Chapter 2

There now follow the three surviving letters from Joshua Reynolds in London to Thomas Morrison in Devon. Whether or not the two men had known each other before, they certainly met when Reynolds visited his sister, Mrs. Palmer of Great Torrington, during his Journey into the west country with Johnson in 1762. According to Reynolds' engagement book, Morrison was his host on August 27 of that year; while a letter written by Johnson, after returning to London, contains a message for "Dr. Morison" to say that a set of _Idlers_ was being sent to him with sincere acknowledgements of all his civilities. The first of Reynolds' letters is dated, at the end, August 16, 1766.

Dear Sir,

The greatest compliment I have ever yet receiv'd for any fancied eminence in my profession has not been so flattering to my vanity as having had the honour to have so excellent a Poem address'd to me as this really is which I have now before me, and the consideration that this compliment is made me by Mr. Morrison makes me at a loss in what manner to express the obligation I feel myself under for so great a favour. I may truly say and without affecting much modesty that I am not worthy of the attention you please to honour me with.

As I have not had time yet to consider it as maturely as I intend to do, I can only say in general terms that I admire it exceedingly.

Here there is a break in the letter.

I am quite ashamed to have kept this Letter so long, which proceeded from an expectation I dayly had of reading the Poem with Mr. Johnson and Dr. Goldsmith but which I have not yet been able to accomplish.

The former part of this Letter was wrote a few days after I had the pleasure of seeing your Son; you have surely the greatest reason in the world to think me the most ill mannered as well as the most ungrateful person breathing in not returning my thanks sooner; and now that it is delay'd so long it has not answerd any end except that I have the pleasure of saying, I find no cause on a second and third reading to retract what I said in the former part of the Letter, my own opinion is worth but little; but I hope soon to have the pleasure of acquainting you with the approbation of those Critics which it is some honour to please.

With great acknowledgment for the distinction you have been pleased to honour me with,

I am with the greatest respect your most obliged humble servant,

J. Reynolds.

I beg my compliments to Miss and Mr. Morrison.

To this Morrison evidently sent a reply expressing his pleasure at Reynolds' praise of the poem, for on January 8, 1767, Reynolds wrote again.

Dear Sir,

I am much obliged to you for the compliment you make me in thinking my approbation of any value, to tell you the truth the reason of my setting so little value on it myself, proceeds not so much from modesty, or an opinion that I cannot feel the powers of Poetry, or distinguish beauties from defects, but from a consciousness that I am unable to determine (as all excellence in comparative) what rank it ought to hold in the scale of Art; and this judgement can be possess'd I think by those only who are acquainted with what the world has produced of that kind.

I have lately had the pleasure of reading your Poem to several friends, who have spoken much in its commendation, and Mr. Johnson who is as severe a Critic as old Dennis approves of it very much, he thinks it superior to any Poem of the kind that has been publish'd these many years and will venture to lay a wager that there is not a better publish'd this year or the next.

The Characters of the several Masters mention'd in the Poem are truly drawn; and the descriptions of the several kinds of History Painting shew great imagination and a thorough knowledge of the Theory of the Art, and that this is deliver'd in Poetry much above the common standard I have Mr. Johnson's word who concluded his commendation with Imprimatur meo periculo which order if you have no objection we will immediately put in execution.

I have scarce left room to subscribe myself

Yours,

J. Reynolds.

There is no record of any copy of the poem, either printed or manuscript, having been at Yeo Vale; but that the order had indeed been put in execution became apparent lately when Professor Hilles, on reading the above letter, recognized the identity of Morrison's poem with the _Pindarick Ode on Painting_ published in 1767.

The last of the three letters from Reynolds to Morrison is dated March 2, 1771. Notwithstanding the rejection of "Otho," its author had written a second tragedy, the manuscript of which was among the papers at Yeo Vale, according to a note made in 1917 by the late Major J. H. Morrison Kirkwood.

Dear Sir,

Nothing would give me greater uneasiness [than] if you should suspect that my not answering your Letter proceeded from neglect, it would be a shamefull return for the kindness I have allways experienced from you, the truth is Mr. Coleman [sic] as well as myself is allways so full of business that I have not been able to meet with him so often as I could wish, however when we do meet I have endeavourd to press him to complete the negociation by Letter as I found it impossible to persuade you to come to Town. The last time I saw him he told me he would write to you in a few days, as by this time you have probably receiv'd his Letter, you have a more explicit account than any I can give. In regard to the hundred Pounds for which I told him you would let him have the Tragedy, he said he fear'd that you suspected that he wanted to decline receiving it, which was not the case, that he wish'd to receive it and certainly would when those alterations were made, that if he gave this sum for the Tragedy, he should probably receive more profit from it than he had any right to, that he never would receive any profit but as Manager.

I beg my Compliments to Miss Morrison and am with the greatest respect your most humble and obedient servant

Joshua Reynolds.

On reading this, Morrison may well have thought that his tragedy was almost certain of acceptance; a few months later, however, he heard from George Colman, who had succeeded Beard as manager of Covent Garden Theatre in 1767. The letter is dated July 23, 1771, and its opening sentence is explained by the death of Colman's wife earlier in the year.

Sir,

My last Letter would very soon have been succeeded by another if a very unexpected & most shocking domestick calamity had not rendered me wholly incapable of attending to every kind of business. I have however lately read your Tragedy over & over with the strictest attention, and after considering it again & again, not without a real partiality to the Author, & the strongest desire of encouraging the most favourable idea of it, I am with much concern obliged to declare it unfit for representation.

The first act is very excellent, & with a few slight alterations, would be a most affecting opening of a Tragedy. In the second act the scene of Iphigenia is also extremely beautiful and interesting; but the other parts of the act have no dramatick merit. The circumstance so much insisted on of Clytemnestra's dressing (tho' I believe in Euripides) wd. appear ridiculous on our stage: and the scenes of Memnon and Achilles are weak & illwritten, tho' the entrance of Achilles at that juncture might afford a spirited & interesting scene.

In these acts, as well as the two following, the conduct of the fable is in general just: at least it is most wonderfully improved since your first draught of the Tragedy: and yet the characters & dialogue are so managed as to render the whole cold, uninteresting, & totally destitute of that spirit essential to the success of the Drama. The personages are all suffered to languish, tho' in situations which require the utmost animation & force. Clytemnestra & Iphigenia, though defective, are indeed better sustained than the rest, but the consequence of the Atridae hardly survives the first act, and Achilles never maintains any consequence at all.

The same remark may in general be applied to the fifth act as to the foregoing. The management of the catastrophe might perhaps admit of alteration. The nature of the subject indeed renders it a very nice point: tho' I think it would be very possible to give it due warmth & interest, were the more arduous task accomplished of perfecting the preceding parts of the Drama.

Believe me, Sir, that in this as well as in all my other Letters to you, I have delivered my real sentiments, tho' it is not without reluctance & regret on the present occasion. I had at first some objections to the subject. These vanished; & in the first draught there were here & there some touches which inclined me to hope that the whole piece might be worked up by the same hand. I am sorry to pronounce it has failed: but _Ponere Totum_ is the great secret; and in our exhibitions a common Dauber, possest of that happy knack, will often be attended with tolerable success, and exult at the failure of a superior artist who has only laboured particular parts.

I am, Sir, your most obedient humble servant,

G. Colman.

This letter, which must have left its recipient without further hope for the production of his tragedy, is the last that remains.

Thomas Morrison died on July 20, 1778, and was buried beside his third wife in the churchyard at Great Torrington. The inscription on the tablet placed to his memory in the church nearby says of him that his diffusive charity and benevolence towards man, his amiable manners, the goodness of his heart and his exemplary conduct deservedly endeared him to all his acquaintance.

Hooper Morrison died in 1798; his only son, Thomas Hooper Morrison, in 1824; and his son's widow in 1861. The Yeo Vale property then passed to his son's niece, Eleanora Elizabeth Hammett, who was the wife of John Townsend Kirkwood, great-grandfather of the present writer, and the sole surviving child of Hooper Morrison's youngest--but only married--daughter.

J. T. Kirkwood White's Club, London.

* * * * * * * * *

A

PINDARICK

ODE

on

PAINTING.

Addressed To

JOSHUA REYNOLDS, Esq.

LONDON: Printed for W. GRIFFIN, in Catharine-Street, Strand. MDCCLXVII. [Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]

THE PREFACE.

As the subject of this Ode is, from the copiousness of it, almost an inexhaustible one (were I to take notice of all the minuter branches of this art, in which the several masters have distinguish'd themselves, such as the painting of fruit, flowers, still-life, game, buildings, ships, &c.) I have confin'd myself chiefly to the three greater species of it: namely, History (under which Battle-painting may justly be included) Landskip and Portraiture----and as, in a composition of this length, I imagin'd that the perpetual recurrence of the same measure in such a multiplicity of stanzas would have been rather languid and fatiguing, I have therefore indulg'd myself in many different kinds of metre; but, at the same time, have blended them as harmoniously as I could contrive; by which indulgence I have not only consulted my own ease, but hope I have likewise, in some degree, consulted the pleasure of the Reader, by entertaining his ear, at least, with a little variety of wild music, even if the composition should have no other sort of merit to recommend it.

A PINDARICK ODE ON PAINTING.

I.

Sweet mimick art! Which to our ravish'd eyes, From a few blended colours, and the aid Of attemper'd light and shade, Bid'st a new creation rise--- Oh! to this song of tributary praise, Which Poetry thy sister art Now with friendly homage pays, Could I contrive thy beauties to impart! With my easy flowing line To unite correctness of design, 10 And make a TITIAN's colouring conspire With RAPHAEL's grace, and BUANOROTI's fire---

II.

And this moment I perceive (Or does some illusion bless me, Some sweet madness now possess me?) My tumultuous bosom heave, Like the rapt SIBYLL's when she feels the load, The painful influence of th' in-rushing God---

III.

Yes---once again with joy I find (Nor think my friend th' assertion bold) 20 This languid age-enfeebled mind, As in life's prime, it's powers unfold--- Again th' ideal scenes arise, The visions stream before my eyes, Resistless on the rous'd imagination pour, And paint themselves as lively as before-----

IV.

But be this mental picture grac'd With all th' adornings fancy can bestow, How is it's beauty now effac'd, 30 How fast all it's splendor declines, Out-dazzled by those brighter lines Which on yonder canvas glow----

V.

Where---by th' Historick pencil's aid Whose ages are at once display'd--- Some great event of Rome or Greece Fills perhaps each high wrought piece--- There---some triumphal pomp proceeds--- There---th' impetuous battle bleeds--- Mark! while they engage What ardor what rage, 40 How shields are clash'd with shields--- And with what force up-rais'd in air, Each warrior brawny arm stript bare, Darts th' keen spear, or glittering faulchion wields, And while it aims the stroke, or while repels, How justly each inflated muscle swells----

VI.

With the same noble warmth imprest, As with his Lord the gallant beast Was eager to acquire a name, And combated like him for fame, 50 See the generous steed Fierce as CIRCE's high breed Which she stole from her bright-flaming fire, While he springs on the foe, Like the shaft from the bow, Scarce imprint the trod ground; But curvet and bound As if drawn by a pencil of fire----

VII.

But what endless length of verse Can suffice me to rehearse 60 Th' enliven'd action of the whole? Squadrons this way, that way bending, The depicted forms contending As instinct with real foul----

VIII.

Nay---minutely to describe The varied helm, peculiar shield, The different aspect of each tribe Which animates th' embattled field, Would ask the compass of an age, To mark the whole---must drawl along 70 The tedious circumstantial song, And haply languish through the thousandth page---

IX.

But rapidly by Painting's aid Is this intelligence convey'd; E'en in a single moment's space We see th' extensive plan unfold, Omitted not one trifling grace, In full the complex tale is told; The grand exploits of half an Iliad rise, And flash at once on our astonish'd eyes---- 80

X.

Nor serves this sweet instructive art T' inform the intellect alone, But often melts th' obdurate heart And wakes it's paenitential groan--- For when in some great Master's draught, With genius as with judgement fraught, Nail'd haply to th' accursed tree, On his tenter'd wounds suspended, Every nerve with torture rended, Th' agonizing GOD we see--- 90 Supported by her weeping train While the dolorous mother stands With anguish'd features, writhen hands, Expressing e'en superior pain; Who but must mingle in this scene of woe, What breast can cease to heave, what eye forbear to flow?

XI.

But sorrow now o'erpow'rd by fear, Soon is check'd the starting tear, While in yonder piece I view, Which VANDERVELD's bold pencil drew 100 Through all it's gloom'd extent the ocean Work'd into wild impetuous motion, And with more dread t' impress the soul Grimly frowns the lurid sky, And the condensing vapours roll, And the fork'd light'nings fly--- With shatter'd sails and low-bent mast Drives before the whirling blast The fondering vessel---Hark! I hear (Or does the eye deceive the ear?) 110 The thunder's voice, the groaning air, The billows loud roar While they break on the shore, The cries of the wreck'd, and their shrieks of despair.

XII.

With pleasure now I turn my sight From horror and death to those scenes of delight, Where CLAUDIO's pencil has essay'd With every heighten'd touch to trace The wide-stretch'd Landskip's varied face, And all it's sweet delusive skill display'd--- 120

XIII.

How the genial colours warm us? How the gay deceptions charm us? The objects here advancing nigh As with brighter tints they bloom--- There receding from the eye As suffus'd with deeper gloom; And, while here to bound the scene, Their tops half-blended with the skies, The misty mountains intervene, Or rocks in dim confusion rise; 130 There the wild ocean terminates the view; It's green waves mingling with th' aethereal blue---

XIV.

And, lo! what numerous beauties grace Th' enchanted intermediate space! Rivers winding through the vales, Here, full in view; there, faintly shewn, Hillocks, inter-mix'd with dales, Rural cotts at distance thrown--- There, some foaming cataract pours From the steep cliff it's watery stores; 140 Here, spreads it's gloom some awful grove, Through whose thick branches interwove, While the sun darts his slanting beams, Delightful to the eye the yellowish lustre streams---

XV.

Above the strong illumin'd skies, The clouds in shining volumes, roll'd Their fleecy skirts bedeckt with gold, Half-dazzle the spectator's eyes--- And does the real solar light Flash at present on the sight? 150 Or, does the pencil'd radiance only flow, And flowing with such fervour beat That e'en with all the dog-days heat The sultry painting now appears to glow?

XVI.

Beneath some oak's projecting shade, Where the shot rays scarce passage find, See many a rustick youth and maid In languid attitudes reclin'd---- Mark! with features all relenting, And with down-cast eyes consenting, 160 How each nymph listens to the amorous tale; Her half-bar'd bosom, panting with desire, Expos'd, as if to catch the cooling gale; But more, perhaps, to fan the lover's fire.

XVII.

Ye dear deceptions! how ye move The breast to long forgotten love? Luxurious scenes! how ye excite The traces of distinct delight! E'en now around this poor half-frozen heart Agnizing it's accustom'd smart, 170 Like some mild lambent flame the passion plays; And, vanquish'd by ideal charms, I sink in the imagin'd arms Of some sweet PHILLIS of my youthful days.

XVIII.

But, lo! the Portrait of yon hoary sage From whose grave lore I learnt in youth Many a rigid moral truth, Frowns me again to cold unfeeling age--- How are the soft emotions checkt While tow'rd me he seems to direct, 180 As if alive, his conscious eye; At whose austere reproving glance, I wake reluctant from my trance, And feel with pain each pleasing passion die!---

XIX.

VENUS yokes her purple doves, In an instant dispossest, All the little sportive loves Hurry---hurry from my breast--- And the whole charming vision flits away Like the night's golden dream at break of envious day-- 190

XX.

Poor human life! how short the date Assign'd thee by relentless Fate!---- Poor transient Beauty! tender flower! Still shorter thy allotted hour!---- Then stretch the canvass---quick, my Friend, Thy pencil seize---thy work attend--- E'en exempt from deforming diseases, How it fades by the torches of Time; Every moment that flows Steals the gloss from the rose; 200 Then catch the bright hue while it pleases, And fix the fair face in it's prime.

XXI.

Nay-- thus, great Artist, has thy hand To half the high-born beauty of the land A permanence ensur'd, And from th' attacks of wrinkling age, And from the pustule's venom'd rage Th' untarnish'd form secur'd---

XXII.

It's dear resemblance has at least Been in thy faithful lines exprest; 210 In thy firm colours still persists to bloom; Nor does it cease the heart t' alarm, Nor does it cease the eye to charm, E'en when the real Fair is mouldering in her tomb--

XXIII.

And eminent in beauty as in birth, When the bright LENOX shall as well In the same gloomy mansion dwell And mingle with her kindred regal earth, Still in thy tints shall she survive, With sweet attraction still engage, 220 Still feed the flame as when alive, And (e'en improv'd by mellowing age Each charm of person and of face) Still sacrifice to every grace---

XXIV.

For we not see the outward form alone In thy judicious strokes defin'd, But in them too---distinctly shewn--- The strong-mark'd features of the mind--- Each charmer's attitude and air The internal character declare, 230 With ease the varied temper we descry, The full-soul beaming from th' expressive eye---

XXV.

Here---in the sweetly pensive mein Is the soft gentle Nature seen, And chaste reserve, and modest fear, And artless innocence appear--- There---the little fly coquet Aiming her insidious glances: For trapping hearts each feature set, From the canvass makes advances, 240 Nay---if we credit the delusive face, She seems just springing to our fond embrace---

XXVI.

And if such meaning can be thrown Into the single form alone--- With what fresh rapture should we gaze, How would thy kindling genius blaze, To what superior heights aspire, If working on some grand design, Where various characters combine To call forth all it's force, and rouse thy native fire?--- 250

XXVII.

And that thy hand can equally excel E'en in this noble part, This shining branch of thy expressive art, To it's own happy labour we appeal, To that rich piece whose pleasing fiction And splendid tints with full conviction Strike the spectator, while he views THALIA and the tragick muse, Each eager on her side t' engage Th' unrivall'd Roscius of the British stage--- 260

XXVIII.

Stern and erect the buskin'd dame In high dramatick wrath appears, With energy supports her claim And seems to thunder in his ears; While the inveigling comick Fair, With aspect sly and artful air To draw her favourite to her arms Strains every nerve; but as she strives, With the sweet attitude contrives T' impart the stronger influence to her charms-- 270

XXIX.