DRAWING-ROOM.

No. 1.

LADY CAROLINE COWPER.Red gown. Black and white cloak.BORN 1733, DIED 1773.By Sir Joshua Reynolds.

LADY CAROLINE COWPER.

Red gown. Black and white cloak.

BORN 1733, DIED 1773.

By Sir Joshua Reynolds.

THE only daughter of William, second Earl Cowper, by Lady Henrietta Auverquerque, daughter of the Earl of Grantham. Married in 1753 to Henry Seymour, Esq. of Sherborne, Redland Court, and Northbrook, nephew to the Duke of Somerset. They had two daughters,—Caroline, wife to Mr. Danby of Swinton Park, county York (who bequeathed this picture to Lord Cowper), and Georgiana, married to the Comte de Durfort, Ambassador at Venice.

No. 2.

MRS. SAMUEL REYNOLDS.Green gown, with short sleeves. Holding a basket.A Study by Opie.

MRS. SAMUEL REYNOLDS.

Green gown, with short sleeves. Holding a basket.

A Study by Opie.

MISS JANE COWING married in 1793 Samuel Reynolds, who became identified with his great namesake, Sir Joshua, by his beautiful and delicate engraving of the works of that master, and of many other celebrated painters. His son and daughter were also artists in oil and miniature, and his grandchildren still keep up the character of the family for the love and practice of art. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds were intimate friends and constant guests of Lord and Lady John Townshend at Balls Park, Hertford, where the agreeable and versatile talents of the former, and the gentle and kindly disposition of the latter, ensured them a cordial welcome. They were also occasional visitors to Panshanger, and it is easy to imagine how fully the treasures of this noble gallery must have been appreciated by the practised eye and refined taste of Samuel Reynolds.

No. 3.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.Red coat. Fur collar. No spectacles.BORN 1723, DIED 1792.By Himself.

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, P.R.A.

Red coat. Fur collar. No spectacles.

BORN 1723, DIED 1792.

By Himself.

BORN at Plymouth, where his father, Samuel, was master of the Grammar-School. His mother was Theophila Potter, of Bishops Plympton, South Molton, who had many children. Samuel Reynolds was a good man, and sensible withal; yet we are told, on the authority of a maid who lived in the family, that he was given to astrology, and would go out on the house-top to consult the stars; moreover, that he once cast the horoscope of a little daughter, for whom he predicted a violent death,—a prophecy which was, unfortunately, fulfilled, as the child fell out of a window, and was killed. When only eight years old, Joshua had benefited so much by studying Richardson’s treatise on Perspective, that he was enabled to draw the schoolhouse according to rule, a feat which much delighted his father. The boy also busied himself in copying all the engravings he could lay hands on, more especially a volume of Catt’s Emblems, which his grandmother had brought with her from Holland. His sisters had all a turn for drawing, and the little band of artists used to decorate the whitewashed walls of the passages with designs in charcoal, whereof the least admired were the brother’s handiworks. Indeed, in those days Joshua was not considered a prophet by his sisters, who had nicknamed him ‘The clown,’—a sobriquet certainly not applicable to him in after life. Mrs. Parker, a friend and neighbour ofthe Reynolds family, sent the children a present of pencils,—a gift which the great painter lived to pay back with interest, for the walls of Saltram are rich in his paintings. When about twelve years of age, Joshua is said to have made his first essay in oils under considerable difficulties,—the portrait of Richard (afterwards Lord) Edgecumbe,—in the boat-house on Cremel Beach, below Mount Edgecumbe. This work was executed on the rough canvas of a boat-sail, with the common paints used by shipwrights!

After much consultation with friends and relations, and many pecuniary obstacles, Joshua proceeded to London as an apprentice to Hudson, the fashionable portrait-painter of the day, son-in-law to Richardson, whose writings on Art had been so useful to the young beginner. Shortly after his departure, his father writes to a friend that no one could be more delighted than the dear fellow with his new life, his master, his employment,—indeed, he was in the seventh heaven.

Joshua was an enthusiast in all things, and a characteristic anecdote is told of him when he first went to London. Hudson sent him to a picture sale, on a commission to make a purchase, when a whisper ran through the crowded room—‘Mr. Pope! Mr. Pope!’ A passage was instantly made for the great man, and Joshua, in a fever of excitement, stretched out his hand under the arm of the person who stood before him, desirous even to touch the hem of the poet’s garment. To his delight, his hand was warmly shaken by the man whose homely but expressive features, and poetical creations, he was destined to portray in later days.

Reynolds left Hudson’s studio before his apprenticeship had expired, for which step many reasons were assigned at the time by those who, perhaps, were not in possession of the truth. Some said his master was unkind to him, from a feeling of jealousy; but as both father and son (Reynolds) remained on friendly terms with the painter, this does not appear probable.Joshua went down to Plymouth, and painted all the remarkable people in the neighbourhood, including the greatest dignitary of all,—the Commissioner of the dockyard!

In 1746 his father died, and when the household broke up, he went to live with his two unmarried sisters at Plymouth. It was here he made the acquaintance of Commodore Keppel, whose portrait is so well known and so justly admired. This gallant sailor had been appointed to the command of the Mediterranean Fleet, and intrusted with a diplomatic mission, before he had completed his twenty-fourth year. He met Joshua at Mount Edgecumbe, and proposed to take him for a cruise, an offer that was gladly accepted. After visiting Portugal, the Balearic Isles, and different portions of the Italian coast, the young painter took leave of the Commodore, and proceeded on a prolonged tour through all the principal towns of Italy, carefully admiring, studying, copying, and writing essays on all the treasures of art in his progress. His long and patient worship of Raphael, in the chambers of the Vatican, cost him one of his senses, for the extreme cold of those vast apartments brought on a chill, which deprived him of hearing, even at that early age. Returning to London, he established himself in St. Martin’s Lane, in a house formerly occupied by Sir James Thornhill, immediately behind which stood the school for drawing and design. He now wrote to his sister Frances to come up from Devonshire, and keep house for him,—a proceeding which, judging from the character given of that lady by Madame D’Arblay (whose testimony we are always inclined to takecum grano), appeared to be of questionable advantage, for Miss Fanny, though a person of worth and understanding, lived in a perpetual state of irresolution of mind and perplexity of conduct,—what in these days we should call a chronic fuss; added to which, she insisted on being an artist, and her admiration for her brother’s works induced her to make what she called ‘copies,’ and Joshua ‘caricatures.’‘Indeed,’ said he wofully, ‘Fanny’s copies make me cry, and other people laugh.’ She had also a knack of taking offence on the slightest provocation, and one day, being displeased with her brother for some imaginary slight put upon her, she deputed Samuel Johnson to compose an expostulatory letter for her to write to Joshua. Dr. Johnson was a warm admirer of Miss Fanny and her talent for tea-making,—to which he did full justice,—and could deny her nothing; but when the copy of the letter was read and discussed, the style was so unmistakably masculine and Johnsonian, that it was deemed advisable not to send it.

Our painter’s hands were now full. Men and women of all classes, denominations, and reputations, thronged his studio; his pocket-book was a perfect record of all the illustrious and celebrated names of the period. He determined to change his quarters, first to Newport Street, and finally to far more commodious apartments in Leicester Square. He raised his prices, charging twelve guineas for a head, and forty-eight for a full-length. He set up a magnificent coach, which caused a great sensation. Northcote flippantly describes it as an advertisement; but it would appear more likely that Reynolds wished to do Catton a good turn. Catton had begun life as a decorator, and ended as an R.A. The vehicle was splendid in colour and gorgeous in gilding, and Catton soon received orders to paint royal and municipal carriages. Joshua was far too busy to take the air in his new equipage, and it was in vain he entreated Miss Fanny to do so. She was much too shy, she said, to attract the eyes of the whole town.

We do not require to be told that Sir Joshua was a friend and playfellow of children. None but a lover could have painted in all their winning varieties, not merely the comeliness, but the roguish grace, the dimpled smiles, the ‘beautifully shy’ glances, of childhood. It is easy to picture him paying court to these juvenile charmers, and entering into delightfulsmall flirtations. But the history of one of these tender passages will suffice to give an idea of the course he usually pursued. The parents of the beautiful little Miss Bowles, with whose sweet face we are all familiar, had settled that their darling should sit to Romney. But Sir George Beaumont recommended Reynolds for the privilege. The little lady was shy and coy. ‘Invite him to dinner,’ said Sir George. The President came, and sat at table by the daughter of the house. He paid her the most assiduous court; no end of stories; no end of tricks; her plate was juggled away and brought back from unexpected quarters. Her senses were dazzled; the conquest was complete; she thought him the most captivating of men, and was only too ready to be taken to his house next day. There, seated on the floor in an ecstasy of expectation and delight, she gave herself up to Sir Joshua’s fascinations. He seized his opportunity, caught the radiant expression, fastened it on the canvas, and made his little friend immortal! No one gloried more in the success of the young painter than Samuel Johnson, for between these two great men, so essentially different in pursuits, in character, intellect, and appearance, a tender friendship had sprung up. Reynolds’s heart, home, and purse were always at the service of the Doctor, who was often in pecuniary difficulties, and who wroteRasselasunder the pressure of great sorrow, paying the expenses of his mother’s funeral out of the proceeds of the book. He puts these touching words into the mouth of Imlac: ‘I have neither mother to delight in the reputation of her son, or wife to share in the honours of her husband.’

Many a delightful summer excursion did Johnson and Reynolds make together, where the eccentricities and caustic humour of the former made him as welcome a guest at the country houses they visited as the refined qualities and polished manners of the latter.

If the peculiarities, the sayings, and doings of the great ‘leviathan of literature’ have been made familiar to us by thepen of Boswell, surely the pencil of Reynolds has stamped his image on our minds, as if the living Samuel had ever stood before us. Boswell recognised the Doctor when he saw him first through a glass door in Tom Davies’s coffee-house from his exact resemblance to the portrait which the painter afterwards gave the biographer, who had it engraved for one of the first editions of Johnson’s Life. What can be more charming than ‘The Infant Johnson,’ one of the chief glories of the Bowood collection? Was ever a joke so wonderfully delineated?

The question being raised one evening at a convivial meeting, Could the Doctor ever have been a baby? ‘No doubt about it,’ said Reynolds; ‘I know exactly what he looked like, and I will show you some day.’

The painter was a great admirer of Johnson’s powers of conversation, and it was chiefly at his instigation that the Literary Club was formed, with a view ‘of giving the Doctor the opportunity of talking, and us, his friends, of listening.’ The meetings were held in Gerrard Street, Soho, and were at first confined to twelve members, but ere long included all the wit and literature of the town.

Sir Joshua liked cards, masquerades, and theatres. Neither did he disdain the illegitimate drama, for we find him accompanying the sapient Samuel and the rollicking Oliver (Goldsmith) to a performance of the Italian Fantoccini; and, still more surprising, we have the account of the supper which crowned this convivial evening, when Goldsmith and the Doctor jumped over sticks, in imitation of the frolics of the wooden puppets, and the latter nearly broke his leg in these elephantine gambols!

In 1769 the Royal Academy was founded. Joshua did not join the deputation that waited on the King; in fact, he kept aloof from the whole undertaking, interested as he was at heart in the cause; but the slights put upon him at Court formed a sufficient reason for his non-appearance. From themoment that he found himself elected President by the unanimous voice of his brother artists, his zeal never slackened, and knew no bounds. He drew up Regulations, wrote and revised the Catalogue, and began a regular course of lectures, which gained him as much literary, as his paintings had secured for him pictorial, fame. As long as Reynolds could hold a brush he contributed his most splendid portraits to the Exhibitions. As in duty bound, he went to the levee, where the King knighted him. ‘His very name,’ says his friend Edmund Burke, an undoubted master of euphony, ‘seemed made for knightly honours.’

GeorgeIII.sat to him for the presentation picture to the Royal Academy. Sir Joshua had not as much time now as formerly for his summer excursions, whether in England or abroad. He spent most of the day in his painting-room, or in attending to his numerous duties as P.R.A. In the evening he gave himself up more or less to social enjoyment, dining out constantly at clubs or private houses, or presiding at his own table at those convivial banquets, where oftentimes half a dozen guests were expected and a dozen appeared, and where verily the feast of reason and the flow of soul made up for the scarcity of the servants, knives, forks, plates, and such minor details.

In that dining-room were gathered all the intellect and wit of the town; and its noble master presided calmly, taking an interest in all that came within the range of his ear-trumpet. Leicester Square was in the centre of the disturbed district at the time of the Gordon Riots, and the noise and hubbub were painfully audible to the painter’s impaired hearing, and for a time interfered with the visits of his fair sitters. On St. George’s Day 1770, Sir Joshua presided at the first Royal Academy banquet, a festivity which was spoiled for many of the guests by the announcement that the boy-poet Chatterton had committed suicide.

In the ensuing year Reynolds was summoned to WindsorCastle to witness the installation of nine Knights of the Garter, all of whom (with the exception of two foreign Princes) had been immortalised by his pencil. Northcote tells us that on this occasion Sir Joshua lost his laced hat and gold watch in the crowd close to the Royal precincts,—a circumstance which excited little astonishment in days when a boat containing ladies and gentlemen from Vauxhall was boarded by masked highwaymen!

A delightful addition was made in 1771 to the Leicester Square household, in the person of his pretty niece, Theophila Palmer; and two years later she was joined by her sister, Mary, adding that element of youth, beauty, and good spirits which were most acceptable to Sir Joshua himself and to all his guests. A sad blow was in store for him in the death of his valued friend David Garrick, who was taken ill when on a visit to Lord Spencer at Althorp, and only returned to London to die. The whole Faculty put forth their skill to save this darling of the public, this cherished member of private society; but in vain. Garrick’s humour never forsook him; when almost at the point of death, he drew a friend near him, and, pointing to the crowd of doctors in the room, whispered these words from the ‘Fair Penitent’—

‘Another and another still succeeds,And the last fool is welcome as the former.’

‘Another and another still succeeds,

And the last fool is welcome as the former.’

David Garrick’s funeral was a pageant. The procession included every name remarkable for talent, rank, celebrity of all kinds and classes. But amidst that crowd of mourners few could have grieved more deeply than the actor’s fast friend, Joshua Reynolds.

He was indeed a good friend, and was much interested in the unhappy Angelica Kauffmann, whom he assisted in the dissolution of her marriage with her first husband, a swindler and an impostor. We find by his pocket-book thatshe sat twice to him, and in exchange she afterwards painted the P.R.A. for Mr. Parker of Saltram. There was a rumour that the painter’s heart was touched by the charms of the paintress. But Joshua was evidently not very susceptible; he was an inveterate club man, and was immensely popular, from the geniality and cordiality of his manners, as also (it was whispered) from the badness of his whist-playing. He was elected for the Dilettanti Club in 1766, and his picture of the assembled members was greatly admired, and added considerably to his fame.

In 1782 the great painter had a paralytic seizure, though of a mild nature, and he soon recovered sufficient energy to continue his labours, with, if possible, increased diligence, finishing and exhibiting some of his noblest works after this premonitory warning. In 1784 Samuel Johnson was stricken down by the same terrible disease, but in a much more aggravated form, leaving little hope of his recovery. He had lost the power of speech for a time, and his first efforts at returning articulation were to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, and an earnest supplication that his intellect might be spared to the last, together with a summons to his dear Joshua,—the loved companion of so many pleasant excursions, of so many jovial and intellectual gatherings,—of whom he took a tender farewell. The dying man made three requests in that solemn moment: that Reynolds would paint no more on Sundays; that he would invariably read his Bible on that day, and other days besides; and that he would cancel the debt of £30 which he (Johnson) owed him.

The relations between Gainsborough and Reynolds had never been very friendly; but when the first-mentioned painter was on his deathbed, he also sent for Sir Joshua, who says: ‘In those solemn moments all little jealousies were forgotten, and he recognised in me one whose tastes and pursuits were in common with his own, and of whose works he approved.’It should be remembered that when Gainsborough heard some one disparaging Sir Joshua’s talent, he spoke up gallantly, and said, ‘For myself, I consider his worst pictures superior to the best of any other painter;’ and words nearly to the same effect, on the same subject, are recorded of Romney. Reynolds himself, being attacked on the score of his portraits fading, laughed, and said good-humouredly, ‘Well, you must confess at all events that I have come off withflyingcolours.’ On the death of Ramsay, the Court painter, the post was offered to Sir Joshua, but it required the united persuasions of his friends to induce him to accept the office.

Reynolds had a great deal to contend with in these latter days. He had entirely lost the sight of one eye, and was under grave apprehensions for the safety of the other; while the conduct of many of the Royal Academicians towards their noble President was such as to determine him to resign his post. The King (who had just recovered from an attack of insanity) exerted himself to persuade Reynolds to take back his resignation. But it was not until he had received a deputation from the Council, accompanied by apologies from some of the offenders, that Sir Joshua consented to resume the Chair. In December 1790 he delivered his last discourse at the Royal Academy, which he commenced by alluding slightly and delicately to the causes which had nearly prevented his ever occupying that place again, and assuring his hearers that he should always remember with pride, affection, and gratitude the support with which he had almost uniformly been honoured since the commencement of their intercourse. He enjoined, for the last time, the enforcement of those rules which he considered conducive to the wellbeing of the institution.

Every eye was fixed on the speaker, every ear open to his charming, when suddenly a loud crash plunged the whole assembly (with the exception of the President) into alarm and confusion. There was a general rush to the door, but whenorder was restored, and assurance of safety believed, it was ascertained that a beam, which helped to support the flooring, had given way.

Alas for the omen! The greatest prop to the grandeur of the Royal Academy was soon to fall away in truth.

Sir Joshua remained calm and unmoved during the perturbation, and concluded by these words: ‘I reflect, not without vanity, that these discourses bear testimony to my admiration of a truly divine man, and I desire that the last words I pronounce in this Academy should be the name of Michael Angelo.’

As Reynolds descended from the Chair, Edmund Burke stepped forward, and, taking his hand, addressed him in the words of Milton:—

‘The angel ended, and in Adam’s earSo charming left his voice, that he a whileThought him still speaking, and stood fixed to hear.’

‘The angel ended, and in Adam’s ear

So charming left his voice, that he a while

Thought him still speaking, and stood fixed to hear.’

‘Such a tribute, from such a man,’ says Leslie, ‘was a fitting close to the life-work of Joshua Reynolds.’

Neither his impaired sight, his deficient hearing, or his increasing weakness, could entirely damp the warmth of his social affections. The last time he wielded his brush was at the request of some schoolboys, who entreated him to paint them a flag for ‘breaking up.’

Reynolds had that love for children and domestic pets which seems inseparable from great and good natures. He would pay the most assiduous court, and make the most gallant advances, to some of the exquisite little models who sat to him, till they became spellbound. And one day, his canary having escaped from its cage, nothing would content the P.R.A. but he must go out into the glaring sunshine, with his weak eyes, and the green shade over them, to spend hours in seeking and whistling for his lost favourite.

The end was approaching. His spirits became depressed, his appetite failed, and on the evening of February 23, 1792, he concluded a blameless life by a calm and peaceful end. The manuscript of Burke’s obituary notice still exists, blotted with the writer’s tears. It was written in the very house where the friends had spent so many happy hours together. Beautiful in its touching eloquence, we regret we have only space for a short extract:—

‘From the beginning Sir Joshua contemplated his dissolution with a composure which nothing but the innocence, integrity, and usefulness of his life, and his entire submission to the will of Providence, could bestow. In the full affluence of foreign and domestic fame, admired by the expert in art, by the learned in science, caressed by sovereign powers, and celebrated by distinguished poets, his native humility, modesty, and candour never forsook him. He had too much merit ever to excite jealousy, too much innocence ever to provoke enmity. The loss of no man of his time can be felt with so much sincere, general, and unmixed sorrow.’ And these words were confirmed by the crowds of every calling, position, and class which followed him to the grave.

The body lay in state at Somerset House. There were ninety-one carriages followed, so that, before the first in the line had reached St. Paul’s, the last was still at the entrance of Somerset House. The Annual Register for that year gives a detailed account of the funeral. The pall-bearers were ten Peers, Reynolds’s personal friends, the greater part of whom had been his sitters. And the procession included three Knights of the Garter, two of St. Patrick, and one of the Thistle; three Dukes and four Lords-Lieutenant of Ireland; the whole body of Academicians, painters, authors, actors,—every name distinguished for literature, art, and science. Sir Joshua left numerous legacies; many of his finest pictures were bequeathed to private friends.

He left the bulk of his fortune, for her life, to his sister, Frances Reynolds, with reversion to his niece, Mary Palmer, afterwards Lady Thomond, together with a large collection of his paintings, which were sold and dispersed at her death.

The number of his paintings seems miraculous when the list is read. He was a large contributor to the Exhibitions of the Royal Academy. At the first of these he sent four; at the last (as far as he was concerned, in 1790) he sent but six, only two years before his death. But in the interim his pictures often numbered fourteen, sixteen, and, on one occasion, seventeen, for his talent was only equalled by his industry, and he was a workman as well as an artist, to which fact all his contemporaries bear witness.

No. 4.

THE NIECE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, MARY, OR THEOPHILA PALMER.Sitting. White gown. Blue sash. Hair falling on her shoulders.By Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A.

THE NIECE OF SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, MARY, OR THEOPHILA PALMER.

Sitting. White gown. Blue sash. Hair falling on her shoulders.

By Sir Joshua Reynolds, P.R.A.

WE give a sketch of both sisters, not being quite certain as to the identity of the portrait. They were the daughters of Mrs. Palmer, who was sister of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and wife of John Palmer of Torrington, county Devon. Theophila, their youngest daughter, had been residing some time with her uncle in Leicester Square, but came home for change of air; and when she returnedto London in 1779, her elder sister, Mary, accompanied her. Miss Burney tells us that the two sisters ‘added to the charm of the President’s table and his evening parties by their pleasing manners and the beauty of their persons.’

They both served as occasional models. Mary appears to have been the more staid and demure of the two. She had the keenest admiration and appreciation of her uncle’s talent, and never tired of describing his works to her frequent correspondent and cousin, William Johnson, at Calcutta. In 1786 she says: ‘Uncle seems more than ever bewitched by his palette and pencil. He paints from morning till night, and, truth to say, each picture appears better than the last. The Empress of Russia has ordered an historical painting; his choice is still undecided.’

This was the ‘Infant Hercules,’ which made such a noise at the time, and the merits of which were the subject of so much controversy. Romney’s verdict was ‘that, whatever fault might be found with it, no other painter in Europe could have produced that picture.’ Sir Joshua was one of those who did not disdain criticism, even from young lips. He had painted a captivating portrait of Mary’s little niece, Polly Gwatkin, and when Miss Palmer saw it she told the President boldly that the little fingers, which were clasped on the child’s lap, with their very red tips, suggested the idea of a dish of prawns! Sir Joshua, no ways offended, laughed, and set to work immediately, turning the prawns into roseate buds, which he placed in the little chubby hand. Mary was at Torrington when she heard of her uncle’s sudden failure of sight and loss of one eye. She hastened back to his side, to read, to write, to minister to him in every possible way, for he was not allowed to read, or write, or paint for some time. ‘You may believe,’ Mary writes, ‘what the loss of an eye is to him. But his serenity never forsook him. One of his early axioms was not to fuss about trifles,—if the loss of an eye could be consideredas such. ‘The ruling passion continues. He amuses himself by mending or cleaning a picture. In the meantime he enjoys company as much as ever, and loves a game at cards.’

Mary Palmer lived with her uncle till his death. He left her a considerable fortune and a large collection of his pictures, which were sold by auction at her death, in 1821. The same year that Sir Joshua died she married Murrough, first Marquis of Thomond, as his second wife. She made a present of one of his historical paintings to GeorgeIV.Theophila, or Offy, as her uncle usually called her, was his favourite, although much attached to both sisters. She was only thirteen when she first went to live in Leicester Square. She was very pretty, and full of fun and playful spirits. She frequently sat to the President, especially for his arch and sprightly models,—his ‘Strawberry Girl,’ his ‘Mouse Girl,’ and ‘Reflections on readingClarissa Harlowe.’ But Miss Offy’s dignity was much hurt on the exhibition of the last-named picture, because it was entered into the Catalogue as ‘A Girl reading:’ ‘You might have put “a young lady,” uncle’! Another time the President was scolded because he made the portrait look too young, when the original was nearly fourteen! But for all these differences, the great man and the little lady were the dearest friends, and we find in one of his long letters that he will not tell her how much he loves her lest she should grow saucy over it; and again he says he has two presents for her and Mary,—a ring, and a bracelet of his hair. She is to have her choice, but she is not to let her sister know of this mark of preference.

Offy was married in her twentieth year, from her mother’s house at Torrington, to Richard Lovell Gwatkin, a man of fortune, and of a good Cornish family. Her uncle writes her a most affectionate letter of congratulation, with a postscript by Edmund Burke, who came in at the moment, wishing her every possible happiness. The wish was fulfilled. There never was a happier wife or mother than little Offy. Shecame to London and sat for a conjugal picture to Sir Joshua, who also painted her little daughter, as we have said before. Mrs. Gwatkin lived to be ninety years of age, surrounded by her children’s children.

No. 5.

A YOUNG WOMAN.Dark green gown, open at the throat. Shady hat. Landscape in background.By Sir Joshua Reynolds.

A YOUNG WOMAN.

Dark green gown, open at the throat. Shady hat. Landscape in background.

By Sir Joshua Reynolds.

No. 6.

KATRINE, COUNTESS COWPER.Red gown. Diamond necklace.By Poynter.

KATRINE, COUNTESS COWPER.

Red gown. Diamond necklace.

By Poynter.

KATRINE CECILIA COMPTON, eldest daughter of the fourth Marquis of Northampton, by Eliza, second daughter of Admiral the Honourable Sir George Elliot, K.C.B.

She married in 1870 the present and seventh Earl Cowper.

No. 7.

WILLIAM COWPER, THE POET.Loose gown, trimmed with fur. White cap. Table with books and papers.BORN 1731, DIED 1800.By Jackson, after a Chalk Drawing from Life.

WILLIAM COWPER, THE POET.

Loose gown, trimmed with fur. White cap. Table with books and papers.

BORN 1731, DIED 1800.

By Jackson, after a Chalk Drawing from Life.

THE grandson of Spencer Cowper, Attorney-General, and great-nephew of Lord Chancellor Cowper, the first peer of the name. His father was Dr. John Cowper, chaplain to King GeorgeII., who married the daughter of Roger Donne, of Lidham Hall, county Norfolk. William, the eldest of two sons, was born at his father’s rectory of Great Berkhamstead.

Mrs. Cowper died in giving birth to a second son. She was an amiable and pretty woman, and much more deserving of the flattering epitaph (by her niece, Lady Walsingham) than most objects of elegiac praise, in the days when it might well be asked ‘where all the naughty people were buried.’

Even in these times when ‘The Task’ and the Homer lie unopened on the table, few readers of poetry are surely unacquainted with the ‘Address to my Mother’s Picture,’ written half a century after her death. The portrait was a present to William Cowper, from his cousin, Mrs. Bodham, and he writes her an enthusiastic letter of thanks ‘for the most acceptable gift the world could offer;’ sending her at the same time the lines to which we have alluded. ‘I have placed the painting so as to meet my eye the first thing in the morning, and the last at night, and I often get up from my bed to kiss it.’

But we must not anticipate by so many years. When onlysix, William went to a large school at Markgate Street, where he had to undergo a fierce ordeal. Many a stout-hearted boy, possessing the germs of future heroism, might have quailed before the bully who marked the little sensitive, tender-hearted Willie (ready to burst into tears at the first harsh word) as his victim. He tells us himself that he scarcely ever dared to lift his eyes above the level of his tyrant’s shoe-buckle; and, alluding to those days in later life, he said he could not dwell on the cruelty practised on him, but he hoped God would forgive his tormentor, and that they might meet in heaven.

‘Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun.’

It is easy to see how the memory of those days suggested his ‘Tyrocinium.’ Mr. Cowper, finding that the boy was suffering from inflammation of the eyes, sent him to board with an oculist in London, and afterwards to Westminster School, where William improved in health, and took bodily exercise, cricket and football, which proved beneficial to him in more ways than one, making him popular in the school.

He was diligent in his study of the Classics, and wrote good Latin verses. Warren Hastings was his contemporary and friend, and Cowper would never listen in after days to a word against his old school-fellow.

On leaving Westminster, he became articled clerk to an attorney, in obedience to his father’s wishes, he himself disliking the profession of the law. He confesses that at this period he spent most of his time ‘in giggling and making giggle’ his two favourite cousins, Theodora and Harriet, daughters of Ashley Cowper. He ‘feared some day that worthy gentleman would be picked up for a mushroom, being a diminutive man, nearly hidden under the shadow of a white broad-brimmed hat, lined with yellow.’ His fellow-clerk and ally in these giggling matches was the afterwards famous Lord Thurlow, of whom it was said, ‘No man couldpossibly be as wise as Lord Thurlow looked.’ At all events he was wise enough at this period to combine legal study with flirtation. Cowper prophesied he would one day sit on the Woolsack, and Thurlow promised to do something handsome for his friend whenever that time should come. He redeemed his pledge by the gift of a few strictures and criticisms on the poet’s translation of Homer.

Cowper removed from the attorney’s office to chambers in the Temple, where he studied literature rather than law, and became a member of the Nonsense Club, which was the resort of authors, journalists, editors, and the like. Here he formed many friendships which lasted through life, became a contributor to several periodicals, kept up his classical reading, translated many amatory and sentimental poems, and wrote odes to Delia of a very tender character,—Delia otherwise Theodora Cowper.

The cousins had fallen in love, but the lady’s father would not hear of the marriage, which was a bitter disappointment. The lady remained faithful to her first love, and Cowper, as we know, never married.

A cousin of William’s, Major Cowper, had the patronage of the Clerkship of Journals in the House of Lords; and the future poet, whose finances were very low at the time, one day expressed a hope that the holder of the office might die, in order to make way for him. This uttered wish was afterwards the subject of due remorse to this sensitive spirit: ‘God gave me my heart’s desire, and sent leanness withal into my soul.’ The man died, the office was offered to, and accepted by, Cowper. ‘I was so dazzled,’ he said, ‘by the idea, that I did not reflect on my incapacity for the appointment;’ but as he answered in the affirmative, he felt ‘a dagger strike at his heart.’ He fell a prey to nervous fears and terrors of all kinds, and, even while preparing himself for the duties of his office, began to contemplate with horror the prospect of beingexamined as to his proficiency at the bar of the House of Lords.

By degrees he became quite mad, and in that state meditated self-destruction. He bought laudanum, he drove to the river-side to drown himself, he pointed a knife at his throat; but his courage always failed him, or, as he thought, some particular interposition saved his life. Twice he suspended himself by the neck long enough to occasion insensibility, but so insecurely as to fall each time, the shock bringing back consciousness. After this last incident he sent for a relative, to whom he confessed everything, and who, comprehending the state of the case, returned the nomination to Major Cowper.

Several of his friends, unacquainted with these sad circumstances, called upon him on the day appointed for his appearance at the House of Lords, but one and all acquiesced in the sad decision that he must be placed under restraint. The asylum chosen was that of Dr. Cotton, a religious and well-educated man, who was of much service to the sufferer by his judicious treatment. William laboured under terrible despondency, fear of eternal punishment, and the deepest feelings of remorse. By the gentle, friendly care of Dr. Cotton, the patient gradually regained his health, both mental and bodily, and took much comfort in reading the Bible,—the very book which, in his fits of madness, he would dash to the ground. One morning, studying the third chapter of Romans, he experienced ‘comfort and strength to believe, feeling the full beams of the Sun of Righteousness shining on me, and relying on the full justification by faith in the blood of Jesus. In a moment I believed, and received the Gospel.’

The seeds of religion, which bore fruit in Cowper’s after life, had been in some measure sown by the hand of the good physician Dr. Cotton, and, after eleven months’ sojourn at St. Albans, William Cowper went forth in his right mind.

After much consultation between the brothers, an abode was fixed upon for William Cowper at what one of his biographers designates as ‘dull, fenny Huntingdon,’ which appeared an Elysium to one who had just recovered his senses and his liberty. He had not been there long before an incident occurred which changed the whole tenor of his after life. Leaving church one morning, he began pacing up and down under the shade of the trees, before returning to his solitary lodging, when he was accosted by a young man of prepossessing appearance, who craved pardon for addressing ‘a perfect stranger,’ and asked leave to accompany him in his walk. Such an unconventional proceeding was doubtless calculated to please a man of so imaginative a turn of mind, and Cowper warmly responded. The young man announced himself as William Unwin, a student of Cambridge, the son of the Rev. Mr. Unwin, who lived in the town, and boarded pupils for the Huntingdon school. Young Unwin went on to confess that, for some time past, he had been attracted by Cowper’s appearance, and longed to speak to him, but to-day he could no longer resist doing so. He ended by requesting his new friend to accompany him home, that he might make acquaintance with his parents. No time was lost, the visit was paid; the liking proved reciprocal, and it was not long before William Cowper left his lonely apartments to occupy a room, lately vacated, under the roof of the Rev. Mr. Unwin. Thus began that lifelong friendship, the annals of which are indissolubly connected with the poet’s history. ‘Verily there is One who setteth the solitary in families.’ Writing to his dear cousin and constant correspondent, Lady Hesketh (the sister of Theodora), he described ‘the most comfortable and sociable folk he had ever met,—the son, destined for the Church, most frank and unreserved; the girl pretty, bashful, taciturn; the father a kind of Parson Adams, and the mother.’ Mrs. Unwin was some years younger thanher husband, comely in appearance, strongly imbued with evangelical views in religion, well read, particularly in the English poets, with a vein of cheerfulness and humour tempering the strictness of her religious tenets, and an invaluable critic. Cowper describes a two hours’ walk and conversation with her, which did him ‘more good than an audience with a prince could have done. Her society is a real blessing to me.’ The manner of life in the Unwin establishment proved most congenial to Cowper’s tastes, for he both contemned and condemned ‘the frivolous gaieties, the balls, routs, and card-parties of the Huntingdonbeau monde.’ ‘After early breakfast,’ he says, ‘we occupy ourselves in reading passages from Scripture, or the works of some favourite preacher; at eleven, Divine service, which is performed twice a day; a solitary ride, walk, or reading; and after dinner a sociable walk in the garden with mother or son, the conversation usually of a religious character.’ Mrs. Unwin was a good walker, and the friends often rambled beyond the home precincts, and did not return till tea-time; at night, reading or singing hymns till supper; family prayers concluded the order of the day. This was the description by William Cowper of a day of perfect cheerfulness. With all our admiration for the man who was thus spiritually minded, it is almost a relief to find him confessing to some slight shade of human weakness in a letter to his cousin, Mrs. Cowper. He had given young Unwin an introduction to ‘the Park,’ and—after a lengthened rhapsody of self-accusation, not without a spice of humour, as of one who is laughing at himself,—he allows that ‘it was not alone friendship for the youth which prompted the introduction, but a desire that Unwin should receive some convincing proof of “mysponsibility,” by visiting one of my most splendid connections, so that, when next he hears me called “that fellow Cowper” (which has happened before now), he may be able to bear witness to my gentlemanhood.’

About this time he seems to have revolved in his mind the idea of taking orders, which he wisely abandoned. He had spent but two peaceful years under his friends’ roof, when the home was broken up by the death of Mr. Unwin, who fell from his horse and fractured his skull, riding home after church. ‘This event necessitates a change of residence,’ Cowper remarks. But the possibility of a separation from Mrs. Unwin never appears to have struck either of them; they merely commenced making inquiries and taking advice as to whither they should flit. The poet’s biographers are at variance respecting this epoch in his life, some asserting, others denying, that the friends ever contemplated marriage. There must have been some rumour to this effect, as, in a postscript to one of his letters he says laconically, ‘I am not married.’ He frequently remarked that the affection Mrs. Unwin bore him was that of a mother for a son; nevertheless, the lady was only his senior by seven years.

To the eye of watchful affection, it was evident that Cowper’s mental recovery would not prove permanent, and such a consideration doubtless weighed in the devoted woman’s resolution to remain at her friend’s side. Her son, a religious and high-principled man, offered no objection; her daughter was married; and so William Cowper and Mary Unwin took up their abode together in the melancholy little town of Olney, in Buckinghamshire. They were attracted to this unpromising locality by one of those hasty friendships to which they were both prone. The Rev. Mr. Newton, at that time esteemed a shining light in Methodist circles—well known by hisCardiphoniaand many evangelical works, and still better, perhaps, by his collection of ‘Olney Hymns’—had visited the Unwins at Huntingdon, and had held discussions with them on religious matters, in a strain much appreciated by the whole household. He was now curate at Olney, and invited his new friends to settle near him. This remarkableman had passed a stormy and eventful youth. He had been a sailor in all parts of the world; had endured shipwreck, slavery, imprisonment, and perils of all kinds, by land and by sea. He had become a minister of the Gospel, and was one of those enthusiasts who, after a sudden conversion (generally brought about by a lightning flash of conviction), take delight in reviling their former selves, painting their own portraits in colours so black as to bring out in stronger relief the subsequent brightness. He was a zealot, and had the reputation of ‘preaching people mad.’ Alas! such a man, however conscientious and well-intentioned, was one of the worst influences that could have crossed Cowper’s path. But so it was. Mr. Newton hired a house for the new-comers next door to the Vicarage where he lived,—damp, dark, and dreary; even the easily-contented and far from luxurious poet described it as a ‘well’ and an ‘abyss.’ Then the life prescribed by this spiritual pastor and master,—prayer-meetings at all hours of the day and evening; rigid self-examinations and upbraidings; scarcely any leisure allowed for wholesome exercise or cheerful correspondence.

Mrs. Unwin, usually watchful and judicious, was herself so completely under Newton’s influence, that she did not interfere to arrest the progress of a system which was helping to hurry her poor friend back into his former miserable state. Before the malady returned in its most aggravated form, Cowper used to take violent fancies, and one day suddenly insisted on leaving his own house and removing to the Vicarage,—a most inconvenient resolution, as far as the curate was concerned. John Cowper’s death, about this time, helped to agitate his brother’s mind, and ere long he was again insane.

When the dark hour came, the devoted woman and the benevolent though mistaken friend were unremitting in their care; and it was in allusion to the tenderness with whichhis gentle-hearted nurse ministered to him on this and subsequent occasions that Cowper wrote:—

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