The literary object which Mr. Wallace had in view, in this second expedition, beckoned him to the North of England. “Indeed,” said Mr. Wallace, pausing. “Possibly, to the second city of England; an Archbishopric; giving one of the princes of the blood his title; enjoying the dignity of a Lord Mayor of its own; an ancient and notable place; renowned for its antiquities; famous for its Cathedral; possessing walls, four gates, six posterns, a castle, an assembly-room, and a Mansion House; this is surely the place for an unimpeachable Registry!”
He arrived at the venerable city of his purpose, at ten minutes past three P. M., according to Greenwich, or at three-ten, according to Bradshaw.
Our traveler’s first proceeding, was, to take a walk round the walls, and gratify his fancy with a bird’s-eye-view of the unimpeachable registry. He could hardly hit upon the roof of that important building. There was a building in a severe style of architecture—but it was the jail. There was another that looked commodious—but it was the mansion house. There were others that looked comfortable—but they were private residences. There appeared to be nothing in the way of Registry, answering to the famous monkish legend in a certain Chapter-House:
As shines the rose above all common flowers,
So above common piles this building towers.
Yet such a building must be somewhere! Mr. Wallace went into the town and bought a Guide-book, to find out where.
He walked through the quiet narrow streets, with their gabled houses, craning their necks across the road to pry into one another’s affairs; and he saw the churches where the people were married; and the habitations where the doctors lived, who were knocked up when the people were born; and he accidentally passed the residence of Mrs. Pitcher, who likewise officiated on those occasions; and he remarked an infinity of shops where every commodity of life was sold. He saw the offices of the lawyers who made the people’s wills, the banks where the people kept their money, the shops of the undertakers who made the people’s coffins, the church-yards where the people were buried, but not the Registry where the people’s wills were taken care of. “Very extraordinary!” said Mr. Wallace. “In the great city of a great ecclesiastical see, where all kinds of moving reverses and disasters have been occurring for many centuries, where all manner of old foundation and usage, piety, and superstition, were, and a great deal of modern wealth is, a very interesting and an unimpeachable Registry there must be, somewhere!”
In search of this great public edifice, the indefatigable Mr. Wallace prowled through the city. He discovered many mansions; but he could not satisfy himself about the Registry.
The uneasiness of Mr. Wallace’s mind increasing with the growth of his suspicion that there must surely be a flaw in the old adage, and that where there was a will (and a great many wills) there was no way at all, he betook himself to the Cathedral-close. Passing down an uncommonly pure, clean, tidy little street, where the houses looked like a tasteful sort of missionary-subscription-boxes, into which subscribers of a larger growth were expected to drop their money down the chimneys, he came by a turnstile, into that haven of rest, and looked about him.
“Do you know where the Registry is?” he asked a farmer-looking man.
“The wa’at!” said he.