never permitted him to doubt for a moment of ultimate success, threw
himself headlong into the crowd which jostled and struggled for notice
and preferment. He elbowed others, and was elbowed himself; and finally,
by dint of intrepidity, fought his way into some notice, painted for
the prize at the Institution, had pictures at the exhibition at Somerset
House, and damned the hanging committee. But poor Dick was doomed to
lose the field he fought so gallantly. In the fine arts, there is scarce
an alternative betwixt distinguished success and absolute failure; and
as Dick's zeal and industry were unable to ensure the first, he
fell into the distresses which, in his condition, were the natural
consequences of the latter alternative. He was for a time patronised
by one or two of those judicious persons who make a virtue of being
singular, and of pitching their own opinions against those of the world
in matters of taste and criticism. But they soon tired of 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 painings by Richard Tinto, Esquire, which those of
the nobility and gentry who might 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.