a most musical voice was heard,
crying:

"A caallerr owoo!"

And two young fishwives hove in sight. The boys recognized one of them
as Gatty's sweetheart.

"Is he in love with her?" inquired Jones.

Hyacinth the long-haired undertook to reply.

"He loves her better than anything in the world except Art. Love and Art
are two beautiful things," whined Hyacinth.

"She, too, is beautiful. I have done her," added he, with a simper.

"In oil?" asked Groove.

"In oil? no, in verse, here;" and he took out a paper.

"Then hadn't we better cut? you might propose reading them," said poor
old Groove.

"Have you any oysters?" inquired Jones of the Carnie and the Johnstone,
who were now alongside.

"Plenty," answered Jean. "Hae ye ony siller?"

The artists looked at one another, and didn't all speak at once.

"I, madam," said old Groove, insinuatingly, to Christie, "am a friend of
Mr. Gatty's; perhaps, on that account, you would _lend_ me an oyster or
two."

"Na," said Jean, sternly.

"Hyacinth," said Jones, sarcastically, "give them your verses, perhaps
that will soften them."

Hyacinth gave his verses, descriptive of herself, to Christie. This
youngster was one of those who mind other people's business.

_Alienis studiis delectatus contempsit suum._

His destiny was to be a bad painter, so he wanted to be an execrable
poet.

All this morning he had been doggreling, when he ought to have been
daubing; and now he will have to sup off a colored print, if he sups at
all.

Christie read, blushed, and put the verses in her bosom.

"Come awa, Custy," said Jean.

"Hets," said Christie, "gie the puir lads twarree oysters, what the waur
will we be?"

So they opened the oysters for them; and Hyacinth the long-haired
looked down on the others with sarcastico-benignant superiority. He had
conducted a sister art to the aid of his brother brushes.

"The poet's empire, all our hearts allow; But doggrel's power was never
known till now."

CHAPTER VII.

AT the commencement of the last chapter, Charles Gatty, artist, was
going to usher in a new state of things, true art, etc. Wales was to be
painted in Wales, not Poland Street.

He and five or six more youngsters were to be in the foremost files of
truth, and take the world by storm.

This was at two o'clock; it is now five; whereupon the posture of
affairs, the prospects of art, the face of the world, the nature of
things, are quite the reverse.

In the