The dealers to whom he took them declined them; one advised the gentleman painter to color tea-boards.

"That's your line," said he.
"The world has no taste," said the gentleman painter: "but it has got lots of vanity: I'll paint portraits." He did; and formidable ones: his portraits were amazingly like the people, and yet unlike men and women, especially about the face.

One thing, he didn't trouble with lights and shades, but went slap at the features.
His brush would never have kept him; but he carried an instrument, in the use of which he was really an artist, viz., his tongue.

By wheedling and underselling--for he only charged a pound for the painted canvas--he contrived to live; then he aspired to dress as well as live.

With this second object in view, he hit upon a characteristic expedient.
He used to prowl about, and when he saw a young woman sweeping the afternoon streets with a long silk train, and, in short, dressed to ride in the park, yet parading the streets, he would take his hat off to her, with an air of profound respect, and ask permission to take her portrait.