There is a beautiful chapel for the pensioners, in the classic style, over the altar of which hangs a picture by West.  I never could look at it long enough to make out its design; for this artist (though it pains me to say it of so respectable a countryman) had a gift of frigidity, a knack of grinding ice into his paint, a power of stupefying the spectator’s perceptions and quelling his sympathy, beyond any other limner that ever handled a brush.  In spite of many pangs of conscience, I seize this opportunity to wreak a life-long abhorrence upon the poor, blameless man, for the sake of that dreary picture of Lear, an explosion of frosty fury, that used to be a bugbear to me in the Athenaeum Exhibition.  Would fire burn it, I wonder?

The principal thing that they have to show you, at Greenwich Hospital, is the Painted Hall.  It is a splendid and spacious room, at least a hundred feet long and half as high, with a ceiling painted in fresco by Sir James Thornhill.  As a work of art, I presume, this frescoed canopy has little merit, though it produces an exceedingly rich effect by its brilliant coloring and as a specimen of magnificent upholstery.  The walls of the grand apartment are entirely covered with pictures, many of them representing battles and other naval incidents that were once fresher in the world’s memory than now, but chiefly portraits of old admirals, comprising the whole line of heroes who have trod the quarter-decks of British ships for more than two hundred years back.  Next to a tomb in Westminster Abbey, which was Nelson’s most elevated object of ambition, it would seem to be the highest meed of a naval warrior to have his portrait hung up in the Painted Hall; but, by dint of victory upon victory, these illustrious personages have grown to be a mob, and by no means a very interesting one, so far as regards the character of the faces here depicted.  They are generally commonplace, and often singularly stolid; and I have observed (both in the Painted Hall and elsewhere, and not only in portraits, but in the actual presence of such renowned people as I have caught glimpses of) that the countenances of heroes are not nearly so impressive as those of statesmen,—­except, of course, in the rare instances where warlike ability has been but the one-sided manifestation of a profound genius for managing the world’s affairs.  Nine-tenths of these distinguished admirals, for instance, if their faces tell truth, must needs have been blockheads, and might have served better, one would imagine, as wooden figureheads for their own ships than to direct any difficult and intricate scheme of action from the quarter-deck.  It is doubtful whether the same kind of men will hereafter meet with a similar degree of success; for they were victorious chiefly through the old English hardihood, exercised in a field of which modern science had not yet got possession.  Rough valor has lost something of its value, since their days, and must continue to sink lower and lower in the comparative estimate of warlike qualities.  In the next naval war, as between England and France, I would bet, methinks, upon the Frenchman’s head.