The apartment of an enthusiastic genius, whose ambitions seem to have taken various forms of expression. Music, painting, sculpture, literature, chemistry, and other arts and sciences seem to have occupied his attention by turns, and instruments suggestive of the respective pursuits are muddled up with domestic details incidental to the confinement of a wife and family to one solitary chamber, together with the utensils of cookery, besides the food itself. The genius has left his rest under the impulse of an inspiration; he has an old nightcap worn over his wig, and is still in his night-shirt, with down-at-heel slipper on one foot, and a ragged stocking on the other. He is seated, in an attitude expressive of sudden exaltation before an easel which bears the canvas he is filling out with rapid energy; his left hand grasps a pen, and a black cat in demanding attention has fixed her claws in his unclad limbs; but the artist is so absorbed in his subject as to be unconscious of pain; miscellaneous litter, a bust, a palette, and a sheaf of brushes, paint-pots, a still and furnace, books, scales, syringes, a fiddle, and a post horn are scattered behind the easel. The female companion of this genius is tranquilly sleeping in an easy attitude through all the confusion; on the table by the bedstead (on which her husband's garments are displayed) is a coffee-pot and some suggestions of breakfast; an unclad infant is leaning over the table, and pouring gin into a wineglass. Another semiclad child is seated on a tub before a blazing fire, amusing herself with the bellows, and is in danger from a steaming kettle and a red-hot poker. Food, knives, forks, plates, and a pewter quart-pot are at the artist's feet; he has just kicked over a large porringer of milk, and is heedless of the mischief. Lamps, caudle-boats, strings of candles, and bunches of onions are the decorations of the chimneypiece; ragged clothes and unmended stockings are hanging over a rope stretched across the chamber; on the wall is hung a smart three-cornered hat and a sword by the side of pictures of 'Aerostation' and the portraits of a ballet-dancer and 'Peter Tester.' Rowlandson has put his own name to the print as the 'inventor;' the satire is very unsparing, and the squalor he has attributed to his professional brother is of the direst and most ludicrous description, but the figure of the painter is marked with vigorous characteristics, and the outline of the face which he has bestowed on his erratic genius, designedly or not, bears a suggestive resemblance to his own strongly-defined features. _April 4, 1812._ _In the Dog Days._ Published by T. Rowlandson, 1 James Street, Adelphi. Now the weather's sultry grown, Sweating late and early. Better far to lay alone-- Oh! we swelter rarely!