impressions of the loneliness of life in chambers. They shall
follow here, in order; first, second, and third.
First. My Gray’s Inn friend, on a time, hurt one of his legs, and
it became seriously inflamed. Not knowing of his indisposition, I
was on my way to visit him as usual, one summer evening, when I was
much surprised by meeting a lively leech in Field-court, Gray’s
Inn, seemingly on his way to the West End of London. As the leech
was alone, and was of course unable to explain his position, even
if he had been inclined to do so (which he had not the appearance
of being), I passed him and went on. Turning the corner of Gray’s
Inn-square, I was beyond expression amazed by meeting another leech
– also entirely alone, and also proceeding in a westerly direction,
though with less decision of purpose. Ruminating on this
extraordinary circumstance, and endeavouring to remember whether I
had ever read, in the Philosophical Transactions or any work on
Natural History, of a migration of Leeches, I ascended to the top
set, past the dreary series of closed outer doors of offices and an
empty set or two, which intervened between that lofty region and
the surface. Entering my friend’s rooms, I found him stretched
upon his back, like Prometheus Bound, with a perfectly demented
ticket-porter in attendance on him instead of the Vulture: which
helpless individual, who was feeble and frightened, and had (my
friend explained to me, in great choler) been endeavouring for some
hours to apply leeches to his leg, and as yet had only got on two
out of twenty. To this Unfortunate’s distraction between a damp
cloth on which he had placed the leeches to freshen them, and the
wrathful adjurations of my friend to ‘Stick ’em on, sir!’ I
referred the phenomenon I had encountered: the rather as two fine
specimens were at that moment going out at the door, while a
general insurrection of the rest was in progress on the table.
After a while our united efforts prevailed, and, when the leeches
came off and had recovered their spirits, we carefully tied them up
in a decanter. But I never heard more of them than that they were
all gone next morning, and that the Out-of-door young man of
Bickle, Bush and Bodger, on the ground floor, had been bitten and
blooded by some creature not identified. They never ‘took’ on Mrs.
Miggot, the laundress; but, I have always preserved fresh, the
belief that she unconsciously carried several about her, until they
gradually found openings in life.
Second. On the same staircase with my friend Parkle, and on the
same floor, there lived a man of law who pursued his business
elsewhere, and used those chambers as his place of residence. For
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
three or four years, Parkle rather knew of him than knew him, but
after that – for Englishmen – short pause of consideration, they
began to speak. Parkle exchanged words with him in his private
character only, and knew nothing of his business ways, or means.
He was a man a good deal about town, but always alone. We used to
remark to one another, that although we often encountered him in
theatres, concert-rooms, and similar public places, he was always
alone. Yet he was not a gloomy man, and was of a decidedly
conversational turn; insomuch that he would sometimes of an evening
lounge with a cigar in his mouth, half in and half out of Parkle’s
rooms, and discuss the topics of the day by the hour. He used to
hint on these occasions that he had four faults to find with life;
firstly, that it obliged a man to be always winding up his watch;
secondly, that London was too small; thirdly, that it therefore
wanted variety; fourthly, that there was too much dust in it.
There was so much dust in his own faded chambers, certainly, that
they reminded me of a sepulchre, furnished in prophetic
anticipation of the present time, which had newly been brought to
light, after having remained buried a few thousand years. One dry,
hot autumn evening at twilight, this man, being then five years