 poor Tinto, and laid him down as a load, upon the principle on
which a spoilt child throws away its plaything. Misery, I fear, took him up, and
accompanied him to a premature grave, to which he was carried from an obscure
lodging in Swallow Street, where he had been dunned by his landlady within
doors, and watched by bailiffs without, until death came to his relief. A corner
of the Morning Post noticed his death, generously adding, that his manner
displayed considerable genius, though his style was rather sketchy; and referred
to an advertisement, which announced that Mr. Varnish, a well-known printseller,
had still on hand a very few drawings and paintings by Richard Tinto, Esquire,
which those of the nobility and gentry, who wish to complete their collections
of modern art, were invited to visit without delay. So ended Dick Tinto! a
lamentable proof of the great truth, that in the fine arts mediocrity is not
permitted, and that he who cannot ascend to the very top of the ladder, will do
well not to put his foot upon it at all.
    The memory of Tinto is dear to me, from the recollection of the many
conversations which we have had together, most of them turning upon my present
task. He was delighted with my progress, and talked of an ornamented and
illustrated edition, with heads, vignettes, and culs de lampe, all to be
designed by his own patriotic and friendly pencil. He prevailed upon an old
sergeant of invalids to sit to him in the character of Bothwell, the
life-guard's-man of Charles the Second, and the bellman of Gandercleugh in that
of David Deans. But while he thus proposed to unite his own powers with mine for
the illustration of these narratives, he mixed many a dose of salutary criticism
with the panegyrics which my composition was at times so fortunate as to call
forth.
    »Your characters,« he said, »my dear Pattieson, make too much use of the gob
box; they patter too much - (an elegant phraseology, which Dick had learned
while painting the scenes of an itinerant company of players) - there is nothing
in whole pages but mere chat and dialogue.«
    »The ancient philosopher,« said I in reply, »was wont to say, Speak, that I
may know thee; and how is it possible for an author to introduce his personæ
dramatis to his readers in a more interesting and effectual manner, than by the
dialogue in which each is represented as supporting his own appropriate
character?«
    »It is a
