Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 439 | Page 7

more, that there is too much blue. And now do as you like; and if you do not think you have enough, you can put more.'
'This is entirely too bad!' cried the now exasperated sign-painter. 'You are an old fool, and know nothing of painting. I should like to see you make a sky without blue.'
'I do not say I am a good hand at a sky; but if I did set about it, there should be no blue.'
'A pretty job it would be!'
'It would look like something, at all events.'
'That is as much as to say mine is like nothing at all.'
'No indeed, for it is very like a dish of spinach, and very like a vile daub, or like anything else you please.'
'A dish of spinach! a vile daub!' cried the artist of Brabant in a rage. 'I, the pupil of Ruysdael--I, fourth cousin to Gerard Dow! and you pretend to know more of my art than I do--an art I have practised with such credit at Antwerp, Louvain, and Liege! A dish of spinach, indeed!' And by this time the fury of the insulted painter had increased to such a degree, that he seized David by the arm, and shaking him violently, added: 'Do you know, you old dotard, that my character has been long established? I have a red horse at Mechlin, a stag at Namur, and a Charlemagne at Aix-la-Chapelle, that no one has ever seen without admiring!'
'This is beyond all patience,' said David; and suddenly extricating himself from the man's grasp, and snatching his palette from him, he was up the ladder in an instant, shouting: 'Wait awhile, and you shall have yourself to admire, with your fool's pate and your ass's ears!'
'Stop, stop, you villain!' roared the luckless artist, pale with consternation. 'My splendid sign! A painting worth thirty-five francs! I am ruined and undone!' And he continued shaking the ladder, and pouring out a torrent of abuse upon David, who, caring neither for the reproaches of his victim, nor for the crowd that the sudden clamour had attracted, went on pitilessly effacing the 'Break of Day,' and mingling in one confused mass sky and sun, and trees and figures; or what was intended, at least, to represent them. And now--not less rapid in creating than in destroying--and with the lightest possible touch of his brush, the new sign-painter sketched and finished, with magic rapidity, a sky with the gray tints of early dawn, and a group of three men, glass in hand, watching the rising sun; one of these figures being a striking likeness of the whitewasher, shewn at once by his bushy eyebrows and snub-nose.
The crowd, that had at first shewn every inclination to take the part of their countryman against a stranger unfairly interfering with him, now stood quietly watching the outlines as they shone through the first layers of colour, and shouts of applause burst from them as the figures grew beneath the creative hand of the artist. The tavern-keeper himself now swelled the number of admirers, having come out to ascertain the cause of the tumult; and even the fourth-cousin of Gerard Dow felt his fury fast changing into admiration.
'I see it all now,' he said to those nearest him in the crowd. 'He is a French or Dutch sign-painter, one of ourselves, and he only wanted to have a joke against me. It is but fair to own that he has the real knack, and paints even better than I do.'
The artist to whom this equivocal compliment was paid, was now coming down from the ladder amid the cheers of the spectators, when a new admirer was added to them in the person of a man who, mounted on a fine English horse, seemed inclined to ride over the crowd in his eagerness to get a good view of the painting.
'That picture is mine!' he exclaimed; 'I will have it. I will buy it, even if I have to cover it with guineas!'
'What do you mean?' asked the tavern-keeper.
'I mean, that I will give any price you choose to name for that sign,' answered the stranger.
'The picture is not to be sold, young man; I could not think of parting with it,' said the whitewasher with as much paternal pride as if it had been indeed his workmanship.
'Certainly not,' said the vender of beer; 'for it has been already sold, and partly paid for in advance. The picture is mine; and, though not very anxious to dispose of it, yet, perhaps, we may come to some understanding, and make a bargain.'
'Not so fast,' said the dauber; 'the sign belongs to me, and my brother-artist was only kindly giving me a helping-hand. It is my lawful property; and if this gentleman wants to buy it, he must deal