idently rely on being transmitted to
posterity without diminution of their graces, with all their delicate
loveliness, enchanting symmetry of form, and exquisite expression of
feature--graces ephemeral, alas! as the existence of the butterfly that
hovers over the vernal flowers. Parents, ere they leave this vale of
tears, may bequeath to their sorrowing children their exact resemblance.
The warrior, the statesman, the poet, all classes of men, in short, will
pursue their career with fresh zeal and ardour, now that the brilliant
pencil of a Tchartkoff enables them to transmit to posterity their
visible features, as well as their imperishable renown. Let all hasten,
then, abandoning promenade, and party, opera, ball, and theatre, to the
splendid and luxurious studio of our artist, (Nevsku Perspective,
No.--). It is hung with portraits, the produce of his pencil, worthy a
Vandyke or a Titian. The happy connoisseur knows not what to admire most
in these exquisite works, their exact resemblance to the original, or
the extraordinary brilliancy and freshness of their handling. They must
be seen to be even imperfectly appreciated; the artist has truly drawn a
prize in the lottery of genius. Success to you, Andrei Petrovitch! (the
journalist was evidently fond of the familiar style). _Macte nova
virtute_, and immortalise yourself and us. Glory, fortune, crowds of
sitters, in spite of the feeble and envious efforts of certain
contemporary prints, will be your speedy and unfailing reward!"

His face beaming with contentment, our artist perused this puff. He saw
his name in print,--a thing which was to him a complete novelty; and he
could not help reading the lines at least a dozen times. He was
particularly tickled with the comparison of his works to Vandyke and
Titian. The use of his baptismal name, Andrei Petrovitch, also gratified
him not a little. To be mentioned in this delightfully familiar way in
print, was to him an honour as gratifying as it was new. He could not
remain quiet a moment. Now he sat down in a chair, then threw himself
picturesquely on a sofa, rehearsing the way he would receive his
sitters; then he went to his easel, and gave a bold dashing stroke of
the brush, studying at the same time a graceful mode of wielding it.
Thus he got through the day.

The next morning, soon after breakfast, his bell rang. He hurried to the
door; a lady entered, preceded by a footman in a furred livery cloak,
and accompanied by