Murmurs of admiration at the exceeding
beauty of this performance went about among
the crowd. The artist having finished his touching
(and having spoilt those places), took his seat
on the pavement with his knees crouched up very
nigh his chin; and halfpence began to rattle in.

"A pity to see a man of that talent brought
so low; ain't it?" said one of the crowd to me.

"What he might have done in the coach-painting,
or house-decorating!" said another man, who
took up the first speaker because I did not.

"Why he writes—alone—like the Lord
Chancellor!" said another man.

"Better," said another. "I know his writing.
He couldn't support his family this way."

Then, a woman noticed the natural fluffiness
of the hermit's hair, and another woman, her
friend, mentioned of the salmon's gills that you
could almost see him gasp. Then, an elderly
country gentleman stepped forward and asked
the modest man how he executed his work? And
the modest man took some scraps of brown
paper with colours in 'em out of his pockets and
showed them. Then a fair-complexioned donkey
with sandy hair and spectacles, asked if the
hermit was a portrait? To which the modest
man, casting a sorrowful glance upon it, replied
that it was, to a certain extent, a recollection of
his father. This caused a boy to yelp out, "Is
the Pinter a smoking the pipe, your mother?"
who was immediately shoved out of view by a
sympathetic carpenter with his basket of tools at
his back.

At every fresh question or remark, the crowd
leaned forward more eagerly, and dropped the
halfpence more freely, and the modest man
gathered them up more meekly. At last, another
elderly gentleman came to the front, and gave
the artist his card, to come to his office
tomorrow and get some copying to do. The card
was accompanied by sixpence, and the artist
was profoundly grateful, and, before he put the
card in his hat, read it several times by the
light of his candles to fix the address well in his
mind, in case he should lose it. The crowd was
deeply interested by this last incident, and a man
in the second row with a gruff voice, growled to
the artist, "You've got a chance in life now, ain't
you?" The artist answered (sniffing in a very
low-spirited way, however), "I'm thankful to
hope so." Upon which there was a general
chorus of "You are all right," and the halfpence
slackened very decidedly.

I felt myself pulled away by the arm, and Mr.
Click and I stood alone at the corner of the next
crossing.

"Why, Tom," said Mr. Click, "what a horrid
expression of face you've got!"

"Have I?" says I.

"Have you?" says Mr. Click. "Why you
looked as if you would have his blood."

"Whose blood?"

"The artist's."

"The artist's!" I repeated. And I laughed,
frantically, wildly, gloomily, incoherently,
disagreeably. I am sensible that I did. I know
I did.

Mr. Click stared at me in a scared sort of a
way, but said nothing until we had walked a
street's length. He then stopped short, and said,
with excitement on the part of his fore-finger:

"Thomas, I find it necessary to be plain with
you. I don't like the envious man. I have
identified the cankerworm that's pegging away
at your vitals, and it's envy, Thomas."

"Is it?" says I.

"Yes, it is," says he. "Thomas, beware of
envy. It is the green-eyed monster which never
did and never will improve each shining hour,
but quite the reverse. I dread the envious
man, Thomas. I confess that I am afraid of the
envious man, when he is so envious as you
are. Whilst you contemplated the works of a
gifted rival, and whilst you heard that rival's
praises, and especially whilst you met his humble
glance as he put that card away, your
countenance was so malevolent as to be terrific.
Thomas, I have heard of the envy of them that
follows the Fine Art line, but I never believed
it could be what yours is. I wish you well, but
I take my leave of you. And if you should ever
get into trouble through knifeing—or say,
garotting—a brother artist, as I believe you will,
don't call me to character, Thomas, or I shall be
forced to injure your case."

Mr. Click parted from me with those words,
and we broke off our acquaintance.

I became enamoured. Her name was
Henerietta. Contending with my easy disposition, I
frequently got up to go after her. She also
dwelt in the neighbourhood of the Obstacle,
and I did fondly hope that no other would
interpose in the way of our union.

To say that Henerietta was volatile, is but to
say that she was woman. To say that she was
in the bonnet-trimming, is feebly to express the
taste which reigned predominant in her own.

She consented to walk with me. Let me do
her the justice to say that she did so upon
trial. "I am not," said Henerietta, "as yet
prepared to regard you, Thomas, in any other
light than as a friend; but as a friend I am
willing to walk with you, on the understanding
that softer sentiments may flow."

We walked.

Under the influence of Henerietta's beguilements,
I now got out of bed daily. I pursued
my calling with an industry before unknown,
and it cannot fail to have been observed at that
period, by those most familiar with the streets
of London, that there was a larger supply——
but hold! The time is not yet come!

One evening in October, I was walking with
Henerietta, enjoying the cool breezes wafted
over Vauxhall Bridge. After several slow turns,
Henerietta gaped frequently (so inseparable from
woman is the love of excitement), and said,
"Let's go home by Grosvenor-place, Piccadilly,
and Waterloo"—localities, I may state for the
information of the stranger and the foreigner,
well known in London, and the last a Bridge.

"No. Not by Piccadilly, Henerietta," said I.

"And why not Piccadilly, for goodness' sake?"
said Henerietta.