Thus relieved of a grievous load，I from that hour set to work afresh，resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard，and my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory，not naturally tenacious，improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was allowed to mence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb Etre，and sketched my first cottage (whose walls，by the bye，outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of pisa)，on the same day. That night，on going to bed，I forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes，or white bread and new milk，with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings，which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees，picturesque rocks and ruins，Cuyp-like groups of cattle，sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses，of birds picking at ripe cherries，of wrens" nests enclosing pearl-like eggs，wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined，too，in thought，the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a certain little French story which Madame pierrot had that day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.

Well has Solomon said- "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is，than a stalled ox and hatred therewith."