Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

Nicholas finds further Favour in the Eyes of the brothers Cheeryble
and Mr Timothy Linkinwater. The brothers give a Banquet on a great
Annual Occasion. Nicholas, on returning Home from it, receives a
mysterious and important Disclosure from the Lips of Mrs Nickleby

The square in which the counting-house of the brothers Cheeryble was
situated, although it might not wholly realise the very sanguine
expectations which a stranger would be disposed to form on hearing
the fervent encomiums bestowed upon it by Tim Linkinwater, was,
nevertheless, a sufficiently desirable nook in the heart of a busy
town like London, and one which occupied a high place in the
affectionate remembrances of several grave persons domiciled in the
neighbourhood, whose recollections, however, dated from a much more
recent period, and whose attachment to the spot was far less
absorbing, than were the recollections and attachment of the
enthusiastic Tim.

And let not those whose eyes have been accustomed to the
aristocratic gravity of Grosvenor Square and Hanover Square, the
dowager barrenness and frigidity of Fitzroy Square, or the gravel
walks and garden seats of the Squares of Russell and Euston, suppose
that the affections of Tim Linkinwater, or the inferior lovers of
this particular locality, had been awakened and kept alive by any
refreshing associations with leaves, however dingy, or grass,
however bare and thin. The city square has no enclosure, save the
lamp-post in the middle: and no grass, but the weeds which spring up
round its base. It is a quiet, little-frequented, retired spot,
favourable to melancholy and contemplation, and appointments of
long-waiting; and up and down its every side the Appointed saunters
idly by the hour together wakening the echoes with the monotonous
sound of his footsteps on the smooth worn stones, and counting,
first the windows, and then the very bricks of the tall silent
houses that hem him round about. In winter-time, the snow will
linger there, long after it has melted from the busy streets and
highways. The summer's sun holds it in some respect, and while he
darts his cheerful rays sparingly into the square, keeps his fiery
heat and glare for noisier and less-imposing precincts. It is so
quiet, that you can almost hear the ticking of your own watch when
you stop to cool in its refreshing atmosphere. There is a distant
hum--of coaches, not of insects--but no other sound disturbs the
stillness of the square. The ticket porter leans idly against the
post at the corner: comfortably warm, but not hot, although the day
is broiling. His white apron flaps languidly in the air, his head
gradually droops upon his breast, he takes very long winks with both
eyes at