 treat at the play, but that there are chords in the human mind which
would render it a hollow mockery.
    On the morrow, in the dusk of evening, Mr. Weevle modestly appears at
Krook's, by no means incommoded with luggage, and establishes himself in his new
lodging; where the two eyes in the shutters stare at him in his sleep, as if
they were full of wonder. On the following day Mr. Weevle, who is a handy
good-for-nothing kind of young fellow, borrows a needle and thread of Miss
Flite, and a hammer of his landlord, and goes to work devising apologies for
window-curtains, and knocking up apologies for shelves, and hanging up his two
teacups, milkpot, and crockery sundries on a pennyworth of little hooks, like a
shipwrecked sailor making the best of it.
    But what Mr. Weevle prizes most, of all his few possessions (next after his
light whiskers, for which he has an attachment that only whiskers can awaken in
the breast of man), is a choice collection of copper-plate impressions from that
truly national work, The Divinities of Albion, or Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty, representing ladies of title and fashion in every variety of smirk that
art, combined with capital, is capable of producing. With these magnificent
portraits, unworthily confined in a band-box during his seclusion among the
market-gardens, he decorates his apartment; and as the Galaxy Gallery of British
Beauty wears every variety of fancy dress, plays every variety of musical
instrument, fondles every variety of dog, ogles every variety of prospect, and
is backed up by every variety of flower-pot and balustrade, the result is very
imposing.
    But, fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's weakness. To borrow
yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening, and read about the
brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across the fashionable sky
in every direction, is unspeakable consolation to him. To know what member of
what brilliant and distinguished circle accomplished the brilliant and
distinguished feat of joining it yesterday, or contemplates the no less
brilliant and distinguished feat of leaving it to-morrow, gives him a thrill of
joy. To be informed what the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty is about, and
means to be about, and what Galaxy marriages are on the tapis, and what Galaxy
rumours are in circulation, is to become acquainted with the most glorious
destinies of mankind. Mr. Weevle reverts from this intelligence, to the Galaxy
portraits implicated; and seems
