Mr. Liston on this was guilty of the following inconsistency; he pressed the paint carefully out of the brush into the pot. Having thus economized his material, he hurled the pot which contained his economy at “the Johnstone,” he then adjourned to the “Peacock,” and “away at once with love and reason.” Thenceforth, when men asked who was Christie Johnstone's lad, the answer used to be, “She's seeking ane.” _Quelle horreur!!_ Newhaven doesn't know everything, but my intelligent reader suspects, and, if confirming his suspicions can reconcile him to our facts, it will soon be done. But he must come with us to Edinburgh; it's only three miles. CHAPTER VI. A LITTLE band of painters came into Edinburgh from a professional walk. Three were of Edinburgh--Groove, aged fifty; Jones and Hyacinth, young; the latter long-haired. With them was a young Englishman, the leader of the expedition, Charles Gatty. His step was elastic, and his manner wonderfully animated, without loudness. “A bright day,” said he. “The sun forgot where he was, and shone; everything was in favor of art.” “Oh, dear, no,” replied old Groove, “not where I was” “Why, what was the matter?” “The flies kept buzzing and biting, and sticking in the work. That's the worst of out o' doors!” “The flies! is that all? Swear the spiders in special constables next time,” cried Gatty. “We shall win the day;” and light shone into his hazel eye. “The world will not always put up with the humbugs of the brush, who, to imitate Nature, turn their back on her. Paint an out o' door scene indoors! I swear by the sun it's a lie! the one stupid, impudent lie that glitters among the lies of vulgar art, like Satan among Belial, Mammon and all those beggars. “Now look here; the barren outlines of a scene must be looked at, to be done; hence the sketching system slop-sellers of the Academy! but the million delicacies of light, shade, and color can be trusted to memory, can they? “It's a lie big enough to shake the earth out of her course; if any part of the work could be trusted to memory or imagination, it happens to be the bare outlines, and they can't. The million subtleties of light and color; learn them by heart, and say them off on canvas! the highest angel in the sky must have his eye upon them, and look devilish sharp, too, or he shan't paint them. I give him Charles Gatty's word for that.” “That's very eloquent, I call it,” said Jones. “Yes,” said poor old Groove, “the lad will never make a painter.” “Yes, I shall, Groove; at least I hope so, but it must be a long time first.” “I never knew a painter who could talk and paint both,” explained Mr. Groove.