“Genius,” said he, “is chiefly exerted in historical pictures, and the art of the painter of portraits is often lost in the obscurity of the subject. But it is in painting as in life; what is greatest is not always best. I should grieve to see Reynolds transfer to heroes and goddesses, to empty splendor and to airy fiction, that art which is now employed in diffusing friendship, in renewing tenderness, in quickening the affections of the absent, and continuing the presence of the dead. Every man is always present to himself, and has, therefore, little need of his own resemblance; nor can desire it, but for the sake of those whom he loves, and by whom he hopes to be remembered. This use of the art is a natural and reasonable consequence of affection: and though, like all other human actions, it is often complicated with pride, yet even such pride is more laudable than that by which palaces are covered with pictures, which however excellent, neither imply the owner’s virtue, nor excite it.”
THE LITERARY CLUB.
The Literary Club was founded by Dr. Johnson in 1764, and among many men of eminence and talent, it numbered Reynolds. His modesty would not permit him to assume to himself the distinction which literature bestows, but his friends knew too well the value of his presence, to lose it by a fastidious observance of the title of the club. Poets, painters, and sculptors are all brothers; and had Reynolds been less eminent in art, his sound sense, varied information, and pleasing manners would have made him an acceptable companion in the most intellectual society.
JOHNSON’S PORTRAIT.
In 1775, Sir Joshua Reynolds painted his famous portrait of Dr. Johnson, in which he represented him as reading, and near-sighted. This latter circumstance was very displeasing to the “Giant of Literature,” who reproved Reynolds, saying, “It is not friendly to hand down to posterity the imperfections of any man.” But Reynolds, on the contrary, considered it a natural peculiarity which gave additional value to the portrait. Johnson complained of the caricature to Mrs. Thrale, who to console him, said that he would not be known to posterity by his defects only, and that Reynolds had painted for her his own portrait, with the ear-trumpet. He replied, “He may paint himself as deaf as he chooses, but he shall not paint me as blinking Sam.”
JOHNSON’S DEATH.
“Amidst the applause,” says Cunningham, “which these works obtained for him, the President met with a loss which the world could not repair—Samuel Johnson died on the 13th of December, 1784, full of years and honors. A long, a warm, and a beneficial friendship had subsisted between them. The house and the purse of Reynolds were ever open to Johnson, and the word and the pen of Johnson were equally ready for Reynolds. It was pleasing to contemplate this affectionate brotherhood, and it was sorrowful to see it dissevered. ‘I have three requests to make,’ said Johnson, the day before his death, ‘and I beg that you will attend to them, Sir Joshua. Forgive me thirty pounds, which I borrowed from you—read the Scriptures—and abstain from using your pencil on the Sabbath-day.’ Reynolds promised, and—what is better—remembered his promise?”
REYNOLDS AND GOLDSMITH.
We hear much about “poetic inspiration,” and the “poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling.” Reynolds use to tell an anecdote of goldsmith calculated to abate our notions about the ardor of composition.
Calling upon the poet one day, he opened the door without ceremony, and found him engaged in the double occupation of tuning a couplet and teaching a pet dog to sit upon its haunches. At one time he would glance at his desk, and at another shake his finger at the dog to make him retain his position. The last lines on the page were still wet; they form a part of the description of Italy: