"J. Tribble, General Agent."
Mr. Tribble, it seems, is not very much engaged in business.
At home he makes himself useful.
It was this gentleman, more or less typical in London, whom I had in my mind's eye as I once wrote:
"The English social failure of the male sex not unfrequently entitles himself General Agent: this is the last straw he clutches at; if it should break, he sinks, and is heard of no more, unless his wife come to the rescue, by setting up a lodging-house or a boarding-school for young ladies. There, once more in smooth water, he wields the blacking-brush, makes acquaintance with the knife-board, or gets in the provisions. In allowing himself to be kept by his wife, he feels he loses some dignity; but if she should adopt any airs of superiority over him, he can always bring her to a sense of duty by beating her."
12th July, 1872.
Mr. Tribble helps take up my trunks. On my way to bed my landlady informs me that her room adjoins mine, and if I need any thing in the night I have only to ask for it.
This landlady will be a mother to me, I can see.
The bed reminds me of a night I passed in a cemetery, during the Commune, sleeping on a gravestone. I turn and toss, unable to get any rest.