ord of colour--fagged and toiled
at sentence after sentence, with the greatest of pains. One afternoon,
one of my articles being at length finished, I thrust it, contented and
happy, into my pocket, and betook myself to the "commandor." It was
high time I made some arrangement towards getting a little money again;
I had only a few pence left.

The "commandor" requested me to sit down for a moment; he would be
disengaged immediately, and he continued writing.

I looked about the little office--busts, prints, cuttings, and an
enormous paper-basket, that looked as if it might swallow a man, bones
and all. I felt sad at heart at the sight of this monstrous chasm, this
dragon's mouth, that always stood open, always ready to receive
rejected work, newly crushed hopes.

"What day of the month is it?" queried the "commandor" from the table.

"The 28th," I reply, pleased that I can be of service to him, "the
28th," and he continues writing. At last he encloses a couple of
letters in their envelopes, tosses some papers into the basket, and
lays down his pen. Then he swings round on his chair, and looks at me.
Observing that I am still standing near the door, he makes a
half-serious, half-playful motion with his hand, and points to a chair.

I turn aside, so that he may not see that I have no waistcoat on, when
I open my coat to take the manuscript out of my pocket.

"It is only a little character sketch of Correggio," I say; "but
perhaps it is, worse luck, not written in such a way that...."

He takes the papers out of my hand, and commences to go through them.
His face is turned towards me.

And so it is thus he looks at close quarters, this man, whose name I
had already heard in my earliest youth, and whose paper had exercised
the greatest influence upon me as the years advanced? His hair is
curly, and his beautiful brown eyes are a little restless. He has a
habit of tweaking his nose now and then. No Scotch minister could look
milder than this truculent writer, whose pen always left bleeding scars
wherever it attacked. A peculiar feeling of awe and admiration comes
over me in the presence of this man. The tears are on the point of
coming to my eyes, and I advanced a step to tell him how heartily I
appreciated him, for all he had taught me, and to beg him not to hurt
me; I was only a poor bungling wretch, who had had a sorry enough time
of it as it was....

He looked up, and placed my manuscript slowly together, whils