igures, landscapes."

"Well, ye might just make shift to live at it, I suppose, with here and
there a signboard. They are the best paid, our way: but, Lord bless ye,
THEY wants headpiece. Well, sir, let me see your work. Then we'll talk
further."

"I'll go to work this afternoon," said Falcon eagerly; then with
affected surprise, "Bless me; I forgot. I have no palette, no canvas, no
colors. You couldn't lend me a couple of sovereigns to buy them, could
you?"

"Ay, sir; I could. But I woan't. I'll lend ye the things, though, if you
have a mind to go with me and buy 'em."

Falcon agreed, with a lofty smile; and the purchases were made.

Mr. Falcon painted a landscape or two out of his imagination. The
dealers to whom he took them declined them; one advised the gentleman
painter to color tea-boards. "That's your line," said he.

"The world has no taste," said the gentleman painter: "but it has got
lots of vanity: I'll paint portraits."

He did; and formidable ones: his portraits were amazingly like the
people, and yet unlike men and women, especially about the face. One
thing, he didn't trouble with lights and shades, but went slap at the
features.

His brush would never have kept him; but he carried an instrument, in
the use of which he was really an artist, viz., his tongue. By wheedling
and underselling--for he only charged a pound for the painted canvas--he
contrived to live; then he aspired to dress as well as live. With this
second object in view, he hit upon a characteristic expedient.

He used to prowl about, and when he saw a young woman sweeping the
afternoon streets with a long silk train, and, in short, dressed to ride
in the park, yet parading the streets, he would take his hat off to
her, with an air of profound respect, and ask permission to take her
portrait. Generally he met a prompt rebuff; but if the fair was so
unlucky as to hesitate a single moment, he told her a melting tale; he
had once driven his four-in-hand; but by indorsing his friends' bills,
was reduced to painting likeness, admirable likenesses in oil, only a
guinea each.

His piteous tale provoked more gibes than pity, but as he had no shame,
the rebuffs went for nothing: he actually did get a few sitters by his
audacity: and some of the sitters actually took the pictures, and paid
for them; others declined them with fury as soon as they were finished.
These he took back with a piteous sigh, that sometimes extracted half
a crown.