Left to myself in the earlier part of the day, I wandered,
wistful and lonely, through the vast wilderness of
London. By degrees I familiarized myself with
that populous solitude; I ceased to pine for the green
fields. That active energy all around, at first
saddening, became soon exhilarating, and at last contagious.
To an industrious mind, nothing is so catching as
industry. I began to grow weary of my golden
holiday of unlaborious childhood, to sigh for toil,
to look around me for a career. The University,
which I had before anticipated with pleasure, seemed
now to fade into a dull monastic prospect; after having
trod the streets of London, to wander through cloisters
was to go back in life. Day by day, my mind
grew sensibly within me; it came out from the rosy
twilight of boyhood,—it felt the doom of
Cain under the broad sun of man.
Uncle Jack soon became absorbed in his new speculation
for the good of the human race, and, except at meals
(whereat, to do him justice, he was punctual enough,
though he did not keep us in ignorance of the sacrifices
he made, and the invitations he refused, for our sake),
we seldom saw him. The Captain, too, generally
vanished after breakfast, seldom dined with us, and
it was often late before he returned. He had
the latch-key of the house, and let himself in when
he pleased. Sometimes (for his chamber was next
to mine) his step on the stairs awoke me; and sometimes
I heard him pace his room with perturbed strides,
or fancied that I caught a low groan. He became
every day more care-worn in appearance, and every
day the hair seemed more gray. Yet he talked
to us all easily and cheerfully; and I thought that
I was the only one in the house who perceived the
gnawing pangs over which the stout old Spartan drew
the decorous cloak.
Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to
learn how these absent days, that brought night so
disturbed, were consumed. I felt that, if I
could master the Captain’s secret, I might win
the right both to comfort and to aid.
I resolved at length, after many conscientious scruples,
to endeavor to satisfy a curiosity excused by its
motives.
Accordingly, one morning, after watching him from
the house, I stole in his track, and followed him
at a distance.
And this was the outline of his day: he set off
at first with a firm stride, despite his lameness,
his gaunt figure erect, the soldierly chest well thrown
out from the threadbare but speckless coat. First
he took his way towards the purlieus of Leicester
Square; several times, to and fro, did he pace the
isthmus that leads from Piccadilly into that reservoir
of foreigners, and the lanes and courts that start
thence towards St. Martin’s. After an
hour or two so passed, the step became more slow;
and often the sleek, napless hat was lifted up, and
the brow wiped. At length he bent his way towards
