Every other man, into whatever depth of poverty he
may sink, has still something left, be he author, scholar, handicraftman,
or what not; the merchant has nothing.
We parted with a long and strong grasp of the hand, and ------ promised
to come and see us soon. . . . .
On my way home I called at Truebner's in Pater Noster Row. . . . . I
waited a few minutes, he being busy with a tall, muscular, English-built
man, who, after he had taken leave, Truebner told me was Charles Reade.
I once met him at an evening party, but should have been glad to meet him
again, now that I appreciate him so much better after reading Never too
Late to Mend.
December 6th.--All these days, since my last date, have been marked by
nothing very well worthy of detail and description. I have walked the
streets a great deal in the dull November days, and always take a certain
pleasure in being in the midst of human life,--as closely encompassed by
it as it is possible to be anywhere in this world; and in that way of
viewing it there is a dull and sombre enjoyment always to be had in
Holborn, Fleet Street, Cheapside, and the other busiest parts of London.
It is human life; it is this material world; it is a grim and heavy
reality. I have never had the same sense of being surrounded by
materialisms and hemmed in with the grossness of this earthly existence
anywhere else; these broad, crowded streets are so evidently the veins
and arteries of an enormous city.
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