s cringing to no patron; which calls for
no keeping up of appearances; and which requires no stock-in-trade save
the workman's industry, his best ability, and a dozen sheets of paper.

Having to turn with all his might to his new profession, Clive Newcome,
one of the proudest men alive, chose to revolt and to be restive at
almost every stage of his training. He had a natural genius for his art,
and had acquired in his desultory way a very considerable skill. His
drawing was better than his painting (an opinion which, were my friend
present, he of course would utterly contradict); his designs and
sketches were far superior to his finished compositions. His friends,
presuming to judge of this artist's qualifications, ventured to counsel
him accordingly, and were thanked for their pains in the usual manner.
We had in the first place to bully and browbeat Clive most fiercely,
before he would take fitting lodgings for the execution of those designs
which we had in view for him. "Why should I take expensive lodgings?"
says Clive, slapping his fist on the table. "I am a pauper, and can
scarcely afford to live in a garret. Why should you pay me for drawing
your portrait and Laura's and the children? What the deuce does
Warrington want with the effigy of his old mug? You don't want them a
bit--you only want to give me money.--It would be much more honest of
me to take the money at once and own that I am a beggar; and I tell you
what, Pen, the only money which I feel I come honestly by, is that which
is paid me by a little printseller in Long Acre who buys my drawings,
one with another, at fourteen shillings apiece, and out of whom I can
earn pretty nearly two hundred a year. I am doing Coaches for him, sir,
and Charges of Cavalry; the public like the Mail Coaches best--on a
dark paper--the horses and miles picked out white--yellow dust--cobalt
distance, and the guard and coachman of course in vermilion. That's
what a gentleman can get his bread by--portraits, pooh! it's disguised
beggary, Crackthorpe, and a half-dozen men of his regiment came, like
good fellows as they are, and sent me five pounds apiece for their
heads, but I tell you I am ashamed to take the money." Such used to be
the tenor of Clive Newcome's conversation as he strode up and down our
room after dinner, pulling his moustache, and dashing his long yellow
hair off his gaunt face.

When Clive was inducted into the new lodgings at which his friends
counselled him