It was one of those melancholy days in which London wears the appearance of a huge scavenger’s cart.  A lurid fog and mizzling rain, which had been incessant for the previous twenty-four hours; sloppy pavements, and kennels down which the muddy torrents hastened to precipitate themselves into the sewers below; armies of umbrellas, as far as the eye could reach, now rising, now lowering, to avoid collision; hackney-coaches in active sloth, their miserable cattle plodding along with their backs arched and heads and tails drooping like barndoor fowls crouching under the cataract of a gutter; clacking of pattens and pestering of sweepers; not a smile upon the countenance of one individual of the multitude which passed him;—­all appeared anxiety, bustle, and selfishness.  Newton was not sorry when he turned down the narrow court which had been indicated to him, and, disengaged from the throng of men, commenced a more rapid course.  In two minutes he was at the door of his uncle’s chambers, which, notwithstanding the inclemency of the weather, stood wide open, as if there should be no obstacle in a man’s way, or a single moment for reflection allowed him, if he wished to entangle himself in the expenses and difficulties of the law.  Newton furled his weeping umbrella; and, first looking with astonishment at the mud which had accumulated above the calves of his legs, raised his eyes to the jambs on each side, where in large letters he read at the head of a long list of occupants, “Mr Forster, Ground Floor.”  A door with Mr Forster’s name on it, within a few feet of him, next caught his eye.  He knocked, and was admitted by the clerk, who stated that his master was at a consultation, but was expected back in half-an-hour, if he could wait so long.  Newton assented, and was ushered into the parlour, where the clerk presented the newspaper of the day to amuse him until the arrival of his uncle.

As soon as the door was closed, Newton’s curiosity as to the character of his uncle induced him to scrutinise the apartment and its contents.  In the centre of the room, which might have been about fourteen feet square, stood a table, with a shadow lamp placed before the only part of it which was left vacant for the use of the pen.  The remainder of the space was loaded with parchment upon parchment, deed upon deed, paper upon paper.  Some, especially those underneath, had become dark and discoloured by time; the ink had changed to a dull red, and the imprint of many a thumb inferred how many years they had been in existence, and how long they had lain there as sad mementos of the law’s delay.  Others were fresh and clean, the japanned ink in strong contrast with the glossy parchment,—­new cases of litigation, fresh as the hopes of those who had been persuaded by flattering assurances to enter into a labyrinth of vexation, from which, perhaps, not to be extricated until these documents should assume the hue of the others, which silently indicated the blighted hopes