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is singular how forcibly this passage in my narrative brings to my mind a picture which used to be, some years ago, at a broker's—that charnel-house of the comforts and graces of life. It had been taken out of its frame, and leant in a dark and dusty corner against a perpendicular armchair, whose rigid uprightness seemed suited only to the parlour of a dentist, repose being the last idea it suggested. The painting, for aught I know, might be the work of some great master, condemned to that merit only appreciated in a moral essay—that of modest obscurity; or it might be a wretched daub,—be that as it may, the subject fixed my attention. The room was low, scantily furnished, and the gloomy wainscotings dimly