I GAVE my orders to the colorman, and settled matters with myfriend the artist that day.

The next morning, before the hour at which I expected my sitter,having just now as much interest in the life of Lady Malkinshawas Mr. Batterbury had in her death, I went to make kind inquiriesafter her ladyship's health. The answer was most reassuring. LadyMalkinshaw had no present intention of permitting me to surviveher. She was, at that very moment, meritoriously and heartilyengaged in eating her breakfast. My prospects being now of thebest possible kind, l felt encouraged to write once more to myfather, telling him of my fresh start in life, and proposing arenewal of our acquaintance. I regret to say that he was so rudeas not to answer my letter.

Mr. Batterbury was punctual to the moment. He gave a gasp ofrelief when he beheld me, full of life, with my palette on mythumb, gazing fondly on my new canvas.

"That's right!" he said. "I like to see you with your mindcomposed. Annabella would have come with me; but she has a littleheadache this morning. She sends her love and best wishes."

I seized my chalks and began with that confidence in myself whichhas never forsaken me in any emergency. Being perfectly wellaware of the absolute dependence of the art of portrait-paintingon the art of flattery, I determined to start with making themere outline of my likeness a compliment to my sitter.

It was much easier to resolve on doing this than really to do it.In the first place, my hand would relapse into its wicked oldcaricaturing habits. In the second place, my brother-in-law'sface was so inveterately and completely ugly as to set everyartifice of pictorial improvement at flat defiance. When a manhas a nose an inch long, with the nostrils set perpendicularly,it is impossible to flatter it--you must either change it into afancy nose, or resignedly acquiesce in it. When a man has noperceptible eyelids, and when his eyes globularly project so farout of his head, that you expect to have to pick them up for himwhenever you see him lean forward, how are mortal fingers andbushes to diffuse the right complimentary expression over them?You must either do them the most hideous and complete justice, orgive them up altogether. The late Sir Thomas Lawrence, P.R.A.,was undoubtedly the most artful and uncompromising flatterer thatever smoothed out all the natural characteristic blemishes from asitter's face; but even that accomplished parasite would havefound Mr. Batterbury too much for him, and would have beendriven, for the first time in his practice of art, to theuncustomary and uncourtly resource of absolutely painting agenuine likeness.

As for me, I put my trust in Lady Malkinshaw's power of living,and portrayed the face of Mr. Batterbury in all its nativehorror. At the same time, I sensibly guarded against even themost improbable accidents, by making him pay me the fifty poundsas we went on, by installments. We had ten sittings. Each one ofthem began with a message from Mr. Batterbury, giving meAnnabella's love and apologies for not being able to come and seeme. Each one of them ended with an argument between Mr.Batterbury and me relative to the transfer of five pounds fromhis pocket to mine. I came off victorious on everyoccasion--being backed by the noble behavior of Lady Malkinshaw,who abstained from tumb ling down, and who ate and drank, andslept and grew lusty, for three weeks together. Venerable woman!She put fifty pounds into my pocket. I shall think of her withgratitude and respect to the end of my days.

One morning, while I was sitting before my completed portrait,inwardly shuddering over the ugliness of it, a suffocating smellof musk was wafted into the studio; it was followed by a sound ofrustling garments; and that again was succeeded by the personalappearance of my affectionate sister, with her husband at herheels. Annabella had got to the end of her stock of apologies,and had come to see me.

She put her handkerchief to her nose the moment she entered theroom.

"How do you do, Frank? Don't kiss me: you smell of paint, and Ican't bear it."

I felt a similar antipathy to the smell of musk, and had not theslightest intention of kissing her; but I was too gallant a manto say so; and I only begged her to favor me by looking at herhusband's portrait.

Annabella glanced all round the room, with her handkerchief stillat her nose, and gathered her magnificent silk dress close abouther superb figure with her disengaged hand.

"What a horrid place!" she said faintly behind her handkerchief."Can't you take some of the paint away? I'm sure there's oil onthe floor. How am I to get past that nasty table with the paletteon it? Why can't you bring the picture down to the carriage,Frank?"

Advancing a few steps, and looking suspiciously about her whileshe spoke, her eyes fell on the chimney-piece. An eau-de-Colognebottle stood upon it, which she took up immediately with alanguishing sigh.

It contained turpentine for washing brushes in. Before I couldwarn her, she had sprinkled herself absently with half thecontents of the bottle. In spite of all the musk that now filledthe room, the turpentine betrayed itself almost as soon as Icried "Stop!" Annabella, with a shriek of disgust, flung thebottle furiously into the fireplace. Fortunately it wassummer-time, or I might have had to echo the shriek with a cry of"Fire!"

"You wretch! you brute! you low, mischievous, swindlingblackguard!" cried my amiable sister, shaking her skirts with allher might, "you have done this on purpose! Don't tell me! I knowyou have. What do you mean by pestering me to come to thisdog-kennel of a place?" she continued, turning fiercely upon thepartner of her existence and legitimate receptacle of all hersuperfluous wrath. "What do you mean by bringing me here, to seehow you have been swindled? Yes, sir, swindled! He has no moreidea of painting than you have. He has cheated you out of yourmoney. If he was starving tomorrow he would be the last man inEngland to make away with himself--he is too great a wretch--heis too vicious--he is too lost to all sense of respectability--heis too much of a discredit to his family. Take me away! Give meyour arm directly! I told you not to go near him from the first.This is what comes of your horrid fondness for money. SupposeLady Malkinshaw does outlive him; suppose I do lose my legacy.What is three thousand pounds to you? My dress is ruined. Myshawl's spoiled.

Here she became hysterical, and vanished, leaving a mixed odor ofmusk and turpentine behind her, which preserved the memory of hervisit for nearly a week afterward.

"Another scene in the drama of my life seems likely to close inbefore long," thought I. "No chance now of getting my amiablesister to patronize struggling genius. Do I know of anybody elsewho will sit to me? No, not a soul. Having thus no portraits ofother people to paint, what is it my duty, as a neglected artist,to do next? Clearly to take a portrait of myself."

I did so, making my own likeness quite a pleasant relief to theugliness of my brother-in-law's. It was my intention to send bothportraits to the Royal Academy Exhibition, to get custom, andshow the public generally what I could do. I knew the institutionwith which I had to deal, and called my own likeness, Portrait ofa Nobleman.

That dexterous appeal to the tenderest feelings of mydistinguished countrymen very nearly succeeded. The portrait ofMr. Batterbury (much the more carefully-painted picture of thetwo) was summarily turned out. The Portrait of a Nobleman waspolitely reserved to be hung up, if the Royal Academicians couldpossibly find room for it. They could not. So that picture alsovanished back into the obscurity of the artist's easel. Weak andwell-meaning people would have desponded under thesecircumstances; but your genuine Rogue is a man of elastictemperament, not easily compressible under any pressure ofdisaster. I sent the portrait of Mr. Batterbury to the house ofthat distinguished patron, and the Portrait of a Nobleman to thePawnbroker's. After this I had plenty of elbow-room in thestudio, and could walk up and down briskly, smoking my pipe, andthinking about what I should do next.

I had observed that the generous friend and vagabond brotherartist, whose lodger I now was, never seemed to be in absolutewant of money; and yet the walls of his studio informed me thatnobody bought his pictures. There hung all his great works,rejected by the Royal Academy, and neglected by the patrons ofArt; and there, nevertheless, was he, blithely plying the brush;not rich, it is true, but certainly never without money enough inhis pocket for the supply of all his modest wants. Where did hefind his resources? I determined to ask him the question the verynext time he came to the studio.

"Dick," I said (we called each other by our Christian names),"where do you get your money?"

"Frank," he answered, "what makes you ask that question?"

"Necessity," I proceeded. "My stock of money is decreasing, and Idon't know how to replenish it. My pictures have been turned outof the exhibition-rooms; nobody comes to sit to me; I can't makea farthing; and I must try another line in the Arts, or leaveyour studio. We are old friends now. I've paid you honestly weekby week; and if you can oblige me, I think you ought. You earnmoney somehow. Why can't I?"

"Are you at all particular?" asked Dick.

"Not in the least," I answered.

Dick nodded, and looked pleased; handed me my hat, and put on hisown.

"You are just the sort of man I like," he remarked, "and I wouldsooner trust you than any one else I know. You ask how I contriveto earn money, seeing that all my pictures are still in my ownpossession. My dear fellow, whenever my pockets are empty, and Iwant a ten-pound note to put into them, I make an Old Master."

I stared hard at him, not at first quite understanding what hemeant.

"The Old Master I can make best," continued Dick, "is ClaudeLorraine, whom you may have heard of occasionally as a famouspainter of classical landscapes. I don't exactly know (he hasbeen dead so long) how many pictures he turned out, from first tolast; but we will say, for the sake of argument, five hundred.Not five of these are offered for sale, perhaps, in the course offive years. Enlightened collectors of old pictures pour into themarket by fifties, while genuine specimens of Claude, or of anyother Old Master you like to mention, only dribble in by ones andtwos. Under these circumstances, what is to be done? Areunoffending owners of galleries to be subjected todisappointment? Or are the works of Claude, and the otherfellows, to be benevolently increased in number, to supply thewants of persons of taste and quality? No man of humanity butmust lean to the latter alternative. The collectors, observe,don't know anything about it--they buy Claude (to take aninstance from my own practice) as they buy all the other OldMasters, because of his reputation, not because of the pleasurethey get from his works. Give them a picture with a good largeruin, fancy trees, prancing nymphs, and a watery sky; dirty itdown dexterously to the right pitch; put it in an old frame; callit a Claude; and the sphere of the Old Master is enlarged, thecollector is delighted, the picture-dealer is enriched, and theneglected modern artist claps a joyful hand on a well-filledpocket. Some men have a knack at making Rembrandts, others have aturn for Raphaels, Titians, Cuyps, Watteaus, and the rest ofthem. Anyhow, we are all made happy--all pleased with eachother--all benefited alike. Kindness is propagated and money isdispersed. Come along, my boy, and make an Old Master!"