at he
could, twice imprisoned for debt, and with it all so gay and brilliant
and talented that those he wronged most loved him most. Finally, he was
introduced to Benjamin West, and found in him an invaluable friend and
patron. For nearly four years, Stuart worked as West's student and
assistant, steadily improving in drawing, developing a technique of
astonishing merit, and, more than that, one that was all his own.

His portraits soon attracted attention, and at the end of a few
years, he was earning a large income. But he squandered it so recklessly
that he was finally forced to flee to Ireland to escape his creditors.
They pursued him, threw him into prison, and the legend is that he
painted most of the Irish aristocracy in his cell in the Dublin jail.

At last, in 1792, he returned to America, animated by a desire to paint
a portrait of Washington. Arrangements for a sitting were made, but it
is related that Stuart, although he had painted many famous men and was
at ease in most society, found himself strangely embarrassed in
Washington's presence. The President was kindly and courteous, but the
portrait was a failure. He tried again, and produced the portrait which
remains to this day the accepted likeness of the First American. You
will find it as the frontispiece to "Men of Action," and it is worth
examining closely, for it is an example of art rarely surpassed, as well
as a remarkable portrait of our most remarkable citizen.

Gilbert Stuart still holds his place among the greatest of American
portrait painters. His heads, painted simply and without artifice, and
yet with high imagination, are unsurpassed; they possess insight, they
accomplish that greatest of all tasks, the delineation of character.
Stuart's portraits--as every portrait must, to be truly great--show not
only how his sitters looked but _what they were_. Art can accomplish no
more than that.

The anecdotes which are told of him are innumerable, and most of them
have to do with his hot temper, which grew hotter and hotter as his
years increased and he became more and more a public character. One day,
a loving husband, whose wife Stuart had put on canvas in an unusually
uncompromising way, complained that the portrait did not do her justice.

"What an infernal business is this of a portrait painter," Stuart cried,
at last, his patience giving way. "You bring him a potato and expect him
to paint you a peach!"

But look at his portrait at the b