me thing. A ready and obliging
courtesy now replaced his former uncomfortably doubtful manner;
henceforth I need no longer be at a loss for a civil answer to a
sensible question.

The street on which my little sitting-room window looked was narrow,
perfectly quiet, and not dirty: the few passengers were just such as
one sees in provincial towns: here was nothing formidable; I felt sure
I might venture out alone.

Having breakfasted, out I went. Elation and pleasure were in my heart:
to walk alone in London seemed of itself an adventure. Presently I
found myself in Paternoster Row--classic ground this. I entered a
bookseller's shop, kept by one Jones: I bought a little book--a piece
of extravagance I could ill afford; but I thought I would one day give
or send it to Mrs. Barrett. Mr. Jones, a dried-in man of business,
stood behind his desk: he seemed one of the greatest, and I one of the
happiest of beings.

Prodigious was the amount of life I lived that morning. Finding myself
before St. Paul's, I went in; I mounted to the dome: I saw thence
London, with its river, and its bridges, and its churches; I saw
antique Westminster, and the green Temple Gardens, with sun upon them,
and a glad, blue sky, of early spring above; and between them and it,
not too dense, a cloud of haze.

Descending, I went wandering whither chance might lead, in a still
ecstasy of freedom and enjoyment; and I got--I know not how--I got into
the heart of city life. I saw and felt London at last: I got into the
Strand; I went up Cornhill; I mixed with the life passing along; I
dared the perils of crossings. To do this, and to do it utterly alone,
gave me, perhaps an irrational, but a real pleasure. Since those days,
I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine squares; but I love the
city far better. The city seems so much more in earnest: its business,
its rush, its roar, are such serious things, sights, and sounds. The
city is getting its living--the West End but enjoying its pleasure. At
the West End you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited.

Faint, at last, and hungry (it was years since I had felt such healthy
hunger), I returned, about two o'clock, to my dark, old, and quiet inn.
I dined on two dishes--a plain joint and vegetables; both seemed
excellent: how much better than the small, dainty messes Miss
Marchmont's cook used to send up to my kind, dead mistress and me, and
to the discussion of which we could not bring h