1828.] a Romance of High Holborn. 61 
High Holborn. I cannot—cannot say what I felt as I crossed over 
from Drury Lane towards his den, more particularly when, on en- 
tering, I beheld the demon himself behind his counter—calm, move- 
less, and sepulchral, as if nothing of moment had occurred ; as if he 
“were an every day dun, or I an every day debtor. The instant he 
espied me, a sardonic smile, together with that appalling dissyllable, 
“touching” (which I never to this day hear, see, or write without a 
shudder) escaped him; but before he could close his oration, I had 
approached, trembling with rage and reverence, towards him, and, 
thrusting forth the exact sum, was rushing from his presence, when he 
beckoned me back for a receipt. A receipt, and from himtoo! It was 
like taking a receipt for one’s soul from Satan! ! 
The reader will doubtless conclude that, now at least, having satisfac- 
torily settled his demands, I had done with my Tormentor for ever. He 
will also (and naturally enough) infer, that my mind would resume its 
former comparative tranquillity, or if still hankering after a grievance, 
would find some fresher subject ; that, in short, I should apply once again 
to my long neglected medical pursuits, and become, what is biblically 
termed, “anew man.” These inferences are in part correct. I followed 
up my vocation with an energy strangely contrasted with my recent indif- 
ference, was early and late in the schools, and for three months pursued 
this course with such ardour, that my adventures with the Mysterious 
Tailor, though not forgotten, were yet gradually losing their once 
powerful hold on my imagination. This was precisely the state of 
my feelings, when early one autumnal morning, just seven months 
from the date of my last visit to High Holborn, I chanced to be turn- 
ing down Saint Giles’s Church, on my way to Hospital. It was 
one of those still depressing days, clouded, and with a regular and 
heavily blowing wind, when the mind, taking its tone from the season, 
feels a load thrown upon its energies, which it in vain attempts to shake 
off. I had nothing to render me more than usually pensive ; no new 
vexations, no sudden pecuniary embarrassments ; yet it so happened, 
that on this particular morning I felt a weight at my heart, and a cloud 
on my brain, for which I could in no way account. As I passed along 
Broad Street, I made one or two bold attempts to rally. I stared inqui- 
Sitively at the different passers by, endeavouring, by a snatch at the 
expression of their faces, to speculate on the turn of their minds, and the 
nature of their occupations ; I then began to whistle and hum some 
lively air, at the same time twirling my glove with affected unconcern ; 
but nothing would do; every exertion I made to appear cheerful, not 
only found no answering sympathy from within, but even exaggerated 
_ by contrast my despondency. In this condition I reached Saint Giles’s 
_ Church. A crowd was assembled at the gate opposite its entrance, and 
presently the long surly toll of the death-bell—that solemn and oracu- 
memento—announced that a funeral was on the eve of taking place. 
I have often had occasion to admire the extreme business-like regu- 
larity with which these ceremonies are conducted in England. Each 
individual in the procession has his own particular allowance of sorrow 
assigned him. ‘The first mourning coach is dedicated to overpowering 
grief, the second to a more qualified tribulation, the third to a decent 
regret, the fourth, &c., to an amiable indifference. This duly appor- 
tioned woe is adhered to with unswerving scrupulosity. The last coach 
