A Rogue's Life

man, and settled matters with

. The answer was most reassuring. Lady Malkinshaw had no present intention of permitting me to survive her. She was, at that very moment, meritoriously and heartily engaged in eating her breakfast. My prospects being now o

gasp of relief when he beheld me, full of life, with

mposed. Annabella would have come with me; but she has a litt

cy. Being perfectly well aware of the absolute dependence of the art of portrait-painting on the art o

change it into a fancy nose, or resignedly acquiesce in it. When a man has no perceptible eyelids, and when his eyes globularly project so far out of his head, that you expect to have to pick them up for him whenever you see him lean forward, how are mortal fingers and bushes to diffuse the right complimentary expression over them? You must either do them the most hideous and complete justice, or give them up altogether.

. Each one of them began with a message from Mr. Batterbury, giving me Annabella's love and apologies for not being able to come and see me. Each one of them ended with an argument between Mr. Batterbury and me relative to the transfer of five pounds from his pocket to mine. I came off victorious on

was wafted into the studio; it was followed by a sound of rustling garments; and that again was succeeded by the personal appearance o

f to her nose the momen

't kiss me: you smell of p

test intention of kissing her; but I was too gallant a man to say so;

f still at her nose, and gathered her magnificent silk dre

f the paint away? I'm sure there's oil on the floor. How am I to get past that nasty ta

spoke, her eyes fell on the chimney-piece. An eau-de-Cologne bottle

In spite of all the musk that now filled the room, the turpentine betrayed itself almost as soon as I cried "Stop!" Annabella, with a shriek of di

to see how you have been swindled? Yes, sir, swindled! He has no more idea of painting than you have. He has cheated you out of your money. If he was starving tomorrow he would be the last man in England to make away with himself-he is too great a wretch-he is too vicious-he is too lost to all sense of respectability-he is too much of a discredit to his family. Take me away! Give me your arm directly! I told you not to go near

ed odor of musk and turpentine behind her, which preser

le sister to patronize struggling genius. Do I know of anybody else who will sit to me? No, not a soul. Having thus no port

ntion to send both portraits to the Royal Academy Exhibition, to get custom, and show the public generally what

ns could possibly find room for it. They could not. So that picture also vanished back into the obscurity of the artist's easel. Weak and well-meaning people would have desponded under these circumstances; but your genuine Rogue is a man of elastic temperament, not easily compressible under any pre

his pictures. There hung all his great works, rejected by the Royal Academy, and neglected by the patrons of Art; and there, nevertheless, was he, blithely plying the brush; not rich, it is true, but

other by our Christian names)

d, "what makes you

exhibition-rooms; nobody comes to sit to me; I can't make a farthing; and I must try another line in the Arts, or leave your studio. We ar

ll particular

e least,"

pleased; handed me my

You ask how I contrive to earn money, seeing that all my pictures are still in my own possession. My dear

ot at first quite under

umstances, what is to be done? Are unoffending owners of galleries to be subjected to disappointment? Or are the works of Claude, and the other fellows, to be benevolently increased in number, to supply the wants of persons of taste and quality? No man of humanity but must lean to the latter alternative. The collectors, observe, don't know anything about it-they buy Claude (to take an instance from my own practice) as they buy all the other Old Masters, because of his reputation, not because of the pleasure they get from his works. Give them a picture with a good large ruin, fancy trees, pr