Once upon a time there was an artist with historical leanings not unassociated with the desire for pelf—­pelf being, even to idealists, what petrol is to a car.  The blend brought him one day to Portsmouth, where the Victory lies, with the honourable purpose of painting a picture of that famous ship with NELSON on board.  What the ADMIRAL was doing I cannot say—­most probably dying—­but the artist’s intention was to make the work as attractive as might be and thus draw a little profit from the wave of naval enthusiasm which was then passing over the country; for not only was the picture itself to be saleable, but reproductions were to be made of it.

Permission having been obtained from the authorities, the artist boarded the Victory, set up his easel on her deck and settled down to his task, the monotony of which was pleasantly alleviated by the chatter of the old salts who guard the ship and act as guides to the tourists who visit her.  All of these estimable men not only possessing views on art, but having come by now to the firm belief that they had fought with NELSON, their criticisms were not too easily combated and the artist hadn’t a tedious moment.  Thus, painting, conversing and learning (as one can learn only from a trained imparter of information), three or four days passed quickly away and the picture was done.

So far there has been nothing—­has there?—­to strain credulity.  No.  But a time will come—­is, in fact, upon us.

On the evening of the last day, as the artist was sitting at early dinner with a friend before catching the London train, his remarks turned (as an artist’s sometimes will) upon the work upon which he had just been engaged.  He expressed satisfaction with it in the main, but could not, he said, help feeling that its chances of becoming a real success would be sensibly increased if he could find as a model for the central figure some one whose resemblance to NELSON was noticeable.

“There are, of course,” he went on, “at the same time—­that is to say, among contemporaries—­no two faces exactly alike.  That is an axiom.  Strange as it may sound, among all the millions of countenances with two eyes, a nose in the middle and a mouth below it, some difference exists in each.  That is, as I say, among contemporaries:  in the world at this moment in which I am speaking.  But,” he continued, warming to his subject, for, as you will have already gathered, he was not one of the taciturn brush-brotherhood, “after the lapse of years I see no reason why nature should not begin precisely to reproduce physiognomies and so save herself the trouble of for ever diversifying them.  That being so—­and surely the hypothesis is not too far-fetched”—­here his friend said, “No, not at all—­oh no!”—­“why,” the artist continued, “should there not be at this moment, more than a century later, some one whose resemblance to NELSON is exact?  He would not be necessarily a naval man—­probably, indeed, not, for NELSON’s face was not characteristic of the sea—­but whoever he was, even if he were an archbishop, I,” said the painter firmly, “should not hesitate to go up to him and ask him to sit to me.”