September 14th.--Yesterday, in the earlier part of the day, it poured
with rain, and I did not go out till five o'clock in the afternoon; nor
did I then meet with anything interesting. I walked through Albemarle
Street, for the purpose of looking at Murray's shop, but missed it
entirely, at my first inquisition. The street is one of hotels,
principally, with only a few tradesmen's shops, and has a quiet,
aristocratic aspect. On my return, down the other sidewalk, I did
discover the famous publisher's locality; but merely by the name
"Mr. Murray," engraved on a rather large brass plate, such as doctors
use, on the door. There was no sign of a book, nor of its being a place
of trade in any way; and I should have taken the house to be, if not a
private mansion, then a lawyer's office.
At seven o'clock S-----, U----, and I went to dine with Mr. R---- S------
in Portland Place. . . . . Mr. S------'s house is a very fine one, and he
gave us a very quiet, elegant, and enjoyable dinner, in much better taste
and with less fuss than some others we have attended elsewhere. Mr.
S------ is a friend of Thackeray, and, speaking of the last number
of The Newcomes,--so touching that nobody can read it aloud without
breaking down,--he mentioned that Thackeray himself had read it to James
Russell Lowell and William Story in a cider-cellar! I read all the
preceding numbers of The Newcomes to my wife, but happened not to have
an opportunity to read this last, and was glad of it,--knowing that my
eyes would fill, and my voice quiver.
Pages:
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334