At the upper corner of the block, opposite each other, were a saloon and the jail, two establishments which contributed little to each other’s support, though well inclined to do so.  The law offices seemed of old to have started in a compact procession for the jail, but at a certain point to have paused with the understanding that none should seek undue advantage by greater proximity.  Issuing from this street at one end and turning to the left, you came to the courthouse—­the bar of chancery; issuing from it at the other end and turning to the right, you came to the hotel—­the bar of corn.  The lawyers were usually solicitors at large and impartial practitioners at each bar.  In the court room they sometimes tried to prove an alibi for their clients; at the hotel they often succeeded in proving one for themselves.

These law offices were raised a foot or two above the level of the street.  The front rooms could be used for clients who were so important that they should be seen; the back rooms were for such as brought business, but not necessarily fame.  Driving through this street, the wives of the lawyers could lean forward in their carriages and if their husbands were busy, they could smile and bow; if their husbands were idle, they could look straight ahead.

He passed under the shadow of the old court-house where in his prime he had fought his legal battles against the commonwealth.  He had been a great lawyer and he knew it (if he had married he might have been Chief Justice).  Then he turned the corner and entered the street of jurisprudence and the gaol.  About midway he reached the staircase opening from the sidewalk; to his rooms above.

He was not poor and he could have lived richly had he wished.  But when a man does not marry there are so many other things that he never espouses; and he was not wedded to luxury.  As he lighted the chandelier over the centre-table in his sitting room, the light revealed an establishment every article of which, if it had no virtues, at least possessed habits:  certainly everything had its own way.  He put his hat and cane on the table, not caring to go back to the hatrack in his little hall, and seated himself in his olive morocco chair.  As he did so, everything in the room—­the chairs, the curtains, the rugs, the card-table, the punch-bowl, the other walking-sticks, and the rubbers and umbrellas—–­seemed to say in an affectionate chorus:  “Well, now that you are in safe for the night, we feel relieved.  So good night and pleasant dreams to you, for we are going to sleep;” and to sleep they went.

The gas alone flared up and said, “I’ll stay up with him.”

He drew out and wiped his glasses and reached for the local Sunday paper, his Sunday evening Bible.  He had read it in the morning, but he always gleaned at night:  he met so many of his friends by reading their advertisements.  But to-night he spread it across his knees and turning to the table lifted the top of a box of cigars, an orderly responsive family; the paper slipped to the floor and lay forgotten behind his heels.