oshua ever embraces a fair sitter and imprints upon
her forehead a chaste kiss, I am sure that Giuseppe Marchi will never
tell."

It is too late to accuse Sir Joshua Reynolds of ingratitude towards
Giuseppe; he was grateful, and once referred to Marchi as "an angel sent
from God to help me do my work." But he paid Marchi valet's wages and
treated him like a servant. Possibly this was the part of expedience, for
had Marchi ever gotten it into his head that he could paint as well as
Sir Joshua he would have been worthless as a helper.

For forty years they were never separated.

Cotton disposes of Giuseppe Marchi by saying, "He was a clever colorist,
but incapable of doing independent work." Cotton might, however, have
told the whole simple truth, and that was that Marchi was hands, feet,
eyes and ears for his master--certain it is that without his help Sir
Joshua could never have attained the fame and fortune he did.

* * * * *

In selecting his time for a career, Joshua Reynolds showed good judgment.
He went into public favor on a high tide. England was prosperous, and
there was in the air a taste for the polite arts. Literature was becoming
a fad.

Within a short time there had appeared Gray's "Elegy," Smollett's
"Peregrine Pickle," Fielding's "Amelia" and Richardson's "Clarissa
Harlowe." Here was menu to fit most palates, and the bill-of-fare was
duly discussed in all social gatherings of the upper circles. The
afflicted ones fed on Gray; the repentant quoted Richardson; while
Smollett and Fielding were read aloud in parlor gatherings where fair
ladies threatened to leave the room--but didn't. Out at Strawberry Hill,
his country home, Horace Walpole was running that little printing-shop,
making books that are now priceless, and writing long, gossipy letters
that body forth the spirit of the time, its form and pressure. The
Dilettante Society, composed of young noblemen devoted to high art and
good-fellowship, was discussing a scheme for a National Academy. Garrick
was at the height of his fame; Hogarth was doing for art what Smollett
did for literature; while two young Irishmen, Burke and Goldsmith, were
getting ready to make English letters illustrious; Hudson was painting
portraits with a stencil; Gainsborough was immortalizing a hat; Doctor
Johnson was waiting in the entry of Lord Chesterfield's mansion with the
prospectus of a dictionary; and pretty Kitty Fisher had kicked the