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IT IS very extraordinary, but when my feelings are most fervent, and at their best, my tongue and my hands alike seem tied. I cannot reproduce my impressions either in words, or in painting, as I feel them burning within me. And yet I am an artist, my eye tells me so, and all who have seen my sketches and notes acknowledge the same.
I am only a poor lad, and I live in one of the narrowest streets; but light is not wanting to me, for I live high up, and I have a fine view over the roof. For the first few days when I came to live in the town, it seemed very cramped and lonely. Instead of green woods and hills, I only had chimney pots on my horizon. I had not a single friend, and there was not even the face of an acquaintance to greet me.
One evening I was standing sadly by the window. I opened it and looked out, and there, how pleased I was! I saw a face I knew, a round friendly face, my best friend at home. It was the moon, the dear old moon, unchanged, and looking exactly the same as he used to look when he peeped
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