nds, Peebleshire, brought him a
considerable fortune. The widow of James Leslie--who traced his
descent to Sir George Leslie, first Baron of Balquhain (1351), and who,
after his purchase of Deanhaugh in 1777,[1] was spoken of as "Count of
Deanhaugh"--she was twelve years the artist's senior, and had three
children; but the marriage turned out most happily for all concerned.
Raeburn went to live at his wife's property, which lay not far from his
brother's house and factory at Stockbridge, and, although sitters
increased with his growing reputation until he is said to have been
quite independent of his wife's income, he does not appear to have had
a separate studio. Probably his Edinburgh clients went to Deanhaugh,
and at times he seems to have painted portraits at the country houses
of the gentry. But in 1785 desire to see and learn more than was
possible at home took him to Italy. While in London he made the
acquaintance of Reynolds, in whose studio he may have worked for a few
weeks, and Sir Joshua's advice confirming his original intention,
Raeburn and his wife went to Rome, where they resided about two years.
When parting Reynolds took him aside and whispered: "Young man, I know
nothing about your circumstances. Young painters are seldom rich; but
if money be necessary for your studies abroad, say so, and you shall
not want it." Money was not needed, but letters of introduction were
accepted gladly; and "ever afterwards Raeburn mentioned the name of Sir
Joshua with much respect."

[1] If, as stated by Cumberland Hill in his _History of Stockbridge_,
Leslie bought Deanhaugh in 1777, and if, as stated by Cunningham and
others, Raeburn married in 1778, the lady can have been a widow for
only a few months.

IV.

In these days of rapid travel, the transition from north to south is
exceedingly striking. Leaving London one speeds past the pleasant
Surrey fields and lanes and woodlands, and through the soft rolling
green downs, and in the afternoon and evening sees the less familiar
but not strange wide planes and poplar-fringed rivers of Northern
France, to open one's eyes next morning upon the brown sun-baked lands,
with their strange southern growths, which lie behind Marseilles; and
all day as the train thunders along the Riviera, through olive gardens
and vineyards, one has glimpses of strangely picturesque white-walled
and many-coloured shuttered towns fringing the broad bays or clustering
on the r