Mr. Crucible retired to his
chamber to try some chemical experiment, and Mr. Oldstone, finding
himself deserted, had nothing left him to do but to look over his
cabinet of curiosities. Let us return to our artist and his model. How happy they both are! Both
of them young and good-looking, and left all to themselves. With what
inspiration the hand of the painter glides over his canvas, and how the
face of the pretty Helen brightens up every time the artist refreshes
his memory by taking a peep at her from behind his easel. There is no
affectation in the expression or the pose of the sitter, it is quite
easy and natural, and beautifully simple. She does not seem conscious
she is sitting for her portrait. Every now and then, after working in silence for some twenty minutes or
so, McGuilp breaks the monotony by some pleasing remark or question, to
which the maiden replies charmingly. Sometimes she in her turn will ask
him questions about Italy, and whether the country and the people are
the same as in England. "No, Helen," McGuilp replies; "not the same. Italy is warmer, the sky
bluer, and grapes grow in the open air along the road side. The people's
faces are darker and their language more musical than ours. They are all
Roman Catholics; but, alas, the government is bad, and the country is
infested with brigands, who attack travellers in the mountains and
sometimes keep them as hostages till their friends can be sent for to
pay any ransom they may choose to ask, in default of which their victims
are tortured and maimed in the most inhuman manner." "Oh, what horrid wretches! I was just going to say, before you told me
that, what a paradise Italy must be to live in! But I don't think I
should like to live there now." "Well, these are drawbacks, I admit," said McGuilp, "but, nevertheless,
Italy is a very charming country. Fancy a land where every peasant makes
his own wine--good wine, and cheap, too. What merrymakings they have,
too, on their feast days, and how picturesque their costume!" "Ah! do tell me how they are dressed. I should so like to know." "Would you, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Then, as the sitting is now at an
end, being past twelve o'clock, I will let you look over my portfolio. You will find some studies that I have made both of men and women in the
costumes of the Roman peasantry." "Oh, do show them to me," exclaimed Helen, in delight. "I am so curious
to see what they are like. Did you say it was past twelve o'clock? I
began my sitting at nine, and it does not seem to me more than
half-an-hour that I have been here." And I have no doubt she spoke the truth. Happy moments are short. Alas! how rapidly time glides away in youth, and how provokingly long it
appears when we have most reason to wish it should pass quickly. As
Helen was engaged in admiring the studies and sketches of McGuilp our
host knocked at the door to ask if his daughter could be spared, as her
mother wanted her aid in the affairs of the house. "Oh, certainly," said McGuilp; "but I must have another good sitting
to-morrow." "Very well, sir. May I be permitted to look at the portrait?" asked the
landlord. "You may look," replied our artist; "but I warn you the likeness is not
striking at present." "Gramercy, sir!" exclaimed the landlord, in ecstasy; "if it is not my
girl herself already!" "Ah! my good host, wait until I have had some half dozen sittings or so,
and then look again," said McGuilp. Our landlord then looked approvingly over our artist's portfolio, and
said, "Ah, sir, it is a noble art." Helen was delighted with her portrait, of course, and equally so with
the contents of the portfolio. McGuilp complimented her upon her
sitting, and Helen disappeared for the present. At one o'clock Helen reappeared with the lunch, and those members of the
club who remained at home met again over their frugal meal. They whiled
away the time until the evening with politics and a rubber at whist. At length the village clock struck the dinner hour, and all guests were
present. The dinner passed off merrily, and all awaited the story
anxiously. Our host and his daughter were invited to hear it, so having
filled their pipes and stirred the fire, Mr. Crucible, finding himself
loudly called upon, took a sip at his port and began his story. [Illustration]


CHAPTER IX. THE SPIRIT LEG.--THE ANALYTICAL CHEMIST'S STORY. Being left an orphan at an early age, I was consigned to the care of a
bachelor uncle, one Admiral Broadside, who instructed me almost entirely
himself until I reached the age of twelve. I was then sent to school,
where I went through a routine of learning taught to boys at that time,
and though I was backward in many things when I first entered the
school, I was a persevering scholar, and soon left behind me many boys
who had the start of me. I thus made enemies, and being of a retiring
disposition, owing to my previous education, I made but few friends. But let me return to my uncle. I have the liveliest recollection of the
old man with his weather-beaten face, his deep-set eyes, and
over-hanging black eyebrows, resembling a moustache rather than the
feature we usually see in their place. Well I remember the sheen and the
lustre of that rubicund nose, sprouting with grog-blossoms, the
iron-grey hair, and long pig-tail; his spectacles, with glasses as big
as a crown piece, his cocked hat, his uniform adorned with medals, and
his hobbling gait--for he had lost his right leg in an engagement,
and used as a substitute a wooden one. How well I can call to mind his
nautical language and his merry laugh; but, alas, I remember too well
also his angry frown, and the sundry thwackings that I got with a
"cat-o'-nine-tails," when I had "offended against discipline." From an infant he tried to instil into my young mind the glories of a
sea-faring life, and what a grand thing it was to fight for the honour
and glory of one's country. He told me that he had great interest in the
navy, and if I turned out a worthy nephew of his, he would get me on in
my career, and that he hoped I should never disgrace his name by showing
the white feather and turning landlubber. He tried to influence my youthful imagination with stories of
sea-fights, the capture of pirates, the manners and customs of foreign
countries, the merry crew on board, etc. He would cut out boats for me
from blocks of wood, and would rig out and launch them in a fish pond in
a garden behind his house. Up to a certain period in my youth my uncle's nautical stories and his
promises of pushing me on in life, if I answered his expectations, fired
my ambition, and I could talk of nothing else than of going to sea. My uncle having no children of his own, looked upon me as his son, and
said that I was just the sort of boy for him.