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years lovers have read it and the sick at heart taken comfort
in its lines.’
Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene
had suggested these words to him, and it was a delight to
know that he could safely leave the inference. It was in sud-
den reaction from the life he had been leading for so long
that he was now deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of
the London air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone
of the buildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there
was the severity of grace of a Japanese print. They went
further down; and the splendid channel, a symbol of the
great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with traffic;
Philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made
all these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with
gratitude. They came to the Pool of London, and who can
describe its majesty? The imagination thrills, and Heaven
knows what figures people still its broad stream, Doctor
Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going on
board a man-o’-war: the pageant of English history, and ro-
mance, and high adventure. Philip turned to Hayward with
shining eyes.
‘Dear Charles Dickens,’ he murmured, smiling a little at
his own emotion.
‘Aren’t you rather sorry you chucked painting?’ asked
Hayward.
‘No.’
‘I suppose you like doctoring?’
‘No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudg-
ery of the first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven’t

0 Of Human Bondage