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
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, stop, Mr. Pesca--before you go to your
friend, you had better take a note.' 'Bank-note!' I say, indignantly.
'No bank-note, if you please, till my brave Englishman has earned it
first.' 'Bank-note!' says Papa, in a great surprise, 'who talked of
bank-note? I mean a note of the terms--a memorandum of what he is
expected to do. Go on with your lesson, Mr. Pesca, and I will give you
the necessary extract from my friend's letter.' Down sits the man of
merchandise and money to his pen, ink, and paper; and down I go once
again into the Hell of Dante, with my three young Misses after me. In
ten minutes' time the note is written, and the boots of Papa are
creaking themselves away in the passage outside. From that moment, on
my faith, and soul, and honour, I know nothing more! The glorious
thought that I have caught my opportunity at last, and that my grateful
service for my dearest friend in the world is as good as done already,
flies up into my