“You are right, my friend—­you are right,” replied poor Dick, his eye kindling with enthusiasm; “why should I shun the name of an—­an—­(he hesitated for a phrase)—­an out-of-doors artist?  Hogarth has introduced himself in that character in one of his best engravings; Domenichino, or somebody else, in ancient times, Morland in our own, have exercised their talents in this manner.  And wherefore limit to the rich and higher classes alone the delight which the exhibition of works of art is calculated to inspire into all classes?  Statues are placed in the open air, why should Painting be more niggardly in displaying her masterpieces than her sister Sculpture?  And yet, my friend, we must part suddenly; the carpenter is coming in an hour to put up the—­the emblem; and truly, with all my philosophy, and your consolatory encouragement to boot, I would rather wish to leave Gandercleugh before that operation commences.”

We partook of our genial host’s parting banquet, and I escorted Dick on his walk to Edinburgh.  We parted about a mile from the village, just as we heard the distant cheer of the boys which accompanied the mounting of the new symbol of the Wallace Head.  Dick Tinto mended his pace to get out of hearing, so little had either early practice or recent philosophy reconciled him to the character of a sign-painter.

In Edinburgh, Dick’s talents were discovered and appreciated, and he received dinners and hints from several distinguished judges of the fine arts.  But these gentlemen dispensed their criticism more willingly than their cash, and Dick thought he needed cash more than criticism.  He therefore sought London, the universal mart of talent, and where, as is usual in general marts of most descriptions, much more of each commodity is exposed to sale than can ever find purchasers.

Dick, who, in serious earnest, was supposed to have considerable natural talents for his profession, and whose vain and sanguine disposition never permitted him to doubt for a moment of ultimate success, threw himself headlong into the crowd which jostled and struggled for notice and preferment.  He elbowed others, and was elbowed himself; and finally, by dint of intrepidity, fought his way into some notice, painted for the prize at the Institution, had pictures at the exhibition at Somerset House, and damned the hanging committee.  But poor Dick was doomed to lose the field he fought so gallantly.  In the fine arts, there is scarce an alternative betwixt distinguished success and absolute failure; and as Dick’s zeal and industry were unable to ensure the first, he fell into the distresses which, in his condition, were the natural consequences of the latter alternative.  He was for a time patronised by one or two of those judicious persons who make a virtue of being singular, and of pitching their own opinions against those of the world in matters of taste and criticism.  But they soon tired of poor Tinto, and laid him down as a load, upon the principle