vain lately for my Loudon's
name, still I learn something of the life he is leading in that strange
Old World depicted by an able pen."

Here was a letter that no young man could possibly digest in solitude.
It marked one of those junctures when the confidant is necessary; and
the confidant selected was none other than Jim Pinkerton. My father's
message may have had an influence in this decision; but I scarce suppose
so, for the intimacy was already far advanced. I had a genuine and
lively taste for my compatriot; I laughed at, I scolded, and I loved
him. He, upon his side, paid me a kind of dog-like service of
admiration, gazing at me from afar off, as at one who had liberally
enjoyed those "advantages" which he envied for himself. He followed at
heel; his laugh was ready chorus; our friends gave him the nickname of
"The Henchman." It was in this insidious form that servitude approached
me.

Pinkerton and I read and re-read the famous news: he, I can swear, with
an enjoyment as unalloyed and far more vocal than my own. The statue was
nearly done: a few days' work sufficed to prepare it for exhibition; the
master was approached; he gave his consent; and one cloudless morning of
May beheld us gathered in my studio for the hour of trial. The master
wore his many-hued rosette; he came attended by two of my French
fellow-pupils--friends of mine, and both considerable sculptors in Paris
at this hour. "Corporal John" (as we used to call him), breaking for
once those habits of study and reserve which have since carried him so
high in the opinion of the world, had left his easel of a morning to
countenance a fellow-countryman in some suspense. My dear old Romney was
there by particular request; for who that knew him would think a
pleasure quite complete unless he shared it, or not support a
mortification more easily if he were present to console? The party was
completed by John Myner, the Englishman; by the brothers
Stennis--Stennis-_aine_, and Stennis-_frere_, as they used to figure on
their accounts at Barbizon--a pair of hare-brained Scots; and by the
inevitable Jim, as white as a sheet and bedewed with the sweat of
anxiety.

I suppose I was little better myself when I unveiled the Genius of
Muskegon. The master walked about it seriously; then he smiled.

"It is already not so bad," said he, in that funny English of which he
was so proud; "no, already not so bad."

We all drew a deep breath of relief; and Corporal Joh