On his knees on one side of this gallery, a shabby person of modest appearance who shivered dreadfully (though it wasn’t at all cold), was engaged in blowing the chalk-dust off the moon, toning the outline of the back of the hermit’s head with a bit of leather, and fattening the down-stroke of a letter or two in the writing.  I have forgotten to mention that writing formed a part of the composition, and that it also—­as it appeared to me—­was exquisitely done.  It ran as follows, in fine round characters:  “An honest man is the noblest work of God. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 0.  Pounds s. d.  Employment in an office is humbly requested.  Honour the Queen.  Hunger is a 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 sharp thorn.  Chip chop, cherry chop, fol de rol de ri do.  Astronomy and mathematics.  I do this to support my family.”

Murmurs of admiration at the exceeding beauty of this performance went about among the crowd.  The artist, having finished his touching (and having spoilt those places), took his seat on the pavement, with his knees crouched up very nigh his chin; and halfpence began to rattle in.

“A pity to see a man of that talent brought so low; ain’t it?” said one of the crowd to me.

“What he might have done in the coach-painting, or house-decorating!” said another man, who took up the first speaker because I did not.

“Why, he writes—­alone—­like the Lord Chancellor!” said another man.

“Better,” said another.  “I know his writing.  He couldn’t support his family this way.”

Then, a woman noticed the natural fluffiness of the hermit’s hair, and another woman, her friend, mentioned of the salmon’s gills that you could almost see him gasp.  Then, an elderly country gentleman stepped forward and asked the modest man how he executed his work?  And the modest man took some scraps of brown paper with colours in ’em out of his pockets, and showed them.  Then a fair-complexioned donkey, with sandy hair and spectacles, asked if the hermit was a portrait?  To which the modest man, casting a sorrowful glance upon it, replied that it was, to a certain extent, a recollection of his father.  This caused a boy to yelp out, “Is the Pinter a smoking the pipe your mother?” who was immediately shoved out of view by a sympathetic carpenter with his basket of tools at his back.

At every fresh question or remark the crowd leaned forward more eagerly, and dropped the halfpence more freely, and the modest man gathered them up more meekly.  At last, another elderly gentleman came to the front, and gave the artist his card, to come to his office to-morrow, and get some copying to do.  The card was accompanied by sixpence, and the artist was profoundly grateful, and, before he put the card in his hat, read it several times by the light of his candles to fix the address well in his mind, in case he should lose it.  The crowd was deeply interested by this last incident, and a man in the second row with a gruff voice growled to the artist, “You’ve got a chance in life now, ain’t you?” The artist answered (sniffing in a very low-spirited way, however), “I’m thankful to hope so.”  Upon which there was a general chorus of “You are all right,” and the halfpence slackened very decidedly.