of the passage. You know the man's whole
household arrangements in a minute; and if he is not in the
drawing-room, (but Johnson never does sit there, his wife keeps it for
company,) it is of no use his pretending not to be at home, when you
have your hand within a few feet of the locks of each door on the
ground-story. And then, though the passage is dark, for there is only
the fan-light over the entrance, and the long round-headed window at the
first landing, all full of blue and orange glass, you know that dinner
is preparing; for you see the little mahogany slab turned up to serve as
a table near the parlour door, and such a smell comes up the kitchen
stairs, that were you at the cook's elbow you could not be more in the
thick of it. Well, they tell you he's in, and you walk up-stairs to the
drawing-room; one room in front and the best bed-room behind; and Mr and
Mrs Johnson's up-stairs again over the drawing-room; and the children's
room behind that--you can hear them plain enough; and above all, no
doubt, is the maid's room, and the servant-boy's who let you in; not so,
the boy sleeps in the kitchen, and the front attic is kept for one of
Johnson's clerks, for you might have seen him going up the second pair;
and if he wasn't going to his bed-room what business had he up-stairs at
all? So that, though you have been in the house only five minutes, you
know all about it as well as if Mortice the builder had lain the plans
on the table before you. Well, Johnson won a picture in the _Art-Union_
some time since, and determined to stick it up in the drawing-room,
against the wall fronting the windows; so up came the carpenter; and, as
the picture was large, away went a ten-penny nail into the wall; and so
it did go in, and not only in, but through the wall, for it was only
half a brick thick; and, what with repeated hammerings, the bricks
became so loose that the picture could not be safely hung there. So it
was ordered to be placed against the wall opposite the fireplace--the
wall of the next house in fact--and the same operation was going on,
when old Mrs Wheedle, the next door neighbour, sent in her compliments
to beg that Mr Johnson would have some regard for her hanging
bookshelves, the nails of which had been all loosened by his
battering-ram, and the books were threatening to fall on her tableful of
china--she called it "cheyney"--below. Again, on the other side lives,
or rather lodges, Signor Bramante, the celebra