Footprints of Famous Men: Designed as Incitements to Intellectual Industry

by John G. Edgar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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