braggadocio in his nature. Witness his vain boast, when, after some
successful encounter with the English, he attached a broom to his main
mast, at a time when our superiority as a naval power was almost
universally admitted.
Van Tromp had one brother, and an only sister, who had been christened
by her father (in commemoration of one of his victories, at the time
of her birth) by the following names, ‘Anna Maria Victoria Hardensis
Trompensis-Dunensis.’ We sincerely hope, for the sake of her
playmates, that the young lady had at least one nickname.
[Illustration]
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[Illustration]
DRAWING-ROOM.
[Illustration]
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DRAWING-ROOM.
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_No. 1._
LADY CAROLINE COWPER.
_Red gown. Black and white cloak._
BORN 1733, DIED 1773.
BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
THE only daughter of William, second Earl Cowper, by Lady Henrietta
Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Married in 1753 to
Henry Seymour, Esq. of Sherborne, Redland Court, and Northbrook,
nephew to the Duke of Somerset. They had two daughters,—Caroline, wife
to Mr. Danby of Swinton Park, county York (who bequeathed this picture
to Lord Cowper), and Georgiana, married to the Comte de Durfort,
Ambassador at Venice.
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_No. 2._
MRS. SAMUEL REYNOLDS.
_Green gown, with short sleeves. Holding a basket._
A STUDY BY OPIE.
MISS JANE COWING married in 1793 Samuel Reynolds, who became
identified with his great namesake, Sir Joshua, by his beautiful and
delicate engraving of the works of that master, and of many other
celebrated painters. His son and daughter were also artists in oil and
miniature, and his grandchildren still keep up the character of the
family for the love and practice of art. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were
intimate friends and constant guests of Lord and Lady John Townshend
at Balls Park, Hertford, where the agreeable and versatile talents of
the former, and the gentle and kindly disposition of the latter,
ensured them a cordial welcome. They were also occasional visitors to
Panshanger, and it is easy to imagine how fully the treasures of this
noble gallery must have been appreciated by the practised eye and
refined taste of Samuel Reynolds.
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_No. 3._
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.
_Red coat. Fur collar. No spectacles._
BORN 1723, DIED 1792.
BY HIMSELF.
BORN at Plymouth, where his father, Samuel, was master of the
Grammar-School. His mother was Theophila Potter, of Bishops Plympton,
South Molton, who had many children. Samuel Reynolds was a good man,
and sensible withal; yet we are told, on the authority of a maid who
lived in the family, that he was given to astrology, and would go out
on the house-top to consult the stars; moreover, that he once cast the
horoscope of a little daughter, for whom he predicted a violent
death,—a prophecy which was, unfortunately, fulfilled, as the child
fell out of a window, and was killed. When only eight years old,
Joshua had benefited so much by studying Richardson’s treatise on
Perspective, that he was enabled to draw the schoolhouse according to
rule, a feat which much delighted his father. The boy also busied
himself in copying all the engravings he could lay hands on, more
especially a volume of Catt’s Emblems, which his grandmother had
brought with her from Holland. His sisters had all a turn for drawing,
and the little band of artists used to decorate the whitewashed walls
of the passages with designs in charcoal, whereof the least admired
were the brother’s handiworks. Indeed, in those days Joshua was not
considered a prophet by his sisters, who had nicknamed him ‘The
clown,’—a sobriquet certainly not applicable to him in after life.
Mrs. Parker, a friend and neighbour of the Reynolds family, sent the
children a present of pencils,—a gift which the great painter lived to
pay back with interest, for the walls of Saltram are rich in his
paintings. When about twelve years of age, Joshua is said to have made
his first essay in oils under considerable difficulties,—the portrait
of Richard (afterwards Lord) Edgecumbe,—in the boat-house on Cremel
Beach, below Mount Edgecumbe. This work was executed on the rough
canvas of a boat-sail, with the common paints used by shipwrights!
After much consultation with friends and relations, and many pecuniary
obstacles, Joshua proceeded to London as an apprentice to Hudson, the
fashionable portrait-painter of the day, son-in-law to Richardson,
whose writings on Art had been so useful to the young beginner.
Shortly after his departure, his father writes to a friend that no one
could be more delighted than the dear fellow with his new life, his
master, his employment,—indeed, he was in the seventh heaven.
Joshua was an enthusiast in all things, and a characteristic anecdote
is told of him when he first went to London. Hudson sent him to a
picture sale, on a commission to make a purchase, when a whisper ran
through the crowded room—‘Mr. Pope! Mr. Pope!’ A passage was instantly
made for the great man, and Joshua, in a fever of excitement,
stretched out his hand under the arm of the person who stood before
him, desirous even to touch the hem of the poet’s garment. To his
delight, his hand was warmly shaken by the man whose homely but
expressive features, and poetical creations, he was destined to
portray in later days.
Reynolds left Hudson’s studio before his apprenticeship had expired,
for which step many reasons were assigned at the time by those who,
perhaps, were not in possession of the truth. Some said his master was
unkind to him, from a feeling of jealousy; but as both father and son
(Reynolds) remained on friendly terms with the painter, this does not
appear probable. Joshua went down to Plymouth, and painted all the
remarkable people in the neighbourhood, including the greatest
dignitary of all,—the Commissioner of the dockyard!
In 1746 his father died, and when the household broke up, he went to
live with his two unmarried sisters at Plymouth. It was here he made
the acquaintance of Commodore Keppel, whose portrait is so well known
and so justly admired. This gallant sailor had been appointed to the
command of the Mediterranean Fleet, and intrusted with a diplomatic
mission, before he had completed his twenty-fourth year. He met Joshua
at Mount Edgecumbe, and proposed to take him for a cruise, an offer
that was gladly accepted. After visiting Portugal, the Balearic Isles,
and different portions of the Italian coast, the young painter took
leave of the Commodore, and proceeded on a prolonged tour through all
the principal towns of Italy, carefully admiring, studying, copying,
and writing essays on all the treasures of art in his progress. His
long and patient worship of Raphael, in the chambers of the Vatican,
cost him one of his senses, for the extreme cold of those vast
apartments brought on a chill, which deprived him of hearing, even at
that early age. Returning to London, he established himself in St.
Martin’s Lane, in a house formerly occupied by Sir James Thornhill,
immediately behind which stood the school for drawing and design. He
now wrote to his sister Frances to come up from Devonshire, and keep
house for him,—a proceeding which, judging from the character given of
that lady by Madame D’Arblay (whose testimony we are always inclined
to take _cum grano_), appeared to be of questionable advantage, for
Miss Fanny, though a person of worth and understanding, lived in a
perpetual state of irresolution of mind and perplexity of
conduct,—what in these days we should call a chronic fuss; added to
which, she insisted on being an artist, and her admiration for her
brother’s works induced her to make what she called ‘copies,’ and
Joshua ‘caricatures.’ ‘Indeed,’ said he wofully, ‘Fanny’s copies make
me cry, and other people laugh.’ She had also a knack of taking
offence on the slightest provocation, and one day, being displeased
with her brother for some imaginary slight put upon her, she deputed
Samuel Johnson to compose an expostulatory letter for her to write to
Joshua. Dr. Johnson was a warm admirer of Miss Fanny and her talent
for tea-making,—to which he did full justice,—and could deny her
nothing; but when the copy of the letter was read and discussed, the
style was so unmistakably masculine and Johnsonian, that it was deemed
advisable not to send it.
Our painter’s hands were now full. Men and women of all classes,
denominations, and reputations, thronged his studio; his pocket-book
was a perfect record of all the illustrious and celebrated names of
the period. He determined to change his quarters, first to Newport
Street, and finally to far more commodious apartments in Leicester
Square. He raised his prices, charging twelve guineas for a head, and
forty-eight for a full-length. He set up a magnificent coach, which
caused a great sensation. Northcote flippantly describes it as an
advertisement; but it would appear more likely that Reynolds wished to
do Catton a good turn. Catton had begun life as a decorator, and ended
as an R.A. The vehicle was splendid in colour and gorgeous in gilding,
and Catton soon received orders to paint royal and municipal
carriages. Joshua was far too busy to take the air in his new
equipage, and it was in vain he entreated Miss Fanny to do so. She was
much too shy, she said, to attract the eyes of the whole town.
We do not require to be told that Sir Joshua was a friend and
playfellow of children. None but a lover could have painted in all
their winning varieties, not merely the comeliness, but the roguish
grace, the dimpled smiles, the ‘beautifully shy’ glances, of
childhood. It is easy to picture him paying court to these juvenile
charmers, and entering into delightful small flirtations. But the
history of one of these tender passages will suffice to give an idea
of the course he usually pursued. The parents of the beautiful little
Miss Bowles, with whose sweet face we are all familiar, had settled
that their darling should sit to Romney. But Sir George Beaumont
recommended Reynolds for the privilege. The little lady was shy and
coy. ‘Invite him to dinner,’ said Sir George. The President came, and
sat at table by the daughter of the house. He paid her the most
assiduous court; no end of stories; no end of tricks; her plate was
juggled away and brought back from unexpected quarters. Her senses
were dazzled; the conquest was complete; she thought him the most
captivating of men, and was only too ready to be taken to his house
next day. There, seated on the floor in an ecstasy of expectation and
delight, she gave herself up to Sir Joshua’s fascinations. He seized
his opportunity, caught the radiant expression, fastened it on the
canvas, and made his little friend immortal! No one gloried more in
the success of the young painter than Samuel Johnson, for between
these two great men, so essentially different in pursuits, in
character, intellect, and appearance, a tender friendship had sprung
up. Reynolds’s heart, home, and purse were always at the service of
the Doctor, who was often in pecuniary difficulties, and who wrote
_Rasselas_ under the pressure of great sorrow, paying the expenses of
his mother’s funeral out of the proceeds of the book. He puts these
touching words into the mouth of Imlac: ‘I have neither mother to
delight in the reputation of her son, or wife to share in the honours
of her husband.’
Many a delightful summer excursion did Johnson and Reynolds make
together, where the eccentricities and caustic humour of the former
made him as welcome a guest at the country houses they visited as the
refined qualities and polished manners of the latter.
If the peculiarities, the sayings, and doings of the great ‘leviathan
of literature’ have been made familiar to us by the pen of Boswell,
surely the pencil of Reynolds has stamped his image on our minds, as
if the living Samuel had ever stood before us. Boswell recognised the
Doctor when he saw him first through a glass door in Tom Davies’s
coffee-house from his exact resemblance to the portrait which the
painter afterwards gave the biographer, who had it engraved for one of
the first editions of Johnson’s Life. What can be more charming than
‘The Infant Johnson,’ one of the chief glories of the Bowood
collection? Was ever a joke so wonderfully delineated?
The question being raised one evening at a convivial meeting, Could
the Doctor ever have been a baby? ‘No doubt about it,’ said Reynolds;
‘I know exactly what he looked like, and I will show you some day.’
The painter was a great admirer of Johnson’s powers of conversation,
and it was chiefly at his instigation that the Literary Club was
formed, with a view ‘of giving the Doctor the opportunity of talking,
and us, his friends, of listening.’ The meetings were held in Gerrard
Street, Soho, and were at first confined to twelve members, but ere
long included all the wit and literature of the town.
Sir Joshua liked cards, masquerades, and theatres. Neither did he
disdain the illegitimate drama, for we find him accompanying the
sapient Samuel and the rollicking Oliver (Goldsmith) to a performance
of the Italian Fantoccini; and, still more surprising, we have the
account of the supper which crowned this convivial evening, when
Goldsmith and the Doctor jumped over sticks, in imitation of the
frolics of the wooden puppets, and the latter nearly broke his leg in
these elephantine gambols!
In 1769 the Royal Academy was founded. Joshua did not join the
deputation that waited on the King; in fact, he kept aloof from the
whole undertaking, interested as he was at heart in the cause; but the
slights put upon him at Court formed a sufficient reason for his
non-appearance. From the moment that he found himself elected
President by the unanimous voice of his brother artists, his zeal
never slackened, and knew no bounds. He drew up Regulations, wrote and
revised the Catalogue, and began a regular course of lectures, which
gained him as much literary, as his paintings had secured for him
pictorial, fame. As long as Reynolds could hold a brush he contributed
his most splendid portraits to the Exhibitions. As in duty bound, he
went to the levee, where the King knighted him. ‘His very name,’ says
his friend Edmund Burke, an undoubted master of euphony, ‘seemed made
for knightly honours.’
George III. sat to him for the presentation picture to the Royal
Academy. Sir Joshua had not as much time now as formerly for his
summer excursions, whether in England or abroad. He spent most of the
day in his painting-room, or in attending to his numerous duties as
P.R.A. In the evening he gave himself up more or less to social
enjoyment, dining out constantly at clubs or private houses, or
presiding at his own table at those convivial banquets, where
oftentimes half a dozen guests were expected and a dozen appeared, and
where verily the feast of reason and the flow of soul made up for the
scarcity of the servants, knives, forks, plates, and such minor
details.
In that dining-room were gathered all the intellect and wit of the
town; and its noble master presided calmly, taking an interest in all
that came within the range of his ear-trumpet. Leicester Square was in
the centre of the disturbed district at the time of the Gordon Riots,
and the noise and hubbub were painfully audible to the painter’s
impaired hearing, and for a time interfered with the visits of his
fair sitters. On St. George’s Day 1770, Sir Joshua presided at the
first Royal Academy banquet, a festivity which was spoiled for many of
the guests by the announcement that the boy-poet Chatterton had
committed suicide.
In the ensuing year Reynolds was summoned to Windsor Castle to witness
the installation of nine Knights of the Garter, all of whom (with the
exception of two foreign Princes) had been immortalised by his pencil.
Northcote tells us that on this occasion Sir Joshua lost his laced hat
and gold watch in the crowd close to the Royal precincts,—a
circumstance which excited little astonishment in days when a boat
containing ladies and gentlemen from Vauxhall was boarded by masked
highwaymen!
A delightful addition was made in 1771 to the Leicester Square
household, in the person of his pretty niece, Theophila Palmer; and
two years later she was joined by her sister, Mary, adding that
element of youth, beauty, and good spirits which were most acceptable
to Sir Joshua himself and to all his guests. A sad blow was in store
for him in the death of his valued friend David Garrick, who was taken
ill when on a visit to Lord Spencer at Althorp, and only returned to
London to die. The whole Faculty put forth their skill to save this
darling of the public, this cherished member of private society; but
in vain. Garrick’s humour never forsook him; when almost at the point
of death, he drew a friend near him, and, pointing to the crowd of
doctors in the room, whispered these words from the ‘Fair Penitent’—
‘Another and another still succeeds,
And the last fool is welcome as the former.’
David Garrick’s funeral was a pageant. The procession included every
name remarkable for talent, rank, celebrity of all kinds and classes.
But amidst that crowd of mourners few could have grieved more deeply
than the actor’s fast friend, Joshua Reynolds.
He was indeed a good friend, and was much interested in the unhappy
Angelica Kauffmann, whom he assisted in the dissolution of her
marriage with her first husband, a swindler and an impostor. We find
by his pocket-book that she sat twice to him, and in exchange she
afterwards painted the P.R.A. for Mr. Parker of Saltram. There was a
rumour that the painter’s heart was touched by the charms of the
paintress. But Joshua was evidently not very susceptible; he was an
inveterate club man, and was immensely popular, from the geniality and
cordiality of his manners, as also (it was whispered) from the badness
of his whist-playing. He was elected for the Dilettanti Club in 1766,
and his picture of the assembled members was greatly admired, and
added considerably to his fame.
In 1782 the great painter had a paralytic seizure, though of a mild
nature, and he soon recovered sufficient energy to continue his
labours, with, if possible, increased diligence, finishing and
exhibiting some of his noblest works after this premonitory warning.
In 1784 Samuel Johnson was stricken down by the same terrible disease,
but in a much more aggravated form, leaving little hope of his
recovery. He had lost the power of speech for a time, and his first
efforts at returning articulation were to repeat the Lord’s Prayer,
and an earnest supplication that his intellect might be spared to the
last, together with a summons to his dear Joshua,—the loved companion
of so many pleasant excursions, of so many jovial and intellectual
gatherings,—of whom he took a tender farewell. The dying man made
three requests in that solemn moment: that Reynolds would paint no
more on Sundays; that he would invariably read his Bible on that day,
and other days besides; and that he would cancel the debt of £30 which
he (Johnson) owed him.
The relations between Gainsborough and Reynolds had never been very
friendly; but when the first-mentioned painter was on his deathbed, he
also sent for Sir Joshua, who says: ‘In those solemn moments all
little jealousies were forgotten, and he recognised in me one whose
tastes and pursuits were in common with his own, and of whose works he
approved.’ It should be remembered that when Gainsborough heard some
one disparaging Sir Joshua’s talent, he spoke up gallantly, and said,
‘For myself, I consider his worst pictures superior to the best of any
other painter;’ and words nearly to the same effect, on the same
subject, are recorded of Romney. Reynolds himself, being attacked on
the score of his portraits fading, laughed, and said good-humouredly,
‘Well, you must confess at all events that I have come off with
_flying_ colours.’ On the death of Ramsay, the Court painter, the post
was offered to Sir Joshua, but it required the united persuasions of
his friends to induce him to accept the office.
Reynolds had a great deal to contend with in these latter days. He had
entirely lost the sight of one eye, and was under grave apprehensions
for the safety of the other; while the conduct of many of the Royal
Academicians towards their noble President was such as to determine
him to resign his post. The King (who had just recovered from an
attack of insanity) exerted himself to persuade Reynolds to take back
his resignation. But it was not until he had received a deputation
from the Council, accompanied by apologies from some of the offenders,
that Sir Joshua consented to resume the Chair. In December 1790 he
delivered his last discourse at the Royal Academy, which he commenced
by alluding slightly and delicately to the causes which had nearly
prevented his ever occupying that place again, and assuring his
hearers that he should always remember with pride, affection, and
gratitude the support with which he had almost uniformly been honoured
since the commencement of their intercourse. He enjoined, for the last
time, the enforcement of those rules which he considered conducive to
the wellbeing of the institution.
Every eye was fixed on the speaker, every ear open to his charming,
when suddenly a loud crash plunged the whole assembly (with the
exception of the President) into alarm and confusion. There was a
general rush to the door, but when order was restored, and assurance
of safety believed, it was ascertained that a beam, which helped to
support the flooring, had given way.
Alas for the omen! The greatest prop to the grandeur of the Royal
Academy was soon to fall away in truth.
Sir Joshua remained calm and unmoved during the perturbation, and
concluded by these words: ‘I reflect, not without vanity, that these
discourses bear testimony to my admiration of a truly divine man, and
I desire that the last words I pronounce in this Academy should be the
name of Michael Angelo.’
As Reynolds descended from the Chair, Edmund Burke stepped forward,
and, taking his hand, addressed him in the words of Milton:—
‘The angel ended, and in Adam’s ear
So charming left his voice, that he a while
Thought him still speaking, and stood fixed to hear.’
‘Such a tribute, from such a man,’ says Leslie, ‘was a fitting close
to the life-work of Joshua Reynolds.’
Neither his impaired sight, his deficient hearing, or his increasing
weakness, could entirely damp the warmth of his social affections. The
last time he wielded his brush was at the request of some schoolboys,
who entreated him to paint them a flag for ‘breaking up.’
Reynolds had that love for children and domestic pets which seems
inseparable from great and good natures. He would pay the most
assiduous court, and make the most gallant advances, to some of the
exquisite little models who sat to him, till they became spellbound.
And one day, his canary having escaped from its cage, nothing would
content the P.R.A. but he must go out into the glaring sunshine, with
his weak eyes, and the green shade over them, to spend hours in
seeking and whistling for his lost favourite.
The end was approaching. His spirits became depressed, his appetite
failed, and on the evening of February 23, 1792, he concluded a
blameless life by a calm and peaceful end. The manuscript of Burke’s
obituary notice still exists, blotted with the writer’s tears. It was
written in the very house where the friends had spent so many happy
hours together. Beautiful in its touching eloquence, we regret we have
only space for a short extract:—