A gentleman of note employed Stuart to paint his own portrait and that of his wife, who, when he married her, was a very rich widow, but a very ordinary looking person. The husband was handsome, and of a noble figure, and the painter _hit him off_, to admiration. Not so with the lady; he flattered her as much as he could without destroying the likeness, but the husband was not satisfied, expressed his dissatisfaction in polite terms, and requested him to try again. He did so, without any better success. The husband now began to fret, when the painter losing his patience, jumped up, laid down his palette, took a huge pinch of snuff, and stalking rapidly up and down the room, exclaimed, “What a d--d business is this of a portrait painter--zounds, you bring a _potato_, and expect him to paint you a peach.” STUART’S MARK. Stuart, it is said, never signed but one picture in his life, and that was his own portrait, before mentioned, on which he wrote _Gilbert Charles Stuart_. Dr. Waterhouse says, “his parents named him after his father, and Charles the Pretender, but Stuart soon dropt the Charles, as he was a staunch republican. When asked why he did not sign his pictures, he replied, “I mark them all over.” STUART AND HIS DOG. In the early part of Stuart’s career as a portrait painter in London, he had for his attendant a wild boy, the son of a poor widow, who spent half his time in frolicking with a fine Newfoundland dog belonging to his master. The boy and dog were inseparable companions, and when Tom went on an errand, Towzer must accompany him. Tom was a terrible truant, and played so many tricks upon Stuart, that he again and again threatened to discharge him. One day, out of all patience at his long absence, he posted off to his mother, in a rage, to dismiss him. The old woman, perceiving a tempest, _began first_, and told a pitiful story, how his dog had upset her mutton pie, broke the dish, greased the floor, and devoured the meat. “I am glad of it; you encourage the rascal to come here, and here I will send him.” An idea struck Stuart, and he consented to keep Tom, on condition that she kept his visit a profound secret. When the boy returned, he found his master at his easel, and being roundly lectured, he told a story that had no relation to his mother, Towzer, or the pie. “Very well,” said the painter, “bring in dinner, I shall know all about it by-and-by.” Stuart sat down to his dinner, and Towzer took his accustomed place by his side, while Tom stood in attendance. “Well, Towzer, your mouth don’t water for your share; where have you been?” and he put his ear to the dog’s mouth, “I thought so, with Tom’s mother, ha!” “Bow-wow.” “And have you had your dinner?” “Bow.” “I thought so; what have you been eating? Put your mouth nearer, sir. Mutton-pie; very pretty. So you and Tom have eaten Mrs. Jenkins’ mutton-pie, have you?” “Bow-wow.” “He lies, sir,” exclaimed