NOTES OF THE MONTH, 



The Lord Mayor has been gratified with a nice piece of gossip at 

 Guildhall, which was more particularly sweet from its being entirely 

 out of his jurisdiction. It appears that Mr. Turner, the artist, who 

 by a singular economy lias astonished his brethren of the brush by 

 becoming as rich as Dives, has waxed wroth against Mr. Tilt, the 

 publisher, of Fleet-street, for endeavouring to possess himself of some 

 few of the crumbs which have fallen from the rich man's table. The 

 fact was, that Mr. Tilt had purchased certain plates engraved from 

 Mr. Turner's drawings, in which that artist had a share, and thinking 

 these same engravings would sell better on a reduced scale, employed 

 the same gentleman that executed the larger work to effect its faith- 

 ful transposition on a smaller and more commodious scale. The 

 hysterical feeling which this intimation caused to the artist can only 

 be conceived by the greedy glutton who witnesses the bouleversement 

 of the soup tureen before he has secured his second plateful. During 

 the paroxysm of his agony he rushed to the Lord Mayor, imploring 

 the magistrate to secure him a portion of the spoil. Sir Peter was 

 an unlucky referee. The unhappy old gentleman knew as much of 

 artists and publishers as a sow does of saddle-making : had it been a 

 case of leather it would have been a different thing. Mr. Tilt, whose 

 character as a tradesman stands too high for Mr. Turner or Mr. Any- 

 body-else to touch, stood upon his right that is, his copyright for 

 which he gave upwards of a hundred pounds. Part of this had al- 

 ready gilded the breeches-pockets of the insatiable Turner ; but it 

 had only served to whet his lathe. Industry, however, hath not al- 

 ways its reward. The arguments of the artist were Greek at Guild- 

 hall ; there was no show of sympathy only one point told. Mr. Tilt 

 sturdily stood to his right, and challenged him to try its merits. 

 f ' Sir," said the publisher, " you have not a leg to stand upon, and 

 you know it !" " Sir," responded the angry man of parts a gleam 

 of waggery breaking through his distress " I know no such thing; 

 / have two !" The worshippers of Gog grinned. To speak seriously, 

 Mr. Turner calls himself a distinguished man, and certainly with 

 good reason ; but we would humbly suggest, that the road to distinc- 

 tion does not lie through Cheapside and the Poultry, neither will he 

 raise his reputation by sketches from Guildhall and the Compter. A 

 word more, and we have done. We once knew a printseller he is 

 dead now, poor fellow ! who used to relate an anecdote touching 

 our distinguished friend. Mr. Turner one day entered the shop of 

 the tradesman, and inquired for the engraving of a particular picture 

 of Claude's. The tradesman could not possibly understand the exact 

 engraving he was anxious to see, until, to end the matter, he placed 

 a sheet of paper and a pencil before the artist, and desired him to 

 sketch the engraving he could not explain. Turner regarded him 

 with the wary look of one who apprehends the abstraction of his coin 

 by some unsatisfactory process; then thrusting his tongue into his 

 cheek, he significantly ejaculated, " No go V " Sir," said the 

 tradesman, < ' when you were a poor boy and I befriended you, you 



