There was only one message awaiting me, and when Adolphus had delivered
it (amidst mephitic fumes that rose from the basement, premonitory of
fried plaice), I pocketed my stethoscope and betook myself to Gunpowder
Alley, the aristocratic abode of my patient, joyfully threading the now
familiar passages of Gough Square and Wine Office Court, and meditating
pleasantly on the curious literary flavour that pervades these
little-known regions. For the shade of the author of _Rasselas_ still
seems to haunt the scenes of his Titanic labours and his ponderous but
homely and temperate rejoicings. Every court and alley whispers of books
and of the making of books; forms of type, trundled noisily on trollies
by ink-smeared boys, salute the wayfarer at odd corners; piles of
strawboard, rolls or bales of paper, drums of printing-ink or
roller-composition stand on the pavement outside dark entries; basement
windows give glimpses into Hadean caverns tenanted by legions of
printer's devils; and the very air is charged with the hum of press and
with odours of glue and paste and oil.
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