So a committee was formed some time ago, which is still sitting; that is, they dine with the mayor every day to talk over the subject.

A few days since, to my great surprise, they made their appearance in my poor studio, and desired to be favoured with a sight of some of my paintings; well, I showed them some, and, after looking at them with great attention, they went aside and whispered.

'He'll do,' I heard one say; 'Yes, he'll do,' said another; and then they came to me, and one of them, a little man with a hump on his back, who is a watchmaker, assumed the office of spokesman, and made a long speech--( the old town has been always celebrated for orators)--in which he told me how much they had been pleased with my productions--( the old town has been always celebrated for its artistic taste) and, what do you think?
offered me the painting of the mayor's portrait, and a hundred pounds for my trouble.

Well, of course I was much surprised, and for a minute or two could scarcely speak; recovering myself, however, I made a speech, not so eloquent as that of the watchmaker, of course, being not so accustomed to speaking; but not so bad either, taking everything into consideration, telling them how flattered I felt by the honour which they had conferred in proposing to me such an undertaking; expressing, however, my fears that I was not competent to the task, and concluding by saying what a pity it was that Crome was dead.

'Crome,' said the little man, 'Crome; yes, he was a clever man, a very clever man in his way; he was good at painting landscapes and farm-houses, but he would not do in the present instance, were he alive.