thing, he didn't trouble with lights and shades, but went slap at the
features.

His brush would never have kept him; but he carried an instrument, in
the use of which he was really an artist, viz., his tongue. By wheedling
and underselling--for he only charged a pound for the painted canvas--he
contrived to live; then he aspired to dress as well as live. With this
second object in view, he hit upon a characteristic expedient.

He used to prowl about, and when he saw a young woman sweeping the
afternoon streets with a long silk train, and, in short, dressed to ride
in the park, yet parading the streets, he would take his hat off to
her, with an air of profound respect, and ask permission to take her
portrait. Generally he met a prompt rebuff; but if the fair was so
unlucky as to hesitate a single moment, he told her a melting tale; he
had once driven his four-in-hand; but by indorsing his friends' bills,
was reduced to painting likeness, admirable likenesses in oil, only a
guinea each.

His piteous tale provoked more gibes than pity, but as he had no shame,
the rebuffs went for nothing: he actually did get a few sitters by his
audacity: and some of the sitters actually took the pictures, and paid
for them; others declined them with fury as soon as they were finished.
These he took back with a piteous sigh, that sometimes extracted half
a crown. Then he painted over the rejected one and let it dry; so that
sometimes a paid portrait would present a beauty enthroned on the debris
of two or three rivals, and that is where few beauties would object to
sit.

All this time he wrote nice letters to Phoebe, and adopted the tone