Clearlytheycouldwantnothingbutastringentpoliceman。
MrArthurClennamsatinthewindowofthecoffee-houseonLudgateHill，countingoneoftheneighbouringbells，makingsentencesandburdensofsongsoutofitinspiteofhimself，andwonderinghowmanysickpeopleitmightbethedeathofinthecourseoftheyear。Asthehourapproached，itschangesofmeasuremadeitmoreandmoreexasperating。Atthequarter，itwentoffintoaconditionofdeadly-livelyimportunity，urgingthepopulaceinavolublemannertoCometochurch，Cometochurch，Cometochurch!
Atthetenminutes，itbecameawarethatthecongregationwouldbescanty，andslowlyhammeredoutinlowspirits，TheyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome!Atthefiveminutes，itabandonedhope，andshookeveryhouseintheneighbourhoodforthreehundredseconds，withonedismalswingpersecond，asagroanofdespair。
’ThankHeaven!’saidClennam，whenthehourstruck，andthebellstopped。
ButitssoundhadrevivedalongtrainofmiserableSundays，andtheprocessionwouldnotstopwiththebell，butcontinuedtomarchon。’Heavenforgiveme，’saidhe，’andthosewhotrainedme。HowIhavehatedthisday!’
TherewasthedrearySundayofhischildhood，whenhesatwithhishandsbeforehim，scaredoutofhissensesbyahorribletractwhichcommencedbusinesswiththepoorchildbyaskinghiminitstitle，whyhewasgoingtoPerdition？——apieceofcuriositythathereally，inafrockanddrawers，wasnotinaconditiontosatisfy——
andwhich，forthefurtherattractionofhisinfantmind，hadaparenthesisineveryotherlinewithsomesuchhiccuppingreferenceas2Ep。Thess。c。iii，v。6&7。TherewasthesleepySundayofhisboyhood，when，likeamilitarydeserter，hewasmarchedtochapelbyapicquetofteachersthreetimesaday，morallyhandcuffedtoanotherboy；andwhenhewouldwillinglyhavebarteredtwomealsofindigestiblesermonforanotherounceortwoofinferiormuttonathisscantydinnerintheflesh。TherewastheinterminableSundayofhisnonage；whenhismother，sternoffaceandunrelentingofheart，wouldsitalldaybehindaBible——
bound，likeherownconstructionofit，inthehardest，barest，andstraitestboards，withonedintedornamentonthecoverlikethedragofachain，andawrathfulsprinklingofredupontheedgesoftheleaves——asifit，ofallbooks!wereafortificationagainstsweetnessoftemper，naturalaffection，andgentleintercourse。
TherewastheresentfulSundayofalittlelater，whenhesatdowngloweringandgloomingthroughthetardylengthoftheday，withasullensenseofinjuryinhisheart，andnomorerealknowledgeofthebeneficenthistoryoftheNewTestamentthanifhehadbeenbredamongidolaters。TherewasalegionofSundays，alldaysofunserviceablebitternessandmortification，slowlypassingbeforehim。
’Begpardon，sir，’saidabriskwaiter，rubbingthetable。’Wishseebed-room？’
’Yes。Ihavejustmadeupmymindtodoit。’
’Chaymaid!’criedthewaiter。’Gelenboxnumsevenwishseeroom!’
’Stay!’saidClennam，rousinghimself。’IwasnotthinkingofwhatIsaid；Iansweredmechanically。Iamnotgoingtosleephere。I
amgoinghome。’
’Deed，sir？Chaymaid!Gelenboxnumseven，notgosleephere，gome。’
Hesatinthesameplaceasthedaydied，lookingatthedullhousesopposite，andthinking，ifthedisembodiedspiritsofformerinhabitantswereeverconsciousofthem，howtheymustpitythemselvesfortheiroldplacesofimprisonment。Sometimesafacewouldappearbehindthedingyglassofawindow，andwouldfadeawayintothegloomasifithadseenenoughoflifeandhadvanishedoutofit。Presentlytherainbegantofallinslantinglinesbetweenhimandthosehouses，andpeoplebegantocollectundercoverofthepublicpassageopposite，andtolookouthopelesslyattheskyastheraindroppedthickerandfaster。Thenwetumbrellasbegantoappear，draggledskirts，andmud。Whatthemudhadbeendoingwithitself，orwhereitcamefrom，whocouldsay？Butitseemedtocollectinamoment，asacrowdwill，andinfiveminutestohavesplashedallthesonsanddaughtersofAdam。
Thelamplighterwasgoinghisroundsnow；andasthefieryjetssprangupunderhistouch，onemighthavefanciedthemastonishedatbeingsufferedtointroduceanyshowofbrightnessintosuchadismalscene。
MrArthurClennamtookuphishatandbuttonedhiscoat，andwalkedout。Inthecountry，therainwouldhavedevelopedathousandfreshscents，andeverydropwouldhavehaditsbrightassociationwithsomebeautifulformofgrowthorlife。Inthecity，itdevelopedonlyfoulstalesmells，andwasasickly，lukewarm，dirt-
stained，wretchedadditiontothegutters。
HecrossedbyStPaul’sandwentdown，atalongangle，almosttothewater’sedge，throughsomeofthecrookedanddescendingstreetswhichlieandlaymorecrookedlyandcloselythenbetweentheriverandCheapside。Passing，nowthemouldyhallofsomeobsoleteWorshipfulCompany，nowtheilluminatedwindowsofaCongregationlessChurchthatseemedtobewaitingforsomeadventurousBelzonitodigitoutanddiscoveritshistory；passingsilentwarehousesandwharves，andhereandthereanarrowalleyleadingtotheriver，whereawretchedlittlebill，FOUNDDROWNED，wasweepingonthewetwall；hecameatlasttothehousehesought。Anoldbrickhouse，sodingyastobeallbutblack，standingbyitselfwithinagateway。Beforeit，asquarecourt-yardwhereashrubortwoandapatchofgrasswereasrankwhichissayingmuchastheironrailingsenclosingthemwererusty；behindit，ajumbleofroots。Itwasadoublehouse，withlong，narrow，heavily-framedwindows。Manyyearsago，ithadhaditinitsmindtoslidedownsideways；ithadbeenproppedup，however，andwasleaningonsomehalf-dozengiganticcrutches：
whichgymnasiumfortheneighbouringcats，weather-stained，smoke-
blackened，andovergrownwithweeds，appearedintheselatterdaystobenoverysurereliance。
’Nothingchanged，’saidthetraveller，stoppingtolookround。
’Darkandmiserableasever。Alightinmymother’swindow，whichseemsnevertohavebeenextinguishedsinceIcamehometwiceayearfromschool，anddraggedmyboxoverthispavement。Well，well，well!’
Hewentuptothedoor，whichhadaprojectingcanopyincarvedworkoffestoonedjack-towelsandchildren’sheadswithwateronthebrain，designedafteraonce-popularmonumentalpattern，andknocked。Ashufflingstepwassoonheardonthestonefloorofthehall，andthedoorwasopenedbyanoldman，bentanddried，butwithkeeneyes。
Hehadacandleinhishand，andhehelditupforamomenttoassisthiskeeneyes。’Ah，MrArthur？’hesaid，withoutanyemotion，’youarecomeatlast？Stepin。’
MrArthursteppedinandshutthedoor。
’Yourfigureisfilledout，andset，’saidtheoldman，turningtolookathimwiththelightraisedagain，andshakinghishead；’butyoudon’tcomeuptoyourfatherinmyopinion。Noryetyourmother。’
’Howismymother？’
’Sheisasshealwaysisnow。Keepsherroomwhennotactuallybedridden，andhasn’tbeenoutofitfifteentimesinasmanyyears，Arthur。’Theyhadwalkedintoaspare，meagredining-room。
Theoldmanhadputthecandlestickuponthetable，and，supportinghisrightelbowwithhislefthand，wassmoothinghisleathernjawswhilehelookedatthevisitor。Thevisitorofferedhishand。Theoldmantookitcoldlyenough，andseemedtopreferhisjaws，towhichhereturnedassoonashecould。
’IdoubtifyourmotherwillapproveofyourcominghomeontheSabbath，Arthur，’hesaid，shakinghisheadwarily。
’Youwouldn’thavemegoawayagain？’
’Oh!I？I？Iamnotthemaster。It’snotwhat_I_wouldhave。
Ihavestoodbetweenyourfatherandmotherforanumberofyears。
Idon’tpretendtostandbetweenyourmotherandyou。’
’WillyoutellherthatIhavecomehome？’
’Yes，Arthur，yes。Oh，tobesure!I’lltellherthatyouhavecomehome。Pleasetowaithere。Youwon’tfindtheroomchanged。’
Hetookanothercandlefromacupboard，lightedit，leftthefirstonthetable，andwentuponhiserrand。Hewasashort，baldoldman，inahigh-shoulderedblackcoatandwaistcoat，drabbreeches，andlongdrabgaiters。Hemight，fromhisdress，havebeeneitherclerkorservant，andinfacthadlongbeenboth。Therewasnothingabouthiminthewayofdecorationbutawatch，whichwasloweredintothedepthsofitsproperpocketbyanoldblackribbon，andhadatarnishedcopperkeymooredaboveit，toshowwhereitwassunk。Hisheadwasawry，andhehadaone-sided，crab-likewaywithhim，asifhisfoundationshadyieldedataboutthesametimeasthoseofthehouse，andheoughttohavebeenproppedupinasimilarmanner。
’HowweakamI，’saidArthurClennam，whenhewasgone，’thatI
couldshedtearsatthisreception!I，whohaveneverexperiencedanythingelse；whohaveneverexpectedanythingelse。’Henotonlycould，butdid。Itwasthemomentaryyieldingofanaturethathadbeendisappointedfromthedawnofitsperceptions，buthadnotquitegivenupallitshopefulyearningsyet。Hesubduedit，tookupthecandle，andexaminedtheroom。Theoldarticlesoffurniturewereintheiroldplaces；thePlaguesofEgypt，muchthedimmerfortheflyandsmokeplaguesofLondon，wereframedandglazeduponthewalls。Therewastheoldcellaretwithnothinginit，linedwithlead，likeasortofcoffinincompartments；therewastheolddarkcloset，alsowithnothinginit，ofwhichhehadbeenmanyatimethesolecontents，indaysofpunishment，whenhehadregardeditastheveritableentrancetothatbournetowhichthetracthadfoundhimgalloping。Therewasthelarge，hard-
featuredclockonthesideboard，whichheusedtoseebendingitsfiguredbrowsuponhimwithasavagejoywhenhewasbehind-handwithhislessons，andwhich，whenitwaswounduponceaweekwithanironhandle，usedtosoundasifitweregrowlinginferociousanticipationofthemiseriesintowhichitwouldbringhim。Butherewastheoldmancomeback，saying，’Arthur，I’llgobeforeandlightyou。’
Arthurfollowedhimupthestaircase，whichwaspanelledoffintospaceslikesomanymourningtablets，intoadimbed-chamber，thefloorofwhichhadgraduallysosunkandsettled，thatthefire-
placewasinadell。Onablackbier-likesofainthishollow，proppedupbehindwithonegreatangularblackbolsterliketheblockatastateexecutioninthegoodoldtimes，sathismotherinawidow’sdress。
Sheandhisfatherhadbeenatvariancefromhisearliestremembrance。Tositspeechlesshimselfinthemidstofrigidsilence，glancingindreadfromtheoneavertedfacetotheother，hadbeenthepeacefullestoccupationofhischildhood。Shegavehimoneglassykiss，andfourstifffingersmuffledinworsted。
Thisembraceconcluded，hesatdownontheoppositesideofherlittletable。Therewasafireinthegrate，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasakettleonthehob，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasalittlemoundofdampedashesonthetopofthefire，andanotherlittlemoundswepttogetherunderthegrate，astherehadbeennightanddayforfifteenyears。Therewasasmellofblackdyeintheairlessroom，whichthefirehadbeendrawingoutofthecrapeandstuffofthewidow’sdressforfifteenmonths，andoutofthebier-
likesofaforfifteenyears。
’Mother，thisisachangefromyouroldactivehabits。’
’Theworldhasnarrowedtothesedimensions，Arthur，’shereplied，glancingroundtheroom。’ItiswellformethatIneversetmyheartuponitshollowvanities。’
Theoldinfluenceofherpresenceandhersternstrongvoice，sogatheredaboutherson，thathefeltconsciousofarenewalofthetimidchillandreserveofhischildhood。