, "The Chess
Players," fetched the enormous sum of L3,950.

The story of Mr. Gillott's introduction to the great landscape
painter, Turner, has been variously told, but the basis of all the
stories is pretty much the same. It seems that Gillott, long before
Ruskin had dubbed Turner "the modern Claude," had detected the rare
excellence of his works, and longed to possess some. He went to the
dingy house in Queen Anne Street, and Turner himself opened the door.
In reply to Gillott's questions, he said he had "nothing to sell that
_he_ could afford to buy." Gillott, by great perseverance, obtained
admission, and tried at first to bargain for a single picture. Turner
looked disdainfully at his visitor, and refused to quote a price.
Still Gillott persevered, and at length startled the artist by asking,
"What'll you take for the lot in this room?" Turner, half-jokingly,
named a very large sum--many thousands--thinking to frighten him off,
but Gillott opened his pocket book, and, to Turner's utter amazement,
paid down the money in crisp Bank of England notes. From this moment
the two men, so utterly unlike in their general character, but so
strangely kindred in their love of Art, became on intimate terms of
friendship, which lasted until Turner's death in 1851. Mr. Gillott's
collection of Turner's works was the largest and finest in private
hands in England, and, when they were sold, realised more than five
times the money he had paid for them.

Mr. Gillott was not, in any sense, a public man, and he took no active
part in politics. He had a great dislike to public companies, and I
believe never held a share in one. He had a very few old friends with
whom he loved to associate. He was very hospitable, but he had a strong
aversion to formal parties, and to every kind of ostentation. His chief
delight was to act as cicerone to an appreciative visitant to his
magnificent gallery. He was a frequent visitor to the snug smoking-room
at the "Hen and Chickens," where poor "Walter" always brought him,
without waiting for an order, what Tony Weller called the "inwariable"
and a choice cigar. He did not talk much, but, when he spoke, he had
always "something to say." He left early, and went from there, almost
nightly, to the Theatre Royal, where he occupied, invariably, a back
seat of a certain box, and here, if the performances were a little dull,
he would often enjoy a comfortable nap.

In private life he was cheerful, easily please