None of George’s pictures sold. He has enough to tapestry Trafalgar Square. He has painted since he came back to England “The flaying of Marsyas;” “The smothering of the little boys in the Tower;” “A plague scene during the great pestilence;” “Ugolino on the seventh day after he was deprived of victuals,” &c. For although these pictures have great merit, and the writhings of Marsyas, the convulsions of the little prince, the look of agony of St. Lawrence on the gridiron, &c., are quite true to nature, yet the subjects somehow are not agreeable; and if he hadn’t a small patrimony, my friend George would starve.
Fondness for art leads me a great deal to this studio. George is a gentleman, and has very good friends, and good pluck too. When we were at Rome there was a great row between him and young Heeltap, Lord Boxmoor’s son, who was uncivil to Miss Rumbold; (the young scoundrel--had I been a fighting man I should like to have shot him myself!) Lady Betty Bulbul is very fond of Clara, and Tom Bulbul, who took George’s message to Heeltap, is always hanging about the studio. At least I know that I find the young jackanapes there almost every day; bringing a new novel, or some poisonous French poetry, or a basket of flowers, or grapes, with Lady Betty’s love to her dear Clara--a young rascal with white kids, and his hair curled every morning. What business has _he_ to be dangling about George Rumbold’s premises, and sticking up his ugly pug-face as a model for all George’s pictures?
Miss Clapperclaw says Bulbul is evidently smitten, and Clara too. What! would she put up with such a little fribble as that, when there is a man of intellect and taste who--but I won’t believe it. It is all the jealousy of women.
These gentlemen have two clubs in our quarter--for the butlers at the Indiaman, and for the gents in livery at the Paddington Arms--of either of which societies I should like to be a member. I am sure they could not be so dull as Our Club at the Poluphloisboio, where one meets the same neat clean respectable old fogies every day.
But with the best wishes, it is impossible for the present writer to join either the Plate Club or the Uniform Club (as these _réunions_ are designated), for one could not shake hands with a friend who was standing behind your chair--or nod a how-dye-do to the batter who was pouring you out a glass of wine;--so that what I know about the gents in our neighbourhood is from mere casual observation. For instance, I have a slight acquaintance with, 1, Thomas Spavin, who commonly wears the above air of injured innocence, and is groom to Mr. Joseph Green, of Our Street. “_I_ tell why the Brougham oss is out of condition, and why Desperation broke out all in a lather! Osses will this eavy weather; and Desperation was always the most mystest hoss I ever see.--_I_ take him out with Mr. Anderson’s ounds--I’m above it. I allis was too timid to ride to ounds by natur; and Colonel Sprigs’ groom as says he saw me, is a liar,” &c., &c.