n love with him, young and
old. 'Should he upbraid?' There she goes. 'I'll own that he'll prevail,
and sing as sweetly as a nigh-tin-gale!' Oh, you old warbler! Look at
father's old head bobbing up and down! Wouldn't he do for Sir Roger de
Coverley? How do you do, Uncle Charles?--I say, M'Collop, how gets on
the Duke of What-d'ye-call-'em starving in the castle?--Gandish says
it's very good." The lad retires to a group of artists. Mr. Honeyman
comes up with a faint smile playing on his features, like moonlight on
the facade of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel.

"These parties are the most singular I have ever seen," whispers
Honeyman. "In entering one of these assemblies, one is struck with the
immensity of London: and with the sense of one's own insignificance.
Without, I trust, departing from my clerical character, nay, from my
very avocation as incumbent of a London chapel,--I have seen a good deal
of the world, and here is an assemblage no doubt of most respectable
persons, on scarce one of whom I ever set eyes till this evening. Where
does my good brother find such characters?"

"That," says Mr. Honeyman's interlocutor, "is the celebrated, though
neglected artist, Professor Gandish, whom nothing but jealousy has kept
out of the Royal Academy. Surely you have heard of the great Gandish?"

"Indeed I am ashamed to confess my ignorance, but a clergyman busy with
his duties knows little, perhaps too little, of the fine arts."

"Gandish, sir, is one of the greatest geniuses on whom our ungrateful
country ever trampled; he exhibited his first celebrated picture of
'Alfred in the Neatherd's Hut' (he says he is the first who ever
touched that subject) in 180-; but Lord Nelson's death, and victory of
Trafalgar, occupied the public attention at that time, and Gandish's
work went unnoticed. In the year 1816, he painted his great work of
'Boadicea.' You see her before you. That lady in yellow, with a light
front and a turban. Boadicea became Mrs. Gandish in that year. So late
as '27, he brought before the world his 'Non Angli sed Angeli.' Two
of the angels are yonder in sea-green dresses--the Misses Gandish. The
youth in Berlin gloves was the little male angelus of that piece."

"How came you to know all this, you strange man?" says Mr. Honeyman.

"Simply because Gandish has told me twenty times. He tells the story
to everybody, every time he sees them. He told it to-day at dinner.
Boadicea and the angels came afterwards."

"Sat