The next morning at ten, I was again at the door of the great building; was soon within its walls seeing what time would not allow of the previous day.  I spent some hours in looking through glass cases, viewing specimens of minerals, such as can scarcely be found in any place out of the British Museum.  During this day I did not fail to visit the great Library.  It is a spacious room, surrounded with large glass cases filled with volumes, whose very look tells you that they are of age.  Around, under the cornice, were arranged a number of old black-looking portraits, in all probability the authors of some of the works in the glass cases beneath.  About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, and around these were a number of men busily engaged in looking over some chosen author.  Old men with grey hairs, young men with mustaches—­some in cloth, others in fustian, indicating that men of different rank can meet here.  Not a single word was spoken during my stay, all appearing to enjoy the silence that reigned throughout the great room.  This is indeed a retreat from the world.  No one inquires who the man is who is at his side, and each pursues in silence his own researches.  The racing of pens over the sheets of paper was all that disturbed the stillness of the occasion.

From the Library I strolled to other rooms, and feasted my eyes on what I had never before seen.  He who goes over this immense building, cannot do so without a feeling of admiration for the men whose energy has brought together this vast and wonderful collection of things, the like of which cannot be found in any other museum in the world.  The reflection of the setting sun against a mirror in one of the rooms, told me that night was approaching, and I had but a moment in which to take another look at the portrait that I had seen the previous day, and then bade adieu to the Museum.

Having published the narrative of my life and escape from slavery, and put it into the booksellers’ hands—­and seeing a prospect of a fair sale, I ventured to take from my purse the last sovereign to make up a small sum to remit to the United States, for the support of my daughter, who is at school there.  Before doing this, however, I had made arrangements to attend a public meeting in the city of Worcester, at which the mayor was to preside.  Being informed by the friends of the slave there, that I would, in all probability, sell a number of copies of my book, and being told that Worcester was only ten miles from London, I felt safe in parting with all but a few shillings, feeling sure that my purse would soon be again replenished.  But you may guess my surprise when I learned that Worcester was above a hundred miles from London, and that I had not retained money enough to defray my expenses to the place.  In my haste and wish to make up the ten pounds to send to my children, I had forgotten that the payment for my lodgings would be demanded