most picturesque kind.  Besides the great picture itself, for which there seemed hardly space between the walls, it was crowded with casts, lay figures, arms, tripods, vases, draperies, and costumes of all ages, weapons of all nations, books in all tongues.  These cumbered the floor; whilst around hung smaller pictures, sketches, and drawings, replete with originality and force.  With chalk he could do what he chose.  I remember he once drew for me a head of hair with nine of his sweeping, vigorous strokes!  Among the studies I remarked that day in his apartment was one of a mother who had just lost her only child,—­a most masterly rendering of an unspeakable grief.  A sonnet, which I could not help writing on this sketch, gave rise to our long correspondence, and to a friendship which never flagged.  Everybody feels that his life, as told by Mr. Taylor, with its terrible catastrophe, is a stern lesson to young artists, an awful warning that cannot be set aside.  Let us not forget that amongst his many faults are qualities which hold out a bright example.  His devotion to his noble art, his conscientious pursuit of every study connected with it, his unwearied industry, his love of beauty and of excellence, his warm family affection, his patriotism, his courage, and his piety, will not easily be surpassed.  Thinking of them, let us speak tenderly of the ardent spirit whose violence would have been softened by better fortune, and who, if more successful, would have been more gentle and more humble.”

And so with her vigilant and appreciative eye she saw, and thus in her own charming way she talked of the man, whose name, says Taylor, as a popularizer of art, stands without a rival among his brethren.

* * * * *

Her passion for the Drama continued through life, and to see a friend’s play would take her up to London when nothing else would tempt her to leave her cottage.  It was delightful to hear her talk of the old actors, many of whom she had known.  She loved to describe John Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O’Neill, and Edmund Kean, as they were wont to electrify the town.  Elliston was a great favorite, and she had as many good things to tell of him as Elia ever had.  One autumn afternoon she related all the circumstances attending the “first play” she ever saw,—­which, by the way, was a tragedy enacted in a barn somewhere in the little town of Alresford, where she was born.  The winking candles dividing the stage from the audience, she used to say, were winking now in her memory, although fifty years had elapsed since her father took her, a child of four years, to see “Othello.”  Her talent at mimicry made her always most interesting, when she spoke of Munden and his pleasant absurdities on the stage.  For Bannister, Johnstone, Fawcett, and Emery she had a most exquisite relish, and she said they had made comedy to her a living art full of laughter and tears.  Her passion for the stage, and overclouded prospects for the future, led her in early youth to write a play.  She had already written a considerable number of verses which had been printed, and were honored by being severely castigated by Gifford in the “Quarterly.”