mily. For the poor artist is expected to
please all down to the youngest child, and perhaps that one most, for she
often rules the rest. And people do not too much consider the _feelings_
of painters. I knew an artist, a great humorist, who spent much time at
the court at Lisbon. He had to paint a child, I believe the Prince of the
Brazils. I remember, as if I saw him act the scene but yesterday, and it
is many years ago. Well, the maid of honour, or whatever was her title,
brought the child into the room, and remained some time, but at length
left him alone with the painter. When he found himself only in this
company, his pride took the alarm. He put on great airs, frowned, pouted,
looked disdainful, superbly swelling, and got off the chair, retreating
slowly, scornfully. The artist, who was a great mimic, imitated his every
gesture, and, with some extravagance, frowned as he frowned, swelled as he
swelled, blew out his breath as the child did, advanced as he retreated,
till the child at length found himself pinned in the corner, at which the
artist put on such a ridiculous expression, that risible nature could
stand it no longer; pride was conquered by humour, and from that hour they
were on the most familiar terms. It was not an ill-done thing of our Henry
VIII. when he made one of his noble courtiers apologize to Holbein for
some slight, bidding him, at the same time, to know that he could make a
hundred such as he, but it was past his power to make a Holbein. And you
know how a great monarch picked up Titian's pencil which had fallen. How
greatly did Alexander honour Apelles, in that he would suffer none else to
paint his portrait. And when the painter, by drawing his Campaspe, fell in
love with her, he presented her to him. It is a bad policy, Eusebius, to
put slights upon these men--and it is more, it is ungenerous; they may
revenge themselves upon you whenever they please, and give you a black eye
too, that will never get right again. They can in effigy, put every limb
out of joint; and you being no anatomist, may only see that you look ill,
and know not where you went wrong. All you sitters expect to be flattered,
and very little flattery do you bestow. Perversely, you won't even see
your own likenesses. Take, for instance, the following scene, which I had
from a miniature painter:--A man upwards of forty years of age, had been
sitting to him--one of as little pretensions as you can well imagine; you
would have th