This Mr. Tompkisson was an amateur in paintings, and had some fine landscapes by Wilson, on which he set a great value. Of him, and his pictures, and taste, dear comic Mathews told me the following anecdote one day, on the drive from Mr. Frederick Hodgson’s, at Barnes, to the Derby at Epsom; and I mention the place for the sake of adding that an assemblage in this most hospitable mansion during the Derby week for some years, including Hook, Mathews, Yates, Abbott, Sola, and other beaux esprits, well deserved to be marked with the white stone which commemorates very delightful human enjoyments. Alas! how the grizzly spectre intervenes between me and the retrospect! But to the story. A dealer came to Mr. Tompkisson with a superb picture, being assured how acceptable it would be to him to place so exquisite a specimen of the master among his favourite Wilsons. Mr. T. examined it closely, and expressed his opinion that it was not genuine. The owner pointed out the touches and features which established its origin; but still Mr. T. doubted, and at last, as a clencher, the dealer assured him that he had seen the artist paint upon it! “Well, then,” retorted the unconvinced connoisseur, “as you assert that upon your word of honour, I must believe you that it is a Wilson; but by G—, I would not believe it if I had seen him paint it myself!”
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