him a bit of a bore. He was continually stop-
ping to point out effects, to elucidate intricate
theories of optics, or to call one's attention to
"fine heads" that we met in the street.
Confound his sketch-book, too; it was perpetually
coming out, either that he might note down
something he saw, or nail an idea which he was
fearful might slip out of his brain. It is not
quite so bad in Paris, where people never get
stared at; but in a London street he's dreadful
—is Clipper.

We found Mathews hard at work upon a small
picture, painting a piece of drapery—a sleeve—
from a model. He was all huddled together up
in a corner, the main space in the room being
completely filled up by a gigantic canvas of
Clipper's, representing the assassination of
Julius Csesar, while a lay figure in a toga, which
must not be touched lest the folds should be
disturbed, reduced the sphere of action left to
the unfortunate Mathews to still more narrow
limits

After the first cordial greeting, Mathews
quietly sat down, at my earnest request, to his
work again, and Clipper, seizing an enormous
palette, began to make ready for an attack upon
the toga. It was always a fine and impressive
sight to see Clipper paint. First of all he would
retreat to the utmost limits of the apartment,
would lean calmly against the wall, and gaze
meditatively upon his work. Then, holding his
palette, brushes, and mahl-stick in his left hand,
he would, shutting one eye, hide with the thumb
of his right every portion of his picture in
succession, muttering to himself the while; then,
with a slow and panther-like step, he would
stealthily creep towards his canvas, mixing up
the colour with his brush as he went; then he
would stop half way, saying, in a deep, guttural
tone, "No, that touch is too much for me now;
I must do that touch when I have been without
champagne for a week." Then he would rush
back again to the wall, falling against it as if he
had been flung there by a giant, staring wildly at
the picture, and talking to himself still in the same
low tone, with scraps of song, Italian opera, or
low comic sentiments given out oratorically, and
bits of slang, impartially mingled in his dialogue.
"I must do that touch when I have been without
champagne for a week—without champagne
for a week—for a week. Confound those great
people who will ask a fellow to dinner. A week
without dinner parties, and I should do
something. Ha! a good touch—a good touch that
last, Horatio, and in the manner of the schools.
'With a cup of cold pizon all down by her side,
and a billy-dux a-saying how for Villikins she
died.' I'm not in cue to-day, Horatio—not in
cue; but I'll fight it out—I'll have it out with
that fold. 'Ah fors' e lui, ché l'an—i—ma—la
ta tara ti i ra—a.' I am convinced, Mathews,
that the great Italian masters must have had
music going on while they were painting?"

"I should think not," said Mathews.

"And wherefore not? Perche, Signer
Matteo?"

"Because I should think it would have put
them out tremendously if they were minding
what they were about," replied the matter-of-fact
Mathews.

"Now listen to that fellow—il est assommant,
cet homme. Mathews, you are insupportable—
a man without sentiment. What can be said of
a fellow who sits there pitching into a drapery
perpetually, with the works of the masters at
his elbow, among which he might pass the live-
long day? You are unworthy, Mathews, of the
name of an artist."

Here there was a pause, during which Clipper
advanced to the stove, and taking out a piece of
burning charcoal with the tongs, proceeded to
light a cigar by the aid of the same; after which,
retreating to a distant part of the room, he
began to puff away in gloomy silence, glaring
at his picture the while with a portentous
frown.

I went and sat down by Mathews. He had
paid and dismissed his model, but was still at
work.

"Are you going to leave off?" I asked.

"Not just yet. I've got this bit of pattern to
do in the background."

"Shall I disturb you if I sit here watching
you?"

"No, not a bit. This is the kind of work
that one can do and talk at the same time. How
long have you been in Paris?"

"About a fortnight," I answered.

"Know many people here?" asked Mathews.

"Not a soul," was my reply.

"The deuce! I suppose you didn't come
here alone, though?"

"Entirely," I said.

The conversation had got to this point, when
it was interrupted by a groan from Clipper.

"I can't do it to-day," said that gentleman.
"Mathews, come here," he continued.

"What is it?" said Mathews, doing as he
was bid.

"That won't do, you know," said Clipper,
with a deep sigh.

"What won't do?" asked the other.

"That toga," groaned the man of genius;
"there's something wrong in the folds. That
toga," he continued, "will drag me to an early
grave."

"Why don't you get that line in?" said
Mathews, pointing to a very important and beautiful
sweep which the drapery took upon the lay
figure.

"I shall do that line, Mathews," answered
Mr. Clipper, in a low and mysterious tone—"I
shall do that line when I know it. I've got my
eye upon it, but I don't thoroughly know it
yet."

"What do you mean by knowing it?" inquired
Mathews. "You can see it, I suppose—can't
you?"

"You don't understand me, Mathews. I am
a man of ideas—you are essentially and painfully
practical. When I see a beautiful line in nature,
I require to drink it into my soul before I can
reproduce it. These things can't be done by
brute force, Mathews. You can't take the