hear of him. His heart is made of pure gold.
You think that all the wit belongs to the big people. Look at me, you
great tall man! Am I not a hundred times cleverer than you are? Yes, and
John James is worth a thousand such insignificant little chits as I
am; and he is as tall as me too, sir. Do you hear that! One day I am
determined he shall dine at Lord Todmorden's table, and he shall get the
prize at the Royal Academy, and be famous, sir--famous!"

"Well, Miss C., I wish he may get it; that's all I say," answers Mr.
Ridley. "The poor fellow does no harm, that I acknowledge; but I never
see the good he was up to yet. I wish he'd begin it; I du wish he would
now." And the honest gentleman relapses into the study of his paper.

All those beautiful sounds and thoughts which Miss Cann conveys to him
out of her charmed piano, the young artist straightway translates into
forms; and knights in armour, with plume, and shield, and battle-axe;
and splendid young noblemen with flowing ringlets, and bounteous plumes
of feathers, and rapiers, and russet boots; and fierce banditti with
crimson tights, doublets profusely illustrated with large brass buttons,
and the dumpy basket-hilted claymores known to be the favourite weapon
with which these whiskered ruffians do battle; wasp-waisted peasant
girls, and young countesses with oh, such large eyes and the lips!--all
these splendid forms of war and beauty crowd to the young draughtsman's
pencil, and cover letter-backs, copybooks, without end. If his hand
strikes off some face peculiarly lovely, and to his taste, some fair
vision that has shone on his imagination, some houri of a dancer, some
bright young lady of fashion in an opera-box, whom he has seen, or
fancied he has seen (for the youth is short-sighted, though he hardly
as yet knows his misfortune)--if he has made some effort extraordinarily
successful, our young Pygmalion hides away the masterpiece, and he
paints the beauty with all his skill; the lips a bright carmine, the
eyes a deep, deep cobalt, the cheeks a dazzling vermilion, the ringlets
of a golden hue; and he worships this sweet creature of his in secret,
fancies a history for her; a castle to storm, a tyrant usurper who keeps
her imprisoned, and a prince in black ringlets and a spangled cloak, who
scales the tower, who slays the tyrant, and then kneels gracefully at
the princess's feet, and says, "Lady, wilt thou be mine?"

There is a kind lady in the neighbourhood,