arshalled at equidistance; stars that seem to the naked eye
dotted over space without symmetry or method: man's order, near and
finite, is so distinct; the Maker's order remote, infinite, is so beyond
man's comprehension even of what is order!

Darrell paused hesitating. He had now gained a spot in which improvement
had altered the landmarks. The superb broad thoroughfare continued where
once it had vanished abrupt in a labyrinth of courts and alleys. But
the way was not hard to find. He turned a little towards the left,
recognizing, with admiring interest, in the gay, white, would-be Grecian
edifice, with its French grille, bronzed, gilded, the transformed
Museum, in the still libraries of which he had sometimes snatched
a brief and ghostly respite from books of law. Onwards yet through
lifeless Bloomsbury, not so far towards the last bounds of Atlas as the
desolation of Podden Place, but the solitude deepening as he passed.
There it is, a quiet street indeed! not a soul on its gloomy pavements,
not even a policeman's soul. Nought stirring save a stealthy,
profligate, good-for-nothing cat, flitting fine through yon area bars.
Down that street had he come, I trove, with a livelier, quicker step
the day when, by the strange good-luck which had uniformly attended his
worldly career of honours, he had been suddenly called upon to supply
the place of an absent senior, and in almost his earliest brief the
Courts of Westminster had recognized a master, come, I trove, with a
livelier step, knocked at that very door whereat he is halting now;
entered the room where the young wife sat, and at sight of her querulous
peevish face, and at sound of her unsympathizing languid voice, fled
into his cupboard-like back parlour, and muttered "Courage! Courage!" to
endure the home he had entered longing for a voice which should invite
and respond to a cry of joy.

How closed up, dumb, and blind looked the small mean house, with its
small mean door, its small mean rayless windows! Yet a FAME had been
born there! Who are the residents now? Buried in slumber, have they
any "golden dreams"? Works therein any struggling brain, to which the
prosperous man might whisper "Courage!" or beats, there, any troubled
heart to which faithful woman should murmur "Joy"? Who knows? London
is a wondrous poem, but each page of it is written in a different
language,--no lexicon yet composed for any.

Back through the street, under the gaslights, under the st