With odd result on one occasion. He was walking in one of the
back streets of Islington, and stopped idly to gaze into the
window of some small shop. Standing thus, he forgot himself and
presently recited aloud:
'Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An argument that he is pluck'd,
when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his wing, Which had
superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by.'
The last two lines he uttered a second time, enjoying their
magnificent sound, and then was brought back to consciousness by
the loud mocking laugh of two men standing close by, who
evidently looked upon him as a strayed lunatic.
He kept one suit of clothes for his hours of attendance at the
hospital; it was still decent, and with much care would remain so
for a long time. That which he wore at home and in his street
wanderings declared poverty at every point; it had been discarded
before he left the old abode. In his present state of mind he
cared nothing how disreputable he looked to passers-by. These
seedy habiliments were the token of his degradation, and at times
he regarded them (happening to see himself in a shop mirror) with
pleasurable contempt.
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