's north-light now takes possession of the place which
her toilet-table occupied a hundred years ago. There are degrees in
decadence: after the Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats from
Soho or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, physicians come
and occupy the vacant houses, which still have a respectable look, the
windows being cleaned, and the knockers and plates kept bright, and
the doctor's carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the
countess's, which has whisked away her ladyship to other regions. A
boarding-house mayhap succeeds the physician, who has followed after
his sick folks into the new country; and then Dick Tinto comes with
his dingy brass plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets up his
sitters' throne. I love his honest moustache, and jaunty velvet jacket;
his queer figure, his queer vanities, and his kind heart. Why should he
not suffer his ruddy ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should
he deny himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian which costs him
eighteenpence a yard. He is naturally what he is, and breaks out into
costume as spontaneously as a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip. And
as Dick, under yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak, bristling
beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple creature, got up
at a very cheap rate, his life is so consistent with his dress; he gives
his genius a darkling swagger, and a romantic envelope, which, being
removed, you find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping soul; not a moody
poet avoiding mankind for the better company of his own great thoughts,
but a jolly little chap who has an aptitude for painting brocade gowns,
a bit of armour (with figures inside them), or trees and cattle, or
gondolas and buildings, or what not; an instinct for the picturesque,
which exhibits itself in his works, and outwardly on his person;
beyond this, a gentle creature loving his friends, his cups, feasts,
merrymakings, and all good things. The kindest folks alive I have
found among those scowling whiskeradoes. They open oysters with their
yataghans, toast muffins on their rapiers, and fill their Venice glasses
with half-and-half. If they have money in their lean purses, be sure
they have a friend to share it. What innocent gaiety, what jovial
suppers on threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after; what pathos,
merriment, humour does not a man enjoy who frequents their company! Mr.
Clive Newcome, who has long since shav