“Well, well,” said he, mournfully, swaying his head to and fro after the sagacious fashion of Lord Burleigh, “live and learn—live and learn—the world’s not what a man takes it for before he finds it out. Whiskers grow a good deal sooner than experience—genus and patriotism ain’t got no chance—heigh-ho!—But anyhow, a man might as well be under kiver as out in the open air in sich weather as this. It’s as cheap laying down as it is settin’ up, and there’s not so much wear and tear about it.” With a groan, a yawn, and a sigh, Peter Brush slowly arose, and stretching himself like a drowsy lion, he walked towards the steps of a neighbouring house. Having reached the top of the flight, he turned about and looked round with a scrutinizing glance, peering both up and down the street, to ascertain that none of the hereditary enemies of the Brushes were in the vicinity. Being satisfied on that score, he prepared to enjoy all the comfort that his peculiar situation could command. According to the modern system of warfare, he carried no baggage to encumber his motions, and was always ready to bivouac without troublesome preliminaries. He therefore placed himself on the upper step, so that he was just within the doorway, his head reclining against one side of it, and his feet braced against the other, blockading the passage in a very effectual manner. He adjusted himself in a position as carefully as the Sybarite who was annoyed at the wrinkle of a rose-leaf on his couch, grunting at each motion like a Daniel Lambert at his toilet, and he made minute alterations in his attitude several times before he appeared perfectly satisfied that he had effected the best arrangements that could be devised. After reposing for a while as if “the flinty and steel couch of war were his thrice-driven bed of down,” he moved his head with an exclamation of impatience at the hardness of the wall, and taking his time-worn beaver, he crumpled it up, and mollified the austerity of his bolster by using the crushed hat as a pillow.