Having occasion to transact some business with a solicitor who occupies a highly suicidal
set of chambers in Gray's Inn, I afterwards took a turn in the large square of that
stronghold of Melancholy, reviewing, with congenial surroundings, my experiences of
Chambers.
I began, as was natural, with the Chambers I had just left. They were an upper set on a
rotten staircase, with a mysterious bunk or bulkhead on the landing outside them, of a
rather nautical and Screw Collier-like appearance than otherwise, and painted an intense
black. Many dusty years have passed since the appropriation of this Davy Jones's locker
to any purpose, and during the whole period within the memory of living man, it has been
hasped and padlocked. I cannot quite satisfy my mind whether it was originally meant for
the reception of coals, or bodies, or as a place of temporary security for the plunder
'looted' by laundresses; but I incline to the last opinion. It is about breast high, and
usually serves as a bulk for defendants in reduced circumstances to lean against and
ponder at, when they come on the hopeful errand of trying to make an arrangement
without money - under which auspicious circumstances it mostly happens that the legal
gentleman they want to see, is much engaged, and they pervade the staircase for a
considerable period. Against this opposing bulk, in the absurdest manner, the tomb-like
outer door of the solicitor's chambers (which is also of an intense black) stands in dark
ambush, half open, and half shut, all day. The solicitor's apartments are three in number;
consisting of a slice, a cell, and a wedge. The slice is assigned to the two clerks, the cell
is occupied by the principal, and the wedge is devoted to stray papers, old game baskets
from the country, a washing-stand, and a model of a patent Ship's Caboose which was
exhibited in Chancery at the commencement of the present century on an application for
an injunction to restrain infringement. At about half-past nine on every week-day
morning, the younger of the two clerks (who, I have reason to believe, leads the fashion
at Pentonville in the articles of pipes and shirts) may be found knocking the dust out of
his official door-key on the bunk or locker before mentioned; and so exceedingly subject
to dust is his key, and so very retentive of that superfluity, that in exceptional summer
weather when a ray of sunlight has fallen on the locker in my presence, I have noticed its
inexpressive countenance to be deeply marked by a kind of Bramah erysipelas or small-
pox.
This set of chambers (as I have gradually discovered, when I have had restless occasion
to make inquiries or leave messages, after office hours) is under the charge of a lady
named Sweeney, in figure extremely like an old family-umbrella: whose dwelling
confronts a dead wall in a court off Gray's Inn-lane, and who is usually fetched into the
passage of that bower, when wanted, from some neighbouring home of industry, which
has the curious property of imparting an inflammatory appearance to her visage. Mrs.
Sweeney is one of the race of professed laundresses, and is the compiler of a remarkable
manuscript volume entitled 'Mrs. Sweeney's Book,' from which much curious statistical
information may be gathered respecting the high prices and small uses of soda, soap,
sand, firewood, and other such articles. I have created a legend in my mind - and
