romised to call me in time for the boat, but my anxiety waked me
sooner, and mistaking the strokes of the cathedral bell, I shouldered my
knapsack and went down to the wharf at one o'clock. No one was stirring
on board the boat, and I was obliged to pace the silent, gloomy streets
of the town for two hours. I watched the steamer glide out on the rainy
channel, and turning into the topmost berth, drew the sliding curtain
and strove to keep out cold and sea-sickness. But it was unavailing; a
heavy storm of snow and rain rendered our passage so dreary that I did
not stir until we were approaching the chain pier of Brighton.

I looked out on the foggy shores of England with a feeling of relief; my
tongue would now be freed from the difficult bondage of foreign
languages, and my ears be rejoiced with the music of my own. After two
hours' delay at the Custom House, I took my seat in an open car for
London. The day was dull and cold; the sun resembled a milky blotch in
the midst of a leaden sky. I sat and shivered, as we flew onward, amid
the rich, cultivated English scenery. At last the fog grew thicker; the
road was carried over the tops of houses; the familiar dome of St.
Paul's stood out above the spires; and I was again in London!

CHAPTER XLVII.

LOCKHART, BERNARD BARTON AND CROLY--LONDON CHIMES AND GREENWICH FAIR.

My circumstances, on arriving at London, were again very reduced. A
franc and a half constituted the whole of my funds. This, joined to the
knowledge of London expenses, rendered instant exertion necessary, to
prevent still greater embarrassment. I called on a printer the next
morning, hoping to procure work, but found, as I had no documents with
me to show I had served a regular apprenticeship, this would be
extremely difficult, although workmen were in great demand. Mr. Putnam,
however, on whom I had previously called, gave me employment for a time
in his publishing establishment, and thus I was fortunately enabled to
await the arrival of a remittance from home.

Mrs. Trollope, whom I met in Florence, kindly gave me a letter to
Murray, the publisher, and I visited him soon after my arrival. In his
library I saw the original portraits of Byron, Moore, Campbell and the
other authors who were intimate with him and his father. A day or two
afterwards I had the good fortune to breakfast with Lockhart and Bernard
Barton, at the house of the former. Mr. Murray, through whom the
invitation was given, ac