He was able to pick up a shilling or two more weekly by going on errands for the clerks during his slack time in the day, so that altogether on the average he made up about eighteen shillings.  Wandering about the Clare Market region on Sunday he found us out, came in, and remained constant.  Naturally, as we had so few adherents, we gradually knew these few very intimately, and Taylor would often spend a holiday or part of the Sunday with us.  He was not eminent for anything in particular, and an educated man, selecting as his friends those only who stand for something, would not have taken the slightest notice of him.  He had read nothing particular, and thought nothing particular—­he was indeed one of the masses—­but in this respect different, that he had not the tendency to association, aggregation, or clanship which belong to the masses generally.  He was different, of course, in all his ways from his neighbours born and bred to Clare Market and its alleys.  Although commonplace, he had demands made upon him for an endurance by no means commonplace, and he had sorrows which were as exquisite as those of his betters.  He did not much resent his poverty.  To that I think he would have submitted, and in fact he did submit to it cheerfully.  What rankled in him was the brutal disregard of him at the office.  He was a servant of servants.  The messengers, who themselves were exposed to all the petty tyrannies of the clerks, and dared not reply, were Taylor’s masters, and sought a compensation for their own serfdom by making his ten times worse.  The head messenger, who had been a butler, swore at him, and if Taylor had “answered” he would have been reported.  He had never been a person of much importance, but at least he had been independent, and it was a new experience for him to feel that he was a thing fit for nothing but to be cuffed and cursed.  Upon this point he used to get eloquent—­as eloquent as he could be, for he had small power of expression, and he would describe to me the despair which came over him down in those dark vaults at the prospect of life continuing after this fashion, and with not the minutest gleam of light even at the very end.  Nobody ever cared to know the most ordinary facts about him.  Nobody inquired whether he was married or single; nobody troubled himself when he was ill.  If he was away, his pay was stopped; and when he returned to work nobody asked if he was better.  Who can wonder that at first, when he was an utter stranger in a strange land, he was overcome by the situation, and that the world was to him a dungeon worse than that of Chillon?  Who can wonder that he was becoming reckless?  A little more of such a life would have transformed him into a brute.  He had not the ability to become revolutionary, or it would have made him a conspirator.  Suffering of any kind is hard to bear, but the suffering which especially damages character is that which is caused by the neglect or oppression of man.  At any rate