 these scenes an appalling picture of the
bachelor's illness; and the rents in the Temple will begin to fall from the day
of the publication of the dismal diorama. To be well in chambers is melancholy,
and lonely, and selfish enough; but to be ill in chambers - to pass nights of
pain and watchfulness - to long for the morning and the laundress - to serve
yourself your own medicine by your own watch - to have no other companion for
long hours but your own sickening fancies and fevered thoughts, no kind hand to
give you drink if you are thirsty, or to smooth the hot pillow that crumples
under you, - this, indeed, is a fate so dismal and tragic, that we shall not
enlarge upon its horrors, and shall only heartily pity those bachelors in the
Temple who brave it every day.
    This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which we have
mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains. One night he
went to bed ill, and the next day awoke worse. His only visitor that day,
besides the laundress, was the printer's devil, from the Pall Mall Gazette
office, whom the writer endeavoured, as best he could, to satisfy. His exertions
to complete his work rendered his fever the greater. He could only furnish a
part of the quantity of copy usually supplied by him; and Shandon being absent,
and Warrington not in London to give a help, the political and editorial columns
of the Gazette looked very blank indeed; nor did the sub-editor know how to fill
them.
    Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen's chambers, and found that gentleman so
exceedingly unwell that the good-natured Irishman set to work to supply his
place, if possible, and produced a series of political and critical
compositions, such as no doubt greatly edified the readers of the periodical in
which he and Pen were concerned. Allusions to the greatness of Ireland, and the
genius and virtue of the inhabitants of that injured country, flowed
magnificently from Finucane's pen; and Shandon, the chief of the paper, who was
enjoying himself placidly at Boulogne-sur-Mer, looking over the columns of the
journal, which was forwarded to him, instantly recognized the hand of the great
sub-editor, and said, laughing, as he flung over the paper to his wife, »Look
here, Mary, my dear, here is Jack at work again.« Indeed, Jack was a warm friend
and a gallant partisan, and when he had the pen in hand, seldom let slip an
