in his life, not even his first one; the little
patronising air of the trooper, and his would-be
connoisseur-like remarks about the big picture,
amused him immensely. He had a careful look
at the particular chasseur d'Afrique whom
Grosjean had pointed out; and indeed he was
going to add a little brilliancy, when he suddenly
reflected that the man represented was in a cloud
of smoke and dust, calculated to diminish the
effect of the colours, and so left his work as it
was.

At drill, Grosjean answered my inquiry as to
his portrait with a knowing wink, which conveyed
his belief that he had proved too much for
the artist. " He asked me twenty-five sous,
captain, and he's going to do it for twenty-two,
gold and all," he said to me. I congratulated
him upon his success, and had to restrain him
during the rest of sword exercise, for he would
fancy at odd times that he was sitting for his
portrait; and throwing himself into all kinds of
heroic, forlorn-hope attitudes, which if they were
picturesque, were at all events not according to
regulation.

Horace Vernet would have been invaluable as
a detective draughtsman; if he once had a good
look at a man, he could from memory produce a
striking likeness. It was a happy knack he had,
and sometimes an unfortunate knack, for,
unconsciously he would associate certain people's
features with particular acts. If he represented
in one battle-piece a soldier flying with fear and
terror expressed on his countenance, his crayon
would, in spite of himself, trace the familial-
features of some well-known personage who had
distinguished himself by a lack of pluck; and in
one of his grand pictures, wishing to represent a
rapacious grasping Israelite, he drew the features
of a contemporary, whom many will recognise at
the first glance. I have said this was sometimes
an unfortunate knack, because it has occasionally
got him into trouble. In this instance, it was
a happy knack. On the appointed day, Grosjean
swaggered into Vernet's studio, and resented
with a somewhat haughty look the artist's Bon
jour, mon ami, which he thought rather familiar
from a painter in his hire, but he recovered his
equanimity when he beheld his finished portrait,
a bold sketch in oil colours. Holding it out at
arm's length, Grosjean exclaimed:

"Sapristi! c'est bien beau! It's well worth
the money. In fact, it's better than Baptiste's,
and he paid thirty sous for his. I shall
recommend you, monsieur."   "No! pray don't,"
said Vernet; "at least, not to many."   " No?
Why?"   " Well, I can assure you that I lose five
or six sous by that picture. You see, I've put the
helmet in, and vermilion has risen again."
"That's different; but you shan't lose by me.
Here, monsieur, are thirty sous."   " You are
very kind; but before I take it, tell me for
whom is the picture?"   "It is for my old
mother."   " Ah! I suppose she will hang it
up in her drawing-room?"  " Drawing-room,
monsieur! No, she has only one room —   our
whole house is only a large room."   " Why, is
she so very poor?"   "No; but peasants  —  you
know how they live? She can still afford to
send me a franc or two now and then, as she
did last week. She sent me forty sous, for she
had finished the harvest, you know."   " Ah!
well, look here, mon brave; have it put in a
frame. Take this. Hush! Come, come; you
have a fine head, and if you look at that large
picture, you will see that I have made another
portrait of you. There, there, adieu! It's all
right, mon ami. Nonsense, lad  —  adieu!"

Poor Grosjean, bewildered, and so suddenly
fallen from his high position of patron of the
fine arts, was gently pushed out of the studio.

When he got into the street, he opened one
hand, and saw in it two five-franc pieces. In
the other he held the most tip-top martial-
looking dragoon he had ever seen in his life.
The tip-top dragoon was to gladden his old
mother's eyes, and the money was to buy a
frame for the grand picture. Mars felt a stir in
his heart, and growled, " Sapristi! what a good
devil!" Then, recovering his dignity, he gave a
vigorous thump on the top of his tiger-skinned
helmet, and swore " Revenge!"

He looked around him  —  his eye caught some
unsightly blotches of mud on that beautiful
polished oak staircase. Whereupon, mumbling
"I know," he hastened home to barracks.

Our regiment remained two years in Ver-
sailles after this incident, during which time
Vernet was puzzled by the attentions of an
invisible good fairy, who every Saturday laid a
clean straw mat, cleverly plaited, at the foot of
his grand staircase. But the fairy mat-maker
was no other than the sturdy old trooper
Grosjean.

SMALL-BEER CHRONICLES.

I SHOULD be fulfilling but very imperfectly
the duties of my office if I failed to take brief
notice of a certain tendency which has recently
become developed among us towards a kind of
materialistic spiritualism, and what I will
venture to call Scientific Prophesying.

We are hungry and thirsty for spiritual news.
The mysteries of life are pressing on us so heavily
as to become almost intolerable. Our appetite
for knowledge is desperately keen. The fruit
of the tree of which we have partaken has been
culled only from those branches that are within
our reach as we stand on tiptoe, or those to
which our hardiest adventurers have climbed
with scaling ladders. And this is too little
for us. For we know now by means of our
instruments and calculations, that this same tree
of knowledge is of mighty stature. The fruit
upon its topmost boughs we cannot even see,
far less, reach. Its roots go further down
than we can dig  —  even to the centre of the
earth. What shall we do? That golden fruit
which hangs so high, how shall we attain to
it? There are, indeed, some who profess to
climb higher than others, some who pretend to
shake those topmost boughs, and who bid us look
out for the apples that shall fall. Alas! such