And then to be thanked in public, yet, as it were, clandestinely, this gratified the furtive tendency of woman.

There was no irritability this afternoon; but a gentle radiance that diffused itself on all around, and made the whole household happy,—especially Griffith, whose pipe she filled, for once, with her own white hand, and talked dogs, horses, calves, hinds, cows, politics, markets, hay, to please him: and seemed interested in them all.

But the next day she changed: ill at ease, and out of spirits, and could settle to nothing.

It was very hot for one thing: and, altogether, a sort of lassitude and distaste for everything overpowered her, and she retired into the grove, and sat languidly on a seat with half-closed eyes.

But her meditations were no longer so calm and speculative as heretofore. She found her mind constantly recurring to one person, and, above all, to the discovery she had made of her portrait in his possession. She had turned it off to Betty Gough; but here, in her calm solitude and umbrageous twilight, her mind crept out of its cave, like wild and timid things at dusk, and whispered to her heart that Leonard perhaps admired her more than was safe or prudent.

Then this alarmed her, yet caused her a secret complacency: and that, her furtive satisfaction, alarmed her still more.

Now, while she sat thus absorbed, she heard a gentle footstep coming near. She looked up, and there was Leonard close to her; standing meekly, with his arms crossed upon his bosom.

His being there so pat upon her thoughts scared her out of her habitual self-command. She started up, with a faint cry, and stood panting, as if about to fly, with her beautiful eyes turned large upon him.

He put forth a deprecating hand, and soothed her. "Forgive me, madam," said he; "I have unawares intruded on your privacy; I will retire."

"Nay," said she, falteringly, "you are welcome. But no one comes here; so I was startled." Then, recovering herself, "Excuse my ill-manners. 'T is so strange that you should come to me here, of all places."

"Nay, my daughter," said the priest, "not so very strange: contemplative minds love such places. Calling one day to see you, I found this sweet and solemn grove; the like I never saw in England: and to-day I returned in hopes to profit by it. Do but look around at these tall columns; how calm, how reverend! 'T is God's own temple, not built with hands."

"Indeed it is," said Mrs. Gaunt, earnestly. Then, like a woman as she was, "So you came to see my trees, not me."

Leonard blushed. "I did not design to return without paying my respects to her who owns this temple, and is worthy of it; nay, I beg you not to think me ungrateful."

His humility and gentle but earnest voice made Mrs. Gaunt ashamed of her petulance. She smiled sweetly, and looked pleased. However, erelong, she attacked him again. "Father Francis used to visit us often," said she. "He made friends with my husband, too. And I never lacked an adviser while he was here."

Leonard looked so confused at this second reproach that Mrs. Gaunt's heart began to yearn. However, he said humbly that Francis was a secular priest, whereas he was convent-bred. He added, that by his years and experience Francis was better fitted to advise persons of her age and sex, in matters secular, than he was. He concluded timidly that he was ready, nevertheless, to try and advise her; but could not, in such matters, assume the authority that belongs to age and knowledge of the world.

"Nay, nay," said she, earnestly, "guide and direct my soul, and I am content."

He said, yes! that was his duty and his right.

Then, after a certain hesitation, which at once let her know what was coming, he began to thank her, with infinite grace and sweetness, for her kindness to him.

She looked him full in the face, and said she was not aware of any kindness she had shown him worth speaking of.

"That but shows," said he, "how natural it is to you to do acts of goodness. My poor room is a very bower now, and I am happy in it. I used to feel very sad there at times; but your hand has cured me."

Mrs. Gaunt colored beautifully. "You make me ashamed," said she. "Things are come to a pass indeed, if a lady may not send a few flowers and things to her spiritual father without being thanked for it. And, O, sir, what are earthly flowers compared with those blossoms of the soul you have shed so liberally over us? Our immortal parts were all asleep when you came here and wakened them by the fire of your words. Eloquence! 't was a thing I had read of, but never heard, nor thought to hear. Methought the orators and poets of the Church were all in their graves this thousand years, and she must go all the way to heaven that would hear the soul's true music. But I know better now."

Leonard colored high with pleasure, "Such praise from you is too sweet," he muttered. "I must not court it. The heart is full of vanity." And he deprecated further eulogy, by a movement of the hand extremely refined, and, in fact, rather feminine.

Deferring to his wish Mrs. Gaunt glided to other matters, and was naturally led to speak of the prospects of their Church, and the possibility of reconverting these islands. This had been the dream of her young heart; but marriage and maternity, and the universal coldness with which the subject had been received, had chilled her so, that of late years she had almost ceased to speak of it. Even Leonard, on a former occasion, had listened coldly to her; but now his heart was open to her. He was, in fact, quite as enthusiastic on this point as ever she had been; and then he had digested his aspirations into clearer forms. Not only had he resolved that Great Britain must be reconverted, but had planned the way to do it. His cheek glowed, his eyes gleamed, and he poured out his hopes and his plans before her with an eloquence that few mortals could have resisted.

As for this, his hearer, she was quite carried away by it. She joined herself to his plans on the spot; she begged, with tears in her eyes, to be permitted to support him in this great cause. She devoted to it her substance, her influence, and every gift that God had given her: the hours passed like minutes in this high converse; and when the tinkling of the little bell at a distance summoned him to vespers, he left her with a gentle regret he scarcely tried to conceal, and she went slowly in like one in a dream, and the world seemed dead to her forever.

* * * * *

Nevertheless, when Mrs. Ryder, combing out her long hair, gave one inadvertent tug, the fair enthusiast came back to earth, and asked her, rather sharply, who her head was running on.

Ryder, a very handsome young woman, with fine black eyes, made no reply, but only drew her breath audibly hard.

I do not very much wonder at that, nor at my having to answer that question for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was at that moment running, like any other woman's, on the man she was in love with.

And the man she was in love with was the husband of the lady whose hair she was combing, and who put her that curious question—plump.



REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

The Resources of California, comprising Agriculture, Mining, Geography, Climate, Commerce, &c., and the Past and Future Development of the State. By JOHN S. HITTELL. Second Edition, with an Appendix on Oregon and Washington Territory. San Francisco: A. Roman & Co. New York: W. J. Widdleton.

This is a book almost as encyclopedic as its title would indicate; and is evidently written with a desire to say everything which the theme permits, and to say it truly. It answers almost every question that an intelligent person can ask, in respect to California, besides a good many which few intelligent persons know enough to propound. And it is a proof of its honesty that it does not, after all, make California overpoweringly attractive, whether in respect of climate, society, or business. This is saying a good deal, when we consider that the Preface sums up the allurements of the Pacific coast in a single sentence covering two and a half pages.

The philosophy of the author is sometimes rather bewildering, as where he defines "universal suffrage" to mean that "every sane adult white male citizen, not a felon, may vote at every election." (p. 349.) His general statements, too, are apt to be rather sweeping. For instance, he says, in two different passages, that, "so far as we know, the climate of San Francisco is the most equable and the mildest in the world." (pp. 29, 431.) Yet he puts the extremes of temperature in this favored climate at +25 deg. and +97 deg. Fahrenheit; while at Fayal, in the Azores, the recorded extremes are, if we mistake not, +40 deg. and +85 deg.; and no doubt there are other temperate climates as uniform.

One might object, too, from the side of severe science, to his devoting the "Reptile" department of his zooelogical section chiefly to spiders, with incidental remarks on fleas and mosquitos. Perhaps it is to balance Captain Stedman in Surinam, who under the head of "Insects" discourses chiefly of vampyre-bats.

The wonders of the Yo-semite valley he describes as well as most people; and faithfully contends for their superiority to those of Niagara, where, as he plaintively observes, "a day or two is enough," while one could contentedly remain for months among the California wonders. He shows, however, that his memories of Atlantic civilization are still painfully vivid, when he counsels the beholder of the Mariposa grove to lie on his back, and think of Trinity Church steeple. Might not one also beguile a third day at Niagara by reflections on the Croton Aqueduct?

But these little glimpses of the author's personality make the book only the more entertaining, and give spice to the really vast mass of accurate information which it conveys. There are few passages which one can call actually imaginative, unless one includes under that head the description (page 40) of that experiment "common in the Eastern cities," where a man dressed in woollen, by sliding on a carpet a few steps, accumulates enough personal electricity to light gas with his fingers. This familiar process, it appears, is impossible in California, and so far his descriptions of that climate convey a sense of safety. Yet even one seasoned to such wonders as these might be startled, for a moment, before his account of the mountain sheep (Ovis montana). This ponderous animal, weighing three hundred and fifty pounds, has a sportive habit of leaping headlong from precipices one hundred feet high, and alighting on its horns, which, being strong and elastic, throw him ten or fifteen feet into the air, "and the next time he alights on his feet all right." (p. 124.) "Mountaineers assert" this; and after this it can be hardly doubted that the products of the human imagination, in California, are on a scale of Yo-semite magnificence.

The American Republic: its Constitution, Tendencies, and Destiny. By O. A. BROWNSON, LL. D. New York: P. O'Shea.

Mr. Brownson's influence over the American people, which had dwindled pretty nearly to zero at the beginning of the war, revived with that revival of the old Adam which made him a patriot, and thus showed him rather in the light of a heretic. This book sets him right (or wrong) again, and his temporary partnership with "humanitarians" may be regarded as closed by official notification. In a volume which might well be compressed into one fourth its present size, he covers a great deal of ground, and has pungent suggestions on both sides of a great many questions. Even in the Preface he announces his abandonment of the doctrine of State sovereignty, after holding it for thirty-three years, and at once proceeds to explain how, in a profounder sense, he holds it more thoroughly than ever. In the chapter on "Secession," which is the best in the book, he indorses Charles Sumner's theory of State suicide; holds that the Southern States are now "under the Union, not of it," and seems quite inclined to pardon Mr. Lincoln for abolishing slavery by proclamation. On the other hand, he scouts the theory that the Rebels committed treason, in any moral sense, and proclaims that we are all "willing and proud to be their countrymen, fellow-citizens, and friends." "There need be no fear to trust them now." To hang or exile them would be worse than "deporting four millions of negroes and colored men." (pp. 335-338.)

It must, indeed, be owned that our author has apparently reverted to an amount of colorphobia which must cheer the hearts of the Hibernian portion of his co-religionists. Ignoring the past in a way which seems almost wilful, he declares that the freedman has no capacity of patriotism, no sort of appreciation of the question at stake; and that he would, if enfranchised, invariably vote with his former master. "In any contest between North and South, they would take, to a man, the Southern side." (pp. 346, 376.) Nevertheless, he thinks that the negro will be ultimately enfranchised, "and the danger is, that it will be attempted too soon." If, indeed, it be postponed, he seems to think the negro may, by the blessing of Providence, "melt away." (p. 437.) What a pity that the obstinate fellow, with all the aid now being contributed in the way of assassination, so steadfastly refuses to melt!

Against the Abolitionists, also, Mr. Brownson is still ready to break a lance, with the hearty unreasoning hostility of the good old times. "Wendell Phillips is as far removed from true Christian civilization as was John C. Calhoun, and William Lloyd Garrison is as much of a barbarian and despot in principle and tendency as Jefferson Davis." (p. 355.) This touch of righteous indignation is less crushing, however, than his covert attacks upon our two great generals. For in one place he enumerates as typical warriors "McClellan, Grant, and Sherman," and in another place, "Halleck, Grant, and Sherman." This is indeed the very refinement of unkindness.

Of a standing army Mr. Brownson thinks well, and wishes it to number a hundred thousand; but his reason for the faith that is in him is a little unexpected. He thinks it useful because "it creates honorable places for gentlemen or the sons of gentlemen without wealth." (p. 386.) Touching our naturalized foreigners, he admits that they have been rather a source of embarrassment in recruiting for our armies (p. 381); but consoles himself by hinting, with his accustomed modesty, that "the best things written on the controversy have been by Catholics." (p. 378.)

He sees danger in the horizon, and frankly avows it. It is none of the commonplace perils, however,—national bankruptcy, revival of the slave power, oppression of Southern loyalists. A wholly new and profounder terror is that which his penetrating eye evokes from the future. It is, that, if matters go on as now, foreign observers will never clearly understand whether it was the "territorial democracy" or the "humanitarian democracy" which really triumphed in the late contest! "The danger now is, that the Union victory will, at home and abroad, be interpreted as a victory won in the interest of social or humanitarian democracy. It was because they regarded the war waged on the side of the Union as waged in the interest of this terrible democracy, that our bishops and clergy sympathized so little with the government in prosecuting it; not, as some imagined, because they were disloyal.... If the victory of the Union should turn out to be a victory for the humanitarian democracy, the civilized world will have no reason to applaud it." (pp. 365, 366.)

After this passage, it is needless to say that its author is the same Mr. Brownson whom the American people long since tried and found wanting as a safe or wise counsellor; the same of whom the Roman Catholic Church one day assumed the responsibility, and found the task more onerous than had been expected. He retains his arrogance, his gladiatorial skill, his habit of sweeping assertion; but perhaps his virulence is softened, save where some unhappy "humanitarian" is under dissection. Enough remains of the habit, however, to make his worst pages the raciest, and to render it a sharp self-satire when he proclaims, at the very outset, that a constitutional treatise should be written "with temper."

Across the Continent: a Summer's Journey to the Rocky Mountains, the Mormons, and the Pacific States, with Speaker Colfax. By SAMUEL BOWLES, Editor of the Springfield (Mass.) Republican. Springfield, Mass.: Samuel Bowles & Co.

Since Mr. Greeley set the example, it has been the manifest destiny of every enterprising journalist to take an occasional trip across the continent, and personally inspect his subscribers. The latest overland Odyssey of this kind—transacted by three silent editors and one very public Speaker—is recorded in Mr. Bowles's new book; which proceeds, as one may observe, from his own publishing office and bindery, and may therefore almost claim, like the quaint little books presented by the eccentric Quincy Tufts to Harvard College Library, to have been "written, printed, and bound by the same hand."

Journalism is a good training, in some ways, for a trip like this. It implies a quick eye for facts, a good memory for figures, a hearty faith in the national bird, and a boundless appetite for new acquaintances. Every Eastern editor, moreover, is sure to find old neighbors throughout the West; and he who escorts a rising politician has all the world for a friend.

The result is, in this case, a thoroughly American book,—American in the sense of to-day, if not according to the point of view of the millennium. It is American in its vast applications of arithmetic; in the facility with which it brings the breadth of a continent within the limits of a summer's ride; in the eloquence which rises to sublimity over mining stock, and dwindles to the verge of commonplace before unmarketable natural beauties. Of course, it is the best book on the theme it handles, for it is the latest; it is lively, readable, instructive; but no descriptions of those changing regions can last much longer than an almanac, and this will retain its place only until the coming of the next editorial pilgrim.

Esperance. By META LANDER, author of "Light on the Dark River," "Marion Graham," &c. New York: Sheldon & Co.

Can it be possible that any literature of the world now yields sentimental novels so vague and immature as those which America brings forth? Or is it that their Transatlantic compeers float away and dissolve by their own feebleness before they reach our shores?

"Cry, Esperance! Percy! and set on." This Shakespearian motto might have appeared upon the title-page of this volume; but there is nothing so vivacious upon that page, nor indeed on any other. The name of the book comes from that of the heroine, who was baptized Hope. But the friend of her soul was wont to call her Esperance, "in her wooing moods," and from this simple application of the French dictionary results the title of the romance. Even this does not close the catalogue of the heroine's pet names however, for in moments of yet higher ecstasy, when she rides sublime upon the storm of passion, she is styled, not without scientific appropriateness, "Espy."

Esperance is a young girl who seeks her destiny. She also has her "wooing moods," during which, on small provocation, she "hastily pens a few lines"—of verse such as no young lady's diary should be without. She has, moreover, her intervals of sternness, when she boxes ears; now in case of her father, unfilially, and anon in more righteous conflict with her step-mother's wicked lover. But her demonstrations do not usually take the brief form of blows, but the more formidable shape of words. Indeed, it takes a good many words to meet the innumerable crises of her daily life; and, to do her justice, the more desperate the emergencies, the better she likes them. Anguish is heaped upon her, father and mother desert her, several eligible lovers jilt her,—she would be much obliged to you to point out any specific sorrow of which at least one good specimen has not occurred within her experience. There is a distressing casualty to every chapter, and then come in the poisoned arrows! "Once in the room, I bolted the door and threw myself—not on the bed—the floor better suited my mood. And there I lay, with reeling senses, and a brain on fire, while in my trampled and bruised heart were wildly struggling tenderness and scorn, love and hate, life and death.... The slow-moving hours tolled a mournful requiem, as the long procession of stricken hopes and joys were borne onward to their death and burial. And I, the victim, turned executioner."

The French dictionary extends onward from the title-page, and haunts these impassioned pages. Phrases of a recondite and elaborate description, such as "Oui, monsieur," "Tres-bien," and "Entrez," adorn the sportive conversation of this cultivated circle. Sometimes, with higher flight, some one essays to gambol in the Latin tongue: "It seemed to me that old Tempus must have taken to himself a new pair of wings to have fugited so rapidly as he did." Yet the French and the Latin are better than the English; for the main body of the book, while breaking no important law of morals or of grammar, is scarcely adapted for any phase of human existence beyond the boarding-school. It seems rather hard, perhaps, to devote serious censure to a thing so frail; but without a little homely truth, how are we ever to get beyond this bread-and-butter epoch of American fiction?

Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds: with Notices of Some of his Contemporaries. Commenced by CHARLES ROBERT LESLIE, R. A. Continued and concluded by TOM TAYLOR, M. A. London: John Murray. 2 vols. 8vo.

"When, in 1832," writes C. R. Leslie, "Constable exhibited his 'Opening of Waterloo Bridge,' it was placed in the school of painting,—one of the small rooms in Somerset House. A sea-piece, by Turner, was next to it,—a gray picture, beautiful and true, but with no positive color in any part of it. Constable's 'Waterloo' seemed as if painted with liquid gold and silver, and Turner came several times into the room while he was heightening with vermilion and lake the decorations and flags of the city barges. Turner stood behind him, looking from the 'Waterloo' to his own picture, and at last brought his palette from the great room where he was touching another picture, and, putting a round daub of red lead, somewhat bigger than a shilling, on his gray sea, went away without saying a word. The intensity of the red lead, made more vivid by the coolness of his picture, caused even the vermilion and lake of Constable to look weak. I came into the room just as Turner left it. 'He has been here,' said Constable, 'and fired a gun.'"

Twenty years ago the erratic life of Haydon the artist was dashed suddenly and violently out by his own hand. Men brought the cold light of their judgment then, and overspread his character, forgetful of the fires of his genius; but Mr. Tom Taylor remembered the burning spirit, memorable to the soul of art, and he published two volumes containing Haydon's autobiography and journals, which have set a seal upon his memory, and lead us to thank the man who has done for Haydon what Turner did for his own picture,—fired a gun.

Since Haydon's Autobiography was published, Mr. Taylor has not been idle. Some of the purest and most popular plays now upon the stage we owe to his hand. The face of the blase theatre-goer shines when his play is announced for the evening; and even the long-visaged critic, fond of talking of the decadence of the modern stage, has been known to appear punctually in his seat when Tom Taylor's play was to lead off the performance.

The days of Burton have passed, and the echoes of roof-splitting laughter he excited have died away; but while the remembrance of "lovely things" remains with us, those who were fortunate enough to have seen Mr. Taylor's play of "Helping Hands," as performed at Burton's Theatre in New York, will be sure never to forget it.

We should be glad, if space permitted, to speak of Mr. Taylor in the several branches of literature wherein he has become distinguished; but it is chiefly with him as a biographer, and principally with one biography, we are concerned here.

Six years ago, Leslie's "Biographical Recollections" were given to the world by the hand of the same editor. There are few books more delightful of this kind in our language; and no small share of the interest results from the conscientious work Mr. Taylor has put into the study of Mr. Leslie's pictures, and his recognition of him as distinctively a literary painter, possessing a kindly brotherhood to Washington Irving in the subtile humor he loved to depict.

We remember having the good fortune once to meet Mr. Taylor, while he was preparing this book, and being impressed with the idea that he had committed Mr. Leslie's paintings to memory, as one of the necessary preliminaries in order to do justice to his subject. He had that day returned from a pilgrimage to one of the pictures, and was able to inform the artists who were present with regard to the smallest accessory. We fancied, had painting, and not penning, been his forte, he could have reproduced the picture for us on the spot, could we, at the same time, have transformed the table-cloth into a canvas.

In the Preface to the Recollections of Leslie, we are told that the reason his autobiography ends abruptly was not because of Mr. Leslie's failing health, "but because all the time he could spare from painting was, during the last year of his life, occupied by him in writing the Life of Sir Joshua Reynolds, at which he worked hard even a month before his death." When the Leslie papers were put into Mr. Taylor's hands, this Life, then in a fragmentary condition, being hardly more than memoranda, for the most part, also came into his possession. And it having been his "lot," as he has elsewhere said, to have the materials for two artistic biographies already intrusted to his care, he must have accepted the third, thus silently bestowed, as the especial legacy of his friend.

Therefore, by education and by accident, (if we may choose to consider it such,) setting aside Mr. Taylor's natural ability for the labor, he found himself pre-eminently elected to complete and issue the "Life and Times of Sir Joshua Reynolds." The request of Mr. Murray, the publisher, appears, however, to have spurred him to the actual acceptance of the work. Some idea of these volumes, with their varied interest of life and art, may be briefly conveyed by quoting from the Preface, where Mr. Taylor writes:—

"The life of a painter, more than most men, as a rule, derives its interest from his work and from the people he paints. When his sitters are the chief men and women of his time, for beauty, genius, rank, power, wit, goodness, or even fashion and folly, this interest is heightened. It culminates when the painter is the equal and honored associate of his sitters. All these conditions concur in the case of Reynolds. It is impossible to write a Life and Times of the painter without passing in review—hasty and brief as it must be—the great facts of politics, literature, and manners during his busy life, which touched, often very closely, the chief actors in a drama taking in the most stirring events of the last century, and containing the germs of many things that have materially operated to shape our arts, manners, and institutions.

"By the use of these materials, I have attempted to carry out Mr. Leslie's intention of presenting Sir Joshua in his true character, as the genial centre of a most various and brilliant society, as well as the transmitter of its chief figures to our time by his potent art."

It is only by turning over the pages of each chapter, and observing closely the brackets wherein Mr. Taylor's portion of the work is enclosed, that we discover how great his labor has been, and how well fulfilled. His interpolations are flung, like the Fribourg Bridge, fine and strong, welding together opposing points, and never inserted like a wedge. A happy instance of this appears in the first volume, where Mr. Taylor says, speaking of Johnson, after the death of his mother, "The regard of such men as Reynolds was henceforth the best comfort of that great, solitary heart; and the painter's purse and house and pen were alike at his friend's service." "For example," Leslie continues, "in this year Reynolds wrote three papers for the 'Idler.' 'I have heard Sir Joshua say,' observes Northcote, 'that Johnson required them from him on a sudden emergency, and on that account he sat up the whole night to complete them in time; and by it he was so much disordered, that it produced a vertigo in his head.'"

The story of Reynolds's youth is a happier one than is often recorded of young artists. His father was too wise and too kind to cross the natural proclivities of the boy, although he does appear to have wavered for a moment when Joshua declared he "had rather be an apothecary than an ordinary painter." He was, however, early apprenticed to Hudson, the first portrait-painter of his time in England. But hardly two years had elapsed before the master saw himself eclipsed, and the two separated without great waste of love on the part of Hudson. From that moment, Reynolds's career was decided. He put the mannerism of his former master away from his pictures when he distanced himself from his studio, and, going soon after to the Continent, devoted himself to the study of great works of art. With what vigor and faithfulness this labor was pursued, the Roman and Venetian note-books testify. "For the studies he made from Raphael," writes Leslie, "he paid dearly; for he caught so severe a cold in the chambers of the Vatican as to occasion a deafness which obliged him to use an ear-trumpet for the remainder of his life."

The fertility and inexhaustibility of power shown by Sir Joshua Reynolds have seldom, if ever, been surpassed in the history of Art. In the "Catalogue Raisonnee" of his paintings, soon to be given to the public, nearly three thousand pictures will be enumerated. Many of these were, of course, finished by his assistants, according to the fashion of the time, but the expression of the face remains to attest the master's hand. (Unless, perchance, the head may have dropped off the canvas entirely, as happened once, when an unfortunate youth, who had borrowed one of his fine pictures to copy, was carrying it home under his arm.)

In the record for the year 1758, we are startled by the number of one hundred and fifty sitters. And although this was probably the busiest year of his life, our astonishment never wanes while observing the ceaseless industry of every moment of his career, during the seventh day as well as the other six; and this, too, in spite of a promise won from him by Dr. Johnson, when on his death-bed, that he would never use his pencil on a Sunday. But the habit of a long working life was too strong upon him, and he soon persuaded himself that it was better to have made the promise than distress a dying friend, although he did not intend to observe it strictly.

Sir Joshua possessed the high art of inciting himself to work by repeatedly soliciting the most beautiful and most interesting persons of the time to sit to him. The lovely face of Kitty Fisher was painted by him five times, and no less frequently that of the charming actress, Mrs. Abington, who was also noted for her bel esprit, and was evidently a favorite with the great painter. There are two or three pictures of Mrs. Siddons by his hand, and many of the beautiful Maria Countess Waldegrave, afterwards Duchess of Gloucester, a lock of whose "delicate golden-brown" hair was found by Mr. Taylor in a side-pocket of one of Sir Joshua's note-books,—"loveliest of all, whom Reynolds seems never to have been tired of painting, nor she of sitting to him."

Of his numerous and invaluable pictures of Dr. Johnson and Goldsmith and Admiral Keppel, it is hardly necessary to speak. Many of them are well known to us from engravings.

To a painter, this Life is of incalculable interest and value. The account of his manner of handling "the vehicles" is minute and faithful; and if, as Northcote complained, who was a pupil of Reynolds, Sir Joshua could not teach, he could only show you how he worked,—many an artist can gather from these pages what Northcote gathered by looking from palette to canvas. The descriptions of some of the paintings are rich in color, and are worthy of the highest praise.

Sir Joshua Reynolds is one of the few men of genius who have been also men of society. In his note-books for the year, sometimes the number of engagements for dinners and visits would preponderate over the number of his sitters, and sometimes the scale would be about equal. Yet the amount of the latter was always astonishingly large. Perhaps no man, through a long series of years, was more esteemed and sought by the most honorable in society than he; while his diary, with its meagre jottings, brings before us a motley and phantasmagorical procession of the wisest and wittiest, the most beautiful and most notorious men and women of that period, who thronged his studio. We can see the bitterest political opponents passing each other upon the threshold of his painting-room, and, what was far more agreeable to Sir Joshua than having to do with these stormy petrels, we can see the worshipping knight and his lovely mistress, or the fair-cheeked children of many a lady whom he had painted, years before, in the first blossoming of her own youth.

The gentleness and natural amiability of his disposition eminently fitted him for the high social position he attained; but the fervor he felt for his work made him forget everything foreign to it until the hour arrived when he must leave his painting-room. He was fond of receiving company, especially at dinner, and his dinners were always most agreeable. He often annoyed his sister, Miss Reynolds, who presided over his household for a time, by inviting any friends who might happen into his studio in the morning to come to dine with him at night, quite forgetting that the number of seats he had provided was already filled by guests previously asked. The result was what might be expected, and it was often simply bare good fortune if everybody had enough to eat. But, "though the dinner might be careless and inelegant, and the servants awkward and too few," the talk was always pleasant, and no invitations to dine were more eagerly accepted than his.

It was on the principle, perhaps, that "to the feasts of the good the good come uninvited," that Dr. Johnson made it a point to be present on these occasions, and was seldom welcomed otherwise than most cordially by Sir Joshua. On one occasion, however, when another guest was expected to converse, Sir Joshua was really vexed to find Dr. Johnson in the drawing-room, and would hardly speak to him. Miss Reynolds, who appears to have been one of the "unappreciated and misunderstood" women who thought she was a painter when she was not, and of whose copies Sir Joshua said, "They make other people laugh, and me cry," became a great favorite with Dr. Johnson, who probably knew how to sympathize with the morbid sensitiveness of the poor lady. She seems never to have tired of pouring tea for him! He, in return, wrote doggerel verses to her over the tea-tray in this fashion:—

"I therefore pray thee, Renny dear, That thou wilt give to me, With cream and sugar softened well, Another dish of tea.

"Nor fear that I, my gentle maid, Shall long detain the cup, When once unto the bottom I Have drunk the liquor up.

"Yet hear, alas! this mournful truth, Nor hear it with a frown: Thou canst not make the tea so fast As I can gulp it down."

THE END