picture which, when exhibited, won very favourable notice. There is very often a good deal in a name, although the divine William was not of that opinion, and very probably the title in this case, 'He loved not wisely but too well,' suggested by that bottle, may have had something to do with its success. I was three hours laying in that picture, during which time no model was ever more quiescent. But to return to the latter end of the Colonel's wasted life. He seemed daily to sink lower and lower still-so much so, that I had at last to give orders that he should not be admitted. Then for a short time he reformed; with a suit of clothes which I gave him, and which to my astonishment he actually wore, it seemed just probable he might turn over a new leaf. Shortly after this, he came to my studio with a flower in his buttonhole; he saw that I remarked it, so, in a stage whisper, told me that 'she' had given it to him. 'She' was the fair daughter of the keeper of a small coffee-shop in Hammersmith, where he lodged. 'She,' moreover, like Desdemona

Loved him for the dangers he had passed, And he loved her that she did pity them. They were married.

A year elapsed-he called again. At a glance, I saw the Bottle Imp had been bothering him. A dirty, tattered silk handkerchief was in his hand; he wept copiously-'she' was dead.

'Fatesh againsh me; mother-in-law shays 's my fault, shusan't marry if I cusan't 'ford it. I always (hic) hated mur-ers-in-laws. They've driven losh o' fellows t' despration.'

I never saw him again, though, about five years since, I heard he had become a teetotaller, vegetarian, and, above all, a pew-opener; two kindly old ladies had taken him up, and were doing their best to make a saint of him. Let us hope they effected that which two wives had failed to do.

I heard also, thus partially reformed, his virtues grew apace; he kept the children quiet in Sunday school, and assisted the district visitors to distribute alms, and then in the very odour of sanctity-died. A few weeks since, however, his death was contradicted; he is said to be alive and flourishing, so I yet expect to see him any day at my studio, either distributing tracts with a pious smile, or assuring me that 'Muser'n-law's mishtake; orter b' done away with by ac'r parlement.'

I must not forget another characteristic model-an attenuated youth, whose sole recommendation is his hair, which hangs in wavy curls over his narrow shoulders. Since he was nine years old, those golden locks have been his main support; he is now eighteen, and till a short time since he stuck to them as his sole stock-in-trade. His parents did all that could be done in the shape of sailors' suits and knickerbockers, but these at last became too ridiculous. Then those ringlets were tied up and worn under cover of a conical hat, in consequence of which he had stiff necks and colds innumerable; so down they came

again, till at last, becoming the butt of all the boys he met, he went one day to a barber's shop, and, in a fit of desperation, had a close crop, becoming thus for the first time for many years like an ordinary being. Othello's occupation was gone. Without his locks, he was, as the Americans say, 'nowhere in particular,' so he got his late patrons for whom he sat to give him old brushes, paints, and canvases, and set up as a painter on his Own account. He had seen them do it, and that was enough for him. I fear he will never be a R.A. His efforts do not look much like it yet; but-who knows?-he may.

'So pleased to make your-Mr. Montagu, I think-Mr. Irving Montagu; ah yes, of course-so very pleased to make your personal acquaintance, after all I have heard about you from my husband. Do you happen to have just a moment to spare? Ah, thank you; then I will come in, for it's a little draughty out here in your anteroom, and ever since his accident, which has compelled me to be out and about, I've suffered a good deal from rheumatism in the left shoulder; so I will come in just for a moment, as I want to ask you a

question, though George would rather starve than let me do it-that he would, if he only knew. Poor fellow! he suffers terribly.'

The lady who in one breath addresses you as above is a diplomatist of the first water. Some years ago she was known throughout the length and breadth of Studioland as a clever impostor, for whom, however, old haunts were getting too hot, and this may account for my not having seen her lately. Her leading point, it will be seen, is the illness of her husband, backed up by his acquaintance with you. This naturally leads to inquiries on your part as to the nature of his ailment, which affords her the chance of telling her story, which she does more or less as follows:

'Lor' bless me, you don't say so! Haven't heard of it? How odd, to be sure! So many eminent men know all about it, I quite took it for granted you did. Lor' bless me!' Then with this short preamble, in which you blush to find yourself at least in the estimation of one humble individual an eminent man, she commences :—

Times were very bad

'Well, you see, it was this way. owing to poor George not getting his picture hung at last year's Academy, which took him ten months to paint if it took him a day, and a bill becoming due at about the same time which he--poor, kind-hearted fellow-had no right, being married as he was, to put his name to. One morning, I remember, he said, "As long as none of my old friends at the Hogarth and Langham are likely to find me out (and I don't see why they should), I think I shall accept an offer which was made me yesterday to do some mural decoration in a house in Park Lane.' Well, if you'll believe me—and I'm sure you will-poor George got up at half-past five every morning, and was at that house at six to the tick of the clock, never coming home till seven in the evening, till one day, to my surprise and horror, he came home at three, or rather, I should say, was brought home in a cab. He had fallen from a high scaffolding and seriously fractured his hip-joint, and there he has been, on his back, ever since, propped up on pillows, and fed with a spoon. Ah yes, you may well say so. It has indeed been a sad trial to both of us, though I don't mind what I do, however humiliating, as long as I can earn enough to supply that poor dear's necessities' (here come a flood of tears,

which interrupt the recital for several seconds); 'but now, Mr. Montagu, now that my guitar has gone, what am I to do?'

The guitar not having been before mentioned, you naturally make inquiries as to what a guitar has to do with it. Then she wipes her eyes and continues :

‘Oh, there, I'm so flurried; I really hardly do know what I'm saying or doing. I ought to have told you that ever since his illness I've been going out at night, wearing a thick veil, and playing my guitar round the fashionable squares, thus getting the wherewithal on which to live, which I managed to do without any one being any the wiser, till a fortnight ago, when we had that fearful east wind-you will remember? It was then that I was laid up for four or five days with a touch of bronchitis, and had at the end of that time to pawn my guitar. Yes-would you believe I could be reduced to such straits ?I actually pawned my guitar, and since the small amount I got on it has gone, poor George and I have been absolutely starving; though I must say all the artists I've been to so far have, without a single exception,'—this with a withering look at me, 'subscribed to this list.' Whereupon she produces at this stage a much-thumbed piece of white foolscap paper from a musty-looking envelope, on the top of which sheet, in large letters, is written: 'We, the undersigned, have much pleasure in subscribing towards Mrs. George Perkyns' guitar.' For Perkyns (Perkyns with the y) is the name she would have you recall as that of your old and injured friend - her husband. Then come the names of at least eight or nine Academicians and four or five Associates, with various small amounts attached to each; and to these, if you are young and innocent, you add your name. The experience is cheap at the price-two or three shillings—after all, for you never by any chance see Mrs. George Perkyns again; she has a most excellent memory, never calling twice on the same individual.

There are many models whose reputation does not extend beyond their legs or arms; while, as I have already shown, there are others only valued for their hair, some again for their faces and not their figures, others for their figures and not their faces. Thus, with the expression, 'A good arm, sir,' a model will sometimes lay bare his biceps and shake his fist

in a manner which might look like a dangerous menace to an outsider who happened to turn up at that moment, who would probably be equally astonished to see an otherwise circumspect damsel in every-day costume dilating professionally on the good points of her own calf and ankle, which by placing her foot on a chair she is better able to display. I once knew a model who was a mystery. Her figure was exquisite; she had the contour of the Venus de Milo, but she had no head. Do not be startled by this-I speak professionally. She had the most utterly unpaintable head that model ever possessed, from the fact that she always kept a thick veil of double crape wrapped so closely over her tight bulky bonnet, that to see her features was impossible; besides which, she seldom spoke, and when she did, it was always in monosyllables.

Of course, all sorts of surmises were raised. Was she too beautiful or too terrible to look upon? Had she committed some social offence, and feared her face might some day find her out-that she might by some unhappy chance be recognised?

There were stories innumerable told of the veiled model; yet I believe, till she mysteriously disappeared from artistic circles some years ago, nothing whatever was actually known about her, save that in manner she was unmistakeably a woman of breeding, whose age, when I saw her last, about twelve years ago, must have been two or three-and-twenty, as far as one could judge without seeing her face.

One summer's evening, three or four years since, I was putting away my brushes after a long day's work, when my attention was attracted by a voice in the passage, the sound of which was curiously familiar.

'Tell him it's me-Somerville; Somerville-don't forget the name. Knew him in Paris, also at Plevna, when attached to the Commissariat; saw his name and address in a catalogue, and, as I happened to be in the neighbourhood, thought I would run in. Odd, isn't it?-very odd. Look sharp! and don't forget the name's Somerville.'

This was followed by a shrill whistle, which was responded to by the pit-a-pat of mongrel feet.

'Crunch, poor Crunch! Heels, sir-heels.'