AT the commencement of the last chapter, Charles Gatty, artist, was going to usher in a new state of things, true art, etc. Wales was to be painted in Wales, not Poland Street.
He and five or six more youngsters were to be in the foremost files of truth, and take the world by storm.
This was at two o'clock; it is now five; whereupon the posture of affairs, the prospects of art, the face of the world, the nature of things, are quite the reverse.
In the artist's room, on the floor, was a small child, whose movements, and they were many, were viewed with huge dissatisfaction by Charles Gatty, Esq. This personage, pencil in hand, sat slouching and morose, looking gloomily at his intractable model.
Things were going on very badly; he had been waiting two hours for an infantine pose as common as dirt, and the little viper would die first.
Out of doors everything was nothing, for the sun was obscured, and to all appearance extinguished forever.
"Ah! Mr. Groove," cried he, to that worthy, who peeped in at that moment; you are right, it is better to plow away upon canvas blindfold, as our grandfathers--no, grandmothers--used, than to kill ourselves toiling after such coy ladies as Nature and Truth."
"Aweel, I dinna ken, sirr," replied Groove, in smooth tones. "I didna like to express my warm approbation of you before the lads, for fear of making them jealous."
"They be-- No!"
"I ken what ye wad say, sirr, an it wad hae been a vara just an' sprightly observation. Aweel, between oursels, I look upon ye as a young gentleman of amazing talent and moedesty. Man, ye dinna do yoursel justice; ye should be in th' Academy, at the hede o' 't."
"Mr. Groove, I am a poor fainting pilgrim on the road, where stronger spirits have marched erect before me."
"A faintin' pelgrim! Deil a frights o' ye, ye're a brisk and bonny lad.
Ah, sirr, in my juvenile days, we didna fash wi nature, and truth, an the like."
"The like! What is like nature and truth, except themselves?"
"Vara true, sirr; vara true, and sae I doot I will never attain the height o' profeeciency ye hae reached. An' at this vara moment, sir," continued Groove, with delicious solemnity and mystery, "ye see before ye, sir, a man wha is in maist dismal want--o' ten shellen!" (A pause.)
"If your superior talent has put ye in possession of that sum, ye would obleege me infinitely by a temporary accommodation, Mr. Gaattie."
"Why did you not come to the point at once?" cried Gatty, bruskly, "instead of humbling me with undeserved praise. There." Groove held out his hand, but made a wry face when, instead of money, Gatty put a sketch into his hand.
"There," said Gatty, "that is a lie!"
"How can it be a lee?" said the other, with sour inadvertence. "How can it be a lee, when I hae na spoken ?"
"You don't understand me. That sketch is a libel on a poor cow and an unfortunate oak-tree. I did them at the Academy. They had never done me any wrong, poor things; they suffered unjustly. You take them to a shop, swear they are a tree and a cow, and some fool, that never really looked into a cow or a tree, will give you ten shillings for them."
"Are ye sure, lad?"
"I am sure. Mr. Groove, sir, if you can not sell a lie for ten shillings you are not fit to live in this world; where is the lie that will not sell for ten shillings?"
"I shall think the better o' lees all my days; sir, your words are inspeeriting." And away went Groove with the sketch.
Gatty reflected and stopped him.
"On second thoughts, Groove, you must not ask ten shillings; you must ask twenty pounds for that rubbish."
"Twenty pund! What for will I seek twenty pund?"
"Simply because people that would not give you ten shillings for it will offer you eleven pounds for it if you ask twenty pounds."
"The fules," roared Groove. "Twenty pund! hem!" He looked closer into it.
"For a'," said he, "I begin to obsairve it is a work of great merit. I'll seek twenty pund, an' I'll no tak less than fifteen schell'n, at present."
The visit of this routine painter did not cheer our artist.
The small child got a coal and pounded the floor with it like a machine incapable of fatigue. So the wished-for pose seemed more remote than ever.
The day waxed darker instead of lighter; Mr. Gatty's reflections took also a still more somber hue.
"Even Nature spites us," thought he, "because we love her."
"Then cant, tradition, numbers, slang and money are against us; the least of these is singly a match for truth; we shall die of despair or paint cobwebs in Bedlam; and I am faint, weary of a hopeless struggle; and one man's brush is truer than mine, another's is bolder--my hand and eye are not in tune. Ah! no! I shall never, never, never be a painter."
