AT the commencement of the last chapter, Charles Gatty, artist, was going to usher in a new state of things, true art, etc. Wales was to be painted in Wales, not Poland Street. He and five or six more youngsters were to be in the foremost files of truth, and take the world by storm. This was at two o'clock; it is now five; whereupon the posture of affairs, the prospects of art, the face of the world, the nature of things, are quite the reverse. In the artist's room, on the floor, was a small child, whose movements, and they were many, were viewed with huge dissatisfaction by Charles Gatty, Esq. This personage, pencil in hand, sat slouching and morose, looking gloomily at his intractable model. Things were going on very badly; he had been waiting two hours for an infantine pose as common as dirt, and the little viper would die first. Out of doors everything was nothing, for the sun was obscured, and to all appearance extinguished forever. “Ah! Mr. Groove,” cried he, to that worthy, who peeped in at that moment; “you are right, it is better to plow away upon canvas blindfold, as our grandfathers--no, grandmothers--used, than to kill ourselves toiling after such coy ladies as Nature and Truth.” “Aweel, I dinna ken, sirr,” replied Groove, in smooth tones. “I didna like to express my warm approbation of you before the lads, for fear of making them jealous.” “They be--No!” “I ken what ye wad say, sirr, an it wad hae been a vara just an' sprightly observation. Aweel, between oursels, I look upon ye as a young gentleman of amazing talent and moedesty. Man, ye dinna do yoursel justice; ye should be in th' Academy, at the hede o' 't.” “Mr. Groove, I am a poor fainting pilgrim on the road, where stronger spirits have marched erect before me.” “A faintin' pelgrim! Deil a frights o' ye, ye're a brisk and bonny lad. Ah, sirr, in my juvenile days, we didna fash wi nature, and truth, an the like.” “The like! What is like nature and truth, except themselves?” “Vara true, sirr; vara true, and sae I doot I will never attain the height o' profeeciency ye hae reached. An' at this vara moment, sir,” continued Groove, with delicious solemnity and mystery, “ye see before ye, sir, a man wha is in maist dismal want--o' ten shellen!” (A pause.) “If your superior talent has put ye in possession of that sum, ye would obleege me infinitely by a temporary accommodation, Mr. Gaattie.” “Why did you not come to the point at once?” cried Gatty, bruskly, “instead of humbling me with undeserved praise. There.” Groove held out his hand, but made a wry face when, instead of money, Gatty put a sketch into his hand. “There,” said Gatty, “that is a lie!” “How can it be a lee?” said the other, with sour inadvertence. “How can it be a lee, when I hae na spoken?”