some verses, and by G_d it was no use talking &c;
there was no wit like Irish wit; he knew he, himself,
had written a d____d bad book; he wasn�t a
successful man; he wanted to be goodnatured; he
might die any day. This with a world of con-
tradiction, meanness, vacillation, ill temper, false
humility and rot did Banks pour into Cahill�s ears,
I sitting listening, not joining in it, with a whimsi-
cal sense of how little Banks had altered � and how
far I�ve grown beyond believing in him. Cahill reaped
a little irritation, and Banks got a drink at his expense.
17. Thursday. Writing. Down town in the after-
noon, to Leslie�s & Pic Offices. Writing at night.
Pounden up. Mrs Gouverneur, Rawson and May
are in the house, temporarily.
18. Friday. Down town calls, then to Pounden�s Office.
Up town in omnibus. Drawing all the afternoon and
evening. / There�s an ill-looking, ungrammatical, coarse-
voiced man named Merrick boarding in this house.
He and Patten got to talking abuse of England this
evening over the tea table, expressing gratification at the
Seypoy atrocities and wishing that every Anglo-Indian
might be massacred. With Patten�s stolid, dogmatic
face and harsh brattling voie � the confab was very
characteristic. Damn both of them! Got a
letter from Waud. Departure put off a week � as
usual. A letter from George Bolton, which I got
par accidens, at the Post Office. He writes in friendly