wild young men, who, the evening before,
had gone to see the town, were elated
with the night's adventures. They spoke
highly of a certain house of public resort in
"Dog Street." Mr. Wernstuk, the landlord,
was noisier, and his whiskers were, if possible,
more shaggy than the day before. His
wife still complained of her illness. She said
her cough had been very "trying " during the
night.

After breakfast, I set off for Brighton,
where I had an interview with Mr. Vitriol,
the author, to whom I had been recommended.
I had been assured I could confide in Mr.
Vitriol, and I gave plain and candid answers
to the searching cross-questions about my
prospects with which he assailed me. I told
him my plans and intentions; nor did I conceal
from him that it was of vital importance to
me to be at once employed. He drew his
eyebrows up, and the corners of his mouth
down, and said it would not do. He
exclaimed at the crowds of Englishmen who
wanted literary engagements, and mentioned
the number of applications he had received
within the last month. " I believe it," said I.
"But those people had not the good fortune to
be particularly recommended to Mr. Vitriol."
He smiled, but grimly, and plied me with
new questions. He made me confess that I
was almost penniless, and that my sole
resource, at present, was my pen. He
condemned me for having come to England,
spicing his condemnation with a little
blasphemy. I was resolved to suffer all, rather
than offend him; for he seemed desirous of
taking offence; so I merely replied that I
had told him of my misfortunes, and that I
had come to England because poverty in a
foreign country seemed preferable to poverty
at home, where people knew me. I entreated
him to look at some of my productions. He
had no time. Besides, it was useless. A
foreigner could never write English. I asked
him to try me but once; but he said again
it would not do. I might still have spoken.
I might have said many things; but there was
something in Mr. Vitriol's manner which
crushed me. I felt my spirit broken.

I was obliged to accept the bed which
Mr. Vitriol offered me in his house. That
night was dreadful. Mr. Vitriol said in the
morning he would think about my case, and
asked me meanwhile to stay in his house.
I had no choice, and accepted. Mrs. Vitriol,
his wife, seemed afraid of me; not because I
am a very formidable person, but because
I was poor. To relieve her of my presence,
and myself of the awkwardness of continually
repeating my name to her, which she could
not remember, I walked about Brighton all
day, and felt miserable when I saw people
meet and shake hands. It made me feel my
loneliness. Next morning Mr. Vitriol sent
me to London. I was but too happy to go.
Indeed, I would have gone the day before,
had I not feared to give him an occasion to
be offended. He said my circumstances were
such, that I must be at once employed. He
would give me a letter of introduction to a
friend of his, whose literary career he had
fostered. That friend should take cheap
lodgings for me, and I should write to give him
my address. He would then send me letters
of recommendation to publishers and authors;
in fact, he said all he could say to send me off
easy. I understood afterwards that his wife
had persuaded him to give me some hope,
lest despair should drive me to commit
suicide in his house; a circumstance which
would have unpleasantly disturbed their
domestic arrangements.

It was about seven in the evening when I
knocked at the door of the house in Soho,
where Mr. Pebble, the man to whom Mr. Vitriol
had addressed me, lived. I had promised
Mr. Vitriol to deliver the letter that very
night; for it contained some information
which it was important Mr. Pebble should
have at once, and Mr. Pebble should assist
me in finding cheap lodgings, because I was
"hard up." There is at times something
soothing in a cant phrase; it takes the sting
off a humiliating position by making it
familiar. The woman who answered my
knock told me Mr. Pebble was out, but she
expected him back every minute. On my
inquiry where I might wait for him, she
directed me to a coffee-shop in St. Martin's
Court; and I sallied out in search of it,
carrying my carpet-bag with me. I had by
this time grown heartily tired of my carpet-
bag. It was not heavy; but it had become
torn during the journey, so that it was
awkward to carry, and it exposed me to the
attacks of all the boys about the streets, who
continually offered to carry it for me. After
some trouble, I found St. Martin's Court and
the coffee-house, where I dined on a cup of
coffee and some dry toast.

When I called on Mr. Pebble next morning,
he said that lodgings, such as I wished,
might be found in one of the smaller streets
between Oxford Street and Tottenham Court
Eoad, and he accordingly accompanied me
to that quarter of the town. There were
many bills in the windows, but we had to
see a great many rooms before we found one
which would suit me. I knew lodgings in
London were not cheap; but I had no idea
that such exorbitant prices could be asked
for rooms like those which I saw. We found
at last two rooms on the top of a house in
Percy Street, at a comparatively moderate
rent; and Mr. Pebble urged me to take them.
I did so, with a heavy heart, for all the money
in my pocket would scarcely suffice to pay the
first week's rent. I said I would come to
the house that very afternoon, and was about
to go for my carpet-bag, when Mr. Pebble
told me that it would look very bad if I carried
my luggage myself. He said I must send a
porter with it; it would only be a shilling—
only a shilling! He looked like a man who