, to excellence in the kindred art of painting. He was attending a public sale of pictures; and just before the hero of the hour raised his voice and brandished his hammer, the name of Pope was passed round, and all respectfully made way for the friend of Bolingbroke. Those who were near held out their hands; and Reynolds being among the number, had the distinction of a gentle shake from those bony fingers which had so often been made the instruments of bitter and brilliant sarcasm. The wheel of time rolled round; the painter, seated among the literary magnates of another generation, still felt pride in relating this interesting little incident; his admiration of the crooked bard was unabated; he was at great pains to procure a fan on which was one of Pope’s efforts in painting; and the recollection of their meeting filled him with satisfaction, even when youths, as in the case of Northcote, were pressing forward, through crowds, to indulge in the luxury of touching his own skirt.

Reynolds continued to pursue his artistic career under Hudson’s inspection for two years, during which he drew many heads with so unquestionable a success, that he thereby excited and inflamed the jealousy of his instructor, who foretold, with a pang, that his pupil would yet arrive at rare celebrity. At length he executed the portrait of an elderly domestic, who acted as cook in the establishment, which, on being exhibited in the gallery, was immensely applauded for its superiority of style. The praise was by no means grateful to Hudson’s ear. Perhaps it was more than flesh and blood could reasonably be expected to bear with patience. In any case, he seized upon the first decent pretext to pick a quarrel with the ambitious juvenile.

The latter had been one day requested to convey a picture to a certain drapery-painter; but as the weather happened to be rainy, he concluded that there would be no harm in delaying its delivery till next morning. At breakfast, Hudson querulously inquired why it had not been taken the evening before, and was informed that the rain had been the cause of the delay.

“Well,” he exclaimed, “since you have not obeyed my orders, you must leave my house.”

Reynolds pleaded for a brief reprieve, but in vain. He asked to be allowed to write an explanation of the matter, and obtain his father’s advice. But Hudson was inexorable; he adhered sternly to his harsh mandate, and Reynolds, going to an uncle who resided at the Temple, thence wrote to his father that he had been dismissed. The latter took the affair into grave consideration, held a sage consultation with his neighbor, Lord Edgecumbe, and directed the young artist to return home. Retirement to the obscurity of Devonshire might delay the progress, but could not altogether conceal the reality, of the talents which were to establish for their possessor so splendid a reputation. His father’s limited means rendered some effort for independence imperative; and during the next three years he executed several portraits of much merit, particularly one of a boy reading by a reflected light. When viewing these pieces thirty years afterward, he is said to have lamented that he had made so little progress in art; just as Canova did a few months before his death, when gazing mournfully on his marble statue of Esculapius in a villa near Venice.

Somewhere about 1745, Reynolds took up his quarters for a while at Plymouth Dock, and employed his time in taking portraits of naval officers and other persons in the vicinity. Most of the likenesses then produced were good; but the example of Hudson had placed him at a disadvantage. His sitters were generally represented with one hand inserted in a waistcoat pocket, and the other stiffly holding a hat. One gentleman did, indeed, request to be drawn with his headpiece on, and his desire was complied with; but――alas for the vanity of human wishes!――when the portrait was sent home, and scrutinized by the capricious individual’s dame, she discovered, with inexpressible horror, that the artist, true to habit, had placed a hat under the arm in addition to that on the head!

Among those whose features he now transferred to canvas was Miss Chudleigh, afterward the celebrated Duchess of Kingston, a young lady of surpassing beauty, then on a visit in the neighborhood, and a Captain Hamilton, of the Abercorn family, whose portrait was considered admirable. Besides, he made the acquaintance of the future Lord Keppel, and when that gallant personage was appointed Commodore on the Mediterranean Station, the artist was invited to accompany him in the “Centurion.”

Reynolds had, some time before, lost his venerable father; and he had now to act entirely on his own judgment and discretion. But having been long and enthusiastically eager to visit Italy, and being in possession of funds sufficient to defray the expense, he availed himself of the friendly proposal, and sailed in May, 1749. Having visited various places of interest, and been introduced, at Algiers, to the Dey, he landed at Port Mahon, in Minorca, where he was treated with much courtesy, and entertained with great hospitality, by the governor. There he added to his skill and means by painting portraits of many officers on the station; but at the same time encountered, and suffered from, an accident of considerable severity. One day as he was refreshing himself with a ride, his horse suddenly took fright, ran off, and rushed wildly over a precipice. The rider was not unhurt by the fall; and indeed his upper lip was so sadly bruised that part of it had to be cut away; so that a scar, which remained visible to the close of his life, was the consequence. Meantime he proceeded to Rome, where he had been advised to place himself under the tuition of Battoni; but on examining the works of that master he deemed it most judicious to trust to his own perception, and concentrate his study on the paintings that had stood the test of time and criticism. In this resolution he persevered, with so little reference to the inclemency of seasons that he was attacked, while pursuing his investigations, with a serious cold. The effect of this mishap was permanent. It brought on the deafness which reduced him to the necessity of using an ear-trumpet while engaged in conversation, and furnished his acquaintance (Goldsmith) with the well-known and oft-quoted lines in the “Retaliation,”――

“When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.”

While at Rome, Reynolds was less employed by English travelers than might have been anticipated; and he seems to have considered the time so occupied as being almost lost. Before leaving, however, he executed an approved likeness of himself, and an interesting parody on Raphael’s “School of Athens.” He remained as long as the state of his finances rendered prudent, and afterward gave it as his mature opinion, that any artist, with large views, should rather live on bread and water than forego advantages never enjoyed a second time, and not to be found but in the Vatican. Michael Angelo he regarded as “the Homer of Painting.” On his way home, at the foot of Mont Cenis, he encountered his old master, Hudson, in company with Roubiliac the sculptor. The former hurried on, with hot speed, to gratify his eyes with a sight of the “Eternal City;” and accomplished his purpose so hastily that he arrived at Calais in time to cross in the same packet with the pupil, whose excellence had excited his apprehensions and kindled his ire.

Reynolds had been absent for about three years from England when, in the autumn of 1752, he had the gratification of setting foot on her sacred soil. He immediately went to Devonshire, to recruit his health and inspire vigor from fresh breezes and his native air. Early in the next year he returned to London, and, quartering himself in St. Martin’s Lane, commenced his professional career with earnestness and resolution. His talents were such as, if properly exerted, could hardly fail to meet with encouragement and lead on to fortune; and their possessor not only recognized the great fact that unflinching perseverance was essential to success, but maintained the opinion that any one aspiring to excel in art must make it the subject of his thoughts from the time he rises till he goes to bed. Nay, more; he said that those aiming at distinction must work, whether willingly or with reluctance, morning, noon, and night, and expect to find their occupation no pastime, but hard labor. Undoubtedly during youth he carried this wholesome doctrine too far, in asserting that the man would never make a great painter who looked for the Sunday with pleasure, as a day of rest. But it is satisfactory, and ought to be instructive, to understand――thanks, perhaps, to the dying precept of Johnson――that he did not act on the pernicious doctrine to the end of his career.

With all his taste, ease, felicity of invention, and power of rich, harmonious coloring, Reynolds did not acquire his legitimate position without a salutary struggle. His boldness, freedom, and brilliancy were regarded as strange and objectionable novelties. The old dogs began to bark. The portrait of a pupil whom he had brought from Rome, in a Turkish dress, and known as “a boy with a turban,” gained notice and excited observation. Hudson, perhaps nourishing the old wound in his breast, declared that the youth’s painting was not so good as when he left England; an eminent disciple of Kneller denounced it, as not the least like Sir Godfrey’s――it would never answer; and others were by no means sparing in sharp and invidious strictures. The artist was as little guided by such remarks as was the disinherited knight by the well-meant hints of the crowd around the lists at Ashby; but, moving onward undismayed, he soon convinced the public that he would pursue his chosen course and win high renown in doing so. He painted the second Duke of Devonshire with a success which extended his reputation in patrician circles; and universal attention was attracted by the noble picture which he executed of his friend and patron, Lord Keppel. But still his celebrity was too recent to be secure against the winds and tides of capricious fashion, and a rival artist entered the field. This was a Genevan, named Liotard, described as having little skill and no genius, but who, by the patronage of persons of rank, was elevated to an ephemeral and unmerited position. His works were wanting in vigor――in fact, such as ladies paint for amusement; and they might have passed with credit in an amateur exhibition. Such was the man before whom the star of Reynolds, for a moment, paled, ere it shone fully and inextinguishably forth. This unequal competitor had his little day; and then, deserted by those who had mistakenly supported his pretensions, he sank into the obscurity for which nature had intended him, and retreated to the Continent.

Reynolds was a thorough Englishman. In other lands he had, with all his outward coldness, shed tears on hearing the ancient ballad tunes of his country played in the theatre; and his heart must now have swelled with no small pride at the reflection that it was the first time a native of England had been victorious in such a contest. The aspirations which, for years, he had fondly cherished, were now to be gratified; and he could rejoice in the thought that future generations would gaze with wonder on his paintings, and hold his name in veneration. To pursue his career with befitting dignity, he took an advantageous house in Great Newport Street, where he lived for eight years. The grace and felicity of his former efforts brought him abundant employment; his rooms were filled with noble ladies and famous men; and his popularity rapidly grew and increased. He was a diligent observer and student of life and manners, had amassed a large store of general information, and could appreciate the taste and capacity of his sitters sufficiently to speak the appropriate word to each. He ever seized on the happiest attitude, and thus transferred to his canvas the most fascinating glance of the beauty, the liveliest expression of the wit, and the most thoughtful look of the judge or statesman. His confidence in his own powers strengthened with experience; and every new effort was hailed with encouraging applause.

On the occasion of a visit to his native county, Reynolds accidentally laid his hand on Johnson’s “Life of Savage;” and standing by the fire, he leant his arm against the mantle-piece, opened the book, and began to look through it. Gradually he became so completely absorbed with the contents, that he continued in this position till he had perused the volume; and then found his arm quite benumbed, his heart almost enchanted, and his curiosity raised to be acquainted with the author. This satisfaction was not long denied him. They met at the house of the daughters of Admiral Cotterell, and Reynolds was as much delighted with the conversation of his great contemporary as he had formerly been interested in his pages. Moreover, he had the good fortune to make a remark which won, with irresistible effect, on the heart of the sage. The ladies were mournfully deploring the death of a friend to whom they were under many obligations; “You have, however, the comfort,” suggested Reynolds, with grave politeness, “of being relieved from the burden of gratitude.”

“Oh, how shocking and selfish!” exclaimed the sisterhood; but the man who had lived on a groat a day, and stood behind greasy screens to conceal his worn-out clothes, appreciated this remark as being that of a person who thought and decided for himself. He therefore defended its justice in a clear and forcible manner, though, perhaps, without conveying conviction to the minds of the decorous spinsters. At all events, he was so pleased with his new friend that they left the party together. Johnson went and supped at Reynold’s house; and thus was commenced an intimacy which was only terminated by death. Johnson became a frequent visitor, and went without ceremony to enjoy the great painter’s society, who, on his part, declared that no one had, like his illustrious friend, the faculty of teaching inferior minds the art of thinking.

There is not, perhaps, in the wide world, so full of guile and selfishness, a fairer field for the cultivation of friendship than that which lies between the studio of the painter and the desk of the man of letters. There is little ground for envy, but many incitements to a generous rivalry; and the intercourse must be peculiarly advantageous if the artist is endowed with poetic perception, and the author gifted with an artistic eye. Reynolds and Johnson no doubt experienced, in their respective pursuits, the benefit of their familiar meetings, altogether independently of the pleasure derived from those hours of social enjoyment which were irradiated by the matchless discourse of Burke, and enlivened by the ludicrous displays of Goldsmith. His friendship with Johnson led to Reynolds furnishing three papers for the “Idler”――his first essay in literary composition, and in which may be traced the ideas which grew into his lectures. The effort cost him much thought and trouble: he sat up writing them all night, and had a sharp illness in consequence. Besides this contribution to the “Idler,” he supplied some notes to Johnson’s “Shakspeare,” published in 1705.

The year 1758 was, in a pecuniary point of view, one of the most fortunate that Reynolds ever experienced; and he soon gave signs of his prosperity by purchasing a mansion in Leicester Square, which he inhabited ever after. It was a maxim with him, that an artist who marries is ruined for life; and he seems to have guarded the passes to his heart with singular vigilance, as we do not read of any fair damsel making havoc in its chambers, though it is quite possible that some early disappointment may have created this rare aversion to matrimony. But whatever the origin of his prejudice on this point, there is no question that a sensible woman who, without being ambitious of prematurely dissipating her natural roses at midnight parties, can take a becoming part in the innocent gayeties which brighten the human heart, is a pearl of price; and why the artist should be the worse of such an enviable companion any more than a poet or orator, is a question which does stagger plain men, as it would, perhaps, have puzzled the most philosophic of British painters. He acted on his principle by living and dying a bachelor; but, in accordance with the custom at that period pursued by men of the middle class, he placed one of his sisters at the end of his board and in charge of his domestic concerns: thus attempting to secure the comforts of a home without being subject to connubial responsibility. Miss Reynolds, it appears, scarcely realized or sustained the character of a perfect spinster. She was possessed of great wit and talent; and though remarkable for her good sense, she was too much given to essays of her skill in poetry and painting to make a model housekeeper. Thus the internal affairs were not conducted with any excessive taste or regularity; and the table was distinguished chiefly by a rough plenty; little regard being paid to order or arrangement. The dinner was generally a scramble, in which the host took little or no concern; and the guests looked sharply after their own interests. There was no splendor but great abundance. Ease was more valued than comfort or elegance. Nevertheless, Reynolds had furnished his new residence with much propriety, besides adding a handsome gallery for the exhibition of his paintings, and an elegant dining-room, often the scene of “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” There the literary giant of the day rolled his unwieldy body, bit his dirty nails, and poured out his copious talk; though often a little cowed by being face to face with that profound political sage and prophet who alone could encounter the huge author of “Rasselas” with advantage. Side by side were the greatest actor of the day, and the restorer of that English ballad-poetry which fascinated the young genius of the mightiest of dead and the most accomplished of living novelists. In an uneasy posture, “staring right on,” was that extraordinary being “who could write like an angel, but talk like poor Poll.” With eyes reverentially fixed on men whom he could admire without comprehending, stood Boswell, the minute chronicler of their sayings and doings; while the master of the house――mild, gentle, and unassuming, round in feature, florid in complexion, and of middle stature――listened with lively, but calm and refined intelligence, to the colloquial conflict of the wonderful specimens of the human race whose features his easel has, in immortal colors, transmitted to posterity.

It is doubtless a proud day with most persons who have struggled into affluence, when they can set up an equipage of their own. Pepys, in his gossiping diary, relates the mighty pleasure he felt when that joyous day arrived for him; when he could disdain the humble shelter of a hackney-coach, and drive about the park in his own chariot, even at the disadvantage of having his pretty wife eyed with menacing admiration by a royal duke. Reynolds conceived that the time had now arrived when he might decorously indulge in a carriage, which he had magnificently carved and gilded, the four seasons being emblazoned on its panels. The pride and propriety of Miss Reynolds were shocked at this display. “It is far too showy,” she complained with good reason. “What!” exclaimed the owner, as he regarded his purchase with calm complacency――“would you have a carriage like an apothecary’s?”

In 1762, the health of Reynolds rendering relaxation and a rural excursion necessary, he repaired to Devonshire, accompanied by Dr. Johnson, who thus had a favorable opportunity of seeing Plymouth, in which he expressed particular interest. Falstaff regaling himself with cheese and carraway pippins in Justice Shallow’s orchard, or the Spectator enjoying the ancient hospitality of Coverley Hall, are hardly more than equal in interest to the sage of Bolt Court, who knew human nature only as exhibited in the streets and suburbs of London, being refreshed with an adventure in the country. The two friends were received with no small respect by men of rank, learning, and distinction; and entertained at the seats of several noblemen in the west of England. One of their hosts indulged Johnson with a feast on new honey and clouted cream, of which the moralist partook in such quantities, that the hospitable individual grew exceedingly alarmed for the consequences. Reynolds bore off a prize of another kind――a large jar of old nut-oil, which was carried home in his coach as a valuable trophy. The change of air had a most beneficial effect on his health, and he returned to town in a condition to pursue his labors without interruption.

Reynolds was an ardent lover of his profession; his pride in art was high, and he was ever ready, when there was occasion, to stand forward in its defense. But his character was cold and stately; he deemed it impossible for two artists in the same line to associate in friendship: he thought Poetry the twin-sister of Painting, and found his companions chiefly among literary men. It was natural, therefore, that when the Literary Club was established in 1764, he should have been one of its members. A man, however, is known by the company he keeps; and Reynolds was disagreeably surprised to hear himself spoken of as “one of the wits.” Perhaps the term did not convey the most pleasing sensation to a person with a coach of his own and six thousand a year; and he exclaimed, in alarm, “Why do they call me a wit? I never was a wit in my life!”

His commissions had gradually become so numerous, that he found it necessary to have several assistants to work out the minor details: he had arrived on an enviable eminence; and though artists of ability made their appearance, he still maintained his supremacy, and constantly struck out wonders to vindicate his claim to the favor of the public. In 1766 he painted the Queen of Denmark, before she sailed on her ill-fated voyage. Coming events cast their shadows before; and he never went without finding the hapless princess in tears. Reynolds increased in wealth and reputation; his enthusiasm for art never cooled into indifference, and he was never so happy as when putting life into canvas. He rose betimes, and commenced operations; he spoke little when occupied, but painted rapidly for six hours, and devoted the remainder to society. He was animated by warm affections, and had a strong love for children.

Reynolds was not one of the originators of the Royal Academy; but in 1768, when it was instituted, he was waited on by West, and requested to give his aid in promoting the objects which the undertaking was intended to serve. He was rather doubtful whether the scheme was likely to be favored by Fortune; and he was one of those who had no relish for engaging in an enterprise,

“Save when her humorous ladyship was by
To teach him safety.”

It was, therefore, after considerable hesitation, and a conference of two hours, that he was persuaded to accompany the American artist. Then ordering his carriage, he drove to the place where the promoters were assembled. On entering the room he was saluted by all present as “President;” but being still convinced that the scheme would prove a delusion, he declined to accept the honor thus voted to him by acclamation, till he had consulted Burke and Johnson, who advised him to consent. The king, whose aid had at first been regarded as doubtful, came forward to offer the Academy his royal patronage; and that it might have the semblance of greater dignity, its president was forthwith invested with the rank of knighthood. The latter was, by no means, backward in fulfilling the functions with which he had been so cautious in burdening himself. Of his own accord he undertook the duty of preparing and reading discourses on the principles and practice of art, for the instruction and guidance of the students. Of these he wrote fifteen; the delivery of which extended over several years. They were pronounced by Sir Thomas Lawrence to be “golden precepts, which are now acknowledged as canons of universal taste.”

In 1773 Reynolds paid visits to Paris and Oxford. At the latter place he received, amidst much applause, the honorary degree of Doctor of Laws, in company with Dr. Beattie, of whom he produced a celebrated picture on returning to London. About the same date he went to his native district, and was elected mayor of Plympton. This mark of esteem from his townsmen seems to have given him particular pleasure. Accidentally meeting with the king shortly after, at Hampton Court, he stated that it had afforded him more satisfaction than any distinction he had met with: “Always,” he added, with the skill of a courtier, “excepting that which your majesty graciously conferred on me――the honor of knighthood.”

Sir Joshua was chosen a member of the Academy of Florence, and, in accordance with its rules, required to furnish a portrait of himself. This he accomplished with his wonted success; and it was added with pride to their interesting collection.

In 1780 he commenced a series of allegorical figures for the window of the New College chapel at Oxford. These were followed by the “Nativity,” which being sold to the Duke of Rutland, perished in a fire at Belvoir Castle. About this time he made a tour to inspect the Continental galleries. On returning, he sustained a paralytic attack, which much alarmed his friends, but his recovery was speedy; and he quickly proved that his powers had suffered no decay, by the production of his “Fortune-teller,” his portrait of Miss Kemble, and that of Mrs. Siddons, in the full might of her beauty and power, as the Tragic Muse. While engaged with the latter, he wrote his name on the border of her robe; and on the great actress looking at the words, and smiling, he remarked, with one of his most courtly bows, that he could not lose such an opportunity of sending his name down to posterity on the hem of her garment. When at work, he is said to have been in the habit of using enormous quantities of snuff. Thus, while occupied with the large picture of the Marlborough family at Blenheim, a servant was ordered by the duchess to sweep up the snuff that he had let fall on the carpet. However, when the man entered with a broom, Sir Joshua quietly requested him to let it remain till he had finished; observing, that the dust would do more harm to his painting, than the snuff could possibly do to the carpet.

On the death of Allan Ramsay, the king’s painter, Reynolds was, at the request of his majesty, induced to accept the vacant office. He soon after produced “Love unloosing the Zone of Beauty,” and a portrait of the notorious Duke of Orleans. Then he gave his time and attention to painting the “Infant Hercules Strangling the Serpents,” for the Empress of Russia; who acknowledged his attention by a note of thanks from her own imperial hand, a gold snuff-box, on which was her likeness, and a purse of fifteen hundred guineas.

Sir Joshua had now reached his sixty-sixth year; his fame was high; his influence on the taste and refinement of the country was not disputed; and his artistic powers remained unimpaired. His career had indeed been characterized by the strictness and temperance essential to the possession of “a healthy body and a vigorous mind;” he had realized a fortune; he had associated with the noble and beautiful of the land; and his wealth, his heavy purse, and hospitable table, gave him dignity in the eyes not only of many who were incapable of appreciating his merits, but of others to whom his fine abilities were no mystery. But his days were numbered. In the month of July, 1789, while finishing a portrait of Lady Hertford, he was aware of a sudden loss of sight in his left eye; and, laying down his pencil for the last time, he sat for a while in sad and pensive reflection. Goldsmith had already been laid at rest in the Temple Church; the eyes of Burke had overflowed with tears, and his voice faltered by the death-bed of Johnson; and the immortal painter was ere long to follow. He in a short time altogether lost the sight of his left eye, and determined to paint no more; yet under this affliction he strove to appear happy, cheerful, and resigned. His illness was borne with much fortitude, and whatever he had to suffer was endured without complaint or irritability. He amused and diverted himself in his drawing-room by changing the position of his pictures, and exhibiting them to his friends. Besides, like some imprisoned knight of old, he took a fanciful liking for a little bird, which became so tame and docile that it perched on his hand, while he fed and talked to it almost as he would have done to a human being. At length, one bright summer morning, the feathered warbler made its escape by an open window; and Sir Joshua was so inconsolable for the loss, that he roamed for hours about Leicester Square in the hope of seeing and recovering so harmless and cheerful a companion.

On the occasion of the gold medals being bestowed on the students of the Academy in 1790, Sir Joshua went thither for the last time, with all due pomp and circumstance, to deliver an address. With unabated admiration, he recalled to their memory the triumphs achieved by the genius of his great idol, and concluded by earnestly desiring that the last words he should pronounce from the presidential chair might be the name of Michael Angelo. The crowd being unusually large, a beam in the floor gave way with a loud crash. All rushed to the door, stumbling over each other, except the venerable president, who remained silent, composed, and dignified. Fortunately no damage was done, and the proceedings were resumed.

Sir Joshua offered to the Royal Academy his collection of paintings by the great masters at a low price. But, much to his mortification and amazement, his proposal was declined; and he exhibited them publicly in the Haymarket for the benefit of his servant Ralph. This transaction gave rise to the suspicion that Reynolds shared in the profits; and two lines of Butler――

“A squire he had whose name was Ralph,
Who in the adventure went one-half,”――

were applied with audacious and merciless malevolence. He was soon beyond the reach of such assailants and their weapons of offense. After a visit to Beaconsfield, the residence of his mighty friend Burke, his health and spirits sunk with the rapidity which frequently heralds a speedy dissolution; and on the 23d of February, 1792, he expired, with little apparent pain, in the sixty-ninth year of his prosperous life. His body was laid in St. Paul’s Cathedral, by the side of Sir Christopher Wren; and a monument, graven by Flaxman, has since been erected to his memory.

SIR FRANCIS CHANTREY.

The artistic genius of England, however potent and exuberant it may be, has never been so freely or prominently displayed in sculpture as in poetry or painting; nor has it had equal encouragement. The creations of the sculptor’s fancy and the emanations of his skill, unquestionable as may be their merits and real their beauties, have never ranked very high in the favor of the multitude. Many, whose sympathy might otherwise be followed by more substantial tokens, understand full well that a portrait costs less, and is more readily appreciated by their neighbors, than a marble bust; and even with those few who pride themselves in rivaling the Medici in their patronage of art, and lay the flattering unction to their souls that they know something about it, the popularity of sculpture is by no means excessive. But the name of Chantrey is one which his countrymen have reason to regard with patriotic pride and satisfaction. He formed his style on the beauty and manliness of his native land; he was thoroughly her own. His taste in this respect was created when the inhabitant――while a boy――of a quiet and secluded village; and it was adhered to with splendid results when he was depicting statesmen, warriors, orators, and poets――our Pitts, Wellingtons, Grattans, and Scotts. Instead of struggling in vain to recall cold shapes and uncongenial visions from remote antiquity and distant realms, he embodied in simple but fascinating works, for the instruction and gratification of native talent and taste, the life, manners, and costume which came around him in his daily existence. Thus his works are not only more popular than those of the sculptors who had preceded him, but they are fitted to excite no small portion of that sympathy which one feels when gazing on the canvas, whereon the features of some distinguished man or beautiful woman have been gloriously portrayed by the pencil of Reynolds or Raeburn. His success in this line first secured him general notice; and they are not inferior to any that ever were produced; while his statues executed for public places, with those singularly plain and unadorned pedestals, wisely calculated not to detract from the effect of the more important part of the composition, exhibit surpassing grace and vigor of outline. The story of a great sculptor’s life can, with rare exceptions, be soon told; his existence being unmarked except by the works which he sends into the busy world from his solitary, secluded, and laborious studio.

Francis Chantrey was born on the 7th of April, 1782, at Norton, a little village in the county of Derby. His father, a stout and sagacious yeoman, cultivated with frugal industry the small estate he was fortunate enough to possess; and the future sculptor doubtless delighted, when a sportive child, to lend a helping hand in the operations of the season. The worthy farmer died when his son was in boyhood, little anticipating that the latter was destined to touch the hearts of men by a process and after a fashion which were hardly dreamt of in the philosophy of the tillers of Derbyshire soil. Indeed, hardly any thing could have been more improbable; for unless it were the statues in the quaint, curious, and terraced old garden of some “large-acred” aristocrat, he had no opportunity of gazing on any specimens of art likely to excite his imagination or guide his aspirations. Nevertheless, at an almost infantine period of existence he gave indications of his natural bent; and ere long, in communion with nature and all its beauties, he was inspired by the fine feelings and ambitious desires which afterward animated his spirit to splendid efforts, and nerved his hand to resolute toil in completing the conceptions of his ardent brain. The contemplation of natural objects in all their simplicity filled his young heart and memory with lovely and charming images, which in other days contributed to his success, established his reputation, and laid the foundation of his lasting fame.

Chantrey was about eight years old when he lost his father, and was thus early deprived of the paternal influence and direction. His mother soon after yielded herself, and such charms as she could boast of, for a second time, into matrimonial bonds; and though she reared her fanciful boy with great care and tenderness, and survived to witness his artistic achievements, perhaps his exhibitions of talent and inclination were less attended to than they might otherwise have been. However, he was educated with the ordinary solicitude, though to what precise extent does not appear.

On leaving school, he was occupied with agricultural operations. Like the Scottish poet, Burns, he could hold the plow to some purpose, as in after life he used to relate. Besides, he accomplished feats in mowing; in the barn wielded his flail with signal prowess, and, doubtless, found favor in the eyes of those laughing rustic beauties, who look so enchanting and leap joyously at hay-makings and harvest-homes. But whether his friends and acquaintances regarded him as one _gaudentem patrios findere sarculo agros_, or the reverse, he had long since began to develop a turn for art, by making various models in clay for amusement, though without any idea that it would ever create for him a splendid reputation, and conduct him to a position of dignity and honor. At this period, no doubt, he caught among those steep Derby Hills, celebrated in verse, that love of field-sports which ever actuated him. He liked the exercise and delighted in the recreation. He became a keen fisher, an excellent shot, and had a fancy for dogs. In after life, and on fitting occasions, he was almost as indefatigable in rural sports as in his professional exertions; and in the indulgence of his humor in this respect he was not daunted or deterred by unpropitious weather.

When Chantrey had arrived in his seventeenth year, his relations deemed it proper to take his prospects into their serious consideration; and they came to the conclusion of placing him in an attorney’s office at Sheffield. Thither, therefore, he was conducted with that object; and had it been realized, his artistic predilections might speedily have altogether vanished; but

“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them as we may.”

The intention of Chantrey’s guardians and his apparent destination were changed by an accident, which, though seemingly trifling in itself, was of the utmost importance in his career. He was passing along the street, and staring about with all the wonder of a youthful peasant, when suddenly some figures in the window of a shop arrested his eye, and filled his heart with an irrepressible longing to be a carver of wood. This wish he repeated with so much ardor and earnestness, that his friends saw reason to accede to a desire, which was evidently the result of no mere ephemeral sentiment. They had, of course, as little idea of sculpture as they had of the moon, or the north pole, or the Chinese empire. A picture, indeed, they could have admired. A lady shining on the painter’s canvas, in all the pride of gems and rich attire, would have raised their wonder: but the severity of marble catches not the popular fancy; and had the boy’s tendency been explained, they would still have been in the dark as to what he would be at. Luckily, common sense taught them that it would be downright stupidity to place at the dreary desk a lad whose heart was set upon a very different occupation from that of copying deeds. They, therefore, consented to his being apprenticed to a wood-carver in the town; and he entered on that course which led him on, from small beginnings, to affluence and celebrity. It happened that at his new master’s house he had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of a distinguished draughtsman in crayon, and immediately exhibited a lively interest in that individual’s occupations. He took infinite pleasure in seeing him paint, and was careful to make himself as useful and agreeable as was in his power. In this way he soon felt ambitious of following art as a profession, in some higher field than that to which his labors were then confined. He had already made all the progress in carving which, under the circumstances, could be achieved by skill, perseverance, and enthusiasm. During the intervals of business he did not waste or dissipate an hour of his precious time, but was constantly at study; and even at the midnight hour he might have been found in his lodgings, with a light burning, engaged with groups and figures, and working with the utmost spirit and the rarest diligence.

This system did not exactly quadrate with the views of his employer, who, naturally enough, wished his pupil to be a workman and not an artist. Moreover, Chantrey, finding his tastes in this respect perpetually thwarted, and his desire becoming uncontrollable, grew much too enthusiastic in his aspirations to be longer limited or restrained by ordinary circumstances. Therefore, though only six months of his term of servitude remained unexpired, with the impatience of genius he gave his master all the wealth he possessed to cancel the indentures, gained a little money by taking portraits, repaired to London, and, thus thrown into the mighty vortex, determined to triumph. But with the hereditary caution and common sense, which were finely exhibited by him throughout life, he made “the hardest circumstance a helper and a slave,” and at first sought employment as assistant to a wood-carver, that he might live by the craft he had resolved to leave, while pursuing those studies that were so nobly rewarded, rather than make any premature attempt to win that fame which he instinctively felt must one day be his in no small measure.

He reached the metropolis in his twenty-second year, and shortly after his arrival was induced to pay a visit to Ireland, with the intention of making a tour through that country; but while in Dublin he suffered so severely from a fever, that his life was for some time despaired of. Fortunately, he was restored to health, and returned to London, having during the illness lost his hair, which he never recovered. His appearance was fine and prepossessing; his mouth was beautifully formed; and he was complimented on bearing a remarkable resemblance to the greatest of English dramatists. In disposition he was frank, fearless, and communicative; and his affability and familiarity in company were acknowledged: but, at the same time, he was a man of the world, and would never, for a momentary triumph, commit himself by a conversational indiscretion.

On returning from the “Green Isle,” and having about the same period made an excursion to the Continent, he devoted himself with zeal, anxiety, and earnestness, to his professional studies and pursuits. He still continued the occupation of a certain portion of his time as a carver, and executed several figures in wood, which are still in existence as interesting memorials of the great sculptor’s earlier career. Doubtless he had his struggles, and did not forget them when better times came. On the contrary, he was ever prompt to encourage rising artists; he excused their shortcomings, and recommended their works; and when unable otherwise to serve them, though not in any respect negligent of his pecuniary concerns, he was not slow to use his purse for that purpose. Neglecting no means which might aid him in ascending the steep and slippery pathways of fame, he turned his attention to portrait-painting, and obtained some notice on account of the success of his efforts. But, like Pope, he found an insuperable barrier to excellence in the defectiveness of his sight.

Meantime he had continued his exertions and improved his powers in that department of art with which his name is now associated, by modeling the human form in clay, and arraying it with pieces of drapery, studying attentively the best and most picturesque attitudes in which it could be represented. One of his first works was a bust of Mr. Raphael Smith the artist, whose paintings had exercised so much influence on his early career; but it was that of the celebrated Horne Took which gained him fame in the metropolis. Then appeared his colossal head of Satan, which, by its gaze of dark and malignant despair, attracted notice; and the artist had reason to look to the future with hope.

When Flaxman ventured on marrying a very accomplished woman, Sir Joshua Reynolds shook his head at the perpetration of such a piece of eccentricity, and frankly told the struggling sculptor that he had thereby ruined himself for life. The spirit of prophecy did not, however, rest on Leicester Square, for to the inspiration of his wife Flaxman attributed his subsequent successes. Example is more powerful than precept; and Chantrey profiting, perhaps, by that so spiritedly set by his more classical contemporary, resolved on taking a similar step.

In 1811 he married his cousin, who brought him so considerable a fortune, that he was enabled to pursue the success he had achieved with a feeling of greater security; and he was soon intrusted by the city of London to execute the statue of George the Third, to be placed in the council-chamber at Guildhall, as well as with many private commissions, which added to his reputation.

He now undertook a professional tour in Scotland, and executed, besides other works, statues of the famous Lord Melville and Lord President Blair, as also an admirable bust of Professor Playfair, for Edinburgh; and on returning, he was commissioned by Government to execute some monuments for St. Paul’s Cathedral.

About this date, Chantrey had the penetration to perceive and the fortune to secure in Allan Cunningham, the popular biographer of British artists, an assistant who united literary capacity and a fertile pen to the shrewdness and indefatigability usually supposed to appertain to the natives of North Britain. That Scottish adventurer, the son of a gardener to the person from whom Burns rented his farm, after having been apprenticed to a builder, composed a volume of songs, and came to push his fortune in London. He was now engaged by Chantrey, who had a sharp eye to his own interest, as clerk in his studio, and superintendent of his works.