wers
of speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of
horror--the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common-place as
they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would
rather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true
history of one old set of chambers.'

There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and the
subject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with
no observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and
resuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement,
said--

'Look at them in another light--their most common-place and least
romantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy
man who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to
enter the profession, which is destined never to yield him a morsel
of bread. The waiting--the hope--the disappointment--the fear--the
misery--the poverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the
suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about
them?' And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight
at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite
subject.

Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of
the company smiled, and looked on in silence.

'Talk of your German universities,' said the little old man. 'Pooh,
pooh! there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it;
only people never think of it.'

'I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,
certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick, laughing. 'To be sure you didn't,' said
the little old man; 'of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to
me, "What is there in chambers in particular?" "Queer old places," said
I. "Not at all," said he. "Lonely," said I. "Not a bit of it," said he.
He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door.
Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen
months. Everybody thought he'd gone out of town.'

'And how was he found out at last?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.

'The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't paid
any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty
skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward
in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather,
perhaps; rather,