ough the weather was severe, he was clothed in the
thin summer dress which he had worn at Paris, and was now, not only
threadbare, but, in some parts, actually patched; his stockings, by
a repetition of that practice known among economists by the term of
coaxing, hung like pudding-bags about his ankles; his shirt, though new
washed, was of the saffron hue, and, in divers places, appeared through
the crannies of his breeches; he had exchanged his own hair for a
smoke-dried tie-periwig, which all the flour in his dredging-box had
not been able to whiten; his eyes were sunk, his jaws lengthened beyond
their usual extension; and he seemed twenty years older than he
looked when he and our hero parted at Rotterdam. In spite of all these
evidences of decay, he accosted him with a meagre affectation of content
and good-humour, struggled piteously to appear gay and unconcerned,
professed his joy at seeing him in England, excused himself for having
delayed so long to come and present his respects; alleging that, since
his return, he had been a mere slave to the satisfaction of some persons
of quality and taste, who had insisted upon his finishing some pieces
with the utmost expedition.

Peregrine received him with that compassion and complaisance which was
natural to his disposition; inquired about the health of Mrs. Pallet
and his family, and asked if his friend, the doctor, was in town. The
painter seemed to have resumed his resentment against that gentleman, of
whom he spoke in contemptuous terms. "The doctor," said he, "is so much
overshadowed with presumption and self-conceit, that his merit has no
relief. It does not rise. There is no keeping in the picture, my dear
sir. All the same as if I were to represent the moon under a cloud;
there will be nothing but a deep mass of shade, with a little tiny speck
of light in the middle, which would only serve to make, as it were, the
darkness visible. You understand me. Had he taken my advice, it might
have been better for him; but he is bigoted to his own opinion. You
must know, Mr. Pickle, upon our return to England, I counselled him to
compose a little smart, clever ode upon my Cleopatra. As Gad shall judge
me, I thought it would have been of some service, in helping him out of
obscurity; for you know, as Sir Richard observes,

"Soon will that die, which adds thy fame to mine;
Let me then live, join'd to a work of thine."

"By the bye, there is a most picturesque cont