If  Young  John  had  ever  slackened  in  his  truth  in  the  less  penetrable
days  of  Ms  boyhood,  when  youth  is  prone  to  wear  its  boots  unlaced  and
is  happily  unconscious  of  digestive  organs,  he  had  soon  Strang  it  up
again  and  screwed  it  tight.  At  nineteen,  his  hand  had  inscribed  in
chalk  on  that  part  of  the  wall  which  fronted  her  lodging,  on  the
occasion  of  her  birthday,  "  Welcome  sweet  nursling  of  the  Fairies  !"
At  twenty-three,  the  same  hand  falteringly  presented  cigars  on
Sundays  to  the  Father  of  the  Marshalsea,  and  Father  of  the  queen  of
his  soul.
Young  John  was  small  of  stature,  with  rather  weak  legs  and  very
weak  light  hair.  One  of  his  eyes  (perhaps  the  eye  that  used  to  peep
through  the  keyhole)  was  also  weak,  and  looked  larger  than  the  other,
as  if  it  couldn't  collect  itself.  Young  John  was  gentle  likewise.  But
he  was  great  of  soul.     Poetical,  expansive,  faithful.
