Could I tell her? Could I confess to the
gloomy presentiment that overshadowed me?
Could I make myself intelligible to her? No.

"I don't like Piccadilly, Henerietta."

"But I do," said she. "It's dark now, and
the long rows of lamps in Piccadilly after dark
are beautiful. I will go to Piccadilly!"

Of course we went. It was a pleasant night,
and there were numbers of people in the streets.
It was a brisk night, but not too cold, and not
damp. Let me darkly observe, it was the best
of all nights—FOR THE PURPOSE.

As we passed the garden-wall of the Royal
Palace, going up Grosvenor-place, Henerietta
murmured,

"I wish I was a Queen!"

"Why so, Henerietta?"

"I would make you Something," said she,
and crossed her two hands on my arm, and
turned away her head.

Judging from this that the softer sentiments
alluded to above had begun to flow, I adapted
my conduct to that belief. Thus happily we
passed on into the detested thoroughfare of
Piccadilly. On the right of that thoroughfare is a
row of trees, the railing of the Green Park,
and a fine broad eligible piece of pavement.

"O my!" cried Henerietta, presently. "There's
been an accident!"

I looked to the left, and said, "Where,
Henerietta?"

"Not there, stupid," said she. "Over by
the Park railings. Where the crowd is! O no,
it's not an accident, it's something else to look
at! What's them lights?"

She referred to two lights twinkling low
amongst the legs of the assemblage: two candles
on the pavement.

"O do come along!" cried Henerietta, skipping
across the road with me;—I hung back, but
in vain. "Do let's look!"

Again, designs upon the pavement. Centre
compartment, Mount Vesuvius going it (in a
circle), supported by four oval compartments,
severally representing a ship in heavy weather,
a shoulder of mutton attended by two cucumbers,
a golden harvest with distant cottage of
proprietor, and a knife and fork after nature; above
the centre compartment a bunch of grapes, and
over the whole a rainbow. The whole, as it
appeared to me, exquisitely done.

The person in attendance on these works of
art was in all respects, shabbiness excepted,
unlike the former person. His whole appearance
and manner denoted briskness. Though threadbare,
he expressed to the crowd that poverty
had not subdued his spirit or tinged with any
sense of shame this honest effort to turn his
talents to some account. The writing which
formed a part of his composition was conceived
in a similarly cheerful tone. It breathed the
following sentiments: "The writer is poor but
not despondent. To a British 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0
Public he £ s. d. appeals. Honour to our brave
Army! And also 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 to our
gallant Navy. BRITONS STRIKE the A B C D
E F G writer in common chalks would be grateful
for any suitable employment HOME! HURRAH!"
The whole of this writing appeared to me to be
exquisitely done.

But this man, in one respect like the last,
though seemingly hard at it with a great show
of brown paper and rubbers, was only really
fattening the down-stroke of a letter here and
there, or blowing the loose chalk off the rainbow,
or toning the outside edge of the shoulder
of mutton. Though he did this with the greatest
confidence, he did it (as it struck me) in so
ignorant a manner, and so spoilt everything he
touched, that when he began upon the purple
smoke from the chimney of the distant cottage
of the proprietor of the golden harvest (which
smoke was beautifully soft), I found myself
saying aloud, without considering of it:

"Let that alone, will you?"

"Halloa!" said the man next me in the
crowd, jerking me roughly from him with his
elbow, "why didn't you send a telegram? If
we had known you was coming, we'd have
provided something better for you. You
understand the man's work better than he does
himself, don't you? Have you made your will?
You're too clever to live long."

"Don't be hard upon the gentleman, sir,"
said the person in attendance on the works of
art, with a twinkle in his eye as he looked at
me, "he may chance to be an artist himself.
If so, sir, he will have a fellow-feeling with me, sir,
when I"—he adapted his action to his words as
he went on, and gave a smart slap of his hands
between each touch, working himself all the
time about and about the composition—"when
I lighten the bloom of my grapes—shade off the
orange in my rainbow—dot the i of my Britons
—throw a yellow-light into my cow-cum-ber—
  insinuate another morsel of fat into my shoulder
of mutton—dart another zig-zag flash of lightning
at my ship in distress!"

He seemed to do this so neatly, and was so
nimble about it, that the halfpence came flying
in.

"Thanks, generous public, thanks!" said the
professor. "You will stimulate me to further
exertions. My name will be found in the list
of British Painters yet. I shall do better than
this, with encouragement. I shall indeed."

"You never can do better than that bunch of
grapes," said Henerietta. "O, Thomas, them
grapes!"

"Not better than that, lady? I hope for
the time when I shall paint anything but your
own bright eyes and lips, equal to life."

"(Thomas, did you ever?) But it must take
a long time, sir," said Henerietta, blushing, "to
paint equal to that."

"I was prenticed to it, Miss," said the young
man, smartly touching up the composition—
"prenticed to it in the caves of Spain and
Portingale, ever so long and two year over."

There was a laugh from the crowd; and a new
man who had worked himself in next me, said,
"He's a smart chap, too; ain't he?"

"And what a eye!" exclaimed Henerietta,
softly.