a drayman heaving up a huge tankard, overshadowing his face
like Mount Atlas turned over his thumb, designs to illustrate classical
mythology, outlines expressing the ideas of Goethe--outlines of
Marguerite and Faust among the roses--"He loves me; he loves me not,"
big-armed Flemish beauties with breasts as broad as the Zuyder-Zee was
deep in the song, roofs of Nuremberg, revolutionary heroes charging
their muskets in the famous year '48, when Alere had a bullet through
his hat, in Vienna, I think; no end to them.

Sometimes when Alere had done no work for a month or two, and his ten
pounds were spent, if he wanted a few guineas he would take a small
selection of these round to the office of a certain illustrated paper;
the Editor would choose, and hand over the money at once, well aware
that it was ready money his friend needed. They were not exactly
friends--there are no friends in London, only acquaintances--but a
little chummy, because the Editor himself had had a fiery youth, and
they had met in sunny Wien. That was the only paper that ever got
sketches out of Alere.

If only Alere would have gone and sketched what he was _asked_ to
sketch! Ah! there is the difference; he could not do it, his nature
would not let him; he could draw what he saw with his own eyes, but not
what other people wanted him to see. A merry income he might have made
if he would only have consented to see what other eyes--common, vulgar
eyes--wanted to see, and which he could so easily have drawn for them.

Out of these piles of varied sketches there were two kinds the Editor
instantly snapped at: the one was wild flowers, the other little
landscape bits.

Wild flowers were his passion. They were to Flamma as Juliet to Romeo.
Romeo's love, indeed, rushed up like straw on fire, a great blaze of
flame; he perished in it as the straw; perhaps he might not have
worshipped Juliet next year. Flamma had loved his wild flowers close
upon forty years, ever since he could remember; most likely longer, for
doubtless the dumb infant loved the daisies put in his chubby hand.

His passion they were still as he drew near fifty, and saw all things
become commonplace. That is the saddest of thoughts--as we grow older
the romance fades, and all things become commonplace.

Half our lives are spent in wishing for to-morrow, the other half in
wishing for yesterday.

Wild flowers alone never become commonplace. The white wood-sorrel at
the foot of the oak