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AN R.S.A. CHARACTER

of Harvey's. Said he: "I've eerd a good deal letly about 'Ope's 'Ut in the 'Unter's Bog, and 'Arvay doosn't lyke it; now if'Arvay was a lanscep penter, he would know that it's a gret himprovement to the scene." It is said-I know not with what amount of verity-that on one occasion when Harvey sent in for exhibition a Highland glen with deer in the foreground, Sam sent in a practically empty canvas, and on varnishing day, with amazing speed rushed a similar scene on to it, and the story goes-although again I do not vouch for it —that having put down the price of this hasty performance in the catalogue as £200, the red star for "sold" was affixed to it on the first day of the exhibition, while Harvey's was not starred. But having known Sam, I can vouch for it, that in spite of these cantrips, he was a kind-hearted man at bottom. When M'Culloch died, leaving unfinished pictures in his studio, Sam Bough went to the house,and spent much labour in making good what was unfinished, for the sake of the family, and this although he and the deceased Academician had not been on speaking terms for some time before the death. I have known of other kind and erous things done by him in a most unostentatious way. I have always felt that in these "digs," as I have called them, and from which Harvey was not the only sufferer, there was more of the rough joker than of the vindictive satirist.

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Two artists of the period call for notice-Sir Noël Paton and Sir George Reid, representing

the imaginative and the portrait branches of art, the latter President of the R.S.A. Many others might be mentioned. As already stated, most of them migrated to London, an action to be regretted, perhaps not for their own sakes, but for ours.

Those I have enumerated are of the interest

ing men of Edinburgh during my earlier years of manhood. There were others—many; but it is not possible to refer to all, and I therefore confine myself to those with whom I came into contact personally, or in connection with public business.

One other "character" calls for a word—and it is one of the fair sex. Sarah Sibbald, the lady who had a fruit-barrow at the corner of the old Theatre Royal, was known to all Edinburgh. Stout-very stout-and with a face as rubicund as the finest of herapples shesatandsold, no grufforder, "Move on there," making her afraid. Her character was as good as her fruit. So esteemed was she that when the sheds were put up for the erection of the new Post Office, the Board of Works installed her on a raised dais in the corner, where, sheltered from the weather, she carried on her business in great style. I remember my friend, Charles Doyle (Sir Conan's father), who was an official in the Works Office, seizing my arm, and pointing to Sarah on her throne, saying, "Isn't that grand?" It was. The only extant portrait of her does not, except as regards breadth, do her justice. Hers was a bright kindly face, with cheeks as rosy as

her best apples.

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