"To my surprise and consternation, this last remark put him in such a towering rage, that he vowed he would disinherit me, if I did not then and there throw my palette and brushes into the fire. Of course, I declined to do such an act, whereupon he dismissed me from his presence for ever. This occurred on the morning of the day of the fire. I thought he might perhaps relent after such an evidence of the mutability of human affairs. I even ventured to remind him that Tooley Street was not made of asbestos, and that an _occasional_ fire occurred there! But this made him worse than ever; so I went the length of saying that I would, at all events, in deference to his wishes, continue to go to the office at least for some time to come. But, alas! I had roused him to such a pitch that he refused to hear of it, unless I should `_throw my palette and brushes into the fire_!' Flesh and blood, you know, could not do that, so I left him, and walked off twenty miles into the country to relieve my feelings. There I fell in with _such_ a splendid `bit;' a sluice, with a stump of a tree, and a winding bit of water with overhanging willows, and a peep of country beyond! I sat down and sketched, and forgot my woes, and _rejoiced_ in the fresh air and delightful sounds of birds, and cows, and sheep, and _hated_ to think of Tooley Street. Then I slept in a country inn, walked back to London next day, and, _voila_! here I am!" "Don't you think, Fred, that time will soften your father?" "No, I don't think it. On the contrary, I know it won't. He is a good man; but he has an iron will, which I never saw subdued." "Then, my dear Fred, I advise you to consider the propriety of throwing your palette and brushes into--" "My dear John, I did not come here for your advice. I came for your sympathy." "And you have it, Fred," cried Barret earnestly. "But have you really such an unconquerable love for painting?" "Have I really!" echoed Fred. "Do you think I would have come to such a pass as this for a trifle? Why, man, you have no idea how my soul longs for the life of a painter, for the free fresh air of the country, for the poetry of the woods, the water, and the sky, for the music of bird and beast and running brook. You know the true proverb, `Man made the town; but God made the country!'" "What," asked Barret, "would become of the town, if all men thought as you do?" "Oh! John Barret, has town life so marred your once fine intellect, that you put such a question in earnest? Suppose I answer it by another: What would become of the country if all men thought and acted as you do?" Barret smiled and smoked.