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II. An Epistle to Mr. Ellys the Painter
Though he concludes with a tribute to Walpole that recalls Fielding's dedication to The Modern Husband, the motives of Cooke's anonymous friend in addressing these verses to Ellys were chiefly personal, not political. What, then, besides the fact that Fielding is almost certainly the author of the preceding essay, is the evidence within the poem itself that points to his authorship?
To begin with, Fielding and "Jack" Ellys or Ellis (1701-57) were friends who had much in common: they belonged to a circle of clubbable wits and
Fielding was a generous man who "loved" his friends (his own word in a letter to Lyttelton on behalf of Edward Moore). It would be like him to write a poem celebrating Ellys's talents, especially at a time when Ellys was being ignored by critics and fellow artists alike. In a verse epistle to Bartholomew Dandridge in 1731, Joseph Mitchell had ranked that painter near the top of a list of fifteen contemporary "British Masters" from which Ellys was conspicuously excluded; and in his notebook for August 1731, George Vertue, in a similar list of gifted painters, also named Dandridge, but not Ellys. The poet of the "Epistle to Ellys," aiming to redress such slights, opens by declaring that lesser painters than his friend owe their inflated reputations chiefly to the influence of their sponsors: Charles Jervas to the praise of Pope, his friend and pupil; Bartholomew Dandridge to the puffing of (most likely) Lord Barrington, for whom he had this year painted a much admired equestrian portrait of the Prince of Wales. In contrast, these verses to Ellys, inspired by an "impartial Muse," are meant to "raise / A juster Trophy to thy Pencil's Praise"—"an honest Tribute . . . / Pay'd by a greater Friend to Truth than thee."
It would be quite in character, then, for Fielding to pay this tribute to Ellys; that he indeed wrote the poem may be confidently inferred from evidence in the text itself. The evidence, however, cannot include the compliments paid, in order, to Sir Charles Wager (1666-1743), admiral; Anne Lennox (1703-89), countess of Albemarle; Benjamin Hoadly (1676-1761), bishop of Salisbury; William Wake (1657-1737), archbishop of Canterbury; and "th' undaunted Gladiator" James Figg (d. 1734). Fielding, of course, knew both Hoadly and Figg and elsewhere compliments them in his writings for their different qualities; but, as the footnote states, all these figures are in the poem because Ellys painted their portraits. Other compliments in the poem, however, are all to persons whom Fielding admired and praised: the Duke of Argyll (or Argyle, as Fielding spelled it); the Duke and Duchess of Richmond, his patrons; Lady Mary Chambers and the Countess of Shaftesbury; his brilliant cousin, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; and, finally, the prime minister, Sir Robert Walpole, Lady Mary's friend and now Fielding's benefactor. Two other allusions—to the doting "Leander" and "the comic Phiz of M—" —were likely brought to mind by the recent successful production of Fielding's play, The Mock Doctor. And "Dorinda," the poet's
From the evidence presented, there should be little doubt that, considered separately, the "Epistle to Ellys" and the preceding prose "Observations on Government, etc." are by Fielding. Moreover, because we are assured by Cooke, editor of The Comedian, that both pieces are by the same "Friend," the force of the evidence is doubled.
An Epistle to Mr. Ellys the Painter.
While Jervass lives in Pope's admiring Song,[1]And Dandridge borrows Fame from B—n's Tongue,[2]
Shall no impartial Muse, my Ellys, raise
A juster Trophy to thy Pencil's Praise?
To others while fictitious Charms they give,
Shall real Worth[3] in thee neglected live?
Tho thou can'st need no Monument of mine,
Tho on thy Canvas best thy Beautys shine,
O! let this Verse an honest Tribute be,
Pay'd by a greater Friend to Truth than thee.
When (the great Work of thine excelling Hand!)
We see the well-known Nymph or Hero stand,
Where thoughtful [*] Wager wakes to guard our Isle,
Where [*] Albemarle enchants us with a Smile,
In [*] Hoadley where, and [*] Wake's just Features, shine
All the great Symptoms of their Souls divine,
While skillful you each Passion's Mark unfold,
We gaze, nor ask whose Pictures we behold:
Nor is your Powr to these great Themes confin'd;
You know to paint each Passion of the Mind:[4]
Behold th' undaunted[*] Gladiator there;
How just his Posture! and how fierce his Air!
Behold his Looks impatient for the Fight;
Cowards would fly, Argyle [5] approve, the Sight!
Equal with thine no other Art we view,
Who know'st decaying Nature to renew,
Can'st Death's lamented Triumphs render vain,
And bid departed Beauty live again.
Here the fond Parent[6] of his Child bereft
May view at least the much lov'd Image left.
Leander [7] here, when Melesinda's coy,
Doats on the smiling Object of his Joy:
And far, alas! by cruel Fate remov'd,
Here, in the slightest Sketch, I fondly trace
All the dear Sweetness of Dorinda's [†]Face:[8]
Tho Parents, Fortune, and tho she, conspire
To keep far from me all my Soul's Desire,
Still shall my ravish'd Eyes their Darling see,
If not so beauteous, look more kind thro thee.
O! let thine Art on future Times bestow
Those Beautys which our own to Nature owe:
Be no Lourissa on thy Canvas seen;
Nor draw the comic Phiz[9] of M—[10]
How Nature errs let other Pencils tell;
Shew thine, more noble, how she can excel:
Shew Richmond's happy Pair[11] in Love entwin'd,
Both grac'd alike in Person and in Mind;
Well will such Subjects all thy Powrs engage,
Honours to thee, and Glorys of their Age.
While Hope of Gain the venal Fancy warms,
The Painter often gives, not copys, Charms;
But thou such wretched Compliments refrain;
Who would paint S—l lovely paints in vain.
Let perfect Art, like thine, those Subjects chuse
Where bounteous Nature hath been most profuse:
At Chambers [12] still thine Art incessant try,
At Shaftsb'ry's Mien,[13] and Wortley's radiant Eye;[14]
And, while some future Dryden [15] shall relate
What Walpole [16] was, how wise, humane, and great,
O! may the Patriot's mighty Image shine,
In future Ages, by no Hand but thine.
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