Goldsmith, the author of the _Vicar of Wakefield_, wrote this character
'epitaph' for him:
Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind.
His pencil was striking, resistless and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing.
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.
By flattery unspoiled ...
The end is missing, for while Goldsmith was versifying so feelingly
about his friend, death overtook the writer, eighteen years before
the subject of the epitaph.
CHAPTER XIV
TURNER
I wonder which of you, if seeing this picture for the first time, will
realize that you are looking at the old familiar Thames? It would seem
rather to be some place unknown except in dreams, some phantasy of
the human spirit that we ourselves could never hope to see.
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