IntroductionIT is a strange thing, when I feel most fervently and most
deeply, my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot
rightly describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising
within me; and yet I am a painter; my eye tells me as much as that,
and all my friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the
same.
I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of
lanes; but I do not want for light, as my room is high up in the
house, with an extensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs.
During the first few days I went to live in the town, I felt
low-spirited and solitary enough. Instead of the forest and the
green hills of former days, I had here only a forest of
chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I had not a single friend;
not one familia
