say when I got into my own life and my own
clothes again?"

"Much more than was at all necessary," I
answered, as doggedly as possible; for the least
encouragement in connexion with this subject
invariably let loose the Professor's emotions in
a flood of tears.

"I said," persisted Pesca, "that my life
belonged to my dear friend, Walter, for the rest
of my days — and so it does. I said that I
should never be happy again till I had found the
opportunity of doing a good Something for
Walter— and I have never been contented with
myself till this most blessed day. Now," cried
the enthusiastic little man at the top of his
voice, "the overflowing happiness bursts out of
me at every pore of my skin, like a perspiration;
for on my faith, and soul, and honour, the
Something is done at last, and the only word to say
now, is— Right-all-right!"

It may be necessary to explain, here, that
Pesca prided himself on being a perfect Englishman
in his language, as well as in his dress,
manners, and amusements. Having picked up
a few of our most familiar colloquial expressions,
he scattered them about over his conversation
whenever they happened to occur to him, turning
them, in his high relish for their sound and
his general ignorance of their sense, into
compound words and repetitions of his own, and
always running them into each other, as if they
consisted of one long syllable.

"Among the fine London houses where I
teach the language of my native country," said
the Professor, rushing into his long-deferred
explanation without another word of preface,
"there is one, mighty fine, in the big place
called Portland. You all know where that is?
Yes, yes— course-of-course. The fine house, my
good dears, has got inside it a fine family. A
Mamma, fair and fat; three young Misses, fair
and fat; two young Misters, fair and fat; and a
Papa, the fairest and the fattest of all, who is a
mighty merchant, up to his eyes in gold— a fine
man once, but seeing that he has got a naked
head and two chins, fine no longer at the present
time. Now mind! I teach the sublime Dante
to the young Misses, and ah!— my-soul-bless-my-
soul!— it is not in human language to say how
the sublime Dante puzzles the pretty heads of
all three! No matter— all in good time— and
the more lessons the better for me. Now mind!
Imagine, to yourselves that I am teaching the
young Misses to-day, as usual. We are all four
of us down together in the Hell of Dante. At
the Seventh Circle— but no matter for that: all
the Circles are alike to the three young Misses,
fair and fat,— at the Seventh Circle, nevertheless,
my pupils are sticking fast; and I to set
them going again, recite, explain, and blow
myself up red-hot with useless enthusiasm, when—
a creak of boots in the passage outside, and in
comes the golden Papa, the mighty merchant
with the naked head and the two chins.— Ha!
my good dears, I am closer than you think for
to the business, now. Have you been patient,
so far? or have you said to yourselves, 'Deuce-
what-the-deuce! Pesca is long-winded tonight?"

We declared that we were deeply interested.
The Professor went on:

"In his hand, the golden Papa has a letter;
and after he has made his excuse for disturbing
us in our Infernal Region with the common
mortal business of the house, he addresses
himself to the three young Misses, and begins, as
you English begin everything in this blessed
world that you have to say, with a great O.
'O, my dears,' says the mighty merchant, 'I
have got here a letter from my friend, Mr.
——' (the name has slipped out of my mind;
but no matter; we shall come back to that: yes,
yes— right-all-right). So the Papa says, 'I have
got a letter from my friend, the Mister; and he
wants a recommend from me, of a drawing-
master, to go down to his house in the country.'
My-soul-bless-my-soul! when I heard the golden
papa say those words, if I had been big enough
to reach up to him, I should have put my arms
round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom
in a long and grateful hug! As it was, I only
bounced upon my chair. My seat was on thorns,
and my soul was on fire to speak; but I held
my tongue, and let Papa go on. 'Perhaps
you know,' says this good man of money,
twiddling his friend's letter this way and that,
in his golden fingers and thumbs, 'perhaps you
know, my dears, of a drawing-master that I can
recommend?' The three young Misses all look
at each other, and then say (with the indispensable
great O to begin) 'O, dear no, Papa! But
here is Mr. Pesca——' At the mention of
myself I can hold no longer— the thought of
you, my good dears, mounts like blood to my
head— I start from my seat, as if a spike had
grown up from the ground through the bottom
of my chair— I address myself to the mighty
merchant, and I say (English phrase), 'Dear
sir, I have the man! The first and foremost
drawing-master of the world! Recommend him
by the post to-night, and send him off, bag and
baggage (English phrase again— ha?), send him
off, bag and baggage, by the train to-morrow!'
'Stop, stop,' says the Papa, 'is he a foreigner or
an Englishman?' 'English to the bone of his
back,' I answer. 'Respectable?' says Papa.
'Sir,' I say (for this last question of his
outrages me, and I have done being familiar with
him), 'Sir! the immortal fire of genius burns
in this Englishman's bosom, and, what is more,
his father had it before him!' 'Never mind,'
says the golden barbarian of a Papa, 'never mind
about his genius, Mr. Pesca. We don't want
genius in this country, unless it is accompanied
by respectability— and then we are very glad to
have it, very glad indeed. Can your friend
produce testimonials— letters that speak to his
character?' I wave my hand negligently.
'Letters?' I say. 'Ha! my-soul-bless-my-
soul! I should think so, indeed! Volumes of
letters and portfolios of testimonials, if you
like?' 'One or two will do,' says this man of
phlegm and money. 'Let him send them to
me, with his name and address. And— stop,