Chapter XX. A New Lodger

by Charles Dickens

　　The long vacation saunters on towards term-time like an idle riververy leisurely strolling down a flat country to the sea. Mr. Guppysaunters along with it congenially. He has blunted the blade ofhis penknife and broken the point off by sticking that instrumentinto his desk in every direction. Not that he bears the desk anyill will, but he must do something, and it must be something of anunexciting nature, which will lay neither his physical nor hisintellectual energies under too heavy contribution. He finds thatnothing agrees with him so well as to make little gyrations on oneleg of his stool, and stab his desk, and gape.Kenge and Carboy are out of town, and the articled clerk has takenout a shooting license and gone down to his father's, and Mr.Guppy's two fellow-stipendiaries are away on leave. Mr. Guppy andMr. Richard Carstone divide the dignity of the office. But Mr.Carstone is for the time being established in Kenge's room, whereatMr. Guppy chafes. So exceedingly that he with biting sarcasminforms his mother, in the confidential moments when he sups withher off a lobster and lettuce in the Old Street Road, that he isafraid the office is hardly good enough for swells, and that if hehad known there was a swell coming, he would have got it painted.Mr. Guppy suspects everybody who enters on the occupation of astool in Kenge and Carboy's office of entertaining, as a matter ofcourse, sinister designs upon him. He is clear that every suchperson wants to depose him. If he be ever asked how, why, when, orwherefore, he shuts up one eye and shakes his head. On thestrength of these profound views, he in the most ingenious mannertakes infinite pains to counterplot when there is no plot, andplays the deepest games of chess without any adversary.It is a source of much gratification to Mr. Guppy, therefore, tofind the new-comer constantly poring over the papers in Jarndyceand Jarndyce, for he well knows that nothing but confusion andfailure can come of that. His satisfaction communicates itself toa third saunterer through the long vacation in Kenge and Carboy'soffice, to wit, Young Smallweed.Whether Young Smallweed (metaphorically called Small and eke ChickWeed, as it were jocularly to express a fledgling) was ever a boyis much doubted in Lincoln's Inn. He is now something underfifteen and an old limb of the law. He is facetiously understoodto entertain a passion for a lady at a cigar-shop in theneighbourhood of Chancery Lane and for her sake to have broken offa contract with another lady, to whom he had been engaged someyears. He is a town-made article, of small stature and weazenfeatures, but may be perceived from a considerable distance bymeans of his very tall hat. To become a Guppy is the object of hisambition. He dresses at that gentleman (by whom he is patronized),talks at him, walks at him, founds himself entirely on him. He ishonoured with Mr. Guppy's particular confidence and occasionallyadvises him, from the deep wells of his experience, on difficultpoints in private life.Mr. Guppy has been lolling out of window all the morning aftertrying all the stools in succession and finding none of them easy,and after several times putting his head into the iron safe with anotion of cooling it. Mr. Smallweed has been twice dispatched foreffervescent drinks, and has twice mixed them in the two officialtumblers and stirred them up with the ruler. Mr. Guppy propoundsfor Mr. Smallweed's consideration the paradox that the more youdrink the thirstier you are and reclines his head upon the window-sill in a state of hopeless languor.While thus looking out into the shade of Old Square, Lincoln's Inn,surveying the intolerable bricks and mortar, Mr. Guppy becomesconscious of a manly whisker emerging from the cloistered walkbelow and turning itself up in the direction of his face. At thesame time, a low whistle is wafted through the Inn and a suppressedvoice cries, "Hip! Gup-py!""Why, you don't mean it!" says Mr. Guppy, aroused. "Small! Here'sJobling!" Small's head looks out of window too and nods toJobling."Where have you sprung up from?" inquires Mr. Guppy."From the market-gardens down by Deptford. I can't stand it anylonger. I must enlist. I say! I wish you'd lend me half a crown.Upon my soul, I'm hungry."Jobling looks hungry and also has the appearance of having run toseed in the market-gardens down by Deptford."I say! Just throw out half a crown if you have got one to spare.I want to get some dinner.""Will you come and dine with me?" says Mr. Guppy, throwing out thecoin, which Mr. Jobling catches neatly."How long should I have to hold out?" says Jobling."Not half an hour. I am only waiting here till the enemy goes,returns Mr. Guppy, butting inward with his head."What enemy?""A new one. Going to be articled. Will you wait?""Can you give a fellow anything to read in the meantime?" says MrJobling.Smallweed suggests the law list. But Mr. Jobling declares withmuch earnestness that he "can't stand it.""You shall have the paper," says Mr. Guppy. "He shall bring itdown. But you had better not be seen about here. Sit on ourstaircase and read. It's a quiet place."Jobling nods intelligence and acquiescence. The sagaciousSmallweed supplies him with the newspaper and occasionally dropshis eye upon him from the landing as a precaution against hisbecoming disgusted with waiting and making an untimely departure.At last the enemy retreats, and then Smallweed fetches Mr. Joblingup."Well, and how are you?" says Mr. Guppy, shaking hands with him."So, so. How are you?"Mr. Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of, Mr. Joblingventures on the question, "How is she?" This Mr. Guppy resents asa liberty, retorting, "Jobling, there are chords in the humanmind--" Jobling begs pardon."Any subject but that!" says Mr. Guppy with a gloomy enjoyment ofhis injury. "For there are chords, Jobling--"Mr. Jobling begs pardon again.During this short colloquy, the active Smallweed, who is of thedinner party, has written in legal characters on a slip of paper,"Return immediately." This notification to all whom it mayconcern, he inserts in the letter-box, and then putting on the tallhat at the angle of inclination at which Mr. Guppy wears his,informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce.Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining-house,of the class known among its frequenters by the denomination slap-bang, where the waitress, a bouncing young female of forty, issupposed to have made some impression on the susceptible Smallweed,of whom it may be remarked that he is a weird changeling to whomyears are nothing. He stands precociously possessed of centuriesof owlish wisdom. If he ever lay in a cradle, it seems as if hemust have lain there in a tail-coat. He has an old, old eye, hasSmallweed; and he drinks and smokes in a monkeyish way; and hisneck is stiff in his collar; and he is never to be taken in; and heknows all about it, whatever it is. In short, in his bringing uphe has been so nursed by Law and Equity that he has become a kindof fossil imp, to account for whose terrestrial existence it isreported at the public offices that his father was John Doe and hismother the only female member of the Roe family, also that hisfirst long-clothes were made from a blue bag.Into the dining-house, unaffected by the seductive show in thewindow of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry, verdantbaskets of peas, coolly blooming cucumbers, and joints ready forthe spit, Mr. Smallweed leads the way. They know him there anddefer to him. He has his favourite box, he bespeaks all thepapers, he is down upon bald patriarchs, who keep them more thanten minutes afterwards. It is of no use trying him with anythingless than a full-sized "bread" or proposing to him any joint in cutunless it is in the very best cut. In the matter of gravy he isadamant.Conscious of his elfin power and submitting to his dreadexperience, Mr. Guppy consults him in the choice of that day'sbanquet, turning an appealing look towards him as the waitressrepeats the catalogue of viands and saying "What do you take,Chick?" Chick, out of the profundity of his artfulness, preferring"veal and ham and French beans--and don't you forget the stuffing,Polly" (with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye), Mr. Guppy andMr. Jobling give the like order. Three pint pots of half-and-halfare superadded. Quickly the waitress returns bearing what isapparently a model of the Tower of Babel but what is really a pileof plates and flat tin dish-covers. Mr. Smallweed, approving ofwhat is set before him, conveys intelligent benignity into hisancient eye and winks upon her. Then, amid a constant coming in,and going out, and running about, and a clatter of crockery, and arumbling up and down of the machine which brings the nice cuts fromthe kitchen, and a shrill crying for more nice cuts down thespeaking-pipe, and a shrill reckoning of the cost of nice cuts thathave been disposed of, and a general flush and steam of hot joints,cut and uncut, and a considerably heated atmosphere in which thesoiled knives and tablecloths seem to break out spontaneously intoeruptions of grease and blotches of beer, the legal triumvirateappease their appetites.Mr. Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment mightrequire. His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of aglistening nature, as if it had been a favourite snail-promenade.The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat, andparticularly at the seams. He has the faded appearance of agentleman in embarrassed circumstances; even his light whiskersdroop with something of a shabby air.His appetite is so vigorous that it suggests spare living for somelittle time back. He makes such a speedy end of his plate of vealand ham, bringing it to a close while his companions are yet midwayin theirs, that Mr. Guppy proposes another. "Thank you, Guppy,"says Mr. Jobling, "I really don't know but what I will takeanother."Another being brought, he falls to with great goodwill.Mr. Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals until he is halfway through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull athis pint pot of half-and-half (also renewed) and stretches out hislegs and rubs his hands. Beholding him in which glow ofcontentment, Mr. Guppy says, "You are a man again, Tony!""Well, not quite yet," says Mr. Jobling. "Say, just born.""Will you take any other vegetables? Grass? Peas? Summercabbage?""Thank you, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling. "I really don't know butwhat I will take summer cabbage."Order given; with the sarcastic addition (from Mr. Smallweed) of"Without slugs, Polly!" And cabbage produced."I am growing up, Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, plying his knife andfork with a relishing steadiness."Glad to hear it.""In fact, I have just turned into my teens," says Mr. Jobling.He says no more until he has performed his task, which he achievesas Messrs. Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs, thus getting over theground in excellent style and beating those two gentlemen easily bya veal and ham and a cabbage."Now, Small," says Mr. Guppy, "what would you recommend aboutpastry?""Marrow puddings," says Mr. Smallweed instantly."Aye, aye!" cries Mr. Jobling with an arch look. "You're there,are you? Thank you, Mr. Guppy, I don't know but what I will take amarrow pudding."Three marrow puddings being produced, Mr. Jobling adds in apleasant humour that he is coming of age fast. To these succeed,by command of Mr. Smallweed, "three Cheshires," and to those "threesmall rums." This apex of the entertainment happily reached, Mr.Jobling puts up his legs on the carpeted seat (having his own sideof the box to himself), leans against the wall, and says, "I amgrown up now, Guppy. I have arrived at maturity.""What do you think, now," says Mr. Guppy, "about--you don't mindSmallweed?""Not the least in the worid. I have the pleasure of drinking hisgood health.""Sir, to you!" says Mr. Smallweed."I was saying, what do you think now," pursues Mr. Guppy, "ofenlisting?""Why, what I may think after dinner," returns Mr. Jobling, "is onething, my dear Guppy, and what I may think before dinner is anotherthing. Still, even after dinner, I ask myself the question, Whatam I to do? How am I to live? Ill fo manger, you know," says Mr.Jobling, pronouncing that word as if he meant a necessary fixturein an English stable. "Ill fo manger. That's the French saying,and mangering is as necessary to me as it is to a Frenchman. Ormore so."Mr. Smallweed is decidedly of opinion "much more so.""If any man had told me," pursues Jobling, "even so lately as whenyou and I had the frisk down in Lincolnshire, Guppy, and drove overto see that house at Castle Wold--"Mr. Smallweed corrects him--Chesney Wold."Chesney Wold. (I thank my honourable friend for that cheer.) Ifany man had told me then that I should be as hard up at the presenttime as I literally find myself, I should have--well, I should havepitched into him," says Mr. Jobling, taking a little rum-and-waterwith an air of desperate resignation; "I should have let fly at hishead.""Still, Tony, you were on the wrong side of the post then,"remonstrates Mr. Guppy. "You were talking about nothing else inthe gig.""Guppy," says Mr. Jobling, "I will not deny it. I was on the wrongside of the post. But I trusted to things coming round."That very popular trust in flat things coming round! Not in theirbeing beaten round, or worked round, but in their "coming" round!As though a lunatic should trust in the world's "coming"triangular!"I had confident expectations that things would come round and beall square," says Mr. Jobling with some vagueness of expression andperhaps of meaning too. "But I was disappointed. They never did.And when it came to creditors making rows at the office and topeople that the office dealt with making complaints about dirtytrifles of borrowed money, why there was an end of that connexion.And of any new professional connexion too, for if I was to give areference to-morrow, it would be mentioned and would sew me up.Then what's a fellow to do? I have been keeping out of the way andliving cheap down about the market-gardens, but what's the use ofliving cheap when you have got no money? You might as well livedear.""Better," Mr. Smallweed thinks."Certainly. It's the fashionable way; and fashion and whiskershave been my weaknesses, and I don't care who knows it," says Mr.Jobling. "They are great weaknesses--Damme, sir, they are great.Well," proceeds Mr. Jobling after a defiant visit to his rum-and-water, "what can a fellow do, I ask you, but enlist?"Mr. Guppy comes more fully into the conversation to state what, inhis opinion, a fellow can do. His manner is the gravely impressivemanner of a man who has not committed himself in life otherwisethan as he has become the victim of a tender sorrow of the heart."Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, "myself and our mutual friend Smallweed--"Mr. Smallweed modestly observes, "Gentlemen both!" and drinks."--Have had a little conversation on this matter more than oncesince you--""Say, got the sack!" cries Mr. Jobling bitterly. "Say it, Guppy.You mean it.""No-o-o! Left the Inn," Mr. Smallweed delicately suggests."Since you left the Inn, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy; "and I havementioned to our mutual friend Smallweed a plan I have latelythought of proposing. You know Snagsby the stationer?""I know there is such a stationer," returns Mr. Jobling. "He wasnot ours, and I am not acquainted with him.""He is ours, Jobling, and I am acquainted with him," Mr. Guppyretorts. "Well, sir! I have lately become better acquainted withhim through some accidental circumstances that have made me avisitor of his in private life. Those circumstances it is notnecessary to offer in argument. They may--or they may not--havesome reference to a subject which may--or may not--have cast itsshadow on my existence."As it is Mr. Guppy's perplexing way with boastful misery to tempthis particular friends into this subject, and the moment they touchit, to turn on them with that trenchant severity about the chordsin the human mind, both Mr. Jobling and Mr. Smallweed decline thepitfall by remaining silent."Such things may be," repeats Mr. Guppy, "or they may not be. Theyare no part of the case. It is enough to mention that both Mr. andMrs. Snagsby are very willing to oblige me and that Snagsby has, inbusy times, a good deal of copying work to give out. He has allTulkinghorn's, and an excellent business besides. I believe if ourmutual friend Smallweed were put into the box, he could provethis?"Mr. Smallweed nods and appears greedy to be sworn."Now, gentlemen of the jury," says Mr. Guppy, "--I mean, now,Jobling--you may say this is a poor prospect of a living. Granted.But it's better than nothing, and better than enlistment. You wanttime. There must be time for these late affairs to blow over. Youmight live through it on much worse terms than by writing forSnagsby."Mr. Jobling is about to interrupt when the sagacious Smallweedchecks him with a dry cough and the words, "Hem! Shakspeare!""There are two branches to this subject, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy."That is the first. I come to the second. You know Krook, theChancellor, across the lane. Come, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy in hisencouraging cross-examination-tone, "I think you know Krook, theChancellor, across the lane?""I know him by sight," says Mr. Jobling."You know him by sight. Very well. And you know little Flite?""Everybody knows her," says Mr. Jobling."Everybody knows her. Very well. Now it has been one of my dutiesof late to pay Flite a certain weekly allowance, deducting from itthe amount of her weekly rent, which I have paid (in consequence ofinstructions I have received) to Krook himself, regularly in herpresence. This has brought me into communication with Krook andinto a knowledge of his house and his habits. I know he has a roomto let. You may live there at a very low charge under any name youlike, as quietly as if you were a hundred miles off. He'll ask noquestions and would accept you as a tenant at a word from me--before the clock strikes, if you chose. And I tell you anotherthing, Jobling," says Mr. Guppy, who has suddenly lowered his voiceand become familiar again, "he's an extraordinary old chap--alwaysrummaging among a litter of papers and grubbing away at teachinghimself to read and write, without getting on a bit, as it seems tome. He is a most extraordinary old chap, sir. I don't know butwhat it might be worth a fellow's while to look him up a bit.""You don't mean--" Mr. Jobling begins."I mean," returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becomingmodesty, "that I can't make him out. I appeal to our mutual friendSmallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can'tmake him out."Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, "A few!""I have seen something of the profession and something of life,Tony," says Mr. Guppy, "and it's seldom I can't make a man out,more or less. But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, andsecret (though I don't believe he is ever sober), I never cameacross. Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not asoul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; andwhether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensedpawnbroker, or a money-lender--all of which I have thought likelyat different times--it might pay you to knock up a sort ofknowledge of him. I don't see why you shouldn't go in for it, wheneverything else suits."Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows onthe table and their chins upon their hands, and look at theceiling. After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put theirhands in their pockets, and look at one another."If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy with asigh. "But there are chords in the human mind--"Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water, Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to TonyJobling and informing him that during the vacation and while thingsare slack, his purse, "as far as three or four or even five poundgoes," will be at his disposal. "For never shall it be said," Mr.Guppy adds with emphasis, "that William Guppy turned his back uponhis friend!"The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose thatMr. Jobling says with emotion, "Guppy, my trump, your fist!" Mr.Guppy presents it, saying, "Jobling, my boy, there it is!" Mr.Jobling returns, "Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!"Mr. Guppy replies, "Jobling, we have."They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner,"Thank you, Guppy, I don't know but what I will take another glassfor old acquaintance sake.""Krook's last lodger died there," observes Mr. Guppy in anincidental way."Did he though!" says Mr. Jobling."There was a verdict. Accidental death. You don't mind that?""No," says Mr. Jobling, "I don't mind it; but he might as well havedied somewhere else. It's devilish odd that he need go and die atmy place!" Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several timesreturning to it with such remarks as, "There are places enough todie in, I should think!" or, "He wouldn't have liked my dying athis place, I dare say!"However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes todispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home,as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay.Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hatand conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner. Hesoon returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home andthat he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the backpremises, sleeping "like one o'clock.""Then I'll pay," says Mr. Guppy, "and we'll go and see him. Small,what will it be?"Mr. Smallweed, compelling the attendance of the waitress with onehitch of his eyelash, instantly replies as follows: "Four veals andhams is three, and four potatoes is three and four, and one summercabbage is three and six, and three marrows is four and six, andsix breads is five, and three Cheshires is five and three, and fourhalf-pints of half-and-half is six and three, and four small rumsis eight and three, and three Pollys is eight and six. Eight andsix in half a sovereign, Polly, and eighteenpence out!"Not at all excited by these stupendous calculations, Smallweeddismisses his friends with a cool nod and remains behind to take alittle admiring notice of Polly, as opportunity may serve, and toread the daily papers, which are so very large in proportion tohimself, shorn of his hat, that when he holds up the Times to runhis eye over the columns, he seems to have retired for the nightand to have disappeared under the bedclothes.Mr. Guppy and Mr. Jobling repair to the rag and bottle shop, wherethey find Krook still sleeping like one o'clock, that is to say,breathing stertorously with his chin upon his breast and quiteinsensible to any external sounds or even to gentle shaking. Onthe table beside him, among the usual lumber, stand an empty gin-bottle and a glass. The unwholesome air is so stained with thisliquor that even the green eyes of the cat upon her shelf, as theyopen and shut and glimmer on the visitors, look drunk."Hold up here!" says Mr. Guppy, giving the relaxed figure of theold man another shake. "Mr. Krook! Halloa, sir!"But it would seem as easy to wake a bundle of old clothes with aspirituous heat smouldering in it. "Did you ever see such a stuporas he falls into, between drink and sleep?" says Mr. Guppy."If this is his regular sleep," returns Jobling, rather alarmed,"it'll last a long time one of these days, I am thinking.""It's always more like a fit than a nap," says Mr. Guppy, shakinghim again. "Halloa, your lordship! Why, he might be robbed fiftytimes over! Open your eyes!"After much ado, he opens them, but without appearing to see hisvisitors or any other objects. Though he crosses one leg onanother, and folds his hands, and several times closes and openshis parched lips, he seems to all intents and purposes asinsensible as before."He is alive, at any rate," says Mr. Guppy. "How are you, my LordChancellor. I have brought a friend of mine, sir, on a littlematter of business."The old man still sits, often smacking his dry lips without theleast consciousness. After some minutes he makes an attempt torise. They help him up, and he staggers against the wall andstares at them."How do you do, Mr. Krook?" says Mr. Guppy in some discomfiture."How do you do, sir? You are looking charming, Mr. Krook. I hopeyou are pretty well?"The old man, in aiming a purposeless blow at Mr. Guppy, or atnothing, feebly swings himself round and comes with his faceagainst the wall. So he remains for a minute or two, heaped upagainst it, and then staggers down the shop to the front door. Theair, the movement in the court, the lapse of time, or thecombination of these things recovers him. He comes back prettysteadily, adjusting his fur cap on his head and looking keenly atthem."Your servant, gentlemen; I've been dozing. Hi! I am hard to wake,odd times.""Rather so, indeed, sir," responds Mr. Guppy."What? You've been a-trying to do it, have you?" says thesuspicious Krook."Only a little," Mr. Guppy explains.The old man's eye resting on the empty bottle, he takes it up,examines it, and slowly tilts it upside down."I say!" he cries like the hobgoblin in the story. "Somebody'sbeen making free here!""I assure you we found it so," says Mr. Guppy. "Would you allow meto get it filled for you?""Yes, certainly I would!" cries Krook in high glee. "Certainly Iwould! Don't mention it! Get it filled next door--Sol's Arms--theLord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. Bless you, they know me!"He so presses the empty bottle upon Mr. Guppy that that gentleman,with a nod to his friend, accepts the trust and hurries out andhurries in again with the bottle filled. The old man receives itin his arms like a beloved grandchild and pats it tenderly."But, I say," he whispers, with his eyes screwed up, after tastingit, "this ain't the Lord Chancellor's fourteenpenny. This iseighteenpenny!""I thought you might like that better," says Mr. Guppy."You're a nobleman, sir," returns Krook with another taste, and hishot breath seems to come towards them like a flame. "You're abaron of the land."Taking advantage of this auspicious moment, Mr. Guppy presents hisfriend under the impromptu name of Mr. Weevle and states the objectof their visit. Krook, with his bottle under his arm (he nevergets beyond a certain point of either drunkenness or sobriety),takes time to survey his proposed lodger and seems to approve ofhim. "You'd like to see the room, young man?" he says. "Ah! It'sa good room! Been whitewashed. Been cleaned down with soft soapand soda. Hi! It's worth twice the rent, letting alone my companywhen you want it and such a cat to keep the mice away."Commending the room after this manner, the old man takes themupstairs, where indeed they do find it cleaner than it used to beand also containing some old articles of furniture which he has dugup from his inexhaustible stores. The terms are easily concluded--for the Lord Chancellor cannot be hard on Mr. Guppy, associated ashe is with Kenge and Carboy, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and otherfamous claims on his professional consideration--and it is agreedthat Mr. Weevle shall take possession on the morrow. Mr. Weevleand Mr. Guppy then repair to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, wherethe personal introduction of the former to Mr. Snagsby is effectedand (more important) the vote and interest of Mrs. Snagsby aresecured. They then report progress to the eminent Smallweed,waiting at the office in his tall hat for that purpose, andseparate, Mr. Guppy explaining that he would terminate his littleentertainment by standing treat at the play but that there arechords in the human mind which would render it a hollow mockery.On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appearsat Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establisheshimself in his new lodging, where the two eyes in the shuttersstare at him in his sleep, as if they were full of wonder. On thefollowing day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy good-for-nothing kind ofyoung fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss Flite and ahammer of his landlord and goes to work devising apologies forwindow-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hangingup his two teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworthof little hooks, like a shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.But what Mr. Weevle prizes most of all his few possessions (nextafter his light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that onlywhiskers can awaken in the breast of man) is a choice collection ofcopper-plate impressions from that truly national work TheDivinities of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty,representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirkthat art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. Withthese magnificent portraits, unworthily confined in a band-boxduring his seclusion among the market-gardens, he decorates hisapartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty wears everyvariety of fancy dress, plays every variety of musical instrument,fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, andis backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, theresult is very imposing.But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's, weakness.To borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening andread about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that areshooting across the fashionable sky in every direction isunspeakable consolation to him. To know what member of whatbrilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant anddistinguished feat of joining it yesterday or contemplates the noless brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow giveshim a thrill of joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery ofBritish Beauty is about, and means to be about, and what Galaxymarriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy rumours are incirculation, is to become acquainted with the most gloriousdestinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence tothe Galaxy portraits implicated, and seems to know the originals,and to be known of them.For the rest he is a quiet lodger, full of handy shifts and devicesas before mentioned, able to cook and clean for himself as well asto carpenter, and developing social inclinations after the shadesof evening have fallen on the court. At those times, when he isnot visited by Mr. Guppy or by a small light in his likenessquenched in a dark hat, he comes out of his dull room--where he hasinherited the deal wilderness of desk bespattered with a rain ofink--and talks to Krook or is "very free," as they call it in thecourt, commendingly, with any one disposed for conversation.Wherefore, Mrs. Piper, who leads the court, is impelled to offertwo remarks to Mrs. Perkins: firstly, that if her Johnny was tohave whiskers, she could wish 'em to be identically like that youngman's; and secondly, "Mark my words, Mrs. Perkins, ma'am, and don'tyou be surprised, Lord bless you, if that young man comes in atlast for old Krook's money!"