at-coats, hessian cloaks, or umbrellas. It
seemed as if a wet blanket were drawn between the sun and the earth.
The atmosphere was always foggy, often perfectly wet, but never
thoroughly dry. It wanted vitality; and every person that breathed it
partook of its own damp, hypochondriac, inanimate character.

It was in the morning of one of those days of fog, gloom, and _ennui_,
that Augustus last sallied out to lounge about the streets of Oxford,
as was his custom, before breakfast. There was a favourite spot in
which he was wont to walk; it was upon the footpath of a very short
street, about the middle of which stood the shop of Jonathan Hookey,
a barber. This street (we forget its name) is not above fifty yards in
length, and opens at each end into a cross street. Now, Merton's walk
extended from one of those cross streets to the other, including, of
course, the whole extent of the short street; he always walked on one
side of this street, viz. on that opposite to the barber's shop. These
particulars may seem trifling, but they are essential to the proper
understanding of the story.

While making these morning perambulations, he had always an air of
deep thought, his arms were crossed, and he kept his eyes constantly
fixed upon the ground, as if deeply engrossed in profound meditation.
It boots not now to inquire on what subjects his thoughts were mostly
employed, but it was unquestionably on themes of deep import, and
concerned not himself only, but the interests of science, learning,
and humanity at large. The morning in question was peculiarly dull and
foggy; but whether it was this or something else, certain it is, that
he felt himself more than usually overpowered. The air oppressed him
like a leaden shroud, and the energies of his soul seemed for once on
the point of sinking beneath the superincumbent burden.

Turn we now to Jonathan Hookey, the barber. In person he differed much
from Merton. His height did not exceed five feet, but, he made amends
for it in breadth; for he was a man of a lusty habit, and sported a
paunch which no London alderman or burgomaster of Amsterdam would look
upon with contempt. Bald was his head, and his nose was not merely
large but immense; but it is idle to grow eloquent upon noses. Has
not Sterne exhausted the theme? have not we ourselves more than once
expatiated upon it? Swakenbergius had a nose, so had Ovidius Naso;
but to neither would Jonathan Hookey's strike its colours, and