One day Lawrence took us, from the room where I generally sat to him, into a long gallery where were a number of his pictures, and, leading me by the hand, desired me not to raise my eyes till he told me.  On the word of command I looked up, and found myself standing close to and immediately underneath, as it were, a colossal figure of Satan.  The sudden shock of finding myself in such proximity to this terrible image made me burst into nervous tears.  Lawrence was greatly distressed at the result of his experiment, which had been simply to obtain a verdict from my unprepared impression of the power of his picture.  A conversation we had been having upon the subject of Milton and the character of Satan had made him think of showing this picture to me.  I was too much agitated to form any judgment of it, but I thought I perceived through its fierce and tragical expression some trace of my uncle’s face and features, a sort of “more so” of the bitter pride and scornful melancholy of the banished Roman in the Volscian Hall.  Lawrence’s imagination was so filled with the poetical and dramatic suggestions which he derived from the Kemble brother and sister, that I thought a likeness of them lurked in this portrait of the Prince of Darkness; and perhaps he could scarcely have found a better model for his archfiend than my uncle, to whom his mother occasionally addressed the characteristic reproof, “Sir, you are as proud as Lucifer!” (He and that remarkable mother of his must really have been a good deal like Coriolanus and Volumnia.) To console me for the fright he had given me, Lawrence took me into his drawing-room—­that beautiful apartment filled with beautiful things, including his magnificent collection of original drawings by the old masters, and precious gems of old and modern art—­the treasure-house of all the exquisite objects of beauty and curiosity that he had gathered together during his whole life, and that (with the exception of Raphael’s and Michael Angelo’s drawings, now in the museum at Oxford) were so soon, at his most unexpected death, to be scattered abroad and become, in separate, disjointed portions, the property of a hundred different purchasers.  Here, he said, he hoped often to persuade my father and mother and myself to pass our unengaged evenings with him; here he should like to make my brother John, of whom I had spoken enthusiastically to him, free of his art collections; and, adding that he would write to my mother to fix the day for my first sitting for Juliet, he put into my hands a copy of the first edition of Milton’s “Paradise Lost.”  I never entered that room or his house, or saw him again; he died about ten days after that.