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It is night in Lincoln's Inn perplexed and troublous valley of the shadow of the law, where suitors generally find but little day and fat candles are snuffed out in offices, and clerks have rattled down the crazy wooden stairs, and dispersed. The bell that rings at nine o'clock, has ceased its doleful clangor about nothing; the gates are shut; and the night-porter, a solemn warder with a mighty power of sleep, keeps guard in his lodge. From tiers of staircase windows, clogged lamps like the eyes of Equity, bleared Argus with a fathomless pocket for every eye and an eye upon it, dimly blink at the stars. In dirty upper casements, here and there, hazy little patches of candle-light reveal where some wise draughtsman and conveyancer yet toils for the entanglement of real estate in meshes of sheepskin, in the average ratio of about a dozen of sheep to an acre of land. Over which beelike industry, these benefactors of their species linger yet, though office-hours be past: that they may give, for every day, some good account at last.

In the neighboring court, where the Lord Chancellor of the Rag-and-Bottle shop dwells, there is a general tendency towards beer and supper. Mrs. Piper and Mrs.

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Perkins, whose respective sons, engaged with a circle of acquaintance in the game of hide-and-seek, have been lying in ambush about the byways of Chancery Lane for some hours, and scouring the plain of the same thoroughfare to the confusion of passengers, Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins have but now exchanged congratulations on the children being abed ; and they still linger on a doorstep over a few parting words. Mr. Krook and his lodger, and the fact of Mr. Krook’s being continually in liquor," and the testamentary prospects of the young man are, as usual, the staple of their conversation. But they have something to say, likewise, of the Harmonic Meeting at the Sol's Arms; where the sound of the piano through the partly-opened windows jingles out into the court, and where little Swills, after keeping the lovers of harmony in a roar like a very Yorick, may now be heard taking the gruff line in a concerted piece, and sentimentally adjuring his friends and patrons to Listen, listen, listen, Tew the wa-ter-Fall! Mrs. Perkins and Mrs. Piper compare opinions on the subject of the young lady of professional celebrity who assists at the Harmonic Meetings, and who has a space to herself in the manuscript announcement in the window ; Mrs. Perkins possessing information that she has been married a year and a half, though announced as Miss M. Melvilleson, the noted syren, and that her baby is clandestinely conveyed to the Sol's Arms every night to receive its natural nourishment during the entertainments. Sooner than which, myself," says Mrs. Perkins, “I would get my living by selling lucifers.” Mrs. Piper, as in duty bound, is of the same opinion ; holding that a private station is better than public applause, and thanking Heaven for her own (and, by implication, Mrs. Perkins's) respectability.

By this time, the potboy of the Sol's Arms appearing with her supper-pint well frothed. Mrs. Piper accepts that tankard and retires in-doors, first giving a fair goodnight to Mrs. Perkins, who has had her own pint in her hand ever since it was fetched from the same hostelry by young Perkins before he was sent to bed. Now, there is a sound of putting up shop-shutters in the court, and a smell as of the smoking of pipes ; and shooting stars are seen in upper windows, further indicating retirement to rest. Now, too, the policeman begins to push at doors ; to try fastenings; to be suspicious of bundles ; and to administer his beat, on the hypothesis that everyone is either robbing or being robbed.

It is a close night, though the damp cold is searching too ; and there is a laggard mist a little way up in the air. It is a fine steaming night to turn the slaughterhouses, the unwholesome trades, the sewerage, bad water, and burial-grounds to account, and give the Registrar of Deaths some extra business. It may be something in the air — there is plenty in it or it may be something in himself, that is in fault; but Mr. Weevle, otherwise Jobling, is very ill at ease. He comes and goes, between his own room and the open street-door, twenty times an hour. He has been doing so ever since it fell dark. Since the Chancellor shut up his shop, which he did very early tonight, Mr. Weevle has been down and up, and down and up (with a cheap, tight velvet skull-cap on his head, making his whiskers look out of all proportion), oftener than before.

It is no phenomenon that Mr. Snagsby should be ill at ease too; for he always is so, more or less, under the oppressive influence of the secret that is upon him. Impelled by the mystery, of which he is a partaker, and yet

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in which he is not a sharer, Mr. Snagsby haunts what seems to be its fountain-head the rag-and-bottle shop in the court. It has an irresistible attraction for him. Even now, coming round by the Sol's Arms with the intention of passing down the court, and out at the Chancery Lane end, and so terminating his unpremeditated after-supper stroll of ten minutes long from his own door and back again, Mr. Snagsby approaches.

What, Mr. Weevle?” says the stationer, stopping to speak. you

there?“Ay!” says Weevle.

Here I am, Mr. Snagsby.” “Airing yourself, as I am doing, before you go to bed ?” the stationer inquires.

Why, there's not much air to be got here; and what there is, is not very refreshing,” Weevle answers, glancing up and down the court.

Very true, sir. Don't you observe,” says Mr. Snagsby, pausing to sniff and taste the air a little ; “ don't you observe, Mr. Weevle, that you're - not to put too fine a point upon it — that you're rather greasy here, sir?”

Why, I have noticed myself that there is a queer kind of flavor in the place to-night,” Mr. Weevle rejoins. “I suppose it's chops at the Sol's Arms."

“ Chops, do you think? Oh!- Chops, eh?” Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again. “Well, sir, I suppose it is. But I should say their cook at the Sol wanted a little looking after. She has been burning 'em, sir! And I don't think ;” Mr. Snagsby sniffs and tastes again, and then spits and wipes his mouth; “I don't think — not to put too fine a point upon it — that they were quite fresh when they were shown the gridiron.”

“ That's very likely. It's a tainting sort of weather.”


" It is a tainting sort of weather,” says Mr. Snagsby; and I find it sinking to the spirits.”

“ By George! I find it gives me the horrors," returns Mr. Weevle.

" Then, you see, you live in a lonesome way, and in a lonesome room, with a black circumstance hanging over it,” says Mr. Snagsby, looking in past the other's shoulder along the dark passage, and then falling back a step to look up at the house. I couldn't live in that room alone, as you do, sir. I should get so fidgety and worried of an evening, sometimes, that I should be driven to come to the door, and stand here, sooner than sit there. But then it's very true that you

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your room, what I saw there. That makes a difference.”

“ I know quite enough about it,” returns Tony.

" It's not agreeable, is it?” pursues Mr. Snagsby, coughing his cough of mild persuasion behind his hand. “Mr. Krook ought to consider it in the rent. I hope he does, I am sure.”

"I hope he does,” says Tony. “But I doubt it!”

“You find the rent high, do you, sir ? ” returns the stationer. “ Rents are high about here. I don't know how it is exactly, but the law seems to put things up in price. Not,” adds Mr. Snagsby, with his apologetic cough, " that I mean to say a word against the profession I get my living by."

Mr. Weevle again glances up and down the court, and then looks at the stationer. Mr. Snagsby, blankly catching his eye, looks upward for a star or so, and coughs a cough expressive of not exactly seeing his way out of this conversation.

“ It's a curious fact, sir,” he observes, slowly rubbing his hands, “ that he should have been

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