February 18 Thursday – Sam’s notebook:

Feb. 18/97. Brilliant morning (very rare). Some of the people looked glad to be alive. But not many. Walked an hour in King’s Road (as usual) between Markham Square & the Chelsea Polytechnic—back & forth. Shakespeare’s people all on hand, as usual.

O Mother of Thugs!

We do not know who he was; he flits across the page of this rusty old book & disappears in the obscurity beyond; but he is an impressive figure, moving through that valley of death serene & unafraid, clothed in the might of the Eng. name.

He was not a direct liar, but he wd subtly convey untruth. He never dealt in any but large things, if you let him tell it; if by accident his trousers-seat got stained in divers tints, he would explain it by no actual lie, yet he would leave you with the impression that he got it by sliding down a rainbow.

Don’t remember who this was, but it fitted him, anyway. I know 9 others that it fits; & one of them is a preacher.

I asked the “Square porter” (licensed) when he came to do the morning chores what his name was? “Mister Wallace.” He is in the hospital—writes to ask that his place be kept & signs “Mr. Wallace” [NB 41 TS 12-13].