injustice, but that I am more alive to my own
injuries than to any other man's. Being, as I have
mentioned, in the Fine Art line, and not the
Philanthropic line, I openly admit it. As to
company in injury, I have company enough.
Who are you passing every day at your Competitive
Excruciations? The fortunate candidates
whose heads and livers you have turned upside-
down for life? Not you. You are really passing
the Crammers and Coaches. If your principle
is right, why don't you turn out to-morrow
morning with the keys of your cities on velvet
cushions, your musicians playing, and your
flags flying, and read addresses to the Crammers
and Coaches on your bended knees, beseeching
them to come out and govern you? Then, again,
as to your public business of all sorts, your
Financial statements and your Budgets; the
Public knows much, truly, about the real doers
of all that! Your Nobles and Right Honourables
are first-rate men? Yes, and so is a goose
a first-rate bird. But I'll tell you this about the
goose;—you'll find his natural flavour
disappointing, without stuffing.

Perhaps I am soured by not being popular?
But suppose I AM popular. Suppose my
works never fail to attract. Suppose that
whether they are exhibited by natural light or
by artificial, they invariably draw the public.
Then no doubt they are preserved in some
Collection? No they are not; they are not
preserved in any Collection. Copyright? No, nor
yet copyright. Anyhow they must be somewhere?
Wrong again, for they are often nowhere.

Says you, "at all events you are in a moody
state of mind, my friend." My answer is, I
have described myself as a public character with
a blight upon him—which fully accounts for the
curdling of the milk in that cocoa-nut.

Those that are acquainted with London, are
aware of a locality on the Surrey side of the
river Thames, called the Obelisk, or more
generally, the Obstacle. Those that are not
acquainted with London, will also be aware of it,
now that I have named it. My lodging is not
far from that locality. I am a young man of
that easy disposition, that I lie abed till it's
absolutely necessary to get up and earn something,
and then I lie abed again till I have spent it.

It was on an occasion when I had had to
turn to with a view to victuals, that I found
myself walking along the Waterloo-road, one
evening after dark, accompanied by an acquaintance
and fellow-lodger in the gas-fitting way of
life. He is very good company, having worked
at the theatres, and indeed he has a theatrical
turn himself and wishes to be brought out in
the character of Othello; but whether on
account of his regular work always blacking his
face and hands more or less, I cannot say.

"Tom," he says, "what a mystery hangs
over you!"

"Yes, Mr. Click"—the rest of the house
generally give him his name, as being first, front,
carpeted all over, his own furniture, and if not
mahogany, an out-and-out imitation—"Yes,
Mr. Click, a mystery does hang over me."

"Makes you low, you see, don't it?" says
he, eyeing me sideways.

"Why yes, Mr. Click, there are circumstances
connected with it that have," I yielded to a sigh,
"a lowering effect."

"Gives you a touch of the misanthrope too,
don't it?" says he. "Well, I'll tell you what.
If I was you, I'd shake it off."

"If I was you, I would, Mr. Click; but if you
was me, you wouldn't."

"Ah!" says he, "there's something in that."

When we had walked a little further, he took
it up again by touching me on the chest.

"You see, Tom, it seems to me as if, in the
words of the poet who wrote the domestic drama
of the Stranger, you had a silent sorrow there."

"I have, Mr. Click."

"I hope, Tom," lowering his voice in a
friendly way, "it isn't coining, or smashing?"

"No, Mr. Click. Don't be uneasy."

"Nor yet forg—— " Mr. Click checked himself,
and added, "counterfeiting anything, for
instance?"

"No, Mr. Click. I am lawfully in the Art
line—Fine Art line—but I can say no more."

"Ah! Under a species of star? A kind of a
malignant spell? A sort of a gloomy destiny?
A cankerworm pegging away at your vitals in
secret, as well as I make it out?" said Mr.
Click, eyeing me with some admiration.

I told Mr. Click that was about it, if we came
to particulars; and I thought he appeared
rather proud of me.

Our conversation had brought us to a crowd
of people, the greater part struggling for a
front place from which to see something on the
pavement, which proved to be various designs
executed in coloured chalks on the pavement-
stones, lighted by two candles stuck in mud
sconces. The subjects consisted of a fine fresh
salmon's head and shoulders, supposed to have
been recently sent home from the fishmonger's;
a moonlight night at sea (in a circle); dead
game; scroll-work; the head of a hoary hermit
engaged in devout contemplation; the head of
a pointer smoking a pipe; and a cherubim, his
flesh creased as in infancy, going on a horizontal
errand against the wind. All these subjects
appeared to me to be exquisitely done.

On his knees on one side of this gallery, a
shabby person of modest appearance who shivered
dreadfully (though it wasn't at all cold), was
engaged in blowing the chalk-dust off the moon,
toning the outline of the back of the hermit's
head with a bit of leather, and fattening the
down-stroke of a letter or two in the writing.
I have forgotten to mention that writing formed
a part of the composition, and that it also—as
it appeared to me—was exquisitely done. It
ran as follows, in fine round characters: "An
honest man is the noblest work of God. 1 2 3
4 5 6 7 8 9 0. £ s. d. Employment in an
office is humbly requested. Honour the Queen.
Hunger is a 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 sharp thorn.
Chip chop, cherry chop, fol de rol de ri do.
Astronomy and mathematics. I do this to support
my family."