idea of degradation, in thus making a trade of his talents; and then, again, somewhat consoled by the pride of art; for how many felicitous and stinging epigrams arose in his mind! "It is," thought he, "a political warfare that I am carrying on, and ridicule is as good a weapon as any other."
Lost in meditated satire, he arrived at the shop of Mr. Lintot. It was larger, cleaner, and lighter, than the one that he had just left, and a strong smell of roast meat came from the regions below. He was not kept waiting an instant: "Mr. Lintot is expecting you," said the shopboy, who looked just fresh from the country; and he was shewn into his room. It was wonderfully airy for that part of town; and two nicely clean windows, with flowerpots on the sill, looked into a garden: at one of these was seated Mr. Lintot. Like all cockneys, he had rural tastes; and he always intended, when he had made a certain sum, that he would buy a small farm, and live in the country. He never, however, even to himself specified what the sum was to be.
