lter your portrait in a way which you thoroughly deserve. The
kindly, smiling face he is going to turn into a sour, grumpy one, with
lowering brow, bleary eyes, and hanging lips. He will deepen the
wrinkles on the brow and cheeks, and he won't omit to indicate, in
proper colour, those grey hairs which the powder is intended to hide.
Before you, instead of the pleasant news about the lottery prize, he
will write, very legibly, the most unpleasant purport of the letter
which came to you the day before yesterday, telling you that Campbell
and Co. of London had stopped payment, addressed on the envelope to the
'Bankrupt Commissionsrath,' &c., &c. From the torn pockets of your
waistcoat he will show ducats, thalers, and treasury bills falling, to
indicate the losses you have had, and this picture will be put in the
window of the picture dealer next door to the bank in Hunter Street."

"The demon, the blackguard," the Commissionsrath cried; "he shan't do
that, I'll send for the police, I'll appeal to the courts for an
interim interdict!"

The Goldsmith said, with much tranquillity, "As soon as even fifty
people have seen this picture, that is to say, after it has been in the
window for a brief quarter of an hour, the tale will be all over the
town, with every description of addition and exaggeration. Every thing
in the least degree ridiculous which has ever been said about you, or
is being said now, will be brought up again, dressed in fresh and more
brilliant colours. Every one you meet will laugh in your face, and,
what is the worst of all, everybody will talk about your losses in the
Campbell bankruptcy, so your credit will be gone."

"Oh, Lord," said Bosswinkel, "but he must let me have the picture back,
the scoundrel? Ay; that he must, the first thing in the morning."

"And if he were to agree to do so," the Goldsmith said, ("of which I
have great doubts) how much the better would you be? He's making a
copper etching of you, as I have just described you. He'll have several
hundred copies thrown off, touch them up himself _con amore_, and send
them all over the world--to Hamburg, Bremen, Luebeck, London even."

"Stop, stop," Bosswinkel cried; "go, as fast as you can, to this
terrible fellow; offer him fifty, yes, offer him a hundred thalers if
he will let this business about my portrait remain in _statu quo_."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the Goldsmith; "you forget that Lehsen doesn't
care a fiddlestick about money. His pe