I passed, to-day, a man chanting a ballad in the street about a recent
murder, in a voice that had innumerable cracks in it, and was most
lugubrious. The other day I saw a man who was reading in a loud voice
what seemed to be an account of the late riots and loss of life in Wigan.
He walked slowly along the street as he read, surrounded by a small crowd
of men, women, and children; and close by his elbow stalked a policeman,
as if guarding against a disturbance.
November 14th.--There is a heavy dun fog on the river and over the city
to-day, the very gloomiest atmosphere that ever I was acquainted with.
On the river the steamboats strike gongs or ring bells to give warning of
their approach. There are lamps burning in the counting-rooms and
lobbies of the warehouses, and they gleam distinctly through the windows.
The other day, at the entrance of the market-house, I saw a woman sitting
in a small hand-wagon, apparently for the purpose of receiving alms.
There was no attendant at hand; but I noticed that one or two persons who
passed by seemed to inquire whether she wished her wagon to be moved.
Perhaps this is her mode of making progress about the city, by the
voluntary aid of boys and other people who help to drag her. There is
something in this--I don't yet well know what--that has impressed me, as
if I could make a romance out of the idea of a woman living in this
manner a public life, and moving about by such means.
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