of young Hubbard's, as an artist, that this same portrait was far
from satisfying his taste, uncultivated as it was. Charlie was,
for a long time, so much ashamed of his passion for drawing, that
he carefully concealed the little bits of paper on which he made
his sketches, as well as the few old, coarse engravings he had
picked up to copy. But, one day, Miss Patsey accidentally
discovered these treasures between the leaves of a number of the
Longbridge Freeman, carefully stowed away in an old chest of
drawers in the little garret-room where Charlie slept. She found
there a head of Washington; one of Dr. Blair; a view of Boston;
and an old French print called L'Ete, representing a shepherdess
making hay in high-heeled shoes and a hoop; there were copies of
these on bits of paper of all sizes, done with the pen or
lead-pencil; and lastly, a number of odd-looking sketches of
Charlie's own invention. The sight of these labours of art, was
far from giving Miss Patsey pleasure, although it accounted for
the surprising disappearance of her writing-paper, and the
extraordinary clipping, she had remarked, of late, on all notes
and letters that were left lying about, from which every scrap of
white paper was sure to be cut off. She spoke to Charlie on the
subject, and, of course, he had to confess. But he did not
reform; on the contrary, matters soon grew worse, for he began to
neglect his studies. It happened that he passed the whole summer
at home, as the school where his brother had been assistant, and
he himself a pupil, was broken up. At last, Miss Patsey talked to
him so seriously, about wasting time on trifles, that Charlie,
who was a sensible, warm-hearted boy, and well aware of the
exertions his sister had made for him, promised amendment, and
actually burnt all his own sketches, though the precious
engravings were still preserved. This improvement only lasted a