I mean to study him for a portrait; his sallow, clean-shaved, wrinkled face has a whole story in it.

I believe he is married to a Xantippe who throws cold water over him, both literally and metaphorically; but he is a philosopher--I'll stake my reputation as an observer on that--he just shrugs his sturdy old shoulders, and goes on mending clocks and watches.

On dark days he works by a gas jet--and then Rembrandt would enjoy painting him.

I look at him whenever my world is particularly awry, and find him highly beneficial.

Davison has forwarded me to-day two letters from readers of 'Lynwood.' The first is from an irate female who takes me to task for the dangerous tendency of the story, and insists that I have drawn impossible circumstances and impossible characters.