And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow.  Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness.  Inside, his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, “Each of us was a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest,” and hear their testimony to his greatness too.  And he is very great this day.  And woe to Boythorn or other daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!

My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her portrait.  She has flitted away to town, with no intention of remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of the fashionable intelligence.  The house in town is not prepared for her reception.  It is muffled and dreary.  Only one Mercury in powder gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society, that if that sort of thing was to last—­which it couldn’t, for a man of his spirits couldn’t bear it, and a man of his figure couldn’t be expected to bear it—­there would be no resource for him, upon his honour, but to cut his throat!

What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard-step?  What connexion can there have been between many people in the innumerable histories of this world who from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been very curiously brought together!

Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any link there be.  He sums up his mental condition when asked a question by replying that he “don’t know nothink.”  He knows that it’s hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to live by doing it.  Nobody taught him even that much; he found it out.

Jo lives—­that is to say, Jo has not yet died—­in a ruinous place known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone’s.  It is a black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where the crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession took to letting them out in lodgings.  Now, these tumbling tenements contain, by night, a swarm of misery.  As on the ruined human wretch vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters have bred a crowd of foul