He was a handsome youth, nearly twenty years old, with bright, beaming eyes, a slight but compact form, and brown curls that came to his shoulders.  His London life had given him a confidence in himself, and in his manner there was a grace and poise flavored with a becoming diffidence.

A man who can do things well should assume a modesty, even if he has it not.  If you can write well, do not talk—­leave that to the man who can do nothing else.  If you can paint, let your work speak for you.

Joshua Reynolds was young, but he was an artist in diplomacy.  His talent, his modesty, his youth, his beauty, won the hearts of the entire Edgecumbe household.

He painted portraits of all the family; and of course all the visitors were called upon to admire, not only the pictures, but the painter as well.

A studio was opened in one of Lord Edgecumbe’s buildings at Plymouth, and he painted portraits of all the great folks thereabout.

On Christmas-Day, Seventeen Hundred Forty-six, the Reverend Samuel Reynolds died, but before his death he fully realized that one of his children was well on the way to fame and fortune.

The care of the broken family now devolved on Joshua, but his income was several times as much as his father had ever earned, and his responsibilities were carried lightly.

While at the house of Lord Edgecumbe, Reynolds had met young Commodore Keppel.  In Seventeen Hundred Forty-nine, Keppel was placed in command of the Mediterranean fleet, with orders to clear the seas of the Barbary pirates.  Keppel invited Reynolds to join him on board the “Centurion” as his guest.

Gladly he accepted, and they sailed away for the Orient with a cabin stocked with good things, and enough brushes, paints, canvases and easels to last several painters a lifetime.

* * * * *

It was three years before Reynolds came back to Plymouth.  He had visited Lisbon, Cadiz, Gibraltar, Port Mahon and Minorca.  At the two last-named places there were British garrisons, and Reynolds set to work making portraits of the officers.  For this he was so well paid that he decided to visit Italy instead of voyaging farther with his friend Keppel.

He then journeyed on to Naples, Rome, Venice, Pisa and Florence, stopping in each city for several months, immersing himself in the art atmosphere of the place.  Returning to Rome, he remained there two years, studying and copying the works of Raphael, Angelo, Titian and other masters.

Occasionally, he sold his copies of masterpieces, and by practising strict economy managed to live in a fair degree of comfort.

Rome is the hottest place in Summer and the coldest in Winter of which I know.  The average Italian house has a damp and chill in Winter which clutches the tourist and makes him long for home and native land.  Imagine a New England farmhouse in March with only a small dish-pan of coals to warm it, and you have Rome in Winter.