I remember his indignation at the death of Mrs.Wells, the wife of the Royal Academician, herself a talented painter, who died in childbed, "a great artist sacrificed to bringing more kids into the world, as if there were not other women just fit for that!" he exclaimed; and when Regnault was killed in the sortie from Paris, he burst out in an angry protest at this throwing away valuable lives like Regnault's in a stupid war.

The artist was to him the _ultima ratio_ of humanity, and he used to say frankly that artists had nothing to do with morality, and practically, but in a gentle and benevolent way, he made that the guiding principle of his conduct.

Whatever was to his hand was made for his use, and when we went into the house at Robertsbridge he at once took the place of master of the house, as if he had invited me, rather than the converse, going through the rooms to select, and saying, "I will take this," of those which suited him best, and "You may have that" of those he had no fancy for.
He was the spoiled child of his genius and of the large world of his admirers; there was no vanity about him, and no exaggeration of his own abilities, but other people, even artists whom he appreciated, were of merely relative importance to him.

He declined to put himself in comparison with any of his contemporaries, though he admitted his deficiencies as compared to the great Venetians, and repeatedly said that if he had been taught to paint in a great school he would have been a better painter, which was, no doubt, the truth; for, as he admitted, he had not yet learned the true method of painting.

He refused to exhibit in the annual exhibitions, whether of the Academy or other, not because he feared the comparison with other modern painters, but because he was indifferent to it, though I have heard him say that he would be glad to exhibit his pictures with those of the old masters, as they would teach him something about his own.