put out his hand to the box, which he had placed by his bedside, half afraid that he might find his riches only a dream.  Next morning he rose at break of day, and, carrying his colors and canvas to the garret, proceeded to work.  Every thing else was now unheeded; even his attendance at school was given up.  As soon as he got out of the sight of his father and mother, he stole to his garret, and there passed the hours in a world of his own.  At last, after he had been absent from school some days, the master called at his father’s house to inquire what had become of him.  This led to the discovery of his secret occupation.  His mother, proceeding to the garret, found the truant; but so much was she astonished and delighted by the creation of his pencil, which also met her view when she entered the apartment, that, instead of rebuking him, she could only take him in her arms and kiss him with transports of affection.  He made a new composition of his own out of two of the engravings, which he had colored from his own feeling of the proper tints; and so perfect did the appearance already appear to his mother, that, although half the canvas yet remained uncovered, she would not suffer him to add another touch to what he had done.  Mr. Gait, West’s biographer, saw the picture in the state in which it had thus been left sixty-seven years afterward; and the artist himself used to acknowledge that in none of his subsequent efforts had he been able to excel some of the touches of invention in this his first essay.”

His next effort was a landscape, which comprehended a view of a river, with vessels in the stream and cattle browsing on the banks.  He could not have been much over ten years of age at this time, and the picture, though insignificant in itself, is remarkable as the work of a child.  He subsequently presented it to his friend, Mr. William Henry, of Lancaster, whose family still retain possession of it.  He visited Philadelphia soon after, and received a few simple instructions in the practical portion of his art, after which he went about through the towns of the vicinity of his home, painting portraits of his friends.  At length he was sent for by Mrs. Ross, of Lancaster, a lady famed for her great beauty, to paint the portraits of herself and her family—­a great honor for a lad of twelve.

It was in Lancaster, in the year 1750, that he made the acquaintance of Mr. William Henry.  That gentleman became deeply interested in the precocious boy, and frequently came to watch him at his portrait-painting.  One day he said to Benjamin, that if he (Henry) could paint equally well he would not waste his time upon portraits, but would devote himself to historical subjects.  In the course of the conversation to which this remark gave rise, Mr. Henry proposed to him to make an attempt in this direction, and suggested to him “The Death of Socrates” as his first subject.  The little artist frankly avowed that he had never heard of the great philosopher,