ve any others sit to him. I am not quite certain, that something of
this kind has been practised, or I do not think I should have the art to
invent it. All those who sit during a courtship, to present their
portraits as lovers, I look upon it come as professed cheats, and mean to
be most egregiously flattered; and if the thing succeeds through the
painter's skill, within six months after the marriage, he, the painter, is
called the cheat, and the portrait not in the least like. So easy is it to
get out of repute, by doing your best to please them with a little
flattery. You will never get into a book of beauty, Eusebius. Hitherto,
the list runs in the female line. The male will soon come in, depend upon
it.

Have a little pity upon the poor artist, who would, but cannot,
flatter--who is conscious of his inability to put in those blandishments
that shall give a grace to ugliness--from whose hand unmitigated ugliness
becomes uglier--who, at length, driven from towns, where people begin to
see this, as a dauber, takes refuge among the farm houses; at first paints
the farmers and their wives, their ugly faces stretching to the very edge
of the frames, and is at last reduced to paint the favourite cow, or the
fat ox--the prodigal (alas! no; the simply miserable, in mistaking his
profession) feeding the swine, and with them, and they not over-proud of
his doings. Then there is another poor, self-deluded character among the
tribe. I have the man in my eye at this moment. It is not long since I
paid him a visit to see a great historical composition, which I had been
requested to look at. It was the most miserable of all miserable daubs;
yet so conspicuously set off with colours and hardness, that the eye could
not escape it. It was a most determined eye-sore. The quiet, the modest
demeanour of the young man at first deceived me; I ventured to find some
trifling fault. The artist was up--still his manner was quiet--somewhat,
in truth, contemptuously so; but, as for modesty, I doubt not he was
modest in every other matter relating to himself; but, in art, he as
calmly talked of himself, Michael Angelo, and Raffaelle, as a trio--that
two had obtained immortality of fame, and that he sought the same, and, he
trusted, by the same means, and believed with similar powers: as calmly
did he speak in this manner, as if it were a thing long settled in his own
mind and in fate--and in the manner of an indulgent communication. He
lamented th