6th February 1826

Wretched day. Rain and then more rain; also, mud. At breakfast, Mama noted that the Society for the General Promotion of Juvenile Temperance are holding a public meeting next Saturday – where a ‘reformed character’ speaks upon the benefits of sobriety – would I like to attend? I lied and said that I would think upon it, then walked glumly to school with Sykes. Felt rather sorry for the crossing-sweeper on the High Street and so tossed him a ha’penny, which he caught with his one arm as neatly as the most skilful cricketer. The ragged fellow nibbled at it with his teeth and, having thus ascertained its worth, beckoned me to the kerb. Begging my pardon, he remarked that I had a ‘long face’ and asked ‘what was ailin’ the respectibobble young gen’l’man today?’ Sykes laughed and said that I was ‘only a lovesick little puppy.’ The crossing-sweeper shook his head and waved his broom at me, as if warding off the very devil.

‘No cure for that!’ he exclaimed. ‘No cure!’

Then, balancing his broom very cleverly in the crook of his arm, he lunged forward, grabbed my hand in his, shook it with all possible vigour and went back to his business.

[note to self: gloves]

After school, Sykes told me the crossing-sweeper is called ‘Manky Jem’, on account of unluckily losing his arm somewhere or other at the Battle of Salamanca. I expect that he, too, has been thwarted in love – perhaps by some fickle young maiden who promised to wait for him, until she saw his cruel disfigurement and scorned his romantic attentions. The poor fellow, doubtless, took to vicious courses, restlessly casting about for a reason to live, before turning to drink and every species of vice, sinking down, destitute and abandoned. Now he scrapes the most meagre and pathetic living from the very mud on the street. I rather know how he feels!

It is my birthday tomorrow.