uld not endure the
labour requisite to form an artist. He would fain have read ere he had
learned to spell; and the result might easily have been foretold.

His father died, and the family were but scantily provided for. Conrad
was now forced to make, out a livelihood by what was previously an
amusement, not having "a trade in his fingers;" and he toiled on,
selling his productions for the veriest trifle. He had now no leisure
for improvement in the first elements of his art.

"Better starve or beg, better be errand-boy or lackey, than waste my
talents on such an ungrateful world. I'll turn
conjurer--fire-eater--mountebank; set the fools agape at fairs and
pastimes. Anything rather than killing--starving by inches. Why, the
criminals at hard labour in the fortress have less work and better
fare. I wish--I wish"----

"What dost wish, honest youth?" said a tall, heavy-eyed,
beetle-browed, swarthy personage, who poked his face round from
behind, close to that of the unfortunate artist, with great freedom
and familiarity.

"I wish thou hadst better manners, or wast i' the stocks, where every
prying impertinent should be," replied Conrad, being in no very
placable humour with his morning's work. The stranger laughed, not at
all abashed by this ill-mannered, testy rebuke, replying
good-humouredly--

"Ah, ah! master canvas-spoiler. Wherefore so hasty this morning? My
legs befit not the gyves any more than thine own. But many a man
thrusts his favours where they be more rare than welcome. I would do
thee a service."

"'Tis the hangman's, then, for that seems the only favour that befits
my condition."

"Thou art cynical, bitter at thy disappointment. Let us discourse
together hard by. A flask of good Rhenish will soften and assuage thy
humours. A drop of _kirchenwasser_, too, might not be taken amiss this
chill morning."

Nothing loth, Conrad followed the stranger, and they were soon
imbibing some excellent _vin du pays_ in a neighbouring tavern.

"Conrad Bergmann," began the stranger. "Ay, thou art surprised; but I
know more than thy name. Wilt that I do thee a good office?"

"Not the least objection, friend, if the price be within reach.
Nothing pay, nothing have, I reckon."

"The price? Nothing. At least nothing thou need care for. Thou art
thirsting for fame, riches; for the honours of this world;
for--for--the hand--the heart of thy beloved."

Amongst the rest of Conrad's calamities he had the misfortune to