212 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF
" Talk of your German universities," said the little old man ^
" Pooh, pooh ! there's romance enough at home, without going half a mile for it ; only people never think of it."
" I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly," said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
" To be sure you didn't," said the little old man, " of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to me, ' What is there in chambers, in particular ? ' * Queer old places,' said I. ' Not at all,' said he. * Lonely,' said I. * Not a bit of it,' said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Every body thought he'd gone out of town."
" And how was he found at last?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
" The benchers determined to break his door open, as he hadn't paid any rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock ; and a very dusty skeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps; rather, eh ?" And the little old man put his head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
" I know another case," said the little old man, when his chuckles nad in some degree subsided — " It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a top set^ — bad character — shut himself up in his bed-room closet, and took a dose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away . opened the door, and put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't sleep — always restless and uncomfortable. * Odd,' says he.
- I'll make the other room my bed-chamber, and this my sitting-room.'
He made the change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that somehow he couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and Uncomfortable, and used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. ' I can't make this out,' said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't be able to fancy there was any one behind him — * I can't make it out,' said he ; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a -shudder ran through his whole frame from top to toe. * I have felt this strange feeling before,' said he — ' I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about that closet.' He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing bolt upright in the earner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in his hand, and his face livid with the hue of a painful death." As the little old man concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his won- dering auditory with a smile of grim delight.
" What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir," said Mr. Pick- wick, minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.
- Strange I" said the little old man — " Nonsense ; you think them
strange, because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncomraon."
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