The year 1758 was, in a pecuniary point of view, one of the most fortunate that Reynolds ever experienced; and he soon gave signs of his prosperity by purchasing a mansion in Leicester Square, which he inhabited ever after. It was a maxim with him, that an artist who marries is ruined for life; and he seems to have guarded the passes to his heart with singular vigilance, as we do not read of any fair damsel making havoc in its chambers, though it is quite possible that some early disappointment may have created this rare aversion to matrimony. But whatever the origin of his prejudice on this point, there is no question that a sensible woman who, without being ambitious of prematurely dissipating her natural roses at midnight parties, can take a becoming part in the innocent gayeties which brighten the human heart, is a pearl of price; and why the artist should be the worse of such an enviable companion any more than a poet or orator, is a question which does stagger plain men, as it would, perhaps, have puzzled the most philosophic of British painters. He acted on his principle by living and dying a bachelor; but, in accordance with the custom at that period pursued by men of the middle class, he placed one of his sisters at the end of his board and in charge of his domestic concerns: thus attempting to secure the comforts of a home without being subject to connubial responsibility. Miss Reynolds, it appears, scarcely realized or sustained the character of a perfect spinster. She was possessed of great wit and talent; and though remarkable for her good sense, she was too much given to essays of her skill in poetry and painting to make a model housekeeper. Thus the internal affairs were not conducted with any excessive taste or regularity; and the table was distinguished chiefly by a rough plenty; little regard being paid to order or arrangement. The dinner was generally a scramble, in which the host took little or no concern; and the guests looked sharply after their own interests. There was no splendor but great abundance. Ease was more valued than comfort or elegance. Nevertheless, Reynolds had furnished his new residence with much propriety, besides adding a handsome gallery for the exhibition of his paintings, and an elegant dining-room, often the scene of “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.” There the literary giant of the day rolled his unwieldy body, bit his dirty nails, and poured out his copious talk; though often a little cowed by being face to face with that profound political sage and prophet who alone could encounter the huge author of “Rasselas” with advantage. Side by side were the greatest actor of the day, and the restorer of that English ballad-poetry which fascinated the young genius of the mightiest of dead and the most accomplished of living novelists. In an uneasy posture, “staring right on,” was that extraordinary being “who could write like an angel, but talk like