I
tell him all is finished, except the hanging of the prisoners. Then we
talk over the matter, and I tell him the fates of the principal men,--
some banished to New South Wales, one hanged, others in prison, others,
conspicuous at first, now almost forgotten.--Apartments of private
families in the hotel,--what sort of domesticity there may be in them;
eating in public, with no board of their own. The gas that lights the
rest of the house lights them also, in the chandelier from the ceiling.--
A shabby-looking man, quiet, with spectacles, at first wearing an old,
coarse brown frock, then appearing in a suit of elderly black, saying
nothing unless spoken to, but talking intelligently when addressed. He
is an editor, and I suppose printer, of a country paper. Among the
guests, he holds intercourse with gentlemen of much more respectable
appearance than himself, from the same part of the country.--Bill of
fare; wines printed on the back, but nobody calls for a bottle. Chairs
turned down for expected guests. Three-pronged steel forks. Cold
supper from nine to eleven P.
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