Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 331, May, 1843
'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?