we hope to find
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life'"

Having not quite finished his 27th year, he died calmly on the 23rd of
September, 1828, and was interred in the vault of St. James's Church,
Pentonville, in the presence of Lawrence, and Howard, and Robson, and the
Rev. J.T. Judkin,--himself a skilful painter--an ardent admirer and
steadfast friend.

"Bonington was tall, well, and even to appearance, strongly formed. 'His
countenance,' says the French biographer, 'was truly English; and we loved
him for his melancholy air, which became him more than smiles.' The memory
of his person will soon wear away; but it will fare otherwise with his
fame. He lived long enough to assert his title to a high place amongst
English landscape-painters, and had produced works which bid fair to be
ranked permanently with the foremost. They are not numerous, but for that
very reason they will, perhaps, be the more prized. A series of engravings
amounting to some four and twenty, has been published by Carpenter, from
pictures of this artist, some in his own possession, some in the galleries
of the Marquess of Lansdown, the Duke of Bedford, and other patrons of art.
The best of these are the landscapes; and of the landscapes, the worthiest
are of mingled sea and land--pieces distinguished by great picturesque
beauty, and singular grace of execution. His practice was to sketch in the
outline and general character, and then make accurate studies of the local
light-and-shade, and colour. His handling was delicate and true, and his
colouring clear and harmonious. It cannot, however, be denied, that he
wants vigour and breadth; that his more poetic scenes are too light and
slim; and his express copies from nature too literal and real. He was a
softer sort of Gainsborough, with more than his grace, and with not a
little of his taste for scattering happy and characteristic groups among
landscape scenes--but, it must be added, with only a far-off approach, to
the strength of that great master. That, had his life been prolonged, he
would have risen to very high distinction, cannot be doubted. It was his
generous dream, we are told, to acquire a competency by painting
commissions, and then dedicate his time and pencil to historical
compositions,--a dream which many artists have dreamed; but his works have
little of the epic in them. Nature gave him good advice, when she directed
his steps to the surf-be