edified with the "Descent of the Holy Ghost on Christ at the Jordan," ten feet by fourteen-"The Crucifixion," sixteen feet by twenty-eight-" The Ascension," twelve feet by eighteen-and "The Inspiration of St. Peter," of corresponding extent. As old age benumbed his faculties, and began to freeze up the well-spring of original thought, the daring intrepidity of the man seemed but to grow and augment. Immense pictures, embracing topics which would have alarmed loftier spirits, came crowding thick upon his fancy, and he was the only person who appeared insensible that such were too weighty for his handling.

Domestic sorrow, mingled with professional disappointment. Elizabeth Shewell for more than fifty years his kind and tender companion-died on the 6th of December, 1817, and West, seventynine years old, felt that he was soon to follow. His wife and he had loved each other some sixty years-had seen their children's children--and the world had no compensation to offer. He began to sink, and though still to be found at his easel, his hand had lost its early alacrity. It was evident that all this was to cease soon; that he was suffering a slow, and a general, and easy decay. The venerable old man sat in his study among his favourite pictures, a breathing image of piety and contentment, awaiting calmly the hour of his dissolution. Without any fixed complaint, his mental faculties unimpaired, his cheerfulness uneclipsed, and with looks serene and benevolent, be expired 11th March, 1820, in the eighty-second year of his age. He was buried beside Reynolds; Opie, and Barry, in St. Paul's Cathedral. The

pall was borne by noblemen, ambassadors, and academicians; his two sons and grandson were chief mourners; and sixty coaches brought up the splendid procession.

Benjamin West was in person above the middle size, of a fair complexion, and firmly and compactly built. His serene brow betokened command of temper, whilst his eyes, sparkling and vivacious, promised lively remarks and pointed sayings, in which he by no means abounded. Intercourse with courts and with the world, which changes so many, made no change in his sedate sobriety of sentiment and happy propriety of manner, the results of a devout domestic education. His kindness to young artists was great-his liberality seriously impaired his income-he never seemed weary of giving advice-intrusion never disturbed his temper-nor could the tediousness of the dull ever render him either impatient or peevish. He was indeed friendly to all-and particularly kind to two artists who have since risen to high distinction-Chantrey and Martin. For the former he obtained the statue of Washington, erected at Boston; and to the latter he willingly disclosed the secrets of his profession, and cheered him by his approbation. Whatever he knew in art he readily imparted—he was always happy to think that art was advancing, and no mean jealousy of other men's good fortune ever invaded his repose. His vanity was amusing and amiable—and his belief— prominent in every page of the narrative which he dictated to his friend Mr. Galt-that preaching and prophecy had predestined him to play a great part before mankind, and be an example to all

posterity, did no one any harm, and himself some good.

As his life was long and laborious, his productions are very numerous. He painted and sketched in oil upwards of four hundred pictures, mostly of an historical and religious nature, and he left more than two hundred original drawings in his portfolio. His works were supposed by himself, and for a time by others, to be in the true spirit of the great masters, and he composed them with the serious ambition and hope of illustrating Scripture and rendering Gospel truth more impressive. No subject seemed to him too lofty for his pencil; he considered himself worthy to follow the sublimest flights of the prophets, and dared to limn the effulgence of God's glory and the terrors of the Day of Judgment. The mere list of his works makes us shudder at human presumption-Moses receiving the Law on Sinai the Descent of the Holy Ghost on the Saviour in the Jordan-the Opening of the Seventh Seal in the Revelations-Saint Michael and his Angels casting out the Great Dragon -the mighty Angel with one foot on sea and the other on earth-the Resurrection!-and there are many others of the same class! With such magnificence and sublimity who but a Michael Angelo could cope?

In all his works the human form was exhibited in conformity to academic precepts-his figures were arranged with skill-the colouring was varied and often harmonious-the eye rested pleased on the performance, and the artist seemed, to the ordinary spectator, to have done his task like one of the highest of the sons of genius. But below all

this splendour there was little of the true vitality

there was a monotony, too, of human character— the groupings were unlike the happy and careless combinations of nature, and the figures frequently seemed distributed over the canvass by line and measure, like trees in a plantation. He wanted fire and imagination to be the true restorer of that grand style, which bewildered Barry, and was talked of by Reynolds. Some of his workscold, formal, bloodless, and passionless-may remind the spectator of the sublime vision of the Valley of dry bones, when the flesh and skin had come upon the skeletons, and before the breath of God had informed them with life and feeling.

Though such is the general impression, which the works of West make, it cannot be denied that many are distinguished by great excellence. In his Death on the Pale Horse, and more particularly in the sketch of that picture, he has more than approached the masters and princes of the calling. It is, indeed, irresistibly fearful to see the triumphant march of the terrific Phantom, and the dissolution of all that earth is proud of beneath his tread. War and peace, sorrow and joy, youth and age, all who love and all who hate, seem planet-struck. The Death of Wolfe, too, is natural and noble, and the Indian chief, like the Oneyda warrior of Campbell,

A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear,

was a happy thought. The Battle of La Hogue I have heard praised as the best historic picture of the British school, by one not likely to be mistaken, and who would not say what he did not

feel. Many of his single figures, also, are of a high order. There is a natural grace in the looks of some of his women, which few painters have ever excelled.

West was injured by early success-he obtained his fame too easily-it was not purchased by long study and many trials-and he rashly imagined himself capable of anything. But the coldness of his imagination nipt the blossoms of history. It is the province of art to elevate the subject in the spirit of its nature-and brooding over the whole with the feeling of a poet, awaken the scene into vivid life and heroic beauty; but such mastery rarely waited upon the ambition of this amiable and upright man.