Look at him, and he will sign to you with his bloated head, and when you go to him in answer to the sign, thinking perhaps that the poor dumb man has lost his way, you will see what he writes upon his slate.

He haunts the doors of schools, and shows such inscriptions as these to the innocent children that come out.

He hangs about picture-galleries, and makes the noblest pictures the text for some silent homily of vice.

His industry is a lesson to ourselves.

Is it not wonderful how he can triumph over his infirmities and do such an amount of harm without a tongue?
Wonderful industry--strange, fruitless, pleasureless toil?
Must not the very devil feel a soft emotion to see his disinterested and laborious service?
Ah, but the devil knows better than this: he knows that this man is penetrated with the love of evil and that all his pleasure is shut up in wickedness: he recognises him, perhaps, as a fit type for mankind of his satanic self, and watches over his effigy as we might watch over a favourite likeness.