are most conscious of their existence and power. A few weeks saw him established in an upper room in one of those small gloomy streets made for the poor, and in which every city abounds, devoting himself to study and composition, with all the energy of hope, and the delight of present occupation. What a falsehood it is to say that genius and industry are incompatible! Does one work of genius exist that has not also been a work of labour?
"And yet," said Charles, "I cannot describe to you how my heart sunk within me when I first entered the gloomy attic, henceforth destined to be my home, my study, and where so much of my life was to pass. I gazed upon the low ceiling, which seemed to press the air down upon me; a slip of looking-glass, cracked and coarse-grained enough to make you discontented with even yourself, stuck in the plaster; the white-washed walls; the small stove, like that in the cabin of a ship; the wretched little wash-hand stand; the common check furniture of the bed; the parapet before the window—oh, that parapet! I learned afterwards to do justice to the cleanliness of the room—I am not sure, when, in cold weather, I have gone to the extravagance of a handful of fire, whether I have not even thought it comfortable; but to the parapet my eye never became reconciled. In winter the glaring snow lay so piled up on its ledge; in summer it reflected the hot sun like an oven; in rainy weather there the damp seemed to linger:—I do loathe the sight of a parapet!
