him of "Paul and Silas," which formerly belonged to the City of Philadelphia, but is now also the property of the Academy. In one of the western rooms of the same building is the famous picture of "Christ Healing the Sick in the Temple," presented by the painter to the Pennsylvania Hospital. "Christ Rejected" has also been extensively exhibited in the United States, where it probably still remains. It is, perhaps, nearly as large as " Death on the Pale Horse," at least it so appeared as I remember it in West's Gallery, in Newman's Street, London, where these two remarkable pictures were hung opposite each other; they looked extremely well from the skilful management of the light . The light was of course admitted through the roof, and immediately beneath it was a canopy of dark-coloured material, supported on slender pillars. Thus, the effect of the pictures was much more luminous, owing to the partial obscurity in which the spectator stood. These and a number of others, the product of the last years of his life, are all of the largest dimensions.

Many of these works remained to be sold after his death, and the total product of the three days' sale appears to have been a little over twenty-five thousand pounds. He received from the King a trifle over thirty-four thousand pounds, and for other works, from different individuals, about six thousand. This forty thousand pounds obtained during his life, was by no means an adequate compensation for such skill and labour, assiduously exerted for nearly sixty years. A curious caleulation has shown, that were all his works collected together, it would require a gallery eight hundred feet long, fifty feet broad, and twenty feet high, to contain them.

The interruption and subsequent stop which the King's loss of reason occasioned to the ardent painter's great work was a misfortune, not to its author merely, but proved a real loss to art. No artist had ever attempted so vast and comprehensive a series, and it is lamentable to contemplate the disappointment he must have suffered. The immediate cause of the sovereign's illness was not generally known, but certain articles written by or at the instance of the profligate and notorious Captain Garth, appearing in the London newspapers a little over twenty years since, throw some light upon the matter; and as the event produced the great and serious trouble of West's life, a slight notice of it may not be regarded as out of place here.

This man, as it appeared, had his support from the government funds, but finding the allowance inadequate to the wants of a life such as his, he became importunate for more; this being refused, he soon found means of

bringing Sir Herbert Taylor to terms. By what means the documents whioh he commenced publishing came into his possession did not appear, but the affair was very speedily hushed up, and the further publication of the papers suppressed. They contained evidence of his own paternity, and exposed the atrocious dissoluteness of a portion of the royal family. The date of the marriage of the Princess his mother, to General Garth, leads naturally to the inference that this domestic family trouble was what overthrew the intellect of the King. The connexion of the then Duke of Cumberland (now King of Hanover) with this business would, from his known character, create no surprise whatever. That General Garth should have lent himself as convenient means of suppressing the scandal, is less remarkable than that on another occasion, the jury of twelve men should have been furnished with consciences so elastic as to acquit the Duke of the murder of his valet, in defiance of the evidence before them. The son was worthy of the sire, except in the degree of atrocity of his crimes.

As the formation of the Royal Academy of Arts in England is intimately connected with the personal history of West himself, it can hardly be considered out of place here to take a rapid glance at that celebrated institution, which is by no means deserving of the admiration bestowed upon it by superficial observers. It began in fraud and trickery, and has been, for the most part, continued with a mixture of meanness and arrogance, by no means characteristic of the individual members, apart from their corporate capacity. The idea generally received of matters of this kind is such as interested persons dress up for the press; a decorous drama is played off before the public with set speeches written and conned by heart, and with due emblazoning of royal munificence, &c.; the wholo intended to be seen but from one point of view. But only pass in behind the scenes, and look upon the wire-pullings and intrigues, and the affair assumes quite another aspect.

The custom, now universally prevalent where a sufficient number of artists reside, of holding annual exhibitions of pictures, is an admirable means of diffusing a love of art throughout the community, and in England began just ninety years ago. In 1750 the artists began seriously to agitate the project, from finding how great an attraction to the public the few pictures became, which they had presented to the Foundling Hospital in London. They had an academy of art supported by contributions amongst themselves, and the frequent discussions on the subject at these meetings finally led to successful action. Dr. Samuel Johnson wrote the introduction to the first catalogue, and in 1761 he writes thus to Baretti. "The artiste have established a yearly exhibition of piotures and statues, in imitation I am told, of foreign academies. This year is the second exhibition. They please themselves much with the multitude of spectators." "This exhibition has filled the heads of the artiste and lovers of art," &c.

The exhibitions continued to prosper, producing a clear average income of about thirtyfive hundred dollars, till the institution had accumulated about fifteen thousand dollars, when they determined on establishing a public Academy of Arte.

The treasurer of this Artist's Society it was before stated was the same Dalton, the King's librarian, who lately returned from his Italian expedition, victorious over Robert Strange. He had entered into a print speculation, had purchased some auction rooms which he altered into galleries, and over the door he inscribed the words "Print Warehouse." But the business turned out a failure, and its projector becoming involved, the King was called on for help, and his mode of affording it was to "patronise" the Society of Artists and give them a royal charter. A scheme was concocted by which Dalton's rooms were taken off his hands by the Society, and the institution was honoured with the title of "Royal Academy.'' These words were painted over the door in place of "Print Warehouse obliterated, and the rooms, when not otherwise occupied, were wholly or in part rented out for Mr. Dalton's private emolument, for the use of dancingschools, auctions, &c. But the royal institution not only charged its shilling at the door, but begged subscriptions for its support. Disgust and bad feeling arose amongst the members, and another plan was matured by West, Chambers, and two other artists under the eye of the King, (who himself wrote some of the by-laws,) which resulted in the present Royal Academy of London.

West arrived from Italy in 1763, and soon became a director, and it is the association just described that he alludes to when writing as follows to Charles Wilson Peale. "Those exhibitions became an object of attraction to men of taste in the fine arts; the young sovereign was interested in their prosperity, and the artiste were by his royal charter raised into the dignity, the independence, and, as it were, the municipal permanency of a body corporate; and in this body I found myself a member and director," &c. The charter, here referred to so reverentially, was granted the 26th of January, 1705, up to which time the Society was highly prosperous, but after the royal interference it hobbled on

a little more than two yean, when another establishment was secretly organized and the easts and other materials of art, which grew out of the collected earnings of the whole body of artists were by a majority vote removed to the New Royal Academy, thus depriving a highly respectable minority of the very materials their own money had paid for.

Joshua Reynolds kept aloof, but the King succeeded in drawing him over by conferring the title of knighthood upon him, to assist in giving consequence and dignity to the post of President of the Academy, to which the artists had elected him. But the King's favour stopped here, for he never employed him in the exercise of his profession, unrivalled as he was in the field of portraiture.

After the death of Reynolds, West was chosen to succeed him as the head of the institution, and the same title was offered to the Pennsylvania Quaker; but West declined the knighthood as an empty honour. He continued to fill this eminent station of President (with but slight interruption) till his death in 1820, at the age of 82. The position was one he was fully entitled to, and in accepting it he rather conferred than received honour.

West's style of composition was noble and dignified. Some of his works are so well-disposed in every respect, that it is difficult to imagine how they could be improved, and his facility in planning the general structure of a picture is surprising, while the drawing of the parts is equally just and true. What they want is intensity; they command admiration, but they never thrill you as Allston's or Haydon's sometimes do. They never violate the supposed proprieties of art; are full of learned lines, and graceful or happy thoughts, but mostly fail to rouse the glow of enthusiasm, or stir the passions, except in the very gentlest manner. His facility in composition was somewhat hurtful, for it helped him to pass rapidly from one great work to another before he had made all he could of the last. Hence the thin painting observable in the large pictures in the Pennsylvania Academy and elsewhere, which were executed at the later period of his life. The colour always has a tendency to sink into the ground on which it is painted, and therefore should be laid on, ill large pictures, with considerable body, especially in the lights. The want of sufficiently solid painting has caused the original ink outline, drawn on the canvass with the reed, to appear distinctly through the thin paint; in every part of the pictures we see this black boundary line obtruding on the attention, and the consequence is, the slighted look, without the energy and fiery spirit of a sketch. Those pictures that he painted at an earlier period of his life, are not equally liable to this objection. The "Paul and Silas" is for the most part firm and bold, and the "King Lear in the Tempest," which belongs to the Boston Athenaeum, is painted in a very vigorous style, loaded with colour, and in the masses of light thickly imparted. Washington Allston, who was no less compettnt to judge than he was just and impartial, said of him, that of late years he had been placed by the publio as much below his

true merit, as in the earlier part of his career he was esteemed above it.

The engraving in the last number of this Magazine of "Christ Blessing Little Children," the original picture of which is in the collection of the Foundling Hospital at London, before referred to, will, to those who are unacquainted with the character of his style in art, oonvey a tolerable idea of it. This picture may be safely pronounced the best of the subject that has been produced by any master.




Loud roars the rattling thunder through the sky,

And lurid lightning glances vivid by;

Storm-clouds arc whirling on with rapid might,

Fierce shriek the winds,—terrific is the night!

While one upon old Windsor's castle stands,

With royal brow, and sceptre-swaying hands:

About his kingly form a robe of state,

Haughty his steadfast glance—his step elate—

As though the war of Nature pleased him well,

And strengthened in his breast each purpose fell.

Behold! a figure dim, amid the gloom,

Confronts the king, and boldly spcaks bis doom;

With antlered front, and form of giant height,

The mighty hunter strode before his sight,—

Heme, leading spirit-bands,—a demon dread,

Strange link between the living and the dead.

For once a forester of fair repute,

He hunted with the king, and led his suite;

By rivals' hate and wrong 'twas his to die,

But never in the tomb could peaceful lie:

Advancing now, with dark, defying look,

And scornful gesture, loudly thus he spoke:

"Henry, foul tyrant! evil is that heart,

Which bids thy loyal spouse with shame depart,

And seeks Britannia's regal crown to place

On a fair maiden of inferior race.

Pause ere this act! for Catharine's spotless fame

Thou canst not soil, while men will curse thy name.

Ruthless the deed, false king! I dare defy

Thy deathful wrath;—men fear thee,—never I!

An airy ghost, from viewless worlds I come,

And warn thee, monarch! of an awful doom.

Drunk with the blood of victims, man of crime!

Queens will denounce thee, slaughtered in their prime:

None shall delight thee long; beheaded soon,

Thy favourite, Annie, hath the axe her boon;

Well her deep cunning wilt thou quick repay,

Another, then, thy fickle heart shall sway;

She, too, must die! Crime thickens round thy path;

Oppression stamps thy reign, relentless in thy wrath.

Ever as thou dost plan some bloody deed,

Til haste to warn: wilt thou that warning heed?

Three days before thou diest, will I appear,

To tell thee, Death—My king, 0 king! is near;

On thy sad, weary bed of lingering pain,

Thou'lt crave thy Catharine's truthful love in vain;

For she alone,—adorning now thy throno,

Loves thee, ingratc! and for thyself alone.

Base hounds shall howling lap thy purple gore,—

Fiends haunt thy tomb, accurst for ever more;

And down to latest time, thy baleful mind
Shall awe with wonder all of human kind:
Monster of sin! detested, murderous, proud,
Disgrace attends thee, mouldering in thy shroud!

They bind thy form
In robe of state,
As though the worm
Would fear the great.

Where is the frown
Men quailed to see?
Down, tyrant! down;
The grave for thee!

Ha! silent grown
That boding cry:
Hard heart of stone,
Thou, too, canst die!

The purple pall
Is o'er thee cast;
Quiet and small
Thy home at last.

0, pomp of power!
Vain art thou here;
In dying hour,
None heed thy snare.

Bloodstained and grim,
Lay him away,—
None weep for him;
Joy crowns the day!"

The iron-hearted monarch, moveless still,
Defying, undismayed, resolved in will;
With proud defiance braves the spirit-chief,
And answers thus, with words severe and brief:
"I'll scour these ancient woods, thou demon dire,
And hunt thee down with dogs and steel and fire:
Henry, of England, dares each mortal wight,
And dismal fiend from spirit-realms of night!"
Wild laughed the hunter, on his coal-black steed:
"Ho! ho!" he cried, and to the wild did speed;
His neighing courser pawed the yielding ground,
And sought old Windsor s groves with rapid bound;
While, ever as he tied, Heme backward threw
A glance like lightning, blinding to the view,
And still he shouted, "Tyrant! thou shalt die—
Thy name provoke a nations obloquy!"




All hall, again, great Anglo-Norman tongue!

Thou comest on my ear Ho richly fraught
With melodies from life's deep fountains sprung,

And harmonies of feeling and of thought,

I seem to hear the voice of her, who taught My infant mind to shape itself to thee,

Of those, who in youth's dreamy passions wrought The work of love, of hate, of grief, of glee, Of Beauty's holy rest or rapt solemnity.


Bach word and accent has a tale to tell,

Like early friends met beneath foreign skies. And, as I yield mo passive to thy spell,

Upon Imagination's canvass rise

Their forms—the good, the beautiful, the wise,— Who taught the aspiring soul its noblest aim:

Nor absent his, who laboured to devise
Temptation to its ruin, and whose name
Still kindles up disgust, or anger's keener flame.

Sor docs the spirit its own past career

Alone from thy resources thus repair:
The thoughts of millions fill thy atmosphere,

As warm and genial sunlight fills the air—
Thy atmosphere, in which the odours are

Sweet poesy, and science is the gale;

And he, who therein lives, though it may bear,
At times, miasma's transitory bale,
Knowledge and beauty must, as daily breath, inhale.


Defender of the truth and steadfast foe

Of error and deceit, even from the dawn
Of thy renown, when WyokJtflVs sturdy blow

Was levelled at imposture, nor withdrawn

From sanctity of mitro or of lawn,
Through Tyndal, Ridley, Latimer, aud him

Who bent not though a monarch stooped to fawn,
Reckless of force, of fraud, and Beauty's whim,
To names of recent days whom time can never dim,


Hast thou appeared, the advocate of pure

Unshrinking liberty of life and faith. And yet, thy virtues puritan secure

No stern monopoly. No cant bewrayeth

In merriment the preacher, nor gainsalth That hearty humour, which, as all thine own,

Through Addison, Swift, Sterne, and Goldsmith playetl Nor is thy playfulness for such alone; But every merry thought can find in theo a tone.


And for the gentle heart, that would express
The suffering, by which 'tis called to grieve,

Thou hast a key of tender plaintiveness
Soft as the sephyr of a summer eve,
Which even the heaven-ascending sigh to leave.

Such swan-like melodies, young Bruce, were thine;
Such, pensive White, the fabric thou didst weave

Of kind-affeetioned words; such the divine

Fragments of dying Keats, and Tigho's enchanting line.


Thou humblest thyself to every care—
The lowliest task to human labour known;

And, in assuaging revelation, where
Languish the poor, disease's victims groan.
Or conscience-stricken wretches would atone

For bitter guilt by self-condemning tale.

Hast thou the gates of utterance open thrown;

And where thy deep heart-searching meanings fail,

Where fail they ever must, what other can avail?


But when a Hamlet's or Othello's wo,
The pangs sublime of pandemonian king,

Immortal triumph o'er immortal foe,
Or the glad theme which ransomed spirits sing,
Demands the service of a bolder string,

As little do thy energies refuse,—
Nay rising, buoyant as an angel's wing,

Where thy high argument its path pursues,

Thou soarest beyond the flight of Greek or Roman mi


What words like thine supply the fluent tongue
With instruments of winning eloquence,

Which, scattering to the wind the arts of wrong,
And sifting, equally from the pretence
Of anarch and of despot, honest sense,

Can charm into conviction, and inspire
That pure delight words can alone dispense,

When to high meaning chimes their lofty choir,

And Truth from Beauty draws new cogency and fire.

Such was the sceptre by thy Wilberforce,
Thy Burke, thy Murray, and thy Canning swayed,

Till tyrants yielding smiled on Freedom's course,
And lawless rapine in his rage was stayed—
Whilo yet more glorious thy achievements made

In nations kindled to the heavenly call
By Whitfield's seraph tongue, and Faith arrayed

In science and in poesy from all

The intellectual wealth of Chalmers and of Hall.


And yet, they say there's harshness in thy tone!—
It may become the vain, who boast their lore

In other tongues, though smatterers in their own,
To vaunt the value of their foreign store,
And sneer at the harmonious chords which pour

Alike the solemn organ-notes that swell
The song of Paradise, while saints adore,

The Doric strains of Burns, and those that dwell

With Cowper, Coleridge, Gray, and Wordsworth's heavenly shell;


Which, from the warblings of unhappy Clare,

And the sweet minor of a Tannahill, To fiercest wailings of sublime despair,

Which to the sweeping touch of Byron thrill

The bosoms, which they horrify and fill
With alt a Titan's suffering, command

The diapason of the heart and will;
But elsewhere seekcth not the master's hand
For keys to speak the true, the lovely, or the grand.


Interpreter of free and ardent souls,

Bold in thy strength, unshackled by the fear Of censorship, whose living thunder rolls

Indignantly majestic and severe,

The foes of Liberty to blast and soar— The flaming sword of Chatham, Fox, and Brougham,

And him, whose kindling words alone could rear The standard of the free, dispel their gloom, Make nations be, and men their native rights resume,


lis true that thou hast discords sharp and loud—
And so hath Heaven—against the hour of need:

On whomsoever bursts thy thundercloud
Has found thy wrath no opera chant indeed,

Nor set to measures of the melting reed— For every passion of the human breast,

All trains of thought, however they proceed, And every common topic of inquest, Thou hast a fitting garb, an armour of the best.


Grant me to know the treasures of thy reign,

To wield at will the wealth which thoy afford; For overy dream, conviction, joy, and pain,

Promptly to grasp thy well-befitting word;

With thee to launch Into the far explored, Yet boundless regions of the human soul;

I shall not envy polyglots their hoard, Though fair the dormant pile;—the free control Of current life, like thine, transcends the boasted whole.

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The 'Wizard sat in his cave of night,

That shone like day. with a magic light,—

A flame as still as the witches' fire,

And lit at the top of a spiral wire! Beside his foot was a torturer's rack

That with never a motion would wrench the bones, And spurn the touch of the victim back.

While the Wizard laughed to hear his groans I Anon the wretch's startled hair

Would stand, with horror, on its ends; While sparkles hissed from his clenching flst

As from an angry fiend's.

The Wizard's cave was stored with things,

Which only the Wizard knew;
Shapeless things with legs nor wings,

And yet that ran and flew;
Without or tongues, or throated lungs,

And yet that spoke and blew!
Was many a bone around him thrown,

And skulls that grinned for lack of lips,
And many a stone that had been thrown

From the dark moon in eclipse I

He held in a flagon a strange fire-dragon,

That ate up steel like straw;
And the prisoned wind, like a bottled fiend,

Obeyed his mighty law.
One Imp, who was hid in a dull brown stone,

Would make a hob-nail dance and skip;
To the wanderer of the farthest zone
He must point the path, to man unknown,

And guide the starless ship.

Another was sealed, for penance-shame,
In an iron cross on a gallows-frame,
And standing alone, as by will of his own,
He whirled and whirled, and spun and spun,
Till it seemed the fiend would never be done;
But the touch of the Wizard made him tame.

O! the Wizard was a mighty man;

The mountains bowed, and lightnings ran,

Obedient to his word:
He forged a tireless " Iron Horse,"

Wild racer of an iron course,

As fleet as fairest bird;
His mighty bulk, with all their force,

Ten men could never have stirr'd;
But ho gave him resinous wood to gnaw,
And stuffed with fire his iron maw,
And poured a river down his throat;
And miles away, the people say.

They heard, with noise like a drum-beat's roll,

The systole and the diastole,*
When his giant pulses smote,
While he ran till the gales pursued in vain,
To lift his backward-streaming mane.

The Wizard weighed, in his either scale,

The planets, every one;
Through the meshes of its burning veil

He looked into the sun;
He drew the moon with his magic eye,

As a snake would draw a bird;
And down the depths of the utmost sky,

His whispered voice was beard.

The faithful image, that comes and goes

On the mirror's placid face,
The power of his necromancy froze,
In a vivid shape of fixed repose,—

Unmoving life and grace;
And under his eye a demon lay,

Ubiquitous, strong, and tame,
Who knew the thoughts of the far away,
And spread them, as far Judgment Day,
Graved with the point of an iron pen,
Fast as they fell from the brains of men,

Though many a thousand miles they came.
0, the Wizard was a mighty man I
Mightier none since earth began.
Tongue would weary and pen would fail

To tell the marvels of his power,
And men would count the startling tale

The dream of a frenzied hour.

* We mean no offence to Greek, in breaking the neck of its accents, and curtailing its quantities;—the verse would have them as they are.—Author.

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