Is it in human nature, that the man of whom such anecdotes are told, and truly told, could be guilty of a mean unworthy action?  Perhaps the reader will be curious to see how the writer of the “British Painters,” who, from the recent date of his publication, must have known all these incidents, excepting the last, has converted some of them, by insinuating sarcasm, into charges that blurr their virtue.  We should say that he has omitted, where he could omit—­where he could not, he is compelled to contradict himself; for it is impossible that the insinuations, and the facts, and occasional acknowledgments, should be together true of one and the same man.  We shall offer some specimens of this illiberal style:—­A neighbour of Reynolds’s first advised him to settle in London.  His success there made him remember this friendly advice—­(the neighbour’s name was Cranch.) We quote now from Cunningham.  “The timely counsel of his neighbour Cranch would have long afterwards been rewarded with the present of a silver cup, had not accident interfered.  ‘Death,’ says Northcote, ’prevented this act of gratitude.  I have seen the cup at Sir Joshua’s table.’  The painter had the honour of the intention and the use of the cup—­a twofold advantage, of which he was not insensible.”—­Lives of British Painters, Vol. i, p. 220.—­“Of lounging visitors he had great abhorrence, and, as he reckoned up the fruits of his labours, ‘Those idle people,’ said this disciple of the grand historical school of Raphael and Angelo—­’those idle people do not consider that my time is worth five guineas an hour.’  This calculation incidentally informs us, that it was Reynolds’s practice, in the height of his reputation and success, to paint a portrait in four hours.”—­P. 251.  In this Life, he could depreciate art, (in a manner we are persuaded he could not feel,) because it lowered the estimation of the painter whom he disliked.  “One of the biographers of Reynolds imputes the reflections contained in the conclusion of this letter, ’to that envy, which perhaps even Johnson felt, when comparing his own annual gains with those of his more fortunate friend.’  They are rather to be attributed to the sense and taste of Johnson, who could not but feel the utter worthlessness of the far greater part of the productions with which the walls of the Exhibition-room were covered.  Artists are very willing to claim for their profession and its productions rather more than the world seems disposed to concede.  It is very natural that this should be so; but it is also natural, that man of Johnson’s taste should be conscious of the dignity of his own pursuits, and agree with the vast majority of mankind in ranking a Homer, a Virgil, a Milton, or a Shakspeare, immeasurably above all the artists that ever painted or carved.  Johnson, in a conversation with Boswell, defined painting to be an art which could illustrate, but could not inform.”—­P. 255.  Does he so speak of this art in any other Life; and is not this view false and ill-natured?  Were not Raffaelle, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Titian, Piombo, epic poets?