In the case of Joseph, John (if he were a link
at all) was not the only one; endearing bonds had long enchained the old
gentleman to Bloomsbury; and by these expressions I do not in the least
refer to Julia Hazeltine (of whom, however, he was fond enough), but to
that collection of manuscript notebooks in which his life lay buried.
That he should ever have made up his mind to separate himself from these
collections, and go forth upon the world with no other resources than
his memory supplied, is a circumstance highly pathetic in itself, and
but little creditable to the wisdom of his nephews.
The design, or at least the temptation, was already some months old; and
when a bill for eight hundred pounds, payable to himself, was suddenly
placed in Joseph's hand, it brought matters to an issue. He retained
that bill, which, to one of his frugality, meant wealth; and he promised
himself to disappear among the crowds at Waterloo, or (if that should
prove impossible) to slink out of the house in the course of the
evening and melt like a dream into the millions of London. By a peculiar
interposition of Providence and railway mismanagement he had not so long
to wait.
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