It is not when we think that we can bear a
thing no longer that the relief comes. We
underrate our powers of endurance in our
laziness and in our shrinking from distress. It is
when we really can bear no more that a change
is at hand.

It was in the Louvre, which palace I had
entered to have half an hour of my favourite
Napoleon Museum—to stand awhile before
that grey great-coat with which we have such
associations, and to ponder over the huge hat
that covered the huge brain of Napoleon
Bonaparte.

Making my way to this museum of relics, and
passing through the picture-gallery en route,
my eye happened to fall upon the figure of one
apparently lost in admiration of the Paul
Veronese, for which the gallery is so justly
celebrated. The individual who had attracted
my attention was sitting, or rather reclining,
upon the cushioned seat, which is placed
opposite the picture in question in an attitude of
profound and abstracted admiration. He had
sunk so low upon the ottoman, that his head,
forced forward by the back of the seat, rested
upon his chest—his hat (a sombrero) lay upon
the floor—his right hand was clasping his
forehead, while his left arm, brought across his
body for the purpose, had hold of the right
elbow in a feverish grip. In a word, it was an
action indicating either genius or stomach-ache
—it would have been hard to say which. A
quantity of long fair hair tossed wildly back
from his lofty brow—a beard light and tawny,
of the Vandyke cut, the sides of his face being
closely shaven—a black velvet coat and a frown
—all these things proclaimed, at the first glance,
that this gentleman was an artist, and at the
second, that he was my old friend Clipper.

Clipper is what may be called an artist, with
a vengeance—a beau-ideal specimen of the class
—a man who carries out to inconceivable per-
fection the character of a genius in every
respect, except that of producing good pictures.
He is the spoilt child and petted darling of that
tribe whom my soul so keenly delights in—the
art-loving ladies of Britain. Why, I have seen
Clipper at Poet's-corner, Richmoud, the
residence of the Countess Komberwig, stretched
upon the lawn under a tree, composing, while
Lady Fanny Fauteuil, who is one of his
greatest admirers, was seated by his side
fanning his forehead, lest Clipper's genius
should burn its way right through to the
surface.

Yet Clipper is not a bad fellow at heart.
There is a band of brothers, as poor as Job, who
live upon him and suck the means of existence
out of his ill-filled purse. Set aside his ridiculous
affectation, and there are qualities in the
man which command our regard, and make one
weep at his absurdities.

I was very glad to see Clipper, and went up
to him at once. "Hullo!" I said, commencing
the dialogue with our noble British exclamation
—from Charing-cross to Cochin-China that
glorious word "Hullo!" is heard wherever
English throats are found to give it
utterance—"hullo, Clipper! how are you, old
fellow?"

Clipper did not move. He merely turned
lis eyes from the Paul Veronese and brought
them slowly to bear upon my countenance,
which he surveyed with the air of one who
looked straight through the face and skull
before him into a vista, with the Temple of
Fame at the end of it, and Paul Veronese
standing at its altar beckoning Clipper on to
join him.

"How are you, Clipper?" I said again,
holding out my hand.

He took it, started slightly, and with a faint
and vacant smile, said, speaking softly under his
breath, and in awe-struck tones,

"Pardon me, my dear Fudge, pardon me—I
am in dreamland. You know what I am, a poor
half-crazy fellow at best. My fancies carry me
away at times."

"A fine picture," I said, pointing to the Paul
Veronese.

"Yes, Fudge," said Clipper, still speaking
softly, and in mysterious tones—"yes, Fudge, it
is a fine picture."

"Is anything the matter?" I asked, at this
juncture. "You talk as if we were in the
presence of the dead."

"We are in the presence of the dead,"
answered Clipper. At which words a little
English tourist, who had been sitting close by and
listening to everything we said, got up hastily,
with terror in his looks, and made the best of
his way out of the room. "We are in the
presence of the dead," continued Clipper. "The
shade of Paolo Veronesé has been with me,
daring me to compete with that picture before
us. It is a fine picture, Horatio—a fine picture.
I will beat that picture, Horatio—I will meet
that picture on its own ground. I will have it
out with Paolo, as sure as your name is—
is——"

"Fudge," said I, seeing that he hesitated.

         CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

"COME with me to my atelier," said Clipper,
rising. "Mathews—you know Mathews, don't
you?—well, he is in Paris with me, and we have
taken a studio together."

This Mathews, whom I knew well, was about
as great a contrast to our man of genius as
could easily be found. In the first place, he was
an accomplished, an admirable artist, but the
least technical and the most common-place
looking person conceivable. He was a little man,
plump and brisk, neat in his attire, always
dressed like other people, and with conventional
whiskers and short hair. He talked little, and
upon art, never—and worked like a lion. He
was a rising man, and had the mystic letters
A.R.A. attached to his name. How he and
Clipper could have got together was to me an
unfathomable mystery.

Well, to be sure, Clipper was a compromising
man to walk with, and I must own that, though
I had been so long without company, I yet found