CHAPTER IX.

Colonel Verkhóffsky, engaged in reducing to submission the rebellious

Daghestánetzes, was encamped with his regiment at the village of

Kiáfir-Kaúmik. The tent of Ammalát Bek was erected next to his own, and

in it Saphir-Ali, lazily stretched on the carpet, was drinking the wine

of the Don, notwithstanding the prohibition of the Prophet. Ammalát Bek,

thin, pale, and pensive, was resting his head against the tent-pole,

smoking a pipe. Three months had passed since the time when he was

banished from his paradise; and he was now roving with a detachment,

within sight of the mountains to which his heart flew, but whither his

foot durst not step. Grief had worn out his strength; vexation had

poured its vial on his once serene character. He had dragged a sacrifice

to his attachment to the Russians, and it seemed as if he reproached

every Russian with it. Discontent was visible in every word, in every

glance.

"A fine thing wine!" said Saphir Ali, carefully wiping the glasses;

"surely Mahomet must have met with sour dregs in Aravéte, when he

forbade the juice of the grape to true believers! Why, really these

drops are as sweet as if the angels themselves, in their joy, had wept

their tears into bottles. Ho! quaff another glass, Ammalát; your heart

will float on the wine more lightly than a bubble. Do you know what

Hafiz has sung about it?"

"And do you know? Pray, do not annoy me with your prate, Saphir Ali: not

even under the name of Sadi and Hafiz."

"Why, what harm is there? If even this prate is my own, it is not an

earring: it will not remain hanging in your ear. When you begin your

story about your goddess Seltanetta, I look at you as at the juggler,

who eats fire, and winds endless ribbons from his cheeks. Love makes you

talk nonsense, and the Donskoi (wine of the Don) makes me do the same.

So we are quits. Now, then, to the health of the Russians!"

"What has made you like the Russians?"

"Say rather--why have you ceased to love them?"

"Because I have examined them nearer. Really they are no better than our

Tartars. They are just as eager for profit, just as ready to blame

others, and not with a view of improving their fellow-creatures, but to

excuse themselves: and as to their laziness--don't let us speak of it.

They have ruled here for a long time, and what good have they done; what

firm laws have they established; what useful customs have they

introduced; what have they taught us; what have they created here, or

what have they constructed worthy of notice? Verkhóffsky has opened my

eyes to the faults of my countrymen, but at the same time to the defects

of the Russians, to whom it is more unpardonable; because they know what

is right, have grown up among good examples, and here, as if they have

forgotten their mission, and their active nature, they sink, little by

little, into the insignificance of the beasts."

"I hope you do not include Verkhóffsky in this number."

"Not he alone, but some others, deserve to be placed in a separate

circle. But then, are there many such?"

"Even the angels in heaven are numbered, Ammalát Bek: and Verkhóffsky

absolutely is a man for whose justice and kindness we ought to thank

heaven. Is there a single Tartar who can speak ill of him? Is there a

soldier who would not give his soul for him? Abdul-Hamet, more wine! Now

then, to the health of Verkhóffsky!"

"Spare me! I will not drink to Mahomet himself."

"If your heart is not as black as the eyes of Seltanetta, you will

drink, even were it in the presence of the red-bearded Yakhoúnts of the

Shakhéeds[9] of Derbént: even if all the Imáms and Shieks not only

licked their lips but bit their nails out of spite to you for such a

sacrilege."

[9] Shakhéeds, traders of the sect of Souni. Yakhoúnt the

senior moóllah.

"I will not drink, I tell you."

"Hark ye, Ammalát: I am ready to let the devil get drunk on my blood for

your sake, and you won't drink a glass of wine for mine."

"That is to say, that I will not drink because I do not wish--and I

don't wish, because even without wine my blood boils in me like

fermenting boozá."

"A bad excuse! It is not the first time that we have drunk, nor the

first time that our blood boils. Speak plainly at once: you are angry

with the Colonel."

"Very angry."

"May I know for what?"

"For much. For some time past he has begun to drop poison into the honey

of his friendship: and at last these drops have filled and overflowed

the cup. I cannot bear such lukewarm friends! He is liberal with his

advice, not sparing with his lectures; that is, in every thing that

costs him neither risk nor trouble."

"I understand, I understand! I suppose he would not let you go to Avár!"

"If you bore my heart in your bosom you would understand how I felt when

I received such a refusal. He lured me on with that hope, and then all

at once repulsed my most earnest prayer--dashed into dust, like a

crystal kalián, my fondest hopes.... Akhmet Khan was surely softened,

when he sent word that he wished to see me; and I cannot fly to him, or

hurry to Seltanetta."

"Put yourself, brother, in his place, and then say whether you yourself

would not have acted in the same way."

"No, not so! I should have said plainly from the very beginning,

'Ammalát, do not expect any help from me.' I even now ask him not for

help. I only beg him not to hinder me. Yet no! He, hiding from me the

sun of all my joy, assures me that he does this from interest in

me--that this will hereafter bring me fortune. Is not this a fine

anodyne?"

"No, my friend! If this is really the case, the sleeping-draught is

given to you as to a person on whom they wish to perform an operation.

You are thinking only of your love, and Verkhóffsky has to keep your

honour and his own without spot; and you are both surrounded by

ill-wishers. Believe me, either thus or otherwise, it is he alone who

can cure you."

"Who asks him to cure me? This divine malady of love is my only joy: and

to deprive me of it is to tear out my heart, because it cannot beat at

the sound of a drum!"----

At this moment a strange Tartar entered the tent, looked suspiciously

round, and bending down his head, laid his slippers before

Ammalát--according to Asiatic custom, this signified that he requested a

private conversation. Ammalát understood him, made a sign with his head,

and both went out into the open air. The night was dark, the fires were

going out, and the chain of sentinels extended far before them. "Here we

are alone," said Ammalát Bek to the Tartar: "who art thou, and what dost

thou want?"

"My name is Samit: I am an inhabitant of Derbénd, of the sect of Souni:

and now am at present serving in the detachment of Mussulman cavalry. My

commission is of greater consequence to you than to me.... _The eagle

loves the mountains_!"

Ammalát shuddered, and looked suspiciously at the messenger. This was a

watchword, the key of which Sultan Akhmet had previously written to him.

"How can he but love the mountains?" ... he replied; "In the mountains

there are many lambs for the eagles, and _much silver for men_."

"_And much steel for the valiant_," (yigheeds.)

Ammalát grasped the messenger by the hand. "How is Sultan Akhmet Khan?"

he enquired hurriedly: "What news bring you from him--how long is it

since you have seen his family?"

"Not to answer, but to question, am I come.... Will you follow me?"

"Where? for what?"

"You know who has sent me. That is enough. If you trust not him, trust

not me. Therein is your will and my advantage. Instead of running my

head into a noose to-night, I can return to-morrow to the Khan, and tell

him that Ammalát dares not leave the camp."

The Tartar gained his point: the touchy Ammalát took fire. "Saphir Ali!"

he cried loudly.

Saphir Ali started up, and ran out of the tent.

"Order horses to be brought for yourself and me, even if unsaddled; and

at the same time send word to the Colonel, that I have ridden out to

examine the field behind the line, to see if some rascal is not stealing

in between the sentries. My gun and shashka in a twinkling!"

The horses were led up, the Tartar leaped on his own, which was tied up

not far off, and all three rode off to the chain. They gave the word and

the countersign, and they passed by the videttes to the left, along the

bank of the swift Azen.

Saphir Ali, who had very unwillingly left his bottle, grumbled about the

darkness, the underwood, the ditches, and rode swearing by Ammalát's

side; but seeing that nobody began the conversation, he resolved to

commence it himself.

"My ashes fall on the head of this guide! The devil knows where he is

leading us, and where he will take us. Perhaps he is going to sell us to

the Lezghíns for a rich ransom. I never trust these squinting fellows!"

"I trust but little even to those who have straight eyes," answered

Ammalát; "but this squinting fellow is sent from a friend: he will not

betray us!"

"And the very first moment he thinks of any thing like it, at his first

movement I will slice him through like a melon. Ho! friend," cried

Saphir Ali, to the guide; "in the name of the king of the genii, it

seems you have made a compact with the thorns to tear the embroidery

from my tschoukhá. Could you not find a wider road? I am really neither

a pheasant nor a fox."

The guide stopped. "To say the truth, I have led a delicate fellow like

you too far!" he answered. "Stay here and take care of the horses,

whilst Ammalát and I will go where it is necessary."

"Is it possible you will go into the woods with such a cut-throat

looking rascal, without me?" whispered Saphir Ali to Ammalát.

"That is, you are afraid to remain here _without me_!" replied Ammalát,

dismounting from his horse, and giving him the reins: "Do not annoy

yourself, my dear fellow. I leave you in the agreeable society of wolves

and jackals. Hark how they are singing!"

"Pray to God that I may not have to deliver your bones from these

singers," said Saphir Ali. They separated. Samit led Ammalát among the

bushes, over the river, and having passed about half a verst among

stones, began to descend. At the risk of their necks they clambered

along the rocks, clinging by the roots of the sweet-briar, and at

length, after a difficult journey, descended into the narrow mouth of a

small cavern parallel with the water. It had been excavated by the

washing of the stream, erewhile rapid, but now dried up. Long

stalactites of lime and crystal glittered in the light of a fire piled

in the middle. In the back-ground lay Sultan Akhmet Khan on a boúrka,

and seemed to be waiting patiently till Ammalát should recover himself

amid the thick smoke which rolled in masses through the cave. A cocked

gun lay across his knees; the tuft in his cap fluttered in the wind

which blew from the crevices. He rose politely as Ammalát hurried to

salute him.

"I am glad to see you," he said, pressing the hands of his guest; "and I

do not hide the feeling which I ought not to cherish. However, it is not

for an empty interview that I have put my foot into the trap, and

troubled you: sit down, Ammalát, and let us speak about an important

affair."

"To me, Sultan Akhmet Khan?"

"To us both. With your father I have eaten bread and salt. There was a

time when I counted you likewise as my friend."

"But counted!"

"No! you were my friend, and would ever have remained so, if the

deceiver, Verkhóffsky, had not stepped between us."

"Khan, you know him not."

"Not only I, but you yourself shall soon know him. But let us begin with

what regards Seltanetta. You know she cannot ever remain unmarried. This

would be a disgrace to my house: and let me tell you candidly, that she

has already been demanded in marriage."

Ammalát's heart seemed torn asunder. For some time he could not recover

himself. At length he tremblingly asked, "Who is this bold lover?"

"The second son of the Shamkhál, Abdoul Moússelin. Next after you, he

has, from his high blood, the best right, of all our mountaineers, to

Seltanetta's hand."

"Next to me--after me!" exclaimed the passionate Bek, boiling with

anger: "Am I, then, buried? Is then my memory vanished among my

friends?"

"Neither the memory, nor friendship itself is dead in my heart; but be

just, Ammalát; as just as I am frank. Forget that you are the judge of

your own cause, and decide what we are to do. You will not abandon the

Russians, and I cannot make peace with them."

"Do but wish--do but speak the word, and all will be forgotten, all will

be forgiven you. This I will answer for with my head, and with the

honour of Verkhóffsky, who has more than once promised me his mediation.

For your own good, for the welfare of Avár, for your daughter's

happiness, for my bliss, I implore you, yield to peace, and all will be

forgotten--all that once belonged to you will be restored."

"How boldly you answer, rash youth, for another's pardon, for another's

life! Are you sure of your own life, your own liberty?"

"Who should desire my poor life? To whom should be dear the liberty

which I do not prize myself?"

"To whom? Think you that the pillow does not move under the Shamkhál's

head, when the thought rises in his brain, that you, the true heir of

the Shamkhalát of Tarki, are in favour with the Russian Government?"

"I never reckoned on its friendship, nor feared its enmity."

"Fear it not, but do not despise it. Do you know that an express, sent

from Tarki to Yermóloff, arrived a moment too late, to request him to

show no mercy, but to execute you as a traitor? The Shamkhál was before

ready to betray you with a kiss, if he could; but now, that you have

sent back his blind daughter to him, he no longer conceals his hate."

"Who will dare to touch me, under Verkhóffsky's protection?"

"Hark ye, Ammalát; I will tell you a fable:--A sheep went into a kitchen

to escape the wolves, and rejoiced in his luck, flattered by the

caresses of the cooks. At the end of three days he was in the pot.

Ammalát, this is your story. 'Tis time to open your eyes. The man whom

you considered your first friend has been the first to betray you. You

are surrounded, entangled by treachery. My chief motive in meeting you

was my desire to warn you. When Seltanetta was asked in marriage, I was

given to understand from the Shamkhál, that through him I could more

readily make my peace with the Russians, than through the powerless

Ammalát--that you would soon be removed in some way or other, and that

there was nothing to be feared from your rivalry. I suspected still

more, and learned more than I suspected. To-day I stopped the Shamkhál's

noúker, to whom the negotiations with Verkhóffsky were entrusted, and

extracted from him, by torture, that the Shamkhál offers a thousand

ducats to get rid of you. Verkhóffsky hesitates, and wishes only to send

you to Siberia for ever. The affair is not yet decided; but to-morrow

the detachment retires to their quarters, and they have resolved to meet

at your house in Bouináki, to bargain about your blood. They will forge

denunciations and charges--they will poison you at your own table, and

cover you with chains of iron, promising you mountains of gold." It was

painful to see Ammalát during this dreadful speech. Every word, like

red-hot iron, plunged into his heart; all within him that was noble,

grand, or consoling, took fire at once, and turned into ashes. Every

thing in which he had so long and so trustingly confided, fell to

pieces, and shrivelled up in the flame of indignation. Several times he

tried to speak, but the words died away in a sickly gasp; and at last

the wild beast which Verkhóffsky had tamed, which Ammalát had lulled to

sleep, burst from his chain: a flood of curses and menaces poured from

the lips of the furious Bek. "Revenge, revenge!" he cried, "merciless

revenge, and woe to the hypocrites!"

"This is the first word worthy of you," said the Khan, concealing the

joy of success; "long enough have you crept like a serpent, laying your

head under the feet of the Russians! 'Tis time to soar like an eagle to

the clouds; to look down from on high upon the enemy who cannot reach

you with their arrows. Repay treachery with treachery, death with

death!"

"Then death and ruin be to the Shamkhál, the robber of my liberty; and

ruin be to Abdoul Moússelin, who dared to stretch forth his hand to my

treasure!"

"The Shamkhál? His son--his family? Are they worthy of your first

exploits? They are all but little loved by the Tarkovétzes; and if we

attack the Shamkhál, they will give up his whole family with their own

hands. No, Ammalát, you must aim your first blow next to you; you must

destroy your chief enemy; you must kill Verkhóffsky."

"Verkhóffsky!" exclaimed Ammalát, stepping back.... "Yes!.... he is my

enemy; but he was my friend. He saved me from a shameful death.

"And has now sold you to a shameful life!.... A noble friend! And then

you have yourself saved him from the tusks of the wild-boar--a death

worthy of a swine-eater! The first debt is paid, the second remains due:

for the destiny which he is so deceitfully preparing for you"....

"I feel ... this ought to be ... but what will good men say? What will

my conscience say?"

"It is for a man to tremble before old women's tales, and before a

whimpering child--conscience--when honour and revenge are at stake? I

see Ammalát, that without me you will decide nothing; you will not even

decide to marry Seltanetta. Listen to me. Would you be a son-in-law

worthy of me, the first condition is Verkhóffsky's death. His head shall

be a marriage-gift for your bride, whom you love, and who loves you. Not

revenge only, but the plainest reasoning requires the death of the

Colonel. Without him, all Daghestán will remain several days without a

chief, and stupefied with horror. In this interval, we come flying upon

the Russians who are dispersed in their quarters. I mount with twenty

thousand Avarétzes and Akoushétzes: and we fall from the mountains like

a cloud of snow upon Tarki. Then Ammalát, Shamkhál of Daghestán, will

embrace me as his friend, as his father-in-law. These are my plans, this

is your destiny. Choose which you please; either an eternal banishment,

or a daring blow, which promises you power and happiness; but know, that

next time we shall meet either as kinsmen, or as irreconcilable foes!"

The Khan disappeared. Long stood Ammalát, agitated, devoured by new and

terrible feelings. At length Samit reminded him that it was time to

return to the camp. Ignorant himself how and where he had found his way

to the shore, he followed his mysterious guide, found his horse, and

without answering a word to the thousand questions of Saphir Ali, rode

up to his tent. There, all the tortures of the soul's hell awaited him.

Heavy is the first night of sorrow, but still more terrible the first

bloody thoughts of crime.

* * * * *

REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. CONCLUSION.

We omit any notice of the other written works of Sir Joshua--his

"Journey to Flanders and Holland," his Notes to Mason's verse

translation of Du Fresnoy's Latin poem, "Art of Painting," and his

contributions to the "Idler." The former is chiefly a notice of

pictures, and of value to those who may visit the galleries where most

of them may be found; and in some degree his remarks will attach a value

to those dispersed; the best part of the "Journey," perhaps, is his

critical discrimination of the style and genius of Rubens. The marrow of

his Notes to Du Fresnoy's poem, and indeed of his papers in the "Idler,"

has been transferred to his Discourses, which, as they terminate his

literary labours, contain all that he considered important in a

discussion on taste and art. The notes to Du Fresnoy may, however, be

consulted by the practical painter with advantage, as here and there

some technical directions may be found, which, if of doubtful utility in

practice, will at least demand thought and reasoning upon this not

unimportant part of the art. To doubt is to reflect; judgment results,

and from this, as a sure source, genius creates. There are likewise some

memoranda useful to artists to be read in Northcote's "Life." The

influence of these Discourses upon art in this country has been much

less than might have been expected from so able an exposition of its

principles. They breathe throughout an admiration of what is great, give

a high aim to the student, and point to the path he should pursue to

attain it: while it must be acknowledged our artists as a body have

wandered in another direction. The Discourses speak to cultivated minds

only. They will scarcely be available to those who have habituated their

minds to lower views of art, and have, by a fascinating practice,

acquired an inordinate love for its minor beauties. It is true their

tendency is to teach, to _cultivate_: but in art there is too often as

much to unlearn as to learn, and the _unlearning_ is the more irksome

task; prejudice, self-gratulation, have removed the humility which is

the first step in the ladder of advancement. With the public at large,

the Discourses have done more; and rather by the reflection from that

improvement in the public taste, than from any direct appeal to artists,

our exhibitions have gained somewhat in refinement. And if there is,

perhaps, less vigour now, than in the time of Sir Joshua, Wilson, and

Gainsborough, those fathers of the English School, we are less seldom

disgusted with the coarseness, both of subject and manner, that

prevailed in some of their contemporaries and immediate successors. In

no branch of art is this improvement more shown than in scenes of

familiar life--which meant, indeed "Low Life." Vulgarity has given place

to a more "elegant familiar." This has necessarily brought into play a

nicer attention to mechanical excellence, and indeed to all the minor

beauties of the art. We almost fear too much has been done this way,

because it has been too exclusively pursued, and led astray the public

taste to rest satisfied with, and unadvisedly to require, the less

important perfections. From that great style which it may be said it was

the sole object of the Discourses to recommend, we are further off than

ever. Even in portrait, there is far less of the historical, than Sir

Joshua himself introduced into that department--an adoption which he has

so ably defended by his arguments. But nothing can be more unlike the

true historical, as defined in the precepts of art, than the modern

representation of national (in that sense, historical) events. The

precepts of the President have been unread or disregarded by the

patronized historical painters of our day. It would seem to be thought a

greater achievement to identify on canvass the millinery that is worn,

than the characters of the wearers, silk stockings, and satins, and

faces, are all of the same common aim of similitude; arrangement,

attitude, and peculiarly inanimate expression, display of finery, with

the actual robes, as generally announced in the advertisement, render

such pictures counterparts, or perhaps inferior counterfeits to Mrs

Jarley's wax-work. And, like the wax-work, they are paraded from town to

town, to show the people how much the tailor and mantua-maker have to do

in state affairs; and that the greatest of empires is governed by very

ordinary-looking personages. Even the Venetian painters, called by way

of distinction the "Ornamental School," deemed it necessary to avoid

prettinesses and pettinesses, and by consummate skill in artistical

arrangement in composition, in chiaro-scuro and colour, to give a

certain greatness to the representations of their national events. There

is not, whatever other faults they may have, this of poverty, in the

public pictures of Venice; they are at least of a magnificent ambition:

they are far removed from the littleness of a show. We are utterly gone

out of the way of the first principles of art in our national historical

pictures. Yet was the great historical the whole subject of the

Discourses--it was to be the only worthy aim of the student. If the

advice and precepts of Sir Joshua Reynolds have, then, been so entirely

disregarded, it may be asked what benefit he has conferred upon the

world by his Discourses. We answer, great. He has shown what should be

the aim of art, and has therefore raised it in the estimation of the

cultivated. His works are part of our standard literature; they are in

the hands of readers, of scholars; they materially help in the formation

of a taste by which literature is to be judged and relished. Even those

who never acquire any very competent knowledge of, or love for pictures,

do acquire a respect for art, connect it with classical poetry--the

highest poetry, with Homer, with the Greek drama, with all they have

read of the venerated works of Phidias, Praxiteles, and Apelles; and

having no too nice discrimination, are credulous of, or anticipate by

remembering what has been done and valued--the honour of the profession.

We assert that, by bringing the precepts of art within the pale of our

accepted literature, Sir Joshua Reynolds has given to art a better

position. Would that there were no counteracting circumstances which

still keep it from reaching its proper rank! Some there are, which

materially degrade it, amongst which is the attempt to force patronage;

the whole system of Art Unions, and of Schools of Design, the "in formâ

pauperis" petitioning and advertising, and the rearing innumerable

artists, ill-educated in all but drawing, and mere degrading still, the

binding art, as it were, apprenticed to manufacture in such Schools of

Design; connecting, in more than idea, the drawer of patterns with the

painter of pictures. Hence has arisen, and must necessarily arise, an

inundation of mediocrity, the aim of the painter being to reach some

low-prize mark, an unnatural competition, inferior minds brought into

the profession, a sort of painting-made-easy school, and pictures, like

other articles of manufacture, cheap and bad. We should say decidedly,

that the best consideration for art, and the best patronage too, that we

would give to it, would be to establish it in our universities of

Cambridge and Oxford. In those venerated places to found professorships,

that a more sure love and more sure taste for it may be imbedded with

every other good and classical love and taste in the early minds of the

youth of England's pride, of future patrons; and where painters

themselves may graduate, and associate with all noble and cultivated

minds, and be as much honoured in their profession as any in those

usually called "learned." But to return to Sir Joshua. He conferred upon

his profession not more benefit by his writings and paintings, than by

his manners and conduct. To say that they were irreproachable would be

to say little--they were such as to render him an object of love and

respect. He adorned a society at that time remarkable for men of wit and

wisdom. He knew that refinement was necessary for his profession, and he

studiously cultivated it--so studiously, that he brought a portion of

his own into that society from which he had gathered much. He abhorred

what was low in thought, in manners, and in art. And thus he tutored his

genius, which was great rather from the cultivation of his judgment, by

incessantly exercising his good sense upon the task before him, than

from any innate very vigorous power. He thought prudence the best guide

of life, and his mind was not of an eccentric daring, to rush heedlessly

beyond the bounds of discretion. And this was no small proof of his good

sense; when the prejudice of the age in which he lived was prone to

consider eccentricity as a mark of genius; and genius itself,

inconsistently with the very term of a silly admiration, an

_inspiration_, that necessarily brought with it carelessness and

profligacy. By his polished manners, his manly virtues, and his

prudential views, which mainly formed his taste, and enabled him to

disseminate taste, Sir Joshua rescued art from this degrading prejudice,

which, while it flattered vanity and excused vice, made the objects of

the flattery contemptible and inexcusable. If genius be a gift, it is

one that passes through the mind, and takes its colour; the love of all

that is pure, and good, and great, can alone invest genius with that

habit of thought which, applied to practice, makes the perfect painter.

Castiglione considered painting the proper acquirement of the perfect

gentleman--Sir Joshua Reynolds thought that to be in mind and manners

the "gentlemen," was as necessary to perfect the painter. The friend of

Johnson and Burke, and of all persons of that brilliant age,

distinguished by abilities and worth, was no common man. In raising

himself, he was ever mindful to raise the art to which he had devoted

himself, in general estimation.

We have noticed a charge against the writer of the Discourses, that he

did not pursue that great style which he so earnestly recommended.

Besides that this is not quite true--for he unquestionably did adopt so

much of the great manner as his subjects would, generally speaking,

allow--there was a sufficient reason for the tone he adopted, that it

was one useful and honourable, and none can deny that it was suited to

his genius. He was doubtless conscious of his own peculiar powers, and

contemplated the degree of excellence which he attained. He felt that he

could advance that department of his profession, and surely no

unpardonable prudential views led him to the adoption of it. It was the

one, perhaps, best suited to his abilities; and there is nothing in his

works which might lead us to suspect that he would have succeeded so

well in any other. The characteristic of his mind was a nice

observation. It was not in its native strength creative. We doubt if Sir

Joshua Reynolds ever attempted a perfectly original creation--if he ever

designed without having some imitation in view. We mean not to say, that

in the process he did not take slight advantages of accidents, and, if

the expression may be used, by a second sort of creation, make his work

in the end perfectly his own. But we should suppose that his first

conceptions for his pictures, (of course, we speak principally of those

not strictly portraits,) came to him through his admiration of some of

the great originals, which he had so deeply studied. In almost every

work by his hand, there is strongly marked his good sense--almost a

prudent forbearance. He ever seemed too cautious not to dare beyond his

tried strength, more especially in designing a subject of several

figures. His true genius as alone conspicuous in those where much of the

portrait was admissible; and such was his "Tragic Muse," a strictly

historical picture: was it equally discernible in his "Nativity" for the

window in New College Chapel? We think not. There is nothing in his

"Nativity" that has not been better done by others; yet, as a whole, it

is good; and if the subject demands a more creative power, and a higher

daring than was habitual to him, we are yet charmed with the good sense

throughout; and while we look, are indisposed to criticise. We have

already remarked how much Sir Joshua was indebted to a picture by

Domenichino for the "Tragic Muse." Every one knows that he borrowed the

"Nativity" from the "Notte" of Correggio, and perhaps in detail from

other and inferior masters. His "Ugolino" was a portrait, or a study, in

the commencement; it owes its excellence to its retaining this character

in its completion. If we were to point to failures, in single figures,

(historical,) we should mention his "Puck" and his "Infant Hercules."

The latter we only know from the print. Here he certainly had an

opportunity of displaying the great style of Michael Angelo; it was

beyond his daring; the Hercules is a sturdy child, and that is all, we

see not the _ex pede Herculem_. We can imagine the colouring, especially

of the serpents and back-ground, to have been impressive. The picture is

in the possession of the Emperor of Russia. The "Puck" is a somewhat

mischievous boy--too substantially, perhaps heavily, given for the

fanciful creation. The mushroom on which he is perched is unfortunate in

shape and colour; it is too near the semblance of a bullock's heart. His

"Cardinal Beaufort," powerful in expression, has been, we think,

captiously reprehended for the introduction of the demon. The mind's eye

has the privilege of poetry to imagine the presence; the personation is

therefore legitimate to the sister art. The National Gallery is not

fortunate enough to possess any important picture of the master in the

historical style. The portraits there are good. There was, we have been

given to understand, an opportunity of purchasing for the National

Gallery the portrait of himself, which Sir Joshua presented to his

native town of Plympton as his substitute, having been elected mayor of

the town--an honour that was according to the expectation of the

electors thus repaid. The Municipal Reform brought into office in the

town of Plympton, as elsewhere, a set of men who neither valued art nor

the fame of their eminent townsman. Men who would convert the very mace

of office into cash, could not be expected to keep a portrait; so it was

sold by auction, and for a mere trifle. It was offered to the nation;

and by those whose business it was to cater for the nation, pronounced a

copy. The history of its sale did not accompany the picture; when that

was known, as it is said, a very large sum was offered, and refused. It

is but justice to the committee to remind them of the fact, that Sir

Joshua himself, as he tells us, very minutely examined a picture which

he pronounced to be his own, and which was nevertheless a copy.

Unquestionably his genius was for portrait; it suited his strictly

observant character; and he had this great requisite for a

portrait-painter, having great sense himself, he was able to make his

heads intellectual. His female portraits are extremely lovely; he knew

well how to represent intellect, enthusiasm, and feeling. These

qualities he possessed himself. We have observed, in the commencement of

these remarks upon the Discourses, that painters do not usually paint

beyond themselves, either power or feeling--beyond their own grasp and

sentiments; it was the habitual good sense and refinement of moral

feeling that made Sir Joshua Reynolds so admirable a portrait-painter.

He has been, and we doubt not justly, celebrated as a colourist.

Unfortunately, we are not now so capable of judging, excepting in a few

instances, of this his excellence. Some few years ago, his pictures, to

a considerable amount in number, were exhibited at the British

Institution. We are forced to confess that they generally looked too

brown--many of them dingy, many loaded with colour, that, when put on,

was probably rich and transparent: we concluded that they had changed.

Though Sir Joshua, as Northcote in his very amusing Memoirs of the

President assures us, would not allow those under him to try

experiments, and carefully locked up his own, that he might more

effectually discourage the attempt--considering that, in students, it

was beginning at the wrong end--yet was he himself a great

experimentalist. He frequently used wax and varnish; the decomposition

of the latter (mastic) would sufficiently account for the appearance

those pictures wore. We see others that have very much faded; some that

are said to be faded may rather have been injured by cleaners; the

colouring when put on with much varnish not bearing the process of

cleaning, may have been removed, and left only the dead and crude work.

It has been remarked, that his pictures have more especially suffered

under the hands of restorers. It must be very difficult for a

portrait-painter, much employed, and called upon to paint a portrait,

where short time and few sittings are the conditions, to paint a lasting

work. He is obliged to hasten the drying of the paint, or to use

injurious substances, which answer the purpose only for a short present.

Sir Joshua, too, was tempted to use orpiment largely in some pictures,

which has sadly changed. An instance may be seen in the "Holy Family" in

our National Gallery--the colour of the flesh of the St John is ruined

from this cause. It is, however, one of his worst pictures, and could

not have been originally designed for a "holy family." The Mater is

quite a youthful peasant girl: we should not regret it if it were

totally gone. Were Sir Joshua living, and could he see it in its present

state, he would be sure to paint over it, and possibly convert it into

another subject. We do not doubt, however, that Sir Joshua deserved the

reputation he obtained as a colourist in his day. We attribute the

brown, the horny asphaltum look they have, to change. It is

unquestionably exceedingly mortifying to see, while the specimens of the

Venetian and Flemish colourists are at this day so pure and fresh,

though painted centuries before our schools, our comparatively recent

productions so obscured and otherwise injured. Tingry, excellent

authority, the Genevan chemical professor, laments the practice of the

English painters of mixing varnish with their colours, which, he says,

shows that they prefer a temporary brilliancy to lasting beauty; for

that it is impossible, that with this practice, pictures should either

retain their brilliancy or even be kept from decay. We do not remember

to have seen a single historical picture of Sir Joshua's that has not

suffered; happily there are yet many of his portraits fresh, vigorous,

and beautiful in colouring. It should seem, that he thought it worth

while to speculate upon those of least value to his reputation.

Portrait-painting, at the commencement of Sir Joshua's career, was

certainly in a very low condition. A general receipt for face-making,

with the greatest facility seemed to have been current throughout the

country. Attitudes and looks were according to a pattern; and,

accordingly, there was so great a family resemblance, however

unconnected the sitters, that it might seem to have been intended to

promote a brotherly and sisterly bond of union among all the descendants

of Adam. Portrait-painting, which had in this country been so good, was

in fact, with here and there an exception, and generally an exception

not duly estimated, in a degraded state: the art in this respect, as in

others, had become vulgarized. From this universal family-likeness

recipe, Reynolds came suddenly, and at once successfully, before the

world, with individual nature, and variety of character, and portraits

that had the merit of being pictures as well as portraits. He led to a

complete revolution in this department, so that if he had rivals--and he

certainly had one in Gainsborough--they were of his own making. The

change is mostly perceptible in female portraits. They assumed grace and

beauty. Our grandmothers and great-grandmothers were strangely vilified

in their unpleasing likenesses. The somewhat loose satin evening-dress,

with the shepherdess's crook, was absurd enough; and no very great

improvement upon the earlier taste of complimenting portraits with the

personation of the heathen deities. The poetical pastoral, however, very

soon descended to the real pastoral; and, as if to make people what they

were not was considered enough of the historical of portrait, even this

took. We suspect Gainsborough was the first to sin in this degradation

line, by no means the better one for being the furthest from the

divinities. He had painted some rustic figures very admirably, and made

such subjects a fashion; but why they should ever be so, we could never

understand; or why royalty should not be represented as royalty, gentry

as gentry; to represent them otherwise, appears as absurd as if our

Landseer should attempt a greyhound in the character of a Newfoundland

dog. A picture of Gainsborough's was exhibited, a year or two ago, in

the British Institution, Pall-Mall, which we were astonished to hear was

most highly valued; for it was a weak, washy, dauby, ill-coloured

performance, and the design as bad as well could be. It was a scene

before a cottage-door, with the children of George the Third as peasant

children, in village dirt and mire. The picture had no merit to

recommend it; if we remember rightly, it had been painted over, or in

some way obscured, and unfortunately brought to light. Although Sir

Joshua Reynolds generally introduced a new grace into his portraits, and

mostly so without deviating from the character as he found it,

dispensing indeed with the old affectation, we fear he cannot altogether

be acquitted from the charge of deviating from the true propriety of

portrait. Ladies as Miranda, as Hebe, and even as Thais, no very moral

compliment, are examples--some there are of the lower pastoral. Mrs

Macklin and her daughter were represented at a spinning-wheel, and Miss

Potts as a gleaner. There is one of somewhat higher pretensions, but

equally a deviation from propriety, in his portraits of the Honourable

Mistresses Townshend, Beresford, and Gardiner. They are decorating the

statue of Hymen; the grace of one figure is too theatrical, the others

have but little. The one kneeling on the ground, and collecting the

flowers, is, in one respect, disagreeable--the light of the sky, too

much of the same hue and tone as the face, is but little separated from

it--in fact, only by the dark hair; while all below the face and bosom

is a too heavy dark mass. Portrait-painters are very apt to fail

whenever they colour their back-grounds to the heads of a warm and light

sky-colour; the force of the complexion is very apt to be lost, and the

portrait is sure to lose its importance. The "General on Horseback," in

our National Gallery, (Ligonier,) a fine picture, is in no small degree

hurt by the absence of a little greyer tone in the part of the sky about

the head. By far the best portraits by Sir Joshua--and, fortunately,

they are the greater part--are those in real character. His very genius

was for unaffected simplicity; attitudinizing recipes could never have

been adopted by him with satisfaction to himself. Some of his slight,

more sketchy portraits, as yet unexperimented upon by his powerful,

frequently rather too powerful, colouring, his deep browns and yellows,

are unrivalled. Such is his Kitty Fisher, not long since exhibited in

the British Gallery, Pall-Mall. There the character is not overpowered

by the effect.

Gainsborough was the only painter of his day that could, with any

pretension, vie with Sir Joshua Reynolds in portrait. In some respects

they had similar excellences. Both were alike, by natural taste, averse

to affectation, and both were colourists. As a colourist, Gainsborough,

as his pictures are now, may be even preferred to Reynolds. They seem to

have been painted off more at once, and have therefore a greater

freshness; his flesh tints are truly surprising, most true to life. He

probably painted with a more simple palette. The pains and labour which

Sir Joshua bestowed, and which were perhaps very surprising when his

pictures were fresh from the easel, have lost much of their virtue. The

great difference between these great cotemporaries lay in their power of

character. Gainsborough was as true as could be to nature, where the

character was not of the very highest order. Plain, downright common

sense he would hit off wonderfully, as in his portrait of Ralphe

Schomberg--a picture, we are sorry to find, removed from the National

Gallery. The world's every-day men were for his pencil. He did not so

much excel in women. The bent of Sir Joshua's mind was to elevate, to

dignify, to intellectualize. Enthusiasm, sentiment, purity, and all the

varied poetry of feminine beauty, received their kindred hues and most

exquisite expression under his hand. Whatever was dignified in man, or

lovely in woman, was portrayed with its appropriate grace and strength.

Sir Joshua was, in fact, himself the higher character; ever endeavouring

to improve and cultivate his own mind, to raise it by a dignified aim in

his art and in his life, and gathering the beauty of sentiment to

himself from its best source--the practice of social and every amiable

charity--he was sure to transfer to the canvass something characteristic

of himself. Gainsborough was, in his way, a gentle enthusiast,

altogether of an humbler ambition. Even in his landscapes, he showed

that he saw little in nature but what the vulgar see; he had little idea

that what is commonly seen are the materials of a better creation.

Gainsborough was unrivalled in his portraiture of common truth, Reynolds

in poetical truth. Gainsborough spoke in character in one of his

letters, wherein he said, that he "was well read in the volume of

nature, and that was learning sufficient for him." It is said that he

was proud--perhaps his pride was shown in this remark--but it was not a

pride allied with greatness. The pride of Reynolds was quite of another

stamp; it did not disagree with his soundest judgment; his estimate of

himself was more true, and it showed itself in modesty. That such men

should meet and associate but little, is not surprising. That Reynolds

withdrew in "cold and carefully meted out courtesy," is not surprising,

though the expressions quoted are written to disparage Reynolds. The man

of fixed purpose may appear cold when he does not assimilate with the

man of caprice, (as was Gainsborough,) in whose company there is nothing

to call forth a congeniality, a sympathy; and it is probable that

Gainsborough felt as little disposed as Sir Joshua, to preserve, or even

to seek, an intimacy. Their final parting at the deathbed of

Gainsborough was most honourable to them both; and the merit of seeking

it was entirely Gainsborough's. It is singular that any facts should be

so perverted, as to justify an insinuation that Reynolds, whose whole

life exhibited the continued acts of a kind heart, was a cautious and

cold calculator. Good sense has ever a reserve of manner, the result of

a habit of thinking--and in one of a high aim, it is apt to acquire

almost a stateliness; but even such stateliness is not inconsistent with

modesty and with feeling; it is, in fact, the carriage of the mind, seen

in the manner and the person. We make these remarks under a disgust

produced by the singularly illiberal Life of Reynolds by Allan

Cunningham; we think we should not err in saying, that it is maliciously

written. We were reading this Life, and made many indignant remarks as

we read, when the death of the author was announced in the newspapers.

We had determined, as far as our power might extend, to rescue the name

and fame of Reynolds from the mischief which so popular a writer as

Allan Cunningham was likely to inflict. Death has its sanctity, and we

hesitated; indeed, in regret for the loss of a man of talent, we felt

for a time little disposed to think of the ill he may have done; nor

was, on mature consideration, the regret less, that he could not, by our

means, be called to review his own work--his "Lives of the British

Painters"--in a more candid spirit than that in which they appear to

have been written. It is to be lamented that he did not revise it. Its

illiberality and untruth render it very unfit for a "Family Library,"

for which it was composed. Yet it must be confessed, that such regret

was rather one of momentary feeling, than accompanied with any thing

like conviction, or even hope, that our endeavour would have been

successful. There was no one better acquainted with the life of one of

the painters in his work than ourselves. His Life, too, was written in a

most illiberal spirit, though purposely in praise of the artist. But it

was as untrue as it was illiberal. In a paper in _Blackwood_, some years

ago, we noticed some of the errors and mistatements. This, we happen to

know, was seen by the author of the "Lives;" for we were, in

consequence, applied to upon the subject; and there being an intention

expressed to bring out a new edition, we were invited to correct what

was wrong. We did not hesitate, and wrote some two or three letters for

the purpose, and entertained but little doubt of their having been

favourably received, and that they would be used, until we were

surprised by a communication, that the author "was much obliged, but was

perfectly satisfied with his own account." That is, that he was much

_obliged_ for an endeavour to mislead him by falsehood. For both

accounts could not be true. There were, then, but small grounds to hope

that Allan Cunningham would have so revised his work, as to have done

justice to Sir Joshua Reynolds. Besides, after all, "respect for the

dead" moves both ways. The question is between the recently dead and the

long since dead. In the literary world, and in the world of art, both

yet live; and the author of the Life has this advantage, that thousands

read the "Family Library," whilst but few, comparatively speaking, make

themselves acquainted with Sir Joshua Reynolds and his works. We revere

this founder of our English school, and feel it due to the art we love,

to condemn the ungenerous and sarcastic spirit of The Life, by Allan

Cunningham. And if the dead could have any interest in and guidance of

things on earth, we can imagine no work that would be more pleasing to

them, than the removal of even the slightest evils they may have

inflicted; thus making restitution for them. It is very evident

throughout the "Lives," that the author has a prejudice against, an

absolute dislike to, Sir Joshua Reynolds. We stay not to account for it.

There are men of some opinions who, whether from pride, or other

feeling, have an antipathy to courtly manners, and what is called higher

society: jealous and suspicious lest they should not owe, and seen to

owe, every thing to themselves, there is a constant and irritable desire

to set aside, with a feigned, oftener than a real, contempt, the

influence and the homage the world pays to superiority of rank, station,

and education. They would wish to have nothing above themselves. How far

such may have been the case with the writer of the "Lives," we know not,

totally unacquainted as we have ever been, but by his writings. In them

there appears very strongly marked this vulgar feeling. He has stepped

out of his way in other lives, such as those of Wilson and Gainsborough,

to attack Sir Joshua by surmises and insinuations of meanness, blurring

the fair character of his best acts. The generous doings of the

President were too notorious not to be admitted, but generally a

sinister or selfish motive is insinuated. His courtesy was unpleasing,

while extreme coarseness met with a ready apologist. In the several

Lives of Sir Joshua Reynolds, there does not appear the slightest ground

upon which to found a charge of meanness of character: it is

inconceivable how such should have ever been insinuated, while

Northcote's "Life" of him was in existence, and Northcote must have

known him well. He was most liberal in expenditure, as became his

station, and the dignity which he was ambitiously desirous of conferring

upon the art over which he presided. To artists and others in their

distresses he was most generous: numerous, indeed, are the recorded

instances; those unrecorded may be infinitely more numerous, for

generosity was with him a habit. In the teeth of Mr Cunningham's

insinuations we will extract from Northcote some passages upon this

point. "At that time, indeed, Johnson was under many pecuniary

obligations, as well as literary ones, to Sir Joshua, whose generous

kindness would never permit his friends to _ask_ a pecuniary favour, his

purse and heart being always open." That his heart as well as his purse

was open, the following anecdote more than indicates. We are tempted to

give it unaltered, as we find it in the words of Northcote:--

"Sir Joshua, as his usual custom, looked over the daily morning

paper at his breakfast time; and on one of those perusals,

whilst reading an account of the Old Bailey sessions, to his

great astonishment, saw that a prisoner had been tried and

condemned to death for a robbery committed on the person of one

of his own servants, a negro, who had been with him for some

time. He immediately rung the bell for the servants, in order

to make his enquiries, and was soon convinced of the truth of

the matter related in the newspaper. This black man had lived

in his service as footman for several years, and has been

portrayed in several pictures, particularly in one of the

Marquis of Granby, where he holds the horse of that general.

Sir Joshua reprimanded this black servant for his conduct, and

especially for not having informed him of this curious

adventure; when the man said he had concealed it only to avoid

the blame he should have incurred had he told it. He then

related the following circumstances of the business, saying,

that Mrs Anna Williams (the old blind lady lived at the house

of Dr Johnson) had some time previous dined at Sir Joshua's

with Miss Reynolds; that in the evening she went home to Bolt

Court, Fleet Street, in a hackney coach, and that he had been

sent to attend her to her house. On his return he had met with

companions who had detained him till so late an hour, that when

he came to Sir Joshua's house, he found the doors were shut,

and all the servants gone to rest. In this dilemma he wandered

in the street till he came to a watch-house, in which he took

shelter for the remainder of the night, among the variety of

miserable companions to be found in such places; and amidst

this assembly of the wretched, the black man fell sound asleep,

when a poor thief, who had been taken into custody by the

constable of the night, perceiving, as the man slept, that he

had a watch and money in his pocket, (which was seen on his

thigh,) watched his opportunity and stole the watch, and with a

penknife cut through the pocket, and so possessed himself of

the money. When the black awaked from his nap, he soon

discovered what had been done, to his cost, and immediately

gave the alarm, and a strict search was made through the

company; when the various articles which the black had lost

were found in the possession of the unfortunate wretch who had

stolen them. He was accordingly secured, and next morning

carried before the justice, and committed to take his trial at

the Old Bailey, (the black being bound over to prosecute,) and,

as we have seen, was at his trial cast and condemned to death.

Sir Joshua, much affected by this recital, immediately sent his

principal servant, Ralph Kirkly, to make all enquiries into the

state of the criminal, and, if necessary, to relieve his wants

in whatever way could be done. When Kirkly came to the prison

he was soon admitted to the cell of the prisoner, where he

beheld the most wretched spectacle that imagination can

conceive--a poor forlorn criminal, without a friend on earth

who could relieve or assist him, and reduced almost to a

skeleton by famine and filth, waiting till the dreadful morning

should arrive when he was to be made an end of by a violent

death. Sir Joshua now ordered fresh clothing to be sent to him,

and also that the black servant should carry him every day a

sufficient supply of food from his own table; and at that time

Mr E. Burke being very luckily in office, he applied to him,

and by their joint interest they got his sentence changed to

transportation; when, after being furnished with all

necessaries, he was sent out of the kingdom."--P. 119.

"In this year Sir Joshua raised his price to fifty guineas for

a head size, which he continued during the remainder of his

life. His rapidly accumulating fortune was not, however, for

his own sole enjoyment; he still felt the luxury of doing good,

and had many objects of bounty pointed out to him by his friend

Johnson, who, in one of his letters, in this year, to Mrs

Piozzi, enquires 'will the master give me any thing for my poor

neighbours? I have had from Sir Joshua and Mr Strahan.'"--P.

264.

"Sir Joshua, indeed, seems to have been applied to by his

friends on all occasions; and by none oftener than by Dr

Johnson, particularly for charitable purposes. Of this there is

an instance, in a note of Johnson's preserved in his Life, too

honourable to him to be here omitted.

'To Sir Joshua Reynolds.

'Dear Sir--It was not before yesterday that I received your

splendid benefaction. To a hand so liberal in distributing, I

hope nobody will envy the power of acquiring.--I am, dear sir,

your obliged and most humble servant,

'SAM. JOHNSON.'

'June 23, 1781.'"--P. 278.

The following anecdote is delightful:--

"Whilst at Antwerp, Sir Joshua had taken particular notice of a

young man of the name of De Gree, who had exhibited some

considerable talents as a painter: his father was a tailor; and

he himself had been intended for some clerical office, but, as

it is said by a late writer, having formed a different opinion

of his religion than was intended, from the books put into his

hand by an Abbé who was his patron, it was discovered that he

would not do for a priest, and the Abbé, therefore, articled

him to Gerrards of Antwerp. Sir Joshua received him, on his

arrival in England, with much kindness, and even recommended

him most strongly to pursue his profession in the metropolis;

but De Gree was unwilling to consent to this, as he had been

previously engaged by Mrs Latouche to proceed to Ireland. Even

here Sir Joshua's friendly attentions did not cease, for he

actually made the poor artist a present of fifty guineas to fit

him for his Hibernian excursion; the whole of which, however,

the careful son sent over to Antwerp for the use of his aged

parents."--P. 284.

"It is also recorded, as an instance of his prizing

extraordinary merit, that when Gainsborough asked him but sixty

guineas for his celebrated Girl and Pigs, yet being conscious

in his own mind that it was worth more, he liberally paid him

down one hundred guineas for the picture. I also find it

mentioned on record, that a painter of considerable merit,

having unfortunately made an injudicious matrimonial choice,

was along with that and its consequences as well as an

increasing family, in a few years reduced so very low, that he

could not venture out without danger of being arrested--a

circumstance which, in a great measure, put it out of his power

to dispose of his pictures to advantage. Sir Joshua having

accidentally heard of his situation, immediately hurried to his

residence to enquire into the truth of it, when the unfortunate

man told him all the melancholy particulars of his lot, adding,

that forty pounds would enable him to compound with his

creditors. After some further conversation, Sir Joshua took his

leave, telling the distressed man he would do something for

him; and when he was bidding him adieu at the door, he took him

by the hand, and after squeezing it in a friendly way hurried

off with that kind of triumph in his heart the exalted of human

kind only know by experience whilst the astonished artist found

that he had left in his hand a bank-note for one hundred

pounds."

Of such traits of benevolence certainly many other instances may be

recorded, but I shall only mention two; "the one is the purchasing a

picture of Zoffani, who was without a patron, and selling it to the Earl

of Carlisle for twenty guineas above the price given for it; and he sent

the advanced price immediately to Zoffani, saying 'he thought he had

sold the picture at first below its real value.'"

The other is--"the clergyman who succeeded Sir Joshua's father as master

of the grammar-school at Plympton, at his decease left a widow, who,

after the death of her husband, opened a boarding school for the

education of young ladies. The governess who taught in this school had

but few friends in situations to enable them to do her much service, and

her sole dependence was on her small stipend from the school: hence she

was unable to make a sufficiently reputable appearance in apparel at

their accustomed little balls. The daughter of the schoolmistress, her

only child, and at that time a very young girl, felt for the poor

governess, and the pitiable insufficiency in the article of finery; but

being unable to help her from her own resources, devised within herself

a means by which it might be done otherwise. Having heard of the great

fame of Sir Joshua Reynolds, his character for generosity, and charity,

and recollecting that he had formerly belonged to the Plympton school,

she, without mentioning a syllable to any of her companions, addressed a

letter to Sir Joshua, whom she had never even seen, in which she

represented to him the forlorn state of the poor governess's wardrobe,

and begged the gift of a silk gown for her. Very shortly after, they

received a box containing silks of different patterns, sufficient for

two dresses, to the infinite astonishment of the simple governess, who

was totally unable to account for this piece of good fortune, as the

compassionate girl was afraid to let her know the means she had taken in

order to procure the welcome present."--P. 307.

Mr Duyes, the artist, says--"malice has charged him with avarice,

probably from his not having been prodigal, like too many of his

profession; his offer to me proves the contrary. At the time that I made

the drawings of the King at St Paul's after his illness, Reynolds

complimented me handsomely on seeing them, and afterwards observed, that

the labour bestowed must have been such, that I could not be remunerated

from selling them; but if I would publish them myself, he would lend me

the money necessary, and engage to get me a handsome subscription among

the nobility."--P. 35l.

We will here mention an anecdote which we believe has never been

published; we heard it from our excellent friend, and enthusiastic

admirer of all that taste, good sense, and good feeling should admire

and love, in art or out of it--now far advanced in years, and, like Sir

Joshua, blind, but full of enjoyment and conversation fresh as ever upon

art, for he remembers and hears, beloved by all who know him, G.

Cumberland, Esq., author of "Outlines," &c. &c. He it was who

recommended Collins, the miniature-painter, to Sir Joshua. Now poor

Collins was one of the most nervous of men, morbidly distrustful of

himself and his powers. Our friend showed us a portrait of Collins,

painted by himself, the very picture of most sensitive nervousness.

Well--Collins waited upon Sir Joshua, who gave him a picture to copy for

him in miniature. Collins took it, and trembled, and looked all

diffidence as he examined Sir Joshua's original. However, he took it

home with him, and after some time came to Cumberland in great

agitation, expressing a conviction that he never could copy it, that he

had destroyed three attempts, and this, said he, is the best I can do,

and I will destroy it. This Cumberland would not allow, and took

possession of it, and an admirable performance it is. Soon another was

done, and Collins took it to Sir Joshua, with many timid expressions and

apologies for his inability, that he feared displeasure for having

undertaken a work above him. Sir Joshua looked at it, declared it to be,

as it was, a most excellent copy, and gave him more to do in the same

way--telling him to go to his scrutoire, open a drawer, and he would

find some guineas, and to take out twenty to pay himself. "Twenty

guineas!" said Collins, "I should not have thought of receiving more

than three!" This kindness and liberality set up poor Collins with a

better stock of self-confidence, and he made his way to celebrity in his

line, and to fortune.

Is it in human nature, that the man of whom such anecdotes are told, and

truly told, could be guilty of a mean unworthy action? Perhaps the

reader will be curious to see how the writer of the "British Painters,"

who, from the recent date of his publication, must have known all these

incidents, excepting the last, has converted some of them, by

insinuating sarcasm, into charges that blurr their virtue. We should say

that he has omitted, where he could omit--where he could not, he is

compelled to contradict himself; for it is impossible that the

insinuations, and the facts, and occasional acknowledgments, should be

together true of one and the same man. We shall offer some specimens of

this _illiberal style_:--A neighbour of Reynolds's first advised him to

settle in London. His success there made him remember this friendly

advice--(the neighbour's name was Cranch.) We quote now from Cunningham.

"The timely counsel of his neighbour Cranch would have long afterwards

been rewarded with the present of a silver cup, had not accident

interfered. 'Death,' says Northcote, 'prevented this act of gratitude. I

have seen the cup at Sir Joshua's table.' The painter had the honour of

the intention and the use of the cup--a twofold advantage, of which he

was not insensible."--_Lives of British Painters_, Vol. i, p. 220.--"Of

lounging visitors he had great abhorrence, and, as he reckoned up the

fruits of his labours, 'Those idle people,' said this disciple of the

grand historical school of Raphael and Angelo--'those idle people do not

consider that my time is worth five guineas an hour.' This calculation

incidentally informs us, that it was Reynolds's practice, in the height

of his reputation and success, to paint a portrait in four hours."--P.

251. In _this_ Life, he could depreciate art, (in a manner we are

persuaded he could not feel,) because it lowered the estimation of the

painter whom he disliked. "One of the biographers of Reynolds imputes

the reflections contained in the conclusion of this letter, 'to that

envy, which perhaps even Johnson felt, when comparing his own annual

gains with those of his more fortunate friend.' They are rather to be

attributed to the sense and taste of Johnson, who could not but feel the

utter worthlessness of the far greater part of the productions with

which the walls of the Exhibition-room were covered. Artists are very

willing to claim for their profession and its productions rather more

than the world seems disposed to concede. It is very natural that this

should be so; but it is also natural, that man of Johnson's taste should

be conscious of the dignity of his own pursuits, and agree with the vast

majority of mankind in ranking a Homer, a Virgil, a Milton, or a

Shakspeare, immeasurably above all the artists that ever painted or

carved. Johnson, in a conversation with Boswell, defined painting to be

an art which could illustrate, but could not inform."--P. 255. Does he

so speak of this art in any other Life; and is not this view false and

ill-natured? Were not Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Titian,

Piombo, epic poets?

"Johnson was a frequent and a welcome guest. Though the sage was not

seldom sarcastic and overbearing, he was endured and caressed, because

he poured out the riches of his conversation more lavishly than Reynolds

did his wines." He was compelled, a sentence or two after, to add, "It

was honourable to that distinguished artist, that he perceived the worth

of such men, and felt the honour which their society shed upon him; but

it stopped not here, he often aided them with his purse, nor _insisted_

upon repayment."--P. 258. We have marked "insisted"--it implies

repayment was expected, if not enforced; and it might have been said,

that a mutual "honour" was conferred. Speaking of Northcote's and

Malone's account of Sir Joshua's "social and well-furnished table," he

adds, "these accounts, however, in as far as regards the splendour of

the entertainments, must be received with some abatement. The eye of a

youthful pupil was a little blinded by enthusiasm. That of Malone was

rendered friendly, by many acts of hospitality, and a handsome legacy;

while literary men and artists, who came to speak of books and

paintings, cared little for the most part about the delicacy of the

entertainment, provided it were wholesome." Here he quotes at length, no

very good-natured account of the dinners given by Courteney.--P. 273.

Even his sister, poor Miss Reynolds, whom Johnson loved and respected,

must have her share of the writer's sarcasm. "Miss Reynolds seems to

have been as indifferent about the good order of her domestics, and the

appearance of her dishes at table, as her brother was about the

distribution of his wine and venison. Plenty was the splendour, and

freedom was the elegance, which Malone and Boswell found in the

entertainments of the artist."--P. 275. If Reynolds was sparing of his

wine, the word "plenty" was most inappropriate. Even the remark of

Dunning, Lord Ashburton, is perverted from its evident meaning, and as

explained by Northcote, and the perversion casts a slur upon Sir

Joshua's guests; yet is it well known who they were. "Well, Sir Joshua,"

he said, "and who have you got to dine with you to-day?--the last time I

dined in your house, the company was of such a sort, that by ----, I

believe all the rest of the world enjoyed peace for that afternoon."--P.

276. This is a gross idea, and unworthy a gentle mind. "By an opinion so

critically sagacious, and an apology for portrait-painting, which

appeals so effectually to the kindly side of human nature, Johnson

repaid a hundred dinners."--P. 276. The liberality to De Gree is shortly

told.--P. 298. "I have said that the President was frugal in his

communications respecting the sources from whence he drew his own

practice--he forgets his caution in one of these notes."--P. 303. We

must couple this with some previous remarks; it is well known that Sir

Joshua, as Northcote tells us, carefully locked up his experiments, and

for more reasons than one: first, he was dissatisfied, as these were but

experiments; secondly, he considered experimenting would draw away

pupils from the rudiments of the art. Surely nothing but illiberal

dislike would have perverted the plain meaning of the act. "The secret

of Sir Joshua's own preparations was carefully kept--he permitted not

even the most favoured of his pupils to acquire the knowledge of his

colours--he had all securely locked, and allowed no one to enter where

these treasures were deposited. What was the use of all this secrecy?

Those who stole the mystery of his colours, could not use it, unless

they stole his skill and talent also. A man who, like Reynolds, chooses

to take upon himself the double office of public and private instructor

of students in painting, ought not surely to retain a secret in the art,

which he considers of real value."--P. 287. He was, in fact, too honest

to mislead; and that he did not think the right discovery made, the

author must have known; for Northcote says--"when I was a student at the

Royal Academy, I was accidentally repeating to Sir Joshua the

instructions on colouring I had heard there given by an eminent painter,

who then attended as visitor. Sir Joshua replied, that this painter was

undoubtedly a very sensible man, but by no means a good colourist;

adding, that there was not a man then on earth who had the least notion

of colouring. 'We all of us,' said he, 'have it equally to seek for and

find out--as, at present, it is totally lost to the art.'"--"In his

economy he was close and saving; while he poured out his wines and

spread out his tables to the titled or the learned, he stinted his

domestics to the commonest fare, and rewarded their faithfulness by very

moderate wages. One of his servants, who survived till lately, described

him as a master who exacted obedience in trifles--was prudent in the

matter of pins--a saver of bits of thread--a man hard and parsimonious,

who never thought he had enough of labour out of his dependents, and

always suspected that he overpaid them. To this may be added the public

opinion, which pictured him close, cautious, and sordid. On the other

side, we have the open testimony of Burke, Malone, Boswell, and Johnson,

who all represent him as generous, open-hearted, and humane. The

servants and the friends both spoke, we doubt not, according to their

own experience of the man. Privations in early life rendered strict

economy necessary; and in spite of many acts of kindness, his mind, on

the whole, failed to expand with his fortune. He continued the same

system of saving when he was master of sixty thousand pounds, as when he

owned but sixpence. He loved reputation dearly, and it would have been

well for his fame, if, over and above leaving legacies to such friends

as Burke and Malone, he had opened his heart to humbler people. A little

would have gone a long way--a kindly word and a guinea prudently

given."--P. 319. Opened his heart to humbler people! was the author of

this libel upon a generous character, ignorant of his charity to humbler

people, which Johnson certified? Why did he not narrate the robbery of

the black servant, and his kindness to the humblest and the most

wretched? What was fifty guineas to poor De Gree? Who were the humbler

people to whom he denied his bounty? And is the fair fame, the honest

reputation--the honourable reputation, we should say--of such a man as

Sir Joshua Reynolds--such as he has been proved to be--such as not only

such men as Burke and Johnson knew him, but such as his pupil and inmate

Northcote knew him--to be vilified by a low-minded biography, the dirty

ingredients of which are raked up from lying mouths, or, at least,

incapable of judging of such a character--from the lips of servants,

whose idle tales of masters who discard them, it is the common usage of

the decent, not to say well-bred world, to pay no attention to--not to

listen to--and whom none hear but the vulgar-curious, or the slanderous?

But if a servant's evidence must be taken, the fact of the exhibition of

Sir Joshua's works for his servant Kirkly should have been enough--to

say nothing here of his black servant. But the story of Kirkly is

mentioned--and how mentioned? To rake up a malevolent or a thoughtless

squib of the day, to make it appear that Sir Joshua shared in the gains

of an exhibition ostensibly given to his servant. The joke is noticed by

Northcote, and the exhibition, thus:--"The private exhibition of 1791,

in the Haymarket, has been already mentioned, and some notice taken of

it by a wicked wit, who, at the time, wished to insinuate that Sir

Joshua was a partaker in the profits. But this was not the truth;

neither do I believe there were any profits to share. However, these

lines from Hudibras were inserted in a morning paper, together with some

observations on the exhibition of pictures collected by the knight--

'A squire he had whose name was Ralph

Who in the adventure went his half,'

thus gaily making a sacrifice of truth to a joke." It is very evident

that this was a mere newspaper squib, and suggested by the "knight and

his squire Ralph;" but Cunningham so gives it as "the opinion of many,"

and with rather more than a suspicion of its truth. "Sir Joshua made an

exhibition of them in the Haymarket, for the advantage of his faithful

servant Ralph Kirkly; but our painter's well-known love of gain excited

public suspicion; he was considered by many as a partaker in the

profits, and reproached by the application of two lines from

Hudibras."--P. 117. But this report from a servant is evidently no

servant's report at all, as far as the words go: they are redolent

throughout of the peculiar satire of the author of the "Lives," who so

loves point and antithesis, who tells us Sir Joshua "poured" out his

wines, (the distribution of which he had otherwise spoken of,) that the

_stint_ to the servants may have its fullest opposition. And again, as

to the humbler, does he not contradict himself? He prefaces the fact

that Sir Joshua gave a hundred guineas to Gainsborough, who asked sixty,

for his "Girl and Pigs," thus--"Reynolds was commonly humane and

tolerant; he could indeed afford, both in fame and purse, to commend and

aid the timid and needy."--P. 304. This is qualifying vilely a generous

action, while it contradicts his assertion of being sparing of "a kindly

word and a guinea." Nor are the occasional criticisms on passages in the

"Discourses" in a better spirit, nor are they exempt from a vulgar taste

as to views of art; their sole object is, apparently, to depreciate

Reynolds; and though a selection of individual sentences might be picked

out, as in defence, of an entirely laudatory character, they are

contradicted by others, and especially by the sarcastic tone of the

Life, taken as a whole. But it is not only in the Life of Reynolds that

this attempt is made to depreciate him. In his "Lives" of Wilson and

Gainsborough, he steps out of his way to throw his abominable sarcasm

upon Reynolds. One of many passages in Wilson's Life says, "It is

reported that Reynolds relaxed his hostility at last, and, becoming

generous when it was too late, obtained an order from a nobleman for two

landscapes at a proper price." So he insinuates an unworthy hypocrisy,

while lauding the bluntness of Wilson. "Such was the blunt honesty of

his (Wilson's) nature, that, when drawings were shown him which he

disliked, he disdained, or was unable to give a courtly answer, and made

many of the students his enemies. Reynolds had the sagacity to escape

from such difficulties, by looking at the drawings and saying 'Pretty,

pretty,' which vanity invariably explained into a compliment."--P. 207.

After having thus spoken shamefully of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the body

of his work, he reiterates all in a note, confirming all as his not

hasty but deliberate opinion, having "now again gone over the narrative

very carefully, and found it impossible, without violating the truth, to

make any alteration of importance as to its facts;" and though he has

omitted so much which might have been given to the honour of Reynolds,

he is "unconscious of having omitted any enquiry likely to lead him

aright."--P. 320. He may have made the enquiry without using the

information--a practice not inconsistent in such a biographer. For

instance, when he assumes, that in the portrait of Beattie, the figures

of Scepticism, Sophistry, and Infidelity, represent Hume, Voltaire, and

Gibbon; remarking, that they have survived the "insult of Reynolds." An

enquiry from Northcote ought to have led him to conclude otherwise, for

Northcote, who had the best means of knowing, says, "Because one of

those figures was a lean figure, (alluding to the subordinate ones

introduced,) and the other a fat one, people of lively imaginations

pleased themselves with finding in them the portraits of Voltaire and

Hume. But Sir Joshua, I have reason to believe, had no such thought when

he painted those figures." We have done with this disgusting Life. We

would preserve to art and the virtue-loving part of mankind the great

_integrity_ of the character of Sir Joshua Reynolds. Documents and

testimonies are sufficient to establish as much entire worth as falls to

the lot and adornment of the best; and to bring this conviction, that,

for the justice, candour, liberality, kindness, and generosity, which he

showed in his dealings with all, even his professional rivals, if he had

not had the extraordinary merit of being the greatest British painter,

he deserved, and will deserve, the respect of mankind; and to have had

his many and great virtues recorded in a far other manner than in that

among the "Lives of the British Painters." His pictures may have faded,

and may decay; but his precepts will still live, and tend to the

establishment and continuance of art built upon the soundest principles;

and the virtues of the man will ever give a grace to the profession

which he adorned, and, for the benefit of art, contribute mainly to his

own fame.

"Nihil enim est opere aut manu factum, quod aliquando non conficiat et

consumat Vetustas; at vero hæc tua justitia et lenitas animi florescet

quotidie magis, ita ut quantum operibus tuis dinturnitas detrahet,

tantum afferet laudibus."

"He had," says Burke, "from the beginning of his malady, a distinct view

of his dissolution; and he contemplated it with that entire composure,

which nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness of his life,

and an unaffected submission to the will of Providence, could bestow."

* * * * *

LEAP-YEAR.--A TALE.

CHAPTER I.

In the summer of 1838, in the pleasant little county of Huntingdon, and

under the shade of some noble elms which form the pride of Lipscombe

Park, two young men might have been seen reclining. The thick, and

towering, and far-spreading branches under which they lay, effectually

protected them from a July sun, which threw its scorching brilliancy

over the whole landscape before them. They seemed to enjoy to the full

that delightful _retired openness_ which an English park affords, and

that easy effortless communion which only old companionship can give.

They were, in fact, fellow collegians. The one, Reginald Darcy by name,

was a ward of Mr Sherwood, the wealthy proprietor of Lipscombe Park; the

other, his friend, Charles Griffith, was passing a few days with him in

this agreeable retreat. They had spent the greater part of the morning

strolling through the park, making short journeys from one clump of

trees to another, and traversing just so much of the open sunny space

which lay exposed to all the "bright severity of noon," as gave fresh

value to the shade, and renewed the luxury of repose.

"Only observe," said Darcy, breaking silence, after a long pause, and

without any apparent link of connexion between their last topic of

conversation and the sage reflection he was about to launch--"only

observe," and, as he raised himself upon his elbow, something very like

a sigh escaped from him, "how complete, in our modern system of life, is

the ascendency of woman over us! Every art is hers--is devoted to her

service. Poetry, music, painting, sculpture--all seem to have no theme

but woman. It is her loveliness, her power over us, that is paraded and

chanted on every side. Poets have been always mad on the beauty of

woman, but never so mad as now; we must not only submit to be

sense-enthralled, the very innermost spirit of a man is to be

deliberately resigned to the tyranny of a smooth brow and a soft eye.

Music, which grows rampant with passion, speaks in all its tones of

woman: as long as the strain lasts we are in a frenzy of love, though it

is not very clear with whom, and happily the delirium ends the moment

the strings of the violin have ceased to vibrate. What subject has the

painter worth a rush but the beauty of woman? We gaze for ever on the

charming face which smiles on us from his canvass; we may gaze with

perfect license--that veil which has just been lifted to the brow, it

will never be dropt again--but we do not gaze with perfect impunity; we

turn from the lovely shadow with knees how prone to bend! And as to the

sculptor, on condition that he hold to the pure colourless marble, is he

not permitted to reveal the sacred charms of Venus herself? Every art is

hers. Go to the theatre, and whether it be tragedy, or comedy, or opera,

or dance, the attraction of woman is the very life of all that is

transacted there. Shut yourself up at home with the poem or the novel,

and lo! to love, and to be loved, by one fair creature, is all that the

world has to dignify with the name of happiness. It is too much. The

heart aches and sickens with an unclaimed affection, kindled to no

purpose. Every where the eye, the ear, the imagination, is provoked,

bewildered, haunted by the magic of this universal syren.

"And what is worse," continued our profound philosopher--and here he

rose from his elbow, and supported himself at arm's length from the

ground, one hand resting on the turf, the other at liberty, if required,

for oratorical action--"what is worse, this place which woman occupies

in _art_ is but a fair reflection of that which she fills in real life.

Just heavens! what a perpetual wonder it is, this living, breathing

beauty! Throw all your metaphors to the winds--your poetic

raptures--your ideals--your romance of position and of circumstance:

look at a fair, amiable, cultivated woman, as you meet her in the

actual, commonplace scenes of life: she is literally, prosaically

speaking, the last consummate result of the creative power of nature,

and the gathered refinements of centuries of human civilization. The

world can show nothing comparable to that light, graceful figure of the

girl just blooming into perfect womanhood. Imagination cannot go beyond

it. There is all the marvel, if you think of it, in that slight figure,

as she treads across the carpet of a modern drawing-room, that has ever

been expressed in, or given origin to, the nymphs, goddesses, and angels

that the fancy of man has teemed with. I declare that a pious heathen

would as soon insult the august statue of Minerva herself, as would any

civilized being treat that slender form with the least show of rudeness

and indignity. A Chartist, indeed, or a Leveller, would do it; but it

would pain him--he would be a martyr to his principles. Verily we are

slaves to the fair miracle!"

"Well," said his companion, who had all this time been leisurely pulling

to pieces some wild flowers he had gathered in the course of the

morning's ramble, "what does it all end in? What, at last, but the old

story--love and a marriage?"

"Love often where there is no possibility of marriage," replied Darcy,

starting up altogether from his recumbent posture, and pacing to and fro

under the shadow of the tree. "The full heart, how often does it swell

only to feel the pressure of the iron bond of poverty! This very

sentiment, which our cultivation refines, fosters, makes supreme, is

encountered by that harsh and cruel evil which grows also with the

growth of civilization--poverty--civilized poverty. Oh, 'tis a frightful

thing, this well-born, well-bred poverty! There is a pauper state,

which, loathsome as it is to look upon, yet brings with it a callousness

to endure all inflictions, and a recklessness that can seize with

avidity whatever coarse fragments of pleasure the day or the hour may

afford. But this poverty applies itself to nerves strung for the

subtlest happiness. No torpor here; no moments of rash and unscrupulous

gratification--unreflected on, unrepented of--which being often repeated

make, in the end, a large sum of human life; but the heart incessantly

demands a genuine and enduring happiness, and is incessantly denied. It

is a poverty which even helps to keep alive the susceptibility it

tortures; for the man who has never loved, or been the object of

affection, whose heart has been fed only by an untaught imagination,

feels a passion--feels a regret--it may be far more than commensurate

with that envied reality which life possesses and withholds from him.

No! there is nothing in the circle of human existence more fearful to

contemplate than this perpetual divorce--irrevocable, yet pronounced

anew each instant of our lives--between the soul and its best

affections. And--look you!--this misery passes along the world under the

mask of easy indifference, and wears a smiling face, and submits to be

rallied by the wit, and assumes itself the air of vulgar jocularity. Oh,

this penury that goes well clad, and is warmly housed, and makes a mock

of its own anguish--I'd rather die on the wheel, or be starved to death

in a dungeon!

"My excellent friend!" cried Griffith, startled from his quiescent

posture, and tranquil occupation, by the growing excitement of his

companion, "what has possessed you? Is it the daughter of our worthy

host--is it Emily Sherwood, the nymph who haunts these woods--who has

given birth to this marvellous train of reflection? to this rhapsody on

the omnipresence of woman, which I certainly had never discovered, and

on the misery of a snug bachelor's income, which to me is still more

incomprehensible? I confess, however, it would be difficult to find a

better specimen of this fearfully fascinating sex."--

"Pshaw!" interrupted Darcy, "what is the heiress of Lipscombe Park to

me?--a girl who might claim alliance with the wealthiest and noblest of

the land--to me, who have just that rag of property, enough to keep from

open shame one miserable biped? Can a man never make a general

reflection upon one of the most general of all topics, without being met

by a personal allusion? I thought you had been superior, Griffith, to

this dull and hackneyed retort."

"Well, well; be not wroth"--

"But I _am_. There is something so odious in this trite and universal

banter. Besides, to have it intimated, even in jest, that I would take

advantage of my position in this family to pay my ridiculous addresses

to Miss Sherwood--I do declare, Griffith, I never will again to you, or

any other man, touch upon this subject, but in the same strain of

unmeaning levity one is compelled to listen to, and imitate, in the

society of coxcombs."

"At all events," said Griffith, "give me leave to say that _I_ admire

Miss Sherwood, and that I shall think it a crying shame if so beautiful

and intelligent a girl is suffered to fall into the clutches of this

stupid baronet who is laying siege to her--this pompous, empty-headed

Sir Frederic Beaumantle."

"Sir Frederic Beaumantle," said Darcy, with some remains of humour, "may

be all you describe him, but he is very rich, and, mark me, he will win

the lady. Old Sherwood suspects him for a fool, but his extensive

estates are unincumbered--he will approve his suit. His daughter makes

him a constant laughing-stock, she is perpetually ridiculing his

presumption and his vanity; but she will end by marrying the rich

baronet. It will be in the usual course of things; society will expect

it; and it is so safe, so prudent, to do what society expects. Let

wealth wed with wealth. It is quite right. I would never advise any man

to marry a woman much richer than himself, so as to be indebted to her

for his position in society. It is useless to say, or to feel, that her

wealth was not the object of your suit. You may carry it how you

will--what says the song?

'_She_ never will forget;

The gold she gave was not thy _gain_,

But it must be thy _debt_.'

"But come, our host is punctual to his dinner hour, and if we journey

back at the same pace we have travelled here, we shall not have much

time upon our hands." And accordingly the two friends set themselves in

motion to return to the house.

Our readers have, of course, discovered that, in spite of his

disclaimer, Reginald Darcy _was_ in love with Emily Sherwood. He was,

indeed, very far gone, and had suffered great extremities; but his pride

had kept pace with his passion. Left an orphan at an early age, and

placed by the will of his father under the guardianship of Mr Sherwood,

Darcy had found in the residence of that gentleman a home during the

holidays when a schoolboy, and during the vacations when a collegian.

Having lately taken his degree at Cambridge, with high honours, which

had been strenuously contended for, and purchased by severe labour, he

was now recruiting his health, and enjoying a season of well-earned

leisure under his guardian's roof. As Mr Sherwood was old and gouty, and

confined much to his room, it fell on him to escort Emily in her rides

or walks. She whom he had known, and been so often delighted with, as

his little playmate, had grown into the young and lovely woman. Briefly,

our Darcy was a lost man--gone--head and heart. But then--she was the

only daughter of Mr Sherwood, she was a wealthy heiress--he was

comparatively poor. Her father had been to him the kindest of guardians:

ought he to repay that kindness by destroying, perhaps, his proudest

schemes? Ought he, a man of fitting and becoming pride, to put himself

in the equivocal position which the poor suitor of a wealthy heiress

must inevitably occupy? "He invites me," he would say to himself, "he

presses me to stay here, week after week, and month after month, because

the idea that I should seek to carry away his daughter never enters into

his head. And she--she is so frank, so gay, so amiable, and almost fond,

because she has never recognized, with the companion of her childhood,

the possibility of such a thing as marriage. There is but one part for

me--silence, strict, unbroken silence!"

Charles Griffith was not far from the truth, when he said that it would

be difficult to find a better specimen of her fascinating sex than the

daughter of their host. But it was not her beauty, remarkable as this

was--it was not her brightest of blue eyes, nor her fairest of

complexions, nor those rich luxuriant tresses--that formed the greatest

charm in Emily Sherwood. It was the delightful combination she displayed

of a cheerful vivacious temper with generous and ardent feelings. She

was as light and playful as one of the fawns in her own park, but her

heart responded also to every noble and disinterested sentiment; and the

poet who sought a listener for some lofty or tender strain, would have

found the spirit that he wanted in the gay and mirth-loving Emily

Sherwood.

Poor Darcy! he would sit, or walk, by her side, talking of this or that,

no matter what, always happy in her presence, passing the most delicious

hours, but not venturing to betray, by word or look, how very content he

was. For these hours of stolen happiness he knew how severe a penalty he

must pay: he knew and braved it. And in our poor judgment he was right.

Let the secret, stealthy, unrequited lover enjoy to the full the

presence, the smiles, the bland and cheerful society of her whom his

heart is silently worshipping. Even this shall in future hours be a

sweet remembrance. By and by, it is true, there will come a season of

poignant affliction. But better all this than one uniform, perpetual

torpor. He will have felt that mortal man _may_ breathe the air of

happiness; he will have learned something of the human heart that lies

within him.

But all this love--was it seen--was it returned--by her who had inspired

it? Both, both. He thought, wise youth! that while he was swallowing

draught after draught of this delicious poison, no one perceived the

deep intoxication he was revelling in. Just as wisely some veritable

toper, by putting on a grave and demure countenance, cheats himself into

the belief that he conceals from every eye that delectable and

irresistible confusion in which his brain is swimming. His love was

seen. How could it be otherwise? That instantaneous, that complete

delight which he felt when she joined him in his rambles, or came to sit

with him in the library, could not be disguised nor mistaken. He was a

scholar, a reader and lover of books, but let the book be what it might

which he held in his hand, it was abandoned, closed, pitched aside, the

moment she entered. There was no stolen glance at the page left still

open; nor was the place kept marked by the tenacious finger and thumb.

If her voice were heard on the terrace, or in the garden--if her

laugh--so light, merry, and musical, reached his ear--there was no

question or debate whether he should go or stay, but down the stairs, or

through the avenues of the garden--he sprung--he ran;--only a little

before he came in sight he would assume something of the gravity

becoming in a senior wrangler, or try to look as if he came there by

chance. His love was seen, and not with indifference. But what could the

damsel do? How presume to know of an attachment until in due form

certified thereof? If a youth will adhere to an obstinate silence, what,

we repeat, can a damsel do but leave him to his fate, and listen to some

other, who, if he loves less, at least knows how to avow his love?

CHAPTER II.

We left the two friends proceeding towards the mansion; we enter before

them, and introduce our readers into the drawing-room. Here, in a

spacious and shaded apartment, made cool, as well by the massive walls

of the noble edifice as by the open and protected windows, whose broad

balcony was blooming with the most beautiful and fragrant of plants, sat

Emily Sherwood. She was not, however, alone. At the same round table,

which was covered with vases of flowers, and with books as gay as

flowers, was seated another young lady, Miss Julia Danvers, a friend who

had arrived in the course of the morning on a visit to Lipscombe Park.

The young ladies seemed to have been in deep consultation.

"I can never thank you sufficiently," said Miss Danvers, "for your

kindness in this affair."

"Indeed but you can very soon thank me much more than sufficiently,"

replied her more lively companion, "for there are few things in the

world I dislike so much as thanks. And yet there is one cause of

thankfulness you have, and know not of. Here have I listened to your

troubles, as you call them, for more than two hours, and never once told

you any of my own. Troubles! you are, in my estimation, a very happy,

enviable girl."

"Do you think it then so great a happiness to be obliged to take refuge

from an absurd selfish stepmother, in order to get by stealth one's own

lawful way?"

"One's own way is always lawful, my dear. No tautology. But you _have_

it--while I"----

"Well, what is the matter?"

"Julia, dear--now do not laugh--I have a lover that _won't speak_. I

have another, or one who calls himself such, who has spoken, or whose

wealth, I fear, has spoken, to some purpose--to my father."

"And you would open the mouth of the dumb, and stop the mouth of the

foolish?"

"Exactly."

"Who are they? And first, to proceed by due climax, who is he whose

mouth is to be closed?"

"A baronet of these parts, Sir Frederic Beaumantle. A vain, vain, vain

man. It would be a waste of good words to spend another epithet upon

him, for he is all vanity. All his virtues, all his vices, all his

actions, good, bad, and indifferent, are nothing but vanity. He praises

you from vanity, abuses you from vanity, loves and hates you from

vanity. He is vain of his person, of his wealth, of his birth, of his

title, vain of all he has, and all he has not. He sets so great a value

on his innumerable and superlative good qualities, that he really has

not been able (until he met with your humble servant) to find any

individual of our sex on whom he could, conscientiously, bestow so great

a treasure as his own right hand must inevitably give away. This has

been the only reason--he tells me so himself--why he has remained so

long unmarried; for he has rounded the arch, and is going down the

bridge. To take his own account of this delicate matter, he is

fluctuating, with an uneasy motion, to and fro, between forty and

forty-five."

"Old enough, I doubt not, to be your father. How can he venture on such

a frolicsome young thing as you?"

"I asked him that question myself one day; and he told me, with a most

complacent smile, that I should be the perfect compendium of

matrimony--he should have wife and child in one."

"The old coxcomb! And yet there was a sort of providence in that.--Now,

who is he whose mouth is to be opened?"

"Oh--he!--can't you guess?"

"Your cousin Reginald, as you used to call him--though cousin I believe

he is none--this learned wrangler?"

"The same. Trust me, he loves me to the bottom of his heart; but because

his little cousin is a great heiress, he thinks it fit to be very proud,

and gives me over--many thanks to him--to this rich baronet. But here he

comes."

As she spoke, Darcy and Griffith entered the room.

"We have been canvassing," said Emily, after the usual forms of

introduction had been gone through, "the merits of our friend, Sir

Frederic Beaumantle. By the way, Reginald, he dines here to-day, and so

will another gentleman, whom I shall be happy to introduce to you,

Captain Garland, an esteemed friend of mine and Miss Danvers'."

"Sir Frederic seems," said Griffith, by way merely of taking part in the

conversation, "at all events, a very good-natured man. I have seen him

but once, and he has already promised to use all his influence in my

behalf, in whatever profession I may embark. If medicine, I am to have

half-a-dozen dowagers, always ailing and never ill, put under my charge

the moment I can add M.D. to my name; not to speak of certain mysterious

hints of an introduction at court, and an appointment of physician

extraordinary to Her Majesty. I suppose I may depend upon Sir Frederic's

promises?"

"Oh, certainly," said Miss Sherwood, "you may depend upon Sir Frederic

Beaumantle's promises; they will never fail; they are inexhaustible."

"The fool!" said Darcy with impatience, "I could forgive him any thing

but that ridiculous ostentation he has of patronizing men, who, but they

have more politeness than himself, would throw back his promises with

open derision."

"Reginald," said Miss Sherwood, "is always forgiving Sir Frederic every

fault but one. But then that one fault changes every day. Last time he

would pardon him every thing except the fulsome eulogy he is in the

habit of bestowing upon his friends, even to their faces. You must know,

Mr Griffith, that Sir Frederic is a most liberal chapman in this

commodity of praise: he will give any man a bushel-full of compliments

who will send him back the measure only half filled. Nay, if there are

but a few cherries clinging to the wicker-work he is not wholly

dissatisfied."

"What he gives he knows is trash," said Darcy; "what he receives he

always flatters himself to be true coin. But indeed Sir Frederic is

somewhat more just in his dealings than you, perhaps, imagine. If he

bestows excessive laudation on a friend in one company, he takes it all

back again in the very next he enters."

"And still his amiability shines through all; for he abuses the absent

friend only to gratify the self-love of those who are present."

The door opened as Miss Sherwood gave this _coup-de-grace_ to the

character of the baronet, and Sir Frederic Beaumantle was announced, and

immediately afterwards, Captain Garland.

Miss Sherwood, somewhat to the surprise of Darcy, who was not aware that

any such intimacy subsisted between them, received Captain Garland with

all the cordiality of an old acquaintance. On the other hand she

introduced the baronet to Miss Danvers with that slightly emphatic

manner which intimates that the parties may entertain a "high

consideration" for each other.

"You are too good a herald, Sir Frederic," she said, "not to know the

Danverses of Dorsetshire."

"I shall be proud," replied the baronet, "to make the acquaintance of

Miss Danvers."

"She has come to my poor castle," continued Miss Sherwood, "like the

distressed princess in the Faery Queen, and I must look out for some

red-cross knight to be her champion, and redress her wrongs."

"It is not the first time," said the lady thus introduced, "that I have

heard of the name of Sir Frederic Beaumantle."

"I dare say not, I dare say not," answered the gratified baronet. "Mine,

I may venture to say, is an historic name. Did you ever peruse, Miss

Danvers, a work entitled 'The History of the County of Huntingdon?' You

would find in it many curious particulars relating to the Beaumantles,

and one anecdote especially, drawn, I may say, from the archives of our

family, which throws a new light upon the reign and character of Charles

II. It is a very able performance is this 'History of the County of

Huntingdon;' it is written by a modest and ingenious person of my

acquaintance, and I felt great pleasure in lending him my poor

assistance in the compilation of it. My name is mentioned in the

preface. Perhaps," he added with a significant smile, "it might have

claimed a still more conspicuous place; but I hold it more becoming in

persons of rank to be the patrons than the competitors of men of

letters."

"I should think," said Miss Danvers very quietly, "it were the more

prudent plan for them to adopt. But what is this anecdote you allude

to?"

"An ancestor of mine--But I am afraid," said the baronet, casting a

deprecatory look at Miss Sherwood, "that some here have read it, or

heard me repeat it before."

"Oh, pray proceed," said the young lady appealed to.

"An ancestor of mine," resumed the baronet, "on being presented at the

Court of Charles II., soon after the Restoration, attracted the

attention of that merry monarch and his witty courtiers, by the antique

fashion of his cloak. 'Beaumantle! Beaumantle!' said the king, 'who gave

thee that name?' My ancestor, who was a grave man, and well brought up,

answered, 'Sire, my godfathers and my godmothers at my baptism.' 'Well

responded!' said the king with a smile; 'and they gave thee thy raiment

also, as it seems.' These last words were added in a lower voice, and

did not reach the ear of my ancestor, but they were reported to him

immediately afterwards, and have been treasured up in our family ever

since. I thought it my duty to make it known to the world as an

historical fact, strikingly illustrative of a very important period in

our annals."

"Why, your name," said Miss Danvers, "appears to be historical in more

senses than one."

"I hope soon--but I would not wish this to go beyond the present

company," said Sir Frederic, and he looked round the circle with a

countenance of the most imposing solemnity--"I hope soon that you will

hear of it being elevated to the peerage--that is, when Sir Robert Peel

comes into power."

"You know Sir Robert, then?" said Griffith, with perfect simplicity.

"Public men," said Sir Frederic, "are sufficiently introduced by public

report. Besides, Mr Griffith--we baronets!--we constitute a sort of

brotherhood. I have employed all my influence in the county, and I may

safely say it is not little, to raise the character and estimation of

Sir Robert, and I have no doubt that he will gladly testify his

acknowledgment of my services by this trifling return. And as it is well

known that my estates"--

But the baronet was interrupted in mid career by the announcement of

dinner.

Miss Sherwood took the arm of Captain Garland, and directed Sir Frederic

to lead down Miss Danvers.

"You will excuse my father," she said, as they descended, "for not

meeting us in the drawing-room. His gout makes him a lame pedestrian. We

shall find him already seated at the table."

At the dinner-table the same arrangement was preserved. Miss Sherwood

had placed Captain Garland by her side, and conversed almost exclusively

with him; while the Baronet was kept in play by the sedulous flattery of

Miss Danvers.

After a few days, it became evident to all the household at Lipscombe

Park that a new claimant for the hand of Miss Sherwood had appeared in

the person of Captain Garland. The captain did not reside in the house,

but, on the pretence of a very strong passion for trout-fishing, he had

taken up his quarters in apartments within a most convenient distance of

the scene of operations. It was not forgotten that, at the very time he

made his appearance, Miss Danvers also arrived at the Park, and between

these parties there was suspected to be some secret understanding. It

seemed as if our military suitor had resolved to assail the fort from

within as well as from without, and therefore had brought down with him

this fair ally. Nothing better than such a fair ally. She could not only

chant his praises when absent, (and there is much in that,) but she

could so manoeuvre as to procure for the captain many a _tête-à-tête_,

which otherwise would not fall to his share. Especially, (and this task

she appeared to accomplish most adroitly,) she could engage to herself

the attentions of his professed and redoubtable rival, Sir Frederic

Beaumantle. In fifty ways she could assist in betraying the citadel from

within, whilst he stood storming at the gates, in open and most

magnanimous warfare. Darcy was not slower than others to suspect the

stratagem, and he thought he saw symptoms of its success. His friend

Griffith had now left him; he had no dispassionate observer to consult,

and his own desponding passion led him to conclude whatever was most

unfavourable to himself. Certainly there was a confidential manner

between Miss Sherwood and these close allies, which seemed to justify

the suspicion alluded to. More than once, when he had joined Miss

Sherwood and the captain, the unpleasant discovery had been forced upon

him, by the sudden pause in their conversation, that he was the _one too

many_.

But jealousy? Oh, no! What had _he_ to do with jealousy? For his part,

he was quite delighted with this new attachment--quite delighted; it

would set at rest for ever the painful controversy so often agitated in

his own breast. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that he felt the

rivalry of Captain Garland in a very different manner from that of Sir

Frederic Beaumantle. The baronet, by virtue of his wealth alone, would

obtain success; and he felt a sort of bitter satisfaction in yielding

Emily to her opulent suitor. She might marry, but she could not love

him; she might be thinking of another, perhaps of her cousin Reginald,

even while she gave her hand to him at the altar. But if the gallant

captain, whose handsome person, and frank and gentlemanly manners,

formed his chief recommendation, were to be the happy man, then must her

affections have been won, and Emily was lost to him utterly. And

then--with the usual logic of the passions, and forgetting the part of

silence and disguise that he had played--he taxed her with levity and

unkindness in so soon preferring the captain to himself. That Emily

should so soon have linked herself with a comparative stranger! It was

not what he should have expected. "At all events," he would thus

conclude his soliloquy, "I am henceforward free--free from her bondage

and from all internal struggle. Yes! I am free!" he exclaimed, as he

paced his room triumphantly. The light voice of Emily was heard calling

on him to accompany her in a walk. He started, he flew. His freedom, we

suppose, gave him wings, for he was at her side in a moment.

Reginald had intended, on the first opportunity, to rally his cousin

upon her sudden attachment to the captain, but his tongue absolutely

refused the office. He could not utter a word of banter on the subject.

His heart was too full.

On this occasion, as they returned from their walk through the park,

there happened one of those incidents which have so often, at least in

novels and story-books, brought about the happiness of lovers, but which

in the present instance served only to bring into play the most painful

feelings of both parties.

A prize-fight had taken place in the neighbourhood, and one of the

numerous visitors of that truly noble exhibition, who, in order to do

honour to the day, had deprived Smithfield market of the light of his

countenance, was returning across the park from the scene of combat,

accompanied by his bull-dog. The dog, who doubtless knew that his master

was a trespasser, and considered it the better policy to assume at once

the offensive, flew at the party whom he saw approaching. Emily was a

little in advance. Darcy rushed forward to plant himself between her and

this ferocious assailant. He had no weapon of defence of any kind, and,

to say truth, he had at that moment no idea of defending himself, or any

distinct notion whatever of combating his antagonist. The only

reflection that occurred to his mind was, that if the animal satiated

its fury upon him, his companion would be safe. A strong leg and a stout

boot might have done something; Darcy, stooping down, put the fleshy

part of his own arm fairly into the bulldog's jaws; assured that, at all

events, it could not bite two persons at the same time, and that, if its

teeth were buried in his own arm, they could not be engaged in

lacerating Emily Sherwood. It is the well-known nature of the bull-dog

to fasten where it once bites, and the brute pinned Darcy to the ground,

until its owner, arriving on the spot, extricated him from his very

painful position.

In this encounter, our senior wrangler probably showed himself very

unskilful and deficient in the combat with wild beasts, but no conduct

could have displayed a more engrossing anxiety for the safety of his

fair companion. Most men would have been willing to reap advantage from

the grateful sentiment which such a conduct must inspire; Darcy, on the

contrary, seemed to have no other wish than to disclaim all title to

such a sentiment. He would not endure that the incident should be spoken

of with the least gravity or seriousness.

"I pray you," said he, "do not mention this silly business again. What I

did, every living man who had found himself by your side would have

done, and most men in a far more dexterous manner. And, indeed, if

instead of yourself, the merest stranger--the poorest creature in the

parish, man, woman, or child, had been in your predicament, I think I

should have done the same."

"I know you would, Reginald. I believe," said Emily, "that if the merest

idiot had been threatened with the danger that threatened me, you would

have interposed, and received the attack yourself. And it is because I

believe this of you, Reginald"----

Something apparently impeded her utterance, for the sentence was left

unfinished.

"For this wound," resumed Darcy, after a pause, and observing that

Emily's eye was resting on his arm, "it is really nothing more than a

just penalty for my own want of address in this notable combat. You

should have had the captain with you," he added; "he would have defended

you quite as zealously, and with ten times the skill."

Emily made no answer; and they walked on in silence till they entered

the Hall. Reginald felt that he had been ungracious; but he knew not how

to retrieve his position. Just before they parted, Emily resuming, in

some measure, her natural and cheerful manner, turned to her companion,

and said--"Years ago, when you were cousin Reginald, and condescended to

be my playfellow, the greatest services you rendered were to throw me

occasionally out of the swing, or frighten me till I screamed by putting

my pony into a most unmerciful trot; but you were always so kind in the

_making up_, that I liked you the better afterwards. Now, when you

preserve me, at your own hazard, from a very serious injury--you do it

in so surly a manner--I wish the dog had bitten me!" And with this she

left him and tripped up stairs.

If Darcy could have followed her into her own room, he would have seen

her throw herself into an armchair, and burst into a flood of tears.

CHAPTER III.

Miss Danvers, it has been said, (from whatever motive her conduct

proceeded, whether from any interest of her own, or merely a desire to

serve the interest of her friend, Captain Garland,) showed a disposition

to engross the attentions of Sir Frederic Beaumantle as often as he made

his appearance at Lipscombe Park. Now, as that lady was undoubtedly of

good family, and possessed of considerable fortune, the baronet was not

a little flattered by the interest which a person who had these

excellent qualifications for a judge, manifestly took in his

conversation. In an equal degree was his dignity offended at the

preference shown by Miss Sherwood for Captain Garland, a man, as he

said, but of yesterday, and not in any one point of view to be put in

comparison with himself. He almost resolved to punish her levity by

withdrawing his suit. The graver manner, and somewhat more mature age of

Miss Danvers were also qualities which he was obliged to confess were

somewhat in her favour.