Mr.
Blake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table. I had taken
the precaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room. THE
GUARDIAN; THE TATLER; Richardson's PAMELA; Mackenzie's MAN OF FEELING;
Roscoe's LORENZO DE MEDICI; and Robertson's CHARLES THE FIFTH--all
classical works; all (of course) immeasurably superior to anything
produced in later times; and all (from my present point of view)
possessing the one great merit of enchaining nobody's interest, and
exciting nobody's brain. I left Mr. Blake to the composing influence
of Standard Literature, and occupied myself in making this entry in my
journal.
My watch informs me that it is close on eleven o'clock. I must shut up
these leaves once more.
* * * * *
Two o'clock A.M.--The experiment has been tried. With what result, I am
now to describe.
At eleven o'clock, I rang the bell for Betteredge, and told Mr. Blake
that he might at last prepare himself for bed.
I looked out of the window at the night. It was mild and rainy,
resembling, in this respect, the night of the birthday--the twenty-first
of June, last year. Without professing to believe in omens, it was at
least encouraging to find no direct nervous influences--no stormy or
electric perturbations--in the atmosphere.
Pages:
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801