ave kept me amused till morning; but midnight is the hour for separating, and the party broke up at once.
June 23.—We spent half the forenoon in Mr. West's gallery, where he has arranged all the pictures that he still owns. . . . He told us a singular anecdote of Nelson, while we were looking at the picture of his death.
Just before he went to sea for the last time, West sat next to him at a large entertainment given to him here, and in the course of the dinner Nelson expressed to Sir William Hamilton his regret, that in his youth he had not acquired some taste for art and some power of discrimination.
But, said he, turning to West, there is one picture whose power I do feel.
I never pass a paint-shop where your Death of Wolfe is in the window, without being stopped by it.
West, of course, made his acknowledgments, and Nelson went on to ask why he had painted no more like it. Because, my lord, there are no more subjects.
D—n it, said the sailor, I did n't think of that, and ask