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 lifeguard'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 personae 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 false conclusion," said Tinto; "I hate it, Peter, as I hate
an unfilled can. I grant you, indeed, that speech is a faculty of some
value in the intercourse of human affairs, and I will not even insist on
the doctrine of that Pythagorean toper, who was of opinion that over
a bottle speaking spoiled conversation. But I will not allow that a
professor of the fine arts has occasion to embody the idea of his scene