"No chance of the steam-boat sailing to-night, Gentlemen," said the landlord of the Crown inn, at Dover, as he entered the room where I and another traveller were seated, waiting for a passage to France. "The wind blows right off Calais, and there is a surf on the pier half as high as Shakspeare's cliff."

It was about four o'clock of an afternoon in the end of autumn. The sun, which in the early part of the day had made some feeble attempts to look out, had fairly gone down, as if he had given up the attempt in despair; and the appearance of things without, as the evening closed in, gave promise of a tempestuous night. I cannot say, therefore, that the communication of the landlord was altogether an unwelcome one, for the prospect of passing a night on the Channel in such weather, instead of sleeping comfortably on terra firma, was anything but inviting. My companion on the extreme gauche side of the fire, seemed to be much of the same way of thinking. We had hitherto been sitting in that unsocial mood in which Englishmen are apt to indulge when they think they are only likely to be subjected to one another's company for a short time, and therefore eschew every superfluous observation, and determine not even to hazard a remark on the state of the weather, except upon sure grounds. But the announcement of our imprisonment for the evening, and the consequent necessity of making the most of each other during that period, went far towards breaking the ice between us. My companion, after an inquiring glance at me, ventured to suggest that the landlord should be instructed to get dinner ready as soon as possible, and that a bottle or two of his best port might be found of essential advantage in promoting the harmony of the evening. I myself, not less "on hospitable thoughts intent," immediately assented; and the landlord, without waiting further others, disappeared.

Dinner came at last, and went. It was such as might have been expected from the short time we had allowed for its preparation; for a poem may be extemporised, but not a dinner. We were too hungry, however, to be critical, and the productions of our host of the Crown, though tolerably cut up, were, on the whole, favourably received.

As the waiter removed dinner, and placed before me a bottle of very tolerable port, I had leisure to look a little more particularly at my opposite neighbour. He seemed to be about thirty; tall, dressed in black; with an intelligent and good-humoured countenance. I observed he had laid upon one of the chairs a large portfolio, carefully secured from the weather by a leather covering. I set him down at once for an artist.

I am fond of painting myself, and have always delighted in the society of artists, that is, of such as are enthusiasts in their profession, and not mere mechanical labourers for bread. It is a striking and attractive spectacle to see a young man, perhaps contending in a garret with the actual miseries of poverty, yet pursuing his art with

the fond conviction that, for all these privations, he is yet to be recompensed; bating no jot of heart and hope, while everything looks gloomy about him, and perceiving, in the dim perspective of life, glimpses of comfort, and visions of future fame, where another person sees nothing but clouds and thick darkness. This sanguine and hopeful temperament communicates its influence to their conversation, and imparts to it in general a warm and genial tone, a freshness and openness, which are seldom met with in the more ordinary intercourse of society.

I soon found I was right in my conjecture. He was a painter, and had travelled a good deal on the Continent. We talked of “the Pyrennean and the river Po,"-the Rhine, the Tryol, Switzerland, with all of which my companion appeared familiar. He told me, that as his health had not been good during the last year, he was now on his way to Rome, where he intended to pass the winter, and, if possible, to unite improvement in health with improvement in his art. I ventured at last to ask if I might be allowed a glance at his portfolio, which he at once produced.

I was much struck with some of his sketches, both in history and landscape. They displayed great freedom of hand and a liveliness of imagination, which seemed only to require a longer familiarity with classical models to restrain its excesses, and to give a greater sobriety of effect both to his drawing and colouring. They might be called, to use the technical phrase, a little fluttery, not unlike De Loutherbourg's or Fuseli's. I told my companion candidly what I thought of them, and he took it with more good humour than might have been expected.

As I was lifting the edges of the leather cover, in order to shut up the portfolio, a sketch dropped out, the singularity of which attracted my attention. It was quite unfinished, as if the artist had been suddenly interrupted in his work, and represented a skeleton head rising above what seemed to be a human body, the arms of which appeared extended in a threatening attitude. Over the whole figure, with exception of the face, was thrown a loose white drapery, descending in large folds, like the figure of Samuel in Salvator's picture of the Witch of En-dor.

The Painter coloured a little as I inquired what scene this sketch was intended to represent. "I have no conception," said he, after a pause, "how that sketch happened to be put up with the others. The truth is, I have not looked at it for nearly ten years; and the remembrance with which it is connected is not of so pleasant a nature, that I should be anxious to recall it to my recollection." He saw that my curiosity was roused, and went on. "Since the subject has been alluded to, however, you shall hear the history of the sketch, though I am aware, that in doing so, I shall very probably expose myself to ridicule." I assured him he had nothing to fear on that head; so filling out another glass of wine, as if to prepare himself for the effort, he proceeded :

"I am not a very rich man now, Heaven knows, but I was poorer still when I came up to London from the country some ten years ago. I had not long been convinced that if I was not allowed to be a painter, I should never be anything else; and whatever may have been the case

as to the former alternative, certain it is I have kept my word as to the latter. I reached London with my only suit of clothes on my back, my sketch-book in my hand, twenty pounds, the gift of an uncle, in my pocket, half-a-dozen shirts, and about a dozen daubings in oil and water-colours, in my trunk. I smile now when I recollect what preposterous performances they were, but at the time, I remember well, I looked upon them as perfectly unique, and never doubted that in them, like Fortunatus's purse, I possessed a never-failing source of income. "My first object, which I looked upon as a very simple matter indeed, was to obtain admission as a pupil to the Royal Academy. By the kindness of the clergyman of my native place, himself a tolerable amateur artist, I had been provided with letters of introduction to some persons of influence in the Academy; and confident in my introductions, and in the possession of those invaluable treasures which adorned my portfolio, I marched up to the trial at Somerset-house, with all the assurance which the union of vanity and ignorance could inspire. Conceive my astonishment and dismay when my drawings were handed back to me with the observation, that though not without talent, they did not indicate that progress in the art which would justify my admission as a pupil.

"At first the shock which my pride had received almost unnerved me; but the spirits of youth are elastic. Gradually I began to think of the matter with more calmness, and determining to shame the fools who had thus attempted to suppress my rising genius, I walked with my portfolio under my arm towards the Strand, where the print-sellers most do congregate, resolved to throw myself on the liberality of a discerning public.

"I thought I saw a smile on Mr. Ackermann's face as he looked over my collection, and observed the prices which I had ostentatiously emblazoned in pencil on the corners. He said nothing, however; but, opening a portfolio which lay on the counter, he laid before me a number of drawings by the first artists in London, which even my optics, disordered as they were by vanity, could not fail to perceive were infinitely superior to anything I could yet hope to produce. The best of these, young gentleman,' said he, we sell at about half the price you put upon yours.'

"I walked away without saying a word. My eyes were opened to my own defects, in comparison with the superiority of the rivals with whom I had to contend, and to the bleakness of my prospects; but I saw not how I was to cure the former, or to improve the latter. As I passed a print-shop in Fleet-street, on my way home to my solitary lodging near the Temple Garden, I turned almost mechanically towards the window. It was crowded with engravings from Lawrence's portraits, West's historical pieces, and Turner's landscapes; and some etchings by Callot lay in the corner. I had never before seen any of this artist's works; and I was strangely fascinated by the grotesque horrors of those strange exhibitions of diablerie in which the Fleming has displayed his wonderful powers of drawing and composition, and the wild and ghastly fertility of his imagination. Another spectator seemed to be not less attracted than myself; for I had found him gazing at them when I came up, and when I turned to go he was still

lingering over them, as if bound by some of those spells which they represented. Curiosity induced me to give a glance towards him. It was my old school-fellow and fellow-draftsman, Walter Chesterton, who had come up to London for the purpose of pursuing his studies in the art about two years before.

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He recognised me the instant I laid my hand upon his shoulder. My heart was opened by the recollection of our old acquaintance, and by the want I felt of consolation and advice; so I poured out to him -not my plans, for I had none—but the whole history of my hopes and disappointments. He entered into my feelings with much warmth and cordiality. Your history,' said he, is that of most young artists from the country. I will not flatter you so far as to say, your chance is great, or your prospects very inviting. I believe you have a very considerable turn for drawing; but nothing but severe and regular study can ever enable you to turn it to account. You must give up all thoughts of taking the town by storm, and submit to a steady course of professional study and application. In time, I have no doubt, you will do well; that is, as well as any of us,' added he, smiling. But come home and dine with me in the meantime, and we shall talk the matter over more leisurely.'

"Chesterton's lodgings were situated in one of the narrow streets running off from the Strand towards the river. The windows of his room looked out on the broad and majestic Thames, on the surface of which the shadows of the tall buildings of Southwark, projected far out upon the stream by the almost horizontal rays of a November sun, lay dark and gloomy. The declining light, reddened by the frost fog which had begun to ascend, streamed faintly into a large and comfortably furnished apartment, crowded with portfolios, panels, painting implements, sketches, fragments of armour, dresses, and all the usual litter of a painter's study. On the easel was a half-finished sketch, which excited my attention. No figure was visible in it, yet I have seldom seen a painting which told more impressively a story of terror. The scene represented a bed-room, in which the only light visible was from a lamp, which seemed to have been overturned, and lay expiring on the floor. Its flickering ray fell on some glittering object which seemed either a knife or a dagger; a lady's slipper, stained with blood, lay on the carpet. Behind, upon a bed, appeared extended some vague, shadowy, indefinite heap, to which the fancy could not give either a figure or a name. A door into the room stood half opened on the right, at which the foot and part of the leg of a man were visible, as if leaving the apartment.

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"I have been trying an experiment,' said Chesterton, with this sketch. I have always been of opinion, that we paint too much to the eye, and too little to the imagination, and that a more powerful effect might often be produced by indicating, rather than fully expressing, the idea intended to be conveyed. Fuseli understood this subject pretty well, but he could not resist the temptation of parading his anatomical knowledge, and power of drawing; so he has too often, in his treatment of subjects of a terrible or supernatural cast, ruined his effects, by crowding his canvass with figures, or attempting to embody, in visible outline, what should have been left in the palpable

obscure of the imagination. It is the same thing with those etchings of Callot. Indistinctness is the true source of supernatural terrorthere can be no diablerie in daylight; and those hags and demons of his, which, palled in vapour or clouds, might have been solemn and impressive, seem only crazed old women of bedlam, when brought forward into the fore-ground, and lighted up with those trumpery sulphureous flames, and the other pyrotechnic contrivances of the lower world.'

"While he was speaking, I happened to cast my eyes towards the corner of the room, which was gradually becoming dusky, the sun having now dipped behind the patent-shot manufactory on the opposite side of the river. I started ;-for a figure, enveloped in a white mantle, seemed to be stretching out its hands towards me from the gloom.

"Don't be afraid,' said my friend, smiling, as he saw me draw back, it is only my lay-figure, from which I had been sketching this morning, before we met, for a picture of the apparition in the tent of Brutus. By the by,' he continued, stepping up to the figure, and removing the large cloth which had been thrown over its limbs, 'I am rather proud of this figure, for it is mainly my own work. A layfigure, of the best sort, as you will learn when you come to purchase one, is rather expensive; and as you know I have a tolerable turn for mechanics, it occurred to me that I might manage matters at a cheaper rate. I applied to a young medical friend of mine to procure me a skeleton in good condition-fit to keep, as the advertisements have it, in any climate-which he did. How or where he got it, I did not then inquire-I conjectured from some resurrectionist or other, for he was hand in glove with all those fellows; but so it was, it was as fresh and complete, and the bones as sound, as if it had never smelt cold earth at all. Perhaps, as Hamlet says, the man may have been a tanner. No matter; with the assistance of a few springs and wires at the shoulders, elbows, and knees, I soon found I could make it assume any position I might require, just as well, if not better, than nine out of ten of the artificial figures to be found in the shops. I have covered its nakedness, as you see, with very decent raiment from my old wardrobe; and as the hollow of the skull used to look somewhat grinning and gloomy upon me in sketching by candlelight, I shaded them with an old mask, and a superannuated periwig of my father's, which by some accident had dropped into my trunk. The only thing that annoys me, is, that the skull seems to have a strange leaning to one side, as if the owner had a crick in his neck while alive. I have done all I could to correct this propensity, but I fear I shall not get quit of it entirely without breaking the collar-bone on both sides, which I am rather unwilling to do.'

"So saying, he removed the mask and wig, and showed me a bare and bleached skull, rising above the stuffed doublet which he had wound round the rest of the figure. I could see distinctly enough, as he pointed it out to me, the visible leaning of the head to the right. The white scalp rising over the hollow eyes and gaping jaws below, formed a most singular contrast to the faded garb, apparently the poor remains of a surtout, in which the body, or rather the bones, of the