ng, and mirrors innumerable; an eight-day mantel-clock, by Moline of
Geneva, that struck the hours, half-hours, and quarters: cut-glass toilet
candlesticks, with silver sconces; an elegant zebra-wood cabinet; also a
beautiful davenport of zebra-wood, with a plate-glass back, containing a
pen rug worked on silver ground, an ebony match box, a blue crystal,
containing a sponge pen-wiper, a beautiful envelope-case, a white-cornelian
seal, with 'Hanby House' upon it, wax of all colours, papers of all
textures, envelopes without end--every imaginable requirement of
correspondence except a pen that would write. There _were_ pens,
indeed--there almost always are--but they were miserable apologies of
things; some were mere crow-quills--sort of cover-hacks of pens, while
others were great, clumsy, heavy-heeled, cart-horse sort of things, clotted
up to the hocks with ink, or split all the way through--vexatious
apologies, that throw a person over just at the critical moment, when he
has got his sheet prepared and his ideas all ready to pour upon paper;
then splut--splut--splutter goes the pen, and away goes the train of
thought. Bold is the man who undertakes to write his letters in his bedroom
with country-house pens. But, to our friends. Jack and Sponge slept next
door to each other; Sponge, as we have already said, occupying the
state-room, with its canopy-topped bedstead, carved and panelled sides, and
elegant chintz curtains lined with pink, and massive silk-and-bullion
tassels; while Jack occupied the dressing-room, which was the state bedroom
in miniature, only a good deal more comfortable. The rooms communicated
with double doors, and our friends very soon effected a passage.

'Have you any 'baccy?' asked Jack, waddling in in his slippers, after
having sucked off his tops without the aid of a boot-jack.

'There's some in my jacket pocket,' replied Sponge, nodding to where it
hung in the wardrobe; 'but it won't do to smoke here, will it?' asked he.

'Why not?' inquired Jack.

'Such a fine room,' replied Sponge, looking around.

'Oh, fine be hanged!' replied Jack, adding, as he made for the jacket, 'no
place too fine for smokin' in.'

Having helped himself to one of the best cigars, and lighted it, Jack
composed himself cross-legged in an easy, spring, stuffed chair, while
Sponge fussed about among the writing implements, watering and stirring up
the clotted ink, and denouncing each pen in succession, as he gave it the