An earlier entry in the same pocket-book is the record of a commission for a small oil picture of _The Bowland, Lancashire_, to be painted for Mr. Lister Parker. Mr. Parker was a neighbour of Mr. Fawkes, and that he was also an intimate friend is proved by the inscription on the back of a fine miniature of Napoleon Bonaparte, which is still preserved at Farnley Hall. This inscription states that the miniature was bought in Paris in 1802, and presented to Mr. Fawkes in the same year by his sincere friend Mr. Lister Parker. So it is probable that Mr. Fawkes may have heard Turner’s work talked about by his Yorkshire friends some time before he bought any of the artist’s drawings, and it is quite possible that he may have made Turner’s personal acquaintance through the intermediacy of those friends. The next mention of Mr. Fawkes’s name in the Turner sketch-books occurs in connection with the large mezzotint of Turner’s oil painting of _The Shipwreck_ (now in the National Gallery), which the engraver, Charles Turner, executed and published in 1806-1807. The name of “Fawkes” appears fifth in the list of subscribers to this plate, the first four names being the “Wells Family,” Sir William Beechey, Mr. Swinburne, and Mr. Henderson. Mr. Lister Parker’s name appears lower down in the list. It was probably in London that Mr. Fawkes first met Turner, and the two men had very likely known each other for some time before Turner was induced to pay a visit to his friend’s home in Yorkshire. The first clear piece of evidence of Turner being at Farnley is in connection with Mr. Hawksworth Fawkes’s story of the origin of Turner’s large oil painting (now in the National Gallery) of _Hannibal crossing the Alps_. This picture was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1812, so the incident described in the following words by Mr. Hawksworth Fawkes--he was a boy at the time--must have taken place in 1810 or 1811: “One stormy day at Farnley Turner called to me loudly from the doorway, ‘Hawkey! Hawkey! come here! come here! look at this thunderstorm. Isn’t it grand?--isn’t it wonderful?--isn’t it sublime?’ All this time he was making notes of its form and colour on the back of a letter. I proposed some better drawing-block, but he said it did very well. He was absorbed; he was entranced. There was the storm rolling and sweeping and shafting out its lightning over the Yorkshire hills. Presently the storm passed, and he finished. ‘There! Hawkey,’ said he, ‘in two years you will see this again, and call it _Hannibal crossing the Alps_.’”