TIBBITTS’ DIARY.
He handed it to me, and these are some of the entries, which were, no doubt, written at four in the morning, the last thing before getting into bed; and they were, unquestionably, his impressions. I select a few at random, these few being excellent samples of the whole lot:—
Leeds—Manufacturing city—Beer very bad—Scotch whisky tolerable, though I never liked it cold.
Birmingham—Manufacturing city—Beer bad—Not equal to our lager—No good beer in England—Stout rather better—Went in on stout.
Manchester—Good bottle beer—Draft beer bad—All draft—(This sentence was not finished, probably for reasons. He explained that that night he slept in his boots.)
Sheffield—Manufacturing city—found some genuine American bourbon, and went for it—It was refreshing, as a reminder at home—Don’t know about the beer—There’s no place like home.
Nottingham—Don’t know what the people do—a great many of them—Beer bad as usual—Guinness’ stout in bottles fairish—Wish—
(Another unfinished sentence, explained as before.)
And so on. I told Lemuel that it certainly would not do to send these impressions to his father, as evidently he observed only one side of English life; that he had taken his observations through a glass darkly, but that I really hadn’t the time to write up a set for him, especially as I had not visited those places myself.
“But what am I to do?”