The Journal of a Disappointed Man

Among the latter those lying on my table at this moment are-- Plays of M. Brieux. Joseph Vance. The Sequel to Pragmatism: The Meaning of Truth, by Wiliam James. Beyond Good and Evil. Dostoievsky's The Possessed. Marie Bashkirtseff's Journal. I have found time to read only the first chapter of this last and am almost afraid to go on. It would be so humiliating to find I was only her duplicate. On my mantelpiece stands a photograph of Huxley--the hero of my youth--which old B---- has always taken to be that of my grandpapa! A plaster-cast mask of Voltaire when first hung up made him chuckle with indecent laughter. "A regular all-nighter. Who is it?" he said. December 15. Petticoat Lane This morning, being Sunday, went to Petticoat Lane and enjoyed myself. On turning the corner to go into Middlesex Street, as it it now called, the first thing I saw was a little girl--a Jewess--being tackled for selling Belgian button-hole flags by two policemen who ultimately marched her off to the police station. In the Lane, first of all, was a "Royal Ascot Jockey Scales" made of brass and upholstered in gaudy red velvet--a penny a time. A very fat man was being weighed and looked a little distressed on being given his ticket. "Another stone," he told the crowd mournfully. "You'll have to eat less pork," some one volunteered and we all laughed. Next door to the Scales was a man selling gyroscopes. "Something scientific, amusing as well as instructive, illustrating the principles of gravity and stability. What I show you is what I sell--price one shilling. Who?"