nd then costumes and slavishly reproduces him or her, without any show
of judgment or insight after the model is once selected. And this lack
of insight into character seems deplorably prevalent among our figure
painters, for how often we see in the exhibitions the model with a "good
head" tamely reproduced over and over again--here as a monk, there as a
Polonius, Thomas a Becket, a "blind beggar," "His Excellency," a
pensioner, or painted by some artist who wants to make a bid for
portraiture as "A portrait of a gentleman"!

Black and white men have to introduce so many characters into their
work, they are obliged to invent them; but it is a curious fact that
this facility disappears at times. The late Mr. Fred Barnard, clever as
he was at inventing character for his black and white work, found, when
he was painting in oil, that confidence had left him, and he spent
several days wandering about London to find real characters for a
picture he was painting representing the jury in "Pilgrim's Progress."
One day in Oxford Street he saw a hansom-cab driver with a face besotted
with drink and "ripe" for production as a slave to Bacchus. Barnard
hailed the hansom, jumped in, and directed the jehu to drive him to his
studio on Haverstock Hill. In going up the Hampstead Road a tram-car ran
over a child. Barnard was terribly upset by the touching sight, and told
the driver to pull up at the nearest tavern. Getting out, he looked at
his "subject," intending to invite him to refreshment before taking him
on to his studio, where he intended to paint him. To his horror the face
of the bibulous cabman had lost all its "colour," and was of a pale
greenish hue.

[Illustration: A TRANSFORMATION.]

"That was horful, sir, warn't it? It'll upset me for a week."

The disappointed artist dismissed his "subject."

[Illustration]

Much could be written of this genuine humourist. His buoyant fun was
irrepressible; indoors and out of doors he entertained himself--and
sometimes his friends--with his jokes. In his studio he kept as pets
some little tortoises. They were allowed to crawl about as they liked,
but he had painted on their backs caricatures--a laughing face, a
sour-green face, one with a look of horror, another of mischief. A
visitor seated unaware of these would suddenly spring off the sofa as
the walking mask slowly appeared from underneath it! Barnard's power of
mimicry was great, and his jokes were as excellent as his drawings