ABSTRACT
183Joseph Mallord William Turner, the great landscape painter of his age and country, died, on the 19th instant, in his seventy-sixth year, at Chelsea,—in a small lodging in which he had lived for some years?, though his own house was in Queen Anne Street, Cavendish Square. He was the father, or senior member, of the Royal Academy,—and had he lived but three months would have worn his honour of an !R.A. exactly half a century. At the death of so eminent an artist we may be excused for recalling Cowley’s exclamation on the death of Yandyck :—
Vandyck in dead ; but wliat bold Muae slmll dare
(Though poets in that word with painter’s share)
T’ express her sadness? Poosie must become
Au Art like Painting here, an Art that’s dumb.
