He was fond of the company of Sir William Beechey, and at his house he frequently reposed from the cares of the world and the persecution of fortune. He was abstemious at his meals, rarely touching wine or ardent spirits-his favourite beverage was a pot of porter and a toast; and he would accept that when he refused all other things. This was a luxury of which he was determined to have the full enjoyment-he took a moderate draughtsat silent a little while, then drank again, and all the time eyed the quart vessel with a satisfaction which sparkled in his eyes. The first time that Wilson was invited to dine with Beechey, he replied to the request by saying, "You have daughters, Mr. Beechey, do they draw? All young ladies draw "No, sir," answered his prudent entertainer, " my daughters are musical." He was pleased to hear this, and accepted the invitation. Such was the blunt honesty of his nature, that when drawings were shown him which he disliked, he disdained, or was unable to give a courtly answer, and made many of the students his enemies. Reynolds had the sagacity to escape from such difficulties by looking at the drawings and saying “pretty, pretty," which vanity invariably explained into a compliment.

now."

His process of painting was simple; his colours were few, he used but one brush, and worked standing. He prepared his palette, made a few touches, then retired to the window to refresh his eye with natural light, and returned in a few minutes and resumed his labours. Beechey called on him one day, and found him at work; he seized his visiter hastily by the arm, hurried him to the remotest corner of the room, and said, "There, look at my landscape--this is where you should view a painting if you wish to examine it with your eyes, and not with your nose." He was then an old man, his sight was failing, his touch was unsure, and he inted somewhat coarsely, but the effect was won

derful. He too, like Reynolds, had his secrets of colour, and his mystery of the true principle in painting, which he refused to explain, saying, "They are like those of nature, and are to be sought for and found in my performances." Of his own future fame he spoke seldom, for he was a modest man; but when he did speak of it, he used expressions which the world has since sanctioned. "Beechey," he said, “you will live to see great prices given for my pictures, when those of Barret will not fetch one farthing."

The salary of librarian rescued him from utter starvation; indeed, so few were his wants, so simple his fare, and so moderate his appetite, that he found it, little as it was, nearly enough. He had as he grew old become more neglectful of his person-as fortune forsook him he left a fine house for one inferior-a fashionable street for one cheap and obscure; he made sketches for half-a-crown, and expressed gratitude to one Paul Sanby for purchasing a number from him at a small advance of price. His last retreat in this wealthy city was a small room somewhere about Tottenham-Court Road;an easel and a brush-a chair and a table-a hard bed with few clothes-a scanty meal and the favourite pot of porter-were all that Wilson could call his own. A disgrace to an age which lavished its tens of thousands on mountebanks and projectors-on Italian screamers, and men who made mouths at Shakspeare.

It is reported that Reynolds relaxed his hostility at last-and, becoming generous when it was too late, obtained an order from a nobleman for two landscapes at a proper price. This kindness softened the severity of Wilson's animadversions on the President; but old age with its infirmities was come upon him; his sight was failing, his skill of touch was forsaking him; and his naturally high spirit had begun to yield at last to the repeated injuries of fortune. London was relieved from witnessVOL. I.-Q

ing the melancholy close of his life. A small estate became his by the death of a brother; and, as if nature had designed to make some amends for the neglect of mankind, a profitable vein of lead was discovered on his ground. When this twofold good fortune befell him, he waited on his steady friend, Sir William Beechey, to ask him if he had any commands for Wales. His spirits were then high, but appeared assumed, for his health was visibly declining, and his faculties were impaired. He put his hands to each side, and pressing them, said, with a sorrowful smile, "Oh! these back settlements of mine!" He took an affecting farewell of Sir William, and set out for his native place, where, far from the bitterness of professional rivalry, and placed above the reach of want, he looked to enjoy a few happy days.

He arrived safely at Colomondie, beside the village of Llanverris in Denbighshire, and took up his residence with his relation, Mrs. Jones. The house was elegant and commodious, and the situation of that kind which Wilson loved. It stood among fine green hills, with old romantic woods, picturesque rocks, verdant lawns, deep glens, and the whole was cheered with the sound as well as the sight of running water. He was now in affluence-was loved and respected by all around him—and, what was as much to him-or more, he was become a dweller among scenes such as had haunted his imagination, even when Italy spread her beauty before him. He wrought little and walked much;—the stone on which he loved to sit, the tree under which he shaded himself from the sun, and the stream on the banks of which he commonly walked, are all remembered and pointed out by the peasantry. But he wanted-what wealth could not give-youth and strength to enjoy what he had fallen heir to. His strength failed fast-his walks became shorter and less frequent-and the last scene he visited was where two old picturesque fir-trees stood, which he

loved to look at and introduce into his compositions. Walking out one day, accompanied by a favourite dog-whether exhausted by fatigue, or overcome by some sudden pain-Wilson sank down, and found himself unable to rise. The sagacious animal run home, howled, pulled the servants by their clothes, and at last succeeded in bringing them to the aid of his master. He was carried home, but he never fairly recovered from the shock. He complained of weariness and pain, refused nourishment, and languished and expired in May, 1782, in the 69th year of his age.

As a landscape-painter the merits of Wilson are great; his conceptions are generally noble, and his execution vigorous and glowing; the dewy freshness, the natural lustre, and harmonious arrangement of his scenes have seldom been exceeded. He rose at once from the tame insipidity of common scenery into natural grandeur and magnificence-his streams seem all abodes for nymphs, his hills are fit haunts for the muses, and his temples worthy of gods. His whole heart was in his art, and he talked and dreamed landscape. He looked on cattle as made only to form groups for his pictures, and on men as they composed harmoniously. One day, looking on the fine scene from Richmond Terrace, and wishing to point out a spot of particular beauty to the friend who accompanied him—“ There," said he, holding out his finger, "see near those houses-there, where the figures are." He stood for some time by the waterfall of Terni in speechless admiration, and at length exclaimed, "Well done: water, by God!" In aërial effect he considered himself above any rival. When Wright of Derby offered to exchange works with him, he answered, "With all my heart. I'll give you air, and you will give me fire.'

"Wilson," says Fuseli, discoursing on art in 1801, "observed nature in all her appearances, and had a characteristic touch for all her forms. But, though in effects of dewy freshness and silent evening lights

few have equalled and fewer excelled him, his grandeur is oftener allied to terror, bustle, and convulsion, than to calmness and tranquillity. He is now numbered with the classics of the art, though little more than the fifth part of a century has elapsed since death relieved him from the apathy of cognoscenti, the envy of rivals, and the neglect of a tasteless public; for Wilson, whose works will soon command prices as proud as those of Claude, Poussin, or Elzheimer, resembled the last most in his fate, and lived and died nearer to indigence than

Wilson's landscapes are numerous, and are scattered as they should be through public galleries and private rooms. They are in general productions of fancy rather than of existing reality— scenes pictured forth by the imagination rather than transcribed from nature, yet there is enough of nature in them to please the commonest clown, and enough of what is poetic to charm the most fastidious fancy. He sometimes indeed painted facsimiles of scenes; but his heart disliked such unpoetic drudgery; for his thoughts were ever dwelling among hills and streams renowned in story and song, and he loved to expatiate on ruined temples and walk over fields where great deeds had been achieved and where gods had appeared among men. He was fortunate in little during his life-his view from Kew Gardens, though exquisite in colour and in simplicity of arrangement, was returned by the king for whom it was painted; nor was the poetic loveliness of his compositions felt till such acknowledgment was useless to the artist.

The names of a few of his principal compositions will show the historical and poetical influence under which he wrought-the Death of Niobe, Phæton, Morning, View of Rome, Villa of Mecenas at Tivoli, Celadon and Amelia, View on the River Po, Apollo and the Seasons, Meleager and Atalanta, Cicero at his Villa, Lake of Narni, View on the