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, 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 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 lain buried a few thousand years. One
dry hot auiumn evening at twilight, this man,
being then five years turned of fifty, looked
in upon Parkle in his usual lounging way, with
his cigar in his mouth as usual, and said, "I
am going out of town." As he never went
out of town, Parkle said, "Oh indeed! At
last?" "Yes," says he, "at last. For what is
a man to do? London is so small! If you
go West, you come to Hounslow. If you go
East, you come to Bow. If you go South,
there's Brixton or Norwood. If you go North,
you can't get rid of Barnet. Then, the monotony
of all the streets, streets, streets—and of
all the roads, roads, roadsand the dust, dust,
dust!" When he had said this, he wished
Parkle a good evening, but came back again and
said, with his watch in his hand, " Oh, I really
cannot go on winding up this watch over and
over again; I wish you would take care of it." So
Parkle laughed and consented, and the man went
out of town. The man remained out of town so
long, that his letter-box became choked, and no
more letters could be got into it, and they began
to be left at the lodge and to accumulate there.
At last the head-porter, decided, on conference
with the steward, to use his master-key and
look into the chambers, and give them the
benefit of a whiff of air. Then, it was found that
he had hanged himself to his bedstead, and had
left this written memorandum: " I should prefer
to be cut down by my neighbour and friend (if
he will allow me to call him so), H. Parkle, Esq."
This was the end of Parkle's occupancy of
chambers. He went into lodgings immediately.

Third. While Parkle lived in Gray's Inn,
and I myself was uncornmercially preparing for
the Bar—which is done, as everybody knows,
by having a frayed old gown put on in a pantry
by an old woman in a chronic state of Saint
Anthony's fire and dropsy, and, so decorated,
bolting a bad dinner in a party of four, whereof
each individual mistrusts the other three—I
say, while these things were, there was a certain
elderly gentleman who lived in a court of the
Temple, and was a. great judge and lover of port
wine. Every day, he dined at his club and drank
his bottle or two of port wine, and every night
came home to the Temple and went to bed in
his lonely chambers. This had gone on many
years without variation, when one night he had
a fit on coming home, and fell and cut his head
deep, but partly recovered and groped about in.
the dark to find the door. When he was afterwards
discovered, dead, it was clearly established
by the marks of his hands about the room that
he must have done so. Now, this chanced on
the night of Christmas Eve, and over him lived
a young fellow who had sisters and young
country- friends, and who gave them a little
party that night, in the course of which they
played at Blindmau's Buff. They played that
game, for their greater sport, by the light of the
fire only; and once when they were all quietly
rustling and stealing about, and the blindman
was trying to pick out the prettiest sister (for
which I am far from blaming him), somebody
cried, Hark! The man below must be
playing Blindmau's Buff by himself to-night!
They listened, and they heard sounds of some
one falling about and stumbling against