“Very well,” said Gatty. “Then I'll say but one word more, and it is this. The artifice of painting is old enough to die; it is time the art was born. Whenever it does come into the world, you will see no more dead corpses of trees, grass and water, robbed of their life, the sunlight, and flung upon canvas in a studio, by the light of a cigar, and a lie--and--” “How much do you expect for your picture?” interrupted Jones. “What has that to do with it? With these little swords” (waving his brush), “we'll fight for nature-light, truth light, and sunlight against a world in arms--no, worse, in swaddling clothes.” “With these little swerrds,” replied poor old Groove, “we shall cut our own throats if we go against people's prejudices.” The young artist laughed the old daubster a merry defiance, and then separated from the party, for his lodgings were down the street. He had not left them long, before a most musical voice was heard, crying: “A caallerr owoo!” And two young fishwives hove in sight. The boys recognized one of them as Gatty's sweetheart. “Is he in love with her?” inquired Jones. Hyacinth the long-haired undertook to reply. “He loves her better than anything in the world except Art. Love and Art are two beautiful things,” whined Hyacinth. “She, too, is beautiful. I have done her,” added he, with a simper. “In oil?” asked Groove. “In oil? no, in verse, here;” and he took out a paper. “Then hadn't we better cut? you might propose reading them,” said poor old Groove. “Have you any oysters?” inquired Jones of the Carnie and the Johnstone, who were now alongside. “Plenty,” answered Jean. “Hae ye ony siller?” The artists looked at one another, and didn't all speak at once. “I, madam,” said old Groove, insinuatingly, to Christie, “am a friend of Mr. Gatty's; perhaps, on that account, you would _lend_ me an oyster or two.” “Na,” said Jean, sternly. “Hyacinth,” said Jones, sarcastically, “give them your verses, perhaps that will soften them.” Hyacinth gave his verses, descriptive of herself, to Christie. This youngster was one of those who mind other people's business. _Alienis studiis delectatus contempsit suum._ His destiny was to be a bad painter, so he wanted to be an execrable poet. All this morning he had been doggreling, when he ought to have been daubing; and now he will have to sup off a colored print, if he sups at all. Christie read, blushed, and put the verses in her bosom. “Come awa, Custy,” said Jean. “Hets,” said Christie, “gie the puir lads twarree oysters, what the waur will we be?” So they opened the oysters for them; and Hyacinth the long-haired looked down on the others with sarcastico-benignant superiority. He had conducted a sister art to the aid of his brother brushes. “The poet's empire, all our hearts allow; But doggrel's power was never known till now.” CHAPTER VII.