It’s amusing to pick out some one going by, make up your mind about his character and tastes, dash out of the office and hit him flying with an offer of the very place he wants to go to.  I don’t think there was a scalper on the continent made fewer blunders.  But I took it only as a stage.  I was saving every dollar; I was looking ahead.  I knew what I wanted—­wealth, education, a refined home, and a conscientious, cultured lady for a wife; for, Mr. Dodd”—­this with a formidable outcry—­“every man is bound to marry above him:  if the woman’s not the man’s superior, I brand it as mere sensuality.  There was my idea, at least.  That was what I was saving for; and enough, too!  But it isn’t every man, I know that—­it’s far from every man—­could do what I did:  close up the livest agency in Saint Jo, where he was coining dollars by the pot, set out alone, without a friend or a word of French, and settle down here to spend his capital learning art.”

“Was it an old taste?” I asked him, “or a sudden fancy?”

“Neither, Mr. Dodd,” he admitted.  “Of course I had learned in my tin-typing excursions to glory and exult in the works of God.  But it wasn’t that.  I just said to myself, What is most wanted in my age and country?  More culture and more art, I said; and I chose the best place, saved my money, and came here to get them.”

The whole attitude of this young man warmed and shamed me.  He had more fire in his little toe than I had in my whole carcase; he was stuffed to bursting with the manly virtues; thrift and courage glowed in him; and even if his artistic vocation seemed (to one of my exclusive tenets) not quite clear, who could predict what might be accomplished by a creature so full-blooded and so inspired with animal and intellectual energy?  So, when he proposed that I should come and see his work (one of the regular stages of a Latin Quarter friendship), I followed him with interest and hope.

He lodged parsimoniously at the top of a tall house near the Observatory, in a bare room, principally furnished with his own trunks and papered with his own despicable studies.  No man has less taste for disagreeable duties than myself; perhaps there is only one subject on which I cannot flatter a man without a blush; but upon that, upon all that touches art, my sincerity is Roman.  Once and twice I made the circuit of his walls in silence, spying in every corner for some spark of merit; he, meanwhile, following close at my heels, reading the verdict in my face with furtive glances, presenting some fresh study for my inspection with undisguised anxiety, and (after it had been silently weighed in the balances and found wanting) whisking it away with an open gesture of despair.  By the time the second round was completed, we were both extremely depressed.

“O!” he groaned, breaking the long silence, “it’s quite unnecessary you should speak!”

“Do you want me to be frank with you?  I think you are wasting time,” said I.