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her。 Today she is at Chesney Wold； yesterday she was
at her house in town； tomorrow she may be abroad； for anything
the fashionable intelligence can with confidence predict。 Even Sir
Leicester’s gallantry has some trouble to keep pace with her。 It
would have more； but that his other faithful ally； for better and for
worse—the gout—darts into the old oak bed…chamber at Chesney
Wold； and grips him by both legs。
Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon； but till
a demon of the patrician order。 All the Dedlocks； in the direct male
line； through a course of time during and beyond which the
memory of man goeth not to the contrary； have had the gout。 It
can be proved； sir。 Other men’s fathers may have died of the
rheumatism； or may have taken base contagion from the tainted
blood of the sick vulgar； but the Dedlock family have
communicated something exclusive； even to the levelling process
of dying； by dying of their own family gout。 It has come down
through their illustrious line； like the plate； or the pictures； or the
place in Lincolnshire。 It is among their dignities。 Sir Leicester is；
perhaps； not wholly without an impression； though he has never
resolved it into words； that the angel of death in the discharge of
his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy；
“My lords and gentlemen； I have the honour to present to you
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another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout。”
Hence； Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family
disorder； as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure。
He feels； that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and
spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities； is a liberty
taken somewhere； but； he thinks； “We have all yielded to this； it
belongs to us； it has； for some hundreds of years； been understood
that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more
ignoble terms； and I submit myself to the compromise。”
And a goodly show he makes； lying in a flush of crimson and
gold； in the midst of the great drawing…room； before his favourite
picture of my Lady； with broad strips of sunlight shining in； down
the long perspective； through the long line of windows； and
alternating with soft reliefs of shadow。 Outside； the stately oaks；
rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known
ploughshare； but was still a Chase when kings rode to battle with
sword and shield； and rode a hunting with bow and arrow； bear
witness to his greatness。 Inside； his forefathers； looking on him
from the walls； say； “Each of us was a passing reality here； and left
this coloured shadow of himself； and melted into remembrance as
dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks now lulling you to rest；”
and bear their testimony to his greatness； too。 And he is very
great； this day。 And woe to Boythorn； or other daring wight； who
shall presumptuously contest an inch with him！
My Lady is at present represented； near Sir Leicester by her
portrait。 She has flitted away to town； with no intention of
remaining there； and will soon flit hither again； to the confusion of
the fashionable intelligence。 The house in town is not prepared for
her reception。 It is muffled and dreary。 Only one Mercury in
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powder； gapes disconsolate at the hall…window； and he mentioned
last night to another Mercury of his acquaintance； also
accustomed to good society； that if that sort of thing was to last—
which it couldn’t； for a man of his spirits couldn’t bear it； and a
man of his figure couldn’t be expected to bear it—there would be
no resource for him； upon his honour； but to cut his throat！
What connection can there be； between the place in
Lincolnshire； the house in town； the Mercury in powder； and the
whereabout of Jo the outlaw with the broom； who had that distant
ray of light upon him when he swept the churchyard…step？ What
connection can there have been between many people in the
innumerable histories of this world； who； from opposite sides of
great gulfs； have； nevertheless； been very curiously brought
together！
Jo sweeps his crossing all day long； unconscious of the link； if
any link there be。 He sums up his mental condition； when asked a
question； by replying that he “don’t know nothink。” He knows that
it’s hard to keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather； and
harder still to live by doing it。 Nobody taught him； even that much；
he found it out。
Jo lives—that is to say； Jo has not yet died—in a ruinous place；
known to the like of him by the name of Tom…all…Alone’s。 It is a
black； dilapidated street； avoided by all decent people； where the
crazy houses were seized upon； when their decay was far
advanced； by some bold vagrants； who； after establishing their
own possession； took to letting them out in lodgings。 Now； these
tumbling tenements contain； by night； a swarm of misery。 As； on
the ruined human wretch； vermin parasites appear； so； these
ruined shelters have bred a crowd of foul existence that crawls in
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and out of gaps in walls and boards； and coils itself to sleep； in
maggot numbers； where the rain drips in； and comes and goes；
fetching and carrying fever； and sowing more evil in its every
footprint than Lord Coodle； and Sir Thomas Doodle； and the Duke
of Foodle； and all the fine gentlemen in office； down to Zoodle；
shall set right in five hundred years—though born expressly to do
it。
Twice； lately； there has been a crash and a cloud of dust； like
the springing of a mine； in Tom…all…Alone’s； and； each time； a
house has fallen。 These accidents have made a paragraph in the
newspapers； and have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital。
The gaps remain； and there are not unpopular lodgings among the
rubbish。 As several more houses are nearly ready to go； the next
crash in Tom…all…Alone’s may be expected to be a good one。
This desirable property is in Chancery； of course。 It would be
an insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye； to tell
him so。 Whether “Tom” is the popular representative of the
original plaintiff or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce； or；
whether Tom lived here when the suit had laid the street waste； all
alone； until other sett