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Chapter: The Circumlocution Office was (as everybody knows without being told)
    the most important Department under Government. No public business of
    any kind could possibly be done at any time without the acquiescence of
    the Circumlocution Office. Its finger was in the largest public pie,
    and in the smallest public tart. It was equally impossible to do the
    plainest right and to undo the plainest wrong without the express
    authority of the Circumlocution Office. If another Gunpowder Plot had
    been discovered half an hour before the lighting of the match, nobody
    would have been justified in saving the parliament until there had
    been half a score of boards, half a bushel of minutes, several sacks
    of official memoranda, and a family-vault full of ungrammatical
    correspondence, on the part of the Circumlocution Office.

    This glorious establishment had been early in the field, when the one
    sublime principle involving the difficult art of governing a country,
    was first distinctly revealed to statesmen. It had been foremost to
    study that bright revelation and to carry its shining influence through
    the whole of the official proceedings. Whatever was required to be done,
    the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments
    in the art of perceiving--HOW NOT TO DO IT.

    Through this delicate perception, through the tact with which it
    invariably seized it, and through the genius with which it always acted
    on it, the Circumlocution Office had risen to overtop all the public
    departments; and the public condition had risen to be--what it was.

    It is true that How not to do it was the great study and object of
    all public departments and professional politicians all round the
    Circumlocution Office. It is true that every new premier and every
    new government, coming in because they had upheld a certain thing as
    necessary to be done, were no sooner come in than they applied their
    utmost faculties to discovering How not to do it. It is true that from
    the moment when a general election was over, every returned man who had
    been raving on hustings because it hadn't been done, and who had been
    asking the friends of the honourable gentleman in the opposite interest
    on pain of impeachment to tell him why it hadn't been done, and who had
    been asserting that it must be done, and who had been pledging himself
    that it should be done, began to devise, How it was not to be done. It
    is true that the debates of both Houses of Parliament the whole session
    through, uniformly tended to the protracted deliberation, How not to
    do it. It is true that the royal speech at the opening of such session
    virtually said, My lords and gentlemen, you have a considerable
    stroke of work to do, and you will please to retire to your respective
    chambers, and discuss, How not to do it. It is true that the royal
    speech, at the close of such session, virtually said, My lords and
    gentlemen, you have through several laborious months been considering
    with great loyalty and patriotism, How not to do it, and you have found
    out; and with the blessing of Providence upon the harvest (natural, not
            political), I now dismiss you. All this is true, but the Circumlocution
    Office went beyond it.

    Because the Circumlocution Office went on mechanically, every day,
    keeping this wonderful, all-sufficient wheel of statesmanship, How not
    to do it, in motion. Because the Circumlocution Office was down upon any
    ill-advised public servant who was going to do it, or who appeared to be
    by any surprising accident in remote danger of doing it, with a minute,
    and a memorandum, and a letter of instructions that extinguished him. It
    was this spirit of national efficiency in the Circumlocution Office
    that had gradually led to its having something to do with everything.
    Mechanicians, natural philosophers, soldiers, sailors, petitioners,
    memorialists, people with grievances, people who wanted to prevent
    grievances, people who wanted to redress grievances, jobbing people,
    jobbed people, people who couldn't get rewarded for merit, and people
    who couldn't get punished for demerit, were all indiscriminately tucked
    up under the foolscap paper of the Circumlocution Office.

    Numbers of people were lost in the Circumlocution Office. Unfortunates
    with wrongs, or with projects for the general welfare (and they had
            better have had wrongs at first, than have taken that bitter English
            recipe for certainly getting them), who in slow lapse of time and agony
    had passed safely through other public departments; who, according to
    rule, had been bullied in this, over-reached by that, and evaded by
    the other; got referred at last to the Circumlocution Office, and
    never reappeared in the light of day. Boards sat upon them, secretaries
    minuted upon them, commissioners gabbled about them, clerks registered,
    entered, checked, and ticked them off, and they melted away. In short,
    all the business of the country went through the Circumlocution Office,
    except the business that never came out of it; and _its_ name was Legion.

    Sometimes, angry spirits attacked the Circumlocution Office. Sometimes,
    parliamentary questions were asked about it, and even parliamentary
    motions made or threatened about it by demagogues so low and ignorant as
    to hold that the real recipe of government was, How to do it. Then would
    the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it
    was to defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket,
    and make a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to
    that house with a slap upon the table, and meet the honourable gentleman
    foot to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman
    that the Circumlocution Office not only was blameless in this matter,
    but was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this
    matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that,
    although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right and wholly
    right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there
    to tell that honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his
    honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good
    sense, more to half the dictionary of commonplaces, if he had left the
    Circumlocution Office alone, and never approached this matter. Then
    would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution
    Office sitting below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with
    the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one
    of two things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution
    Office had nothing to say and said it, or that it had something to say
    of which the noble lord, or right honourable gentleman, blundered one
    half and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted
    immaculate by an accommodating majority.

    Such a nursery of statesmen had the Department become in virtue of a
    long career of this nature, that several solemn lords had attained the
    reputation of being quite unearthly prodigies of business, solely from
    having practised, How not to do it, as the head of the Circumlocution
    Office. As to the minor priests and acolytes of that temple, the result
    of all this was that they stood divided into two classes, and, down to
    the junior messenger, either believed in the Circumlocution Office as
    a heaven-born institution that had an absolute right to do whatever it
    liked; or took refuge in total infidelity, and considered it a flagrant
    nuisance.

    The Barnacle family had for some time helped to administer the
    Circumlocution Office. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, considered
    themselves in a general way as having vested rights in that direction,
    and took it ill if any other family had much to say to it. The Barnacles
    were a very high family, and a very large family. They were dispersed
    all over the public offices, and held all sorts of public places. Either
    the nation was under a load of obligation to the Barnacles, or the
    Barnacles were under a load of obligation to the nation. It was not
    quite unanimously settled which; the Barnacles having their opinion, the
    nation theirs.

    The Mr Tite Barnacle who at the period now in question usually coached
    or crammed the statesman at the head of the Circumlocution Office, when
    that noble or right honourable individual sat a little uneasily in his
    saddle by reason of some vagabond making a tilt at him in a newspaper,
    was more flush of blood than money. As a Barnacle he had his place,
    which was a snug thing enough; and as a Barnacle he had of course put
    in his son Barnacle Junior in the office. But he had intermarried with
    a branch of the Stiltstalkings, who were also better endowed in a
    sanguineous point of view than with real or personal property, and of
    this marriage there had been issue, Barnacle junior and three young
    ladies. What with the patrician requirements of Barnacle junior, the
    three young ladies, Mrs Tite Barnacle nee Stiltstalking, and himself,
    Mr Tite Barnacle found the intervals between quarter day and quarter day
    rather longer than he could have desired; a circumstance which he always
    attributed to the country's parsimony.

    For Mr Tite Barnacle, Mr Arthur Clennam made his fifth inquiry one day
    at the Circumlocution Office; having on previous occasions awaited that
    gentleman successively in a hall, a glass case, a waiting room, and a
    fire-proof passage where the Department seemed to keep its wind. On this
    occasion Mr Barnacle was not engaged, as he had been before, with the
    noble prodigy at the head of the Department; but was absent. Barnacle
    Junior, however, was announced as a lesser star, yet visible above the
    office horizon.

    With Barnacle junior, he signified his desire to confer; and found that
    young gentleman singeing the calves of his legs at the parental fire,
    and supporting his spine against the mantel-shelf. It was a comfortable
    room, handsomely furnished in the higher official manner; an presenting
    stately suggestions of the absent Barnacle, in the thick carpet, the
    leather-covered desk to sit at, the leather-covered desk to stand at,
    the formidable easy-chair and hearth-rug, the interposed screen, the
    torn-up papers, the dispatch-boxes with little labels sticking out of
    them, like medicine bottles or dead game, the pervading smell of leather
    and mahogany, and a general bamboozling air of How not to do it.

    The present Barnacle, holding Mr Clennam's card in his hand, had a
    youthful aspect, and the fluffiest little whisker, perhaps, that ever
    was seen. Such a downy tip was on his callow chin, that he seemed half
    fledged like a young bird; and a compassionate observer might have urged
    that, if he had not singed the calves of his legs, he would have died
    of cold. He had a superior eye-glass dangling round his neck, but
    unfortunately had such flat orbits to his eyes and such limp little
    eyelids that it wouldn't stick in when he put it up, but kept tumbling
    out against his waistcoat buttons with a click that discomposed him very
    much.

    'Oh, I say. Look here! My father's not in the way, and won't be in the
    way to-day,' said Barnacle Junior. 'Is this anything that I can do?'

    (Click! Eye-glass down. Barnacle Junior quite frightened and feeling all
     round himself, but not able to find it.)

    'You are very good,' said Arthur Clennam. 'I wish however to see Mr
    Barnacle.'

    'But I say. Look here! You haven't got any appointment, you know,' said
    Barnacle Junior.

(By this time he had found the eye-glass, and put it up again.)

    'No,' said Arthur Clennam. 'That is what I wish to have.'

    'But I say. Look here! Is this public business?' asked Barnacle junior.

    (Click! Eye-glass down again. Barnacle Junior in that state of search
     after it that Mr Clennam felt it useless to reply at present.)

    'Is it,' said Barnacle junior, taking heed of his visitor's brown face,
    'anything about--Tonnage--or that sort of thing?'

    (Pausing for a reply, he opened his right eye with his hand, and stuck
     his glass in it, in that inflammatory manner that his eye began watering
     dreadfully.)

    'No,' said Arthur, 'it is nothing about tonnage.'

    'Then look here. Is it private business?'

    'I really am not sure. It relates to a Mr Dorrit.'

    'Look here, I tell you what! You had better call at our house, if you
    are going that way. Twenty-four, Mews Street, Grosvenor Square. My
    father's got a slight touch of the gout, and is kept at home by it.'

    (The misguided young Barnacle evidently going blind on his eye-glass
     side, but ashamed to make any further alteration in his painful
     arrangements.)

    'Thank you. I will call there now. Good morning.' Young Barnacle seemed
    discomfited at this, as not having at all expected him to go.

    'You are quite sure,' said Barnacle junior, calling after him when he
    got to the door, unwilling wholly to relinquish the bright business idea
    he had conceived; 'that it's nothing about Tonnage?'

    'Quite sure.'

    With such assurance, and rather wondering what might have taken place
    if it _had_ been anything about tonnage, Mr Clennam withdrew to pursue his
    inquiries.

    Mews Street, Grosvenor Square, was not absolutely Grosvenor Square
    itself, but it was very near it. It was a hideous little street of dead
    wall, stables, and dunghills, with lofts over coach-houses inhabited by
    coachmen's families, who had a passion for drying clothes and decorating
    their window-sills with miniature turnpike-gates. The principal
    chimney-sweep of that fashionable quarter lived at the blind end of Mews
    Street; and the same corner contained an establishment much frequented
    about early morning and twilight for the purchase of wine-bottles and
    kitchen-stuff. Punch's shows used to lean against the dead wall in Mews
    Street, while their proprietors were dining elsewhere; and the dogs of
    the neighbourhood made appointments to meet in the same locality. Yet
    there were two or three small airless houses at the entrance end of Mews
    Street, which went at enormous rents on account of their being abject
    hangers-on to a fashionable situation; and whenever one of these fearful
    little coops was to be let (which seldom happened, for they were in
            great request), the house agent advertised it as a gentlemanly residence
    in the most aristocratic part of town, inhabited solely by the elite of
    the beau monde.

    If a gentlemanly residence coming strictly within this narrow margin had
    not been essential to the blood of the Barnacles, this particular branch
    would have had a pretty wide selection among, let us say, ten thousand
    houses, offering fifty times the accommodation for a third of the money.
    As it was, Mr Barnacle, finding his gentlemanly residence extremely
    inconvenient and extremely dear, always laid it, as a public servant,
    at the door of the country, and adduced it as another instance of the
    country's parsimony.

    Arthur Clennam came to a squeezed house, with a ramshackle bowed
    front, little dingy windows, and a little dark area like a damp
    waistcoat-pocket, which he found to be number twenty-four, Mews Street,
    Grosvenor Square. To the sense of smell the house was like a sort of
    bottle filled with a strong distillation of Mews; and when the footman
    opened the door, he seemed to take the stopper out.

    The footman was to the Grosvenor Square footmen, what the house was to
    the Grosvenor Square houses. Admirable in his way, his way was a back
    and a bye way. His gorgeousness was not unmixed with dirt; and both in
    complexion and consistency he had suffered from the closeness of his
    pantry. A sallow flabbiness was upon him when he took the stopper out,
    and presented the bottle to Mr Clennam's nose.

    'Be so good as to give that card to Mr Tite Barnacle, and to say that I
    have just now seen the younger Mr Barnacle, who recommended me to call
    here.'

    The footman (who had as many large buttons with the Barnacle crest upon
            them on the flaps of his pockets, as if he were the family strong box,
            and carried the plate and jewels about with him buttoned up) pondered
    over the card a little; then said, 'Walk in.' It required some judgment
    to do it without butting the inner hall-door open, and in the consequent
    mental confusion and physical darkness slipping down the kitchen stairs.
    The visitor, however, brought himself up safely on the door-mat.

    Still the footman said 'Walk in,' so the visitor followed him. At the
    inner hall-door, another bottle seemed to be presented and another
    stopper taken out. This second vial appeared to be filled with
    concentrated provisions and extract of Sink from the pantry. After a
    skirmish in the narrow passage, occasioned by the footman's opening the
    door of the dismal dining-room with confidence, finding some one there
    with consternation, and backing on the visitor with disorder, the
    visitor was shut up, pending his announcement, in a close back parlour.
    There he had an opportunity of refreshing himself with both the
    bottles at once, looking out at a low blinding wall three feet off,
    and speculating on the number of Barnacle families within the bills of
    mortality who lived in such hutches of their own free flunkey choice.

    Mr Barnacle would see him. Would he walk up-stairs? He would, and
    he did; and in the drawing-room, with his leg on a rest, he found Mr
    Barnacle himself, the express image and presentment of How not to do it.

    Mr Barnacle dated from a better time, when the country was not so
    parsimonious and the Circumlocution Office was not so badgered. He wound
    and wound folds of white cravat round his neck, as he wound and wound
    folds of tape and paper round the neck of the country. His wristbands
    and collar were oppressive; his voice and manner were oppressive. He
    had a large watch-chain and bunch of seals, a coat buttoned up to
    inconvenience, a waistcoat buttoned up to inconvenience, an unwrinkled
    pair of trousers, a stiff pair of boots. He was altogether splendid,
    massive, overpowering, and impracticable. He seemed to have been sitting
    for his portrait to Sir Thomas Lawrence all the days of his life.

    'Mr Clennam?' said Mr Barnacle. 'Be seated.'

    Mr Clennam became seated.

    'You have called on me, I believe,' said Mr Barnacle, 'at the
    Circumlocution--' giving it the air of a word of about five-and-twenty
    syllables--'Office.'

    'I have taken that liberty.'

    Mr Barnacle solemnly bent his head as who should say, 'I do not deny
    that it is a liberty; proceed to take another liberty, and let me know
    your business.'

    'Allow me to observe that I have been for some years in China, am quite
    a stranger at home, and have no personal motive or interest in the
    inquiry I am about to make.'

    Mr Barnacle tapped his fingers on the table, and, as if he were now
    sitting for his portrait to a new and strange artist, appeared to say
    to his visitor, 'If you will be good enough to take me with my present
    lofty expression, I shall feel obliged.'

    'I have found a debtor in the Marshalsea Prison of the name of Dorrit,
    who has been there many years. I wish to investigate his confused
    affairs so far as to ascertain whether it may not be possible, after
    this lapse of time, to ameliorate his unhappy condition. The name of
    Mr Tite Barnacle has been mentioned to me as representing some highly
    influential interest among his creditors. Am I correctly informed?'

    It being one of the principles of the Circumlocution Office never, on
    any account whatever, to give a straightforward answer, Mr Barnacle
    said, 'Possibly.'

    'On behalf of the Crown, may I ask, or as private individual?'

    'The Circumlocution Department, sir,' Mr Barnacle replied, 'may have
    possibly recommended--possibly--I cannot say--that some public claim
    against the insolvent estate of a firm or copartnership to which this
    person may have belonged, should be enforced. The question may have
    been, in the course of official business, referred to the Circumlocution
    Department for its consideration. The Department may have either
    originated, or confirmed, a Minute making that recommendation.'

    'I assume this to be the case, then.'

    'The Circumlocution Department,' said Mr Barnacle, 'is not responsible
    for any gentleman's assumptions.'

    'May I inquire how I can obtain official information as to the real
    state of the case?'

    'It is competent,' said Mr Barnacle, 'to any member of the--Public,'
    mentioning that obscure body with reluctance, as his natural enemy,
    'to memorialise the Circumlocution Department. Such formalities as are
    required to be observed in so doing, may be known on application to the
    proper branch of that Department.'

    'Which is the proper branch?'

    'I must refer you,' returned Mr Barnacle, ringing the bell, 'to the
    Department itself for a formal answer to that inquiry.'

    'Excuse my mentioning--'

    'The Department is accessible to the--Public,' Mr Barnacle was always
    checked a little by that word of impertinent signification, 'if
    the--Public approaches it according to the official forms; if
    the--Public does not approach it according to the official forms,
    the--Public has itself to blame.'

    Mr Barnacle made him a severe bow, as a wounded man of family, a wounded
    man of place, and a wounded man of a gentlemanly residence, all rolled
    into one; and he made Mr Barnacle a bow, and was shut out into Mews
    Street by the flabby footman.

    Having got to this pass, he resolved as an exercise in perseverance,
    to betake himself again to the Circumlocution Office, and try what
    satisfaction he could get there. So he went back to the Circumlocution
    Office, and once more sent up his card to Barnacle junior by a messenger
    who took it very ill indeed that he should come back again, and who was
    eating mashed potatoes and gravy behind a partition by the hall fire.

    He was readmitted to the presence of Barnacle junior, and found that
    young gentleman singeing his knees now, and gaping his weary way on
    to four o'clock.

    'I say. Look here. You stick to us in a devil of a manner,' Said
    Barnacle junior, looking over his shoulder.

    'I want to know--'

    'Look here. Upon my soul you mustn't come into the place saying you
    want to know, you know,' remonstrated Barnacle junior, turning about and
    putting up the eye-glass.

    'I want to know,' said Arthur Clennam, who had made up his mind to
    persistence in one short form of words, 'the precise nature of the claim
    of the Crown against a prisoner for debt, named Dorrit.'

    'I say. Look here. You really are going it at a great pace, you know.
    Egad, you haven't got an appointment,' said Barnacle junior, as if the
    thing were growing serious.

    'I want to know,' said Arthur, and repeated his case.

    Barnacle junior stared at him until his eye-glass fell out, and then
    put it in again and stared at him until it fell out again. 'You have
    no right to come this sort of move,' he then observed with the greatest
    weakness. 'Look here. What do you mean? You told me you didn't know
    whether it was public business or not.'

    'I have now ascertained that it is public business,' returned the
    suitor, 'and I want to know'--and again repeated his monotonous inquiry.

    Its effect upon young Barnacle was to make him repeat in a defenceless
    way, 'Look here! Upon my SOUL you mustn't come into the place saying you
    want to know, you know!' The effect of that upon Arthur Clennam was
    to make him repeat his inquiry in exactly the same words and tone
    as before. The effect of that upon young Barnacle was to make him a
    wonderful spectacle of failure and helplessness.

    'Well, I tell you what. Look here. You had better try the Secretarial
    Department,' he said at last, sidling to the bell and ringing it.
    'Jenkinson,' to the mashed potatoes messenger, 'Mr Wobbler!'

    Arthur Clennam, who now felt that he had devoted himself to the storming
    of the Circumlocution Office, and must go through with it, accompanied
    the messenger to another floor of the building, where that functionary
    pointed out Mr Wobbler's room. He entered that apartment, and found two
    gentlemen sitting face to face at a large and easy desk, one of whom was
    polishing a gun-barrel on his pocket-handkerchief, while the other was
    spreading marmalade on bread with a paper-knife.

    'Mr Wobbler?' inquired the suitor.

    Both gentlemen glanced at him, and seemed surprised at his assurance.

    'So he went,' said the gentleman with the gun-barrel, who was an
    extremely deliberate speaker, 'down to his cousin's place, and took the
    Dog with him by rail. Inestimable Dog. Flew at the porter fellow when he
    was put into the dog-box, and flew at the guard when he was taken out.
    He got half-a-dozen fellows into a Barn, and a good supply of Rats, and
    timed the Dog. Finding the Dog able to do it immensely, made the match,
    and heavily backed the Dog. When the match came off, some devil of
    a fellow was bought over, Sir, Dog was made drunk, Dog's master was
    cleaned out.'

    'Mr Wobbler?' inquired the suitor.

    The gentleman who was spreading the marmalade returned, without looking
    up from that occupation, 'What did he call the Dog?'

    'Called him Lovely,' said the other gentleman. 'Said the Dog was the
    perfect picture of the old aunt from whom he had expectations. Found him
    particularly like her when hocussed.'

    'Mr Wobbler?' said the suitor.

    Both gentlemen laughed for some time. The gentleman with the gun-barrel,
    considering it, on inspection, in a satisfactory state, referred it to
    the other; receiving confirmation of his views, he fitted it into its
    place in the case before him, and took out the stock and polished that,
    softly whistling.

    'Mr Wobbler?' said the suitor.

    'What's the matter?' then said Mr Wobbler, with his mouth full.

    'I want to know--' and Arthur Clennam again mechanically set forth what
    he wanted to know.

    'Can't inform you,' observed Mr Wobbler, apparently to his lunch. 'Never
    heard of it. Nothing at all to do with it. Better try Mr Clive, second
    door on the left in the next passage.'

    'Perhaps he will give me the same answer.'

    'Very likely. Don't know anything about it,' said Mr Wobbler.

    The suitor turned away and had left the room, when the gentleman with
    the gun called out 'Mister! Hallo!'

    He looked in again.

    'Shut the door after you. You're letting in a devil of a draught here!'

    A few steps brought him to the second door on the left in the next
    passage. In that room he found three gentlemen; number one doing nothing
    particular, number two doing nothing particular, number three doing
    nothing particular. They seemed, however, to be more directly concerned
    than the others had been in the effective execution of the great
    principle of the office, as there was an awful inner apartment with a
    double door, in which the Circumlocution Sages appeared to be assembled
    in council, and out of which there was an imposing coming of papers,
    and into which there was an imposing going of papers, almost constantly;
wherein another gentleman, number four, was the active instrument.

'I want to know,' said Arthur Clennam,--and again stated his case in the
same barrel-organ way. As number one referred him to number two, and
as number two referred him to number three, he had occasion to state
it three times before they all referred him to number four, to whom he
stated it again.

Number four was a vivacious, well-looking, well-dressed, agreeable
young fellow--he was a Barnacle, but on the more sprightly side of
the family--and he said in an easy way, 'Oh! you had better not bother
yourself about it, I think.'

'Not bother myself about it?'

'No! I recommend you not to bother yourself about it.'

This was such a new point of view that Arthur Clennam found himself at a
loss how to receive it.

'You can if you like. I can give you plenty of forms to fill up. Lots of
'em here. You can have a dozen if you like. But you'll never go on with
it,' said number four.

'Would it be such hopeless work? Excuse me; I am a stranger in England.'

'_I_ don't say it would be hopeless,' returned number four, with a frank
smile. 'I don't express an opinion about that; I only express an opinion
about you. _I_ don't think you'd go on with it. However, of course, you
can do as you like. I suppose there was a failure in the performance of
a contract, or something of that kind, was there?'

'I really don't know.'

'Well! That you can find out. Then you'll find out what Department the
contract was in, and then you'll find out all about it there.'

'I beg your pardon. How shall I find out?'

'Why, you'll--you'll ask till they tell you. Then you'll memorialise
that Department (according to regular forms which you'll find out) for
leave to memorialise this Department. If you get it (which you may after
        a time), that memorial must be entered in that Department, sent to
be registered in this Department, sent back to be signed by that
Department, sent back to be countersigned by this Department, and then
it will begin to be regularly before that Department. You'll find out
when the business passes through each of these stages by asking at both
Departments till they tell you.'

'But surely this is not the way to do the business,' Arthur Clennam
could not help saying.

This airy young Barnacle was quite entertained by his simplicity in
supposing for a moment that it was. This light in hand young Barnacle
knew perfectly that it was not. This touch and go young Barnacle had
'got up' the Department in a private secretaryship, that he might
be ready for any little bit of fat that came to hand; and he fully
understood the Department to be a politico-diplomatic hocus pocus piece
of machinery for the assistance of the nobs in keeping off the
snobs. This dashing young Barnacle, in a word, was likely to become a
statesman, and to make a figure.

'When the business is regularly before that Department, whatever it is,'
pursued this bright young Barnacle, 'then you can watch it from time
to time through that Department. When it comes regularly before this
Department, then you must watch it from time to time through this
Department. We shall have to refer it right and left; and when we refer
it anywhere, then you'll have to look it up. When it comes back to us
at any time, then you had better look _us_ up. When it sticks anywhere,
   you'll have to try to give it a jog. When you write to another
   Department about it, and then to this Department about it, and don't
   hear anything satisfactory about it, why then you had better--keep on
   writing.'

   Arthur Clennam looked very doubtful indeed. 'But I am obliged to you at
   any rate,' said he, 'for your politeness.'

   'Not at all,' replied this engaging young Barnacle. 'Try the thing, and
   see how you like it. It will be in your power to give it up at any time,
   if you don't like it. You had better take a lot of forms away with you.
   Give him a lot of forms!' With which instruction to number two, this
   sparkling young Barnacle took a fresh handful of papers from numbers one
   and three, and carried them into the sanctuary to offer to the presiding
   Idol of the Circumlocution Office.

   Arthur Clennam put his forms in his pocket gloomily enough, and went
   his way down the long stone passage and the long stone staircase. He had
   come to the swing doors leading into the street, and was waiting, not
   over patiently, for two people who were between him and them to pass out
   and let him follow, when the voice of one of them struck familiarly on
   his ear. He looked at the speaker and recognised Mr Meagles. Mr Meagles
   was very red in the face--redder than travel could have made him--and
   collaring a short man who was with him, said, 'come out, you rascal,
   come Out!'

   It was such an unexpected hearing, and it was also such an unexpected
   sight to see Mr Meagles burst the swing doors open, and emerge into the
   street with the short man, who was of an unoffending appearance, that
   Clennam stood still for the moment exchanging looks of surprise with the
   porter. He followed, however, quickly; and saw Mr Meagles going down
   the street with his enemy at his side. He soon came up with his old
   travelling companion, and touched him on the back. The choleric face
   which Mr Meagles turned upon him smoothed when he saw who it was, and he
   put out his friendly hand.

   'How are you?' said Mr Meagles. 'How d'ye _do?_ I have only just come over
   from abroad. I am glad to see you.'

   'And I am rejoiced to see you.'

   'Thank'ee. Thank'ee!'

   'Mrs Meagles and your daughter--?'

   'Are as well as possible,' said Mr Meagles. 'I only wish you had come
   upon me in a more prepossessing condition as to coolness.'

   Though it was anything but a hot day, Mr Meagles was in a heated state
   that attracted the attention of the passersby; more particularly as
   he leaned his back against a railing, took off his hat and cravat, and
   heartily rubbed his steaming head and face, and his reddened ears and
   neck, without the least regard for public opinion.

   'Whew!' said Mr Meagles, dressing again. 'That's comfortable. Now I am
   cooler.'

   'You have been ruffled, Mr Meagles. What is the matter?'

   'Wait a bit, and I'll tell you. Have you leisure for a turn in the
   Park?'

   'As much as you please.'

   'Come along then. Ah! you may well look at him.' He happened to have
   turned his eyes towards the offender whom Mr Meagles had so angrily
   collared. 'He's something to look at, that fellow is.'

   He was not much to look at, either in point of size or in point of
   dress; being merely a short, square, practical looking man, whose hair
   had turned grey, and in whose face and forehead there were deep lines of
   cogitation, which looked as though they were carved in hard wood. He
   was dressed in decent black, a little rusty, and had the appearance of
   a sagacious master in some handicraft. He had a spectacle-case in his
   hand, which he turned over and over while he was thus in question,
   with a certain free use of the thumb that is never seen but in a hand
   accustomed to tools.

   'You keep with us,' said Mr Meagles, in a threatening kind of Way, 'and
   I'll introduce you presently. Now then!'

   Clennam wondered within himself, as they took the nearest way to the
   Park, what this unknown (who complied in the gentlest manner) could have
   been doing. His appearance did not at all justify the suspicion that he
   had been detected in designs on Mr Meagles's pocket-handkerchief; nor
   had he any appearance of being quarrelsome or violent. He was a quiet,
   plain, steady man; made no attempt to escape; and seemed a little
   depressed, but neither ashamed nor repentant. If he were a criminal
   offender, he must surely be an incorrigible hypocrite; and if he were no
   offender, why should Mr Meagles have collared him in the Circumlocution
   Office? He perceived that the man was not a difficulty in his own
   mind alone, but in Mr Meagles's too; for such conversation as they had
   together on the short way to the Park was by no means well sustained,
   and Mr Meagles's eye always wandered back to the man, even when he spoke
   of something very different.

   At length they being among the trees, Mr Meagles stopped short, and
   said:

   'Mr Clennam, will you do me the favour to look at this man? His name
   is Doyce, Daniel Doyce. You wouldn't suppose this man to be a notorious
   rascal; would you?'

   'I certainly should not.' It was really a disconcerting question, with
   the man there.

   'No. You would not. I know you would not. You wouldn't suppose him to be
   a public offender; would you?'

   'No.'

   'No. But he is. He is a public offender. What has he been guilty of?
   Murder, manslaughter, arson, forgery, swindling, house-breaking, highway
   robbery, larceny, conspiracy, fraud? Which should you say, now?'

   'I should say,' returned Arthur Clennam, observing a faint smile in
   Daniel Doyce's face, 'not one of them.'

   'You are right,' said Mr Meagles. 'But he has been ingenious, and he has
   been trying to turn his ingenuity to his country's service. That makes
   him a public offender directly, sir.'

   Arthur looked at the man himself, who only shook his head.

   'This Doyce,' said Mr Meagles, 'is a smith and engineer. He is not in a
    large way, but he is well known as a very ingenious man. A dozen years
ago, he perfects an invention (involving a very curious secret process)
    of great importance to his country and his fellow-creatures. I won't say
    how much money it cost him, or how many years of his life he had been
    about it, but he brought it to perfection a dozen years ago. Wasn't it a
    dozen?' said Mr Meagles, addressing Doyce. 'He is the most exasperating
    man in the world; he never complains!'

    'Yes. Rather better than twelve years ago.'

    'Rather better?' said Mr Meagles, 'you mean rather worse. Well, Mr
    Clennam, he addresses himself to the Government. The moment he addresses
    himself to the Government, he becomes a public offender! Sir,' said Mr
    Meagles, in danger of making himself excessively hot again, 'he ceases
    to be an innocent citizen, and becomes a culprit. He is treated from
    that instant as a man who has done some infernal action. He is a man to
    be shirked, put off, brow-beaten, sneered at, handed over by this
    highly-connected young or old gentleman, to that highly-connected young
    or old gentleman, and dodged back again; he is a man with no rights in
    his own time, or his own property; a mere outlaw, whom it is justifiable
    to get rid of anyhow; a man to be worn out by all possible means.'

    It was not so difficult to believe, after the morning's experience, as
    Mr Meagles supposed.

    'Don't stand there, Doyce, turning your spectacle-case over and over,'
    cried Mr Meagles, 'but tell Mr Clennam what you confessed to me.'

    'I undoubtedly was made to feel,' said the inventor, 'as if I had
    committed an offence. In dancing attendance at the various offices, I
    was always treated, more or less, as if it was a very bad offence. I
    have frequently found it necessary to reflect, for my own self-support,
    that I really had not done anything to bring myself into the Newgate
    Calendar, but only wanted to effect a great saving and a great
    improvement.'

    'There!' said Mr Meagles. 'Judge whether I exaggerate. Now you'll be
    able to believe me when I tell you the rest of the case.'

    With this prelude, Mr Meagles went through the narrative; the
    established narrative, which has become tiresome; the matter-of-course
    narrative which we all know by heart. How, after interminable attendance
    and correspondence, after infinite impertinences, ignorances, and
    insults, my lords made a Minute, number three thousand four hundred
    and seventy-two, allowing the culprit to make certain trials of his
    invention at his own expense. How the trials were made in the presence
    of a board of six, of whom two ancient members were too blind to see it,
    two other ancient members were too deaf to hear it, one other ancient
    member was too lame to get near it, and the final ancient member was too
    pig-headed to look at it. How there were more years; more impertinences,
    ignorances, and insults. How my lords then made a Minute, number five
    thousand one hundred and three, whereby they resigned the business to
    the Circumlocution Office. How the Circumlocution Office, in course of
    time, took up the business as if it were a bran new thing of yesterday,
    which had never been heard of before; muddled the business, addled the
    business, tossed the business in a wet blanket. How the impertinences,
    ignorances, and insults went through the multiplication table. How there
    was a reference of the invention to three Barnacles and a Stiltstalking,
    who knew nothing about it; into whose heads nothing could be hammered
    about it; who got bored about it, and reported physical impossibilities
    about it. How the Circumlocution Office, in a Minute, number eight
    thousand seven hundred and forty, 'saw no reason to reverse the decision
    at which my lords had arrived.' How the Circumlocution Office, being
    reminded that my lords had arrived at no decision, shelved the business.
    How there had been a final interview with the head of the Circumlocution
    Office that very morning, and how the Brazen Head had spoken, and had
    been, upon the whole, and under all the circumstances, and looking at it
    from the various points of view, of opinion that one of two courses was
    to be pursued in respect of the business: that was to say, either to
    leave it alone for evermore, or to begin it all over again.

    'Upon which,' said Mr Meagles, 'as a practical man, I then and there, in
    that presence, took Doyce by the collar, and told him it was plain to
    me that he was an infamous rascal and treasonable disturber of the
    government peace, and took him away. I brought him out of the office
    door by the collar, that the very porter might know I was a practical
    man who appreciated the official estimate of such characters; and here
    we are!'

    If that airy young Barnacle had been there, he would have frankly told
    them perhaps that the Circumlocution Office had achieved its function.
    That what the Barnacles had to do, was to stick on to the national ship
    as long as they could. That to trim the ship, lighten the ship, clean
    the ship, would be to knock them off; that they could but be knocked off
    once; and that if the ship went down with them yet sticking to it, that
    was the ship's look out, and not theirs.

    'There!' said Mr Meagles, 'now you know all about Doyce. Except, which I
    own does not improve my state of mind, that even now you don't hear him
    complain.'

    'You must have great patience,' said Arthur Clennam, looking at him with
    some wonder, 'great forbearance.'

    'No,' he returned, 'I don't know that I have more than another man.'

    'By the Lord, you have more than I have, though!' cried Mr Meagles.

    Doyce smiled, as he said to Clennam, 'You see, my experience of these
    things does not begin with myself. It has been in my way to know a
    little about them from time to time. Mine is not a particular case. I am
    not worse used than a hundred others who have put themselves in the same
    position--than all the others, I was going to say.'

    'I don't know that I should find that a consolation, if it were my case;
    but I am very glad that you do.'

    'Understand me! I don't say,' he replied in his steady, planning
    way, and looking into the distance before him as if his grey eye were
    measuring it, 'that it's recompense for a man's toil and hope; but it's
    a certain sort of relief to know that I might have counted on this.'

    He spoke in that quiet deliberate manner, and in that undertone, which
    is often observable in mechanics who consider and adjust with great
    nicety. It belonged to him like his suppleness of thumb, or his peculiar
    way of tilting up his hat at the back every now and then, as if he were
    contemplating some half-finished work of his hand and thinking about it.

    'Disappointed?' he went on, as he walked between them under the trees.
    'Yes. No doubt I am disappointed. Hurt? Yes. No doubt I am hurt. That's
    only natural. But what I mean when I say that people who put themselves
    in the same position are mostly used in the same way--'

    'In England,' said Mr Meagles.

    'Oh! of course I mean in England. When they take their inventions into
    foreign countries, that's quite different. And that's the reason why so
    many go there.'

    Mr Meagles very hot indeed again.

    'What I mean is, that however this comes to be the regular way of our
    government, it is its regular way. Have you ever heard of any projector
    or inventor who failed to find it all but inaccessible, and whom it did
    not discourage and ill-treat?'

    'I cannot say that I ever have.'

    'Have you ever known it to be beforehand in the adoption of any useful
    thing? Ever known it to set an example of any useful kind?'

    'I am a good deal older than my friend here,' said Mr Meagles, 'and I'll
    answer that. Never.'

    'But we all three have known, I expect,' said the inventor, 'a pretty
    many cases of its fixed determination to be miles upon miles, and years
    upon years, behind the rest of us; and of its being found out persisting
    in the use of things long superseded, even after the better things were
    well known and generally taken up?'

    They all agreed upon that.

    'Well then,' said Doyce, with a sigh, 'as I know what such a metal will
    do at such a temperature, and such a body under such a pressure, so I
    may know (if I will only consider), how these great lords and gentlemen
    will certainly deal with such a matter as mine. I have no right to be
    surprised, with a head upon my shoulders, and memory in it, that I fall
    into the ranks with all who came before me. I ought to have let it
    alone. I have had warning enough, I am sure.'

    With that he put up his spectacle-case, and said to Arthur, 'If I don't
    complain, Mr Clennam, I can feel gratitude; and I assure you that I
    feel it towards our mutual friend. Many's the day, and many's the way in
    which he has backed me.'

    'Stuff and nonsense,' said Mr Meagles.

    Arthur could not but glance at Daniel Doyce in the ensuing silence.
    Though it was evidently in the grain of his character, and of his
    respect for his own case, that he should abstain from idle murmuring,
    it was evident that he had grown the older, the sterner, and the poorer,
    for his long endeavour. He could not but think what a blessed thing
    it would have been for this man, if he had taken a lesson from the
    gentlemen who were so kind as to take a nation's affairs in charge, and
    had learnt How not to do it.

    Mr Meagles was hot and despondent for about five minutes, and then began
    to cool and clear up.

    'Come, come!' said he. 'We shall not make this the better by being grim.
    Where do you think of going, Dan?'

    'I shall go back to the factory,' said Dan.

    'Why then, we'll all go back to the factory, or walk in that direction,'
    returned Mr Meagles cheerfully. 'Mr Clennam won't be deterred by its
    being in Bleeding Heart Yard.'

    'Bleeding Heart Yard?' said Clennam. 'I want to go there.'

    'So much the better,' cried Mr Meagles. 'Come along!'

    As they went along, certainly one of the party, and probably more than
    one, thought that Bleeding Heart Yard was no inappropriate destination
    for a man who had been in official correspondence with my lords and the
    Barnacles--and perhaps had a misgiving also that Britannia herself might
    come to look for lodgings in Bleeding Heart Yard some ugly day or other,
    if she over-did the Circumlocution Office.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dickens is not a fan of career bureaucrats. Hang on a sec, Shmoop, not a fan of who now? Well, in all democracies there are two kinds of jobs in the government. There are the elected guys - you know, "vote for me, I'm awesome" - who run on a party ticket and in theory can be voted out of office. And then there are those who run the various departments and agencies under the elected guys - these are the career bureaucrats. They don't lose their jobs when another party comes to power but are instead permanent office workers . The beginning of this chapter is a vicious satire on a made-up government department called the Circumlocution Office. First off, the name: "circum" from the Latin for "around" and "locution" from the Latin for "talking." As in, these guys just talk circles around the business they are supposed to be doing. Instead of doing anything, the Circumlocution Office workers make sure to do nothing. Not only that, but the place is one giant pile of nepotism, since all the people who work there are from the Barnacle family and just keep on hiring more Barnacles for every available position. This is also a joke. Way, way long ago, Plato compared ruling a country to sailing a huge ship, "the ship of state." This has since become a pretty famous metaphor. Barnacles, meanwhile, are those small shellfish parasites that stick to the bottom and sides of ships and need to be cleaned off. So the Barnacle family is not really all that helpful, Dickens is saying. Anyway. Arthur goes to talk to Tite Barnacle, Circumlocution Office man, about Dorrit's debts. He's not there, but his son is. The son tells Arthur to go find Tite at home. Arthur goes to Tite Barnacle's house, meets with him, and gets not a single straight answer. Instead, Tite Barnacle goes out of his way to avoid answering every question, sending him instead back to the Office to another department. Arthur goes back to the Circumlocution Office and it's a totally surreal labyrinth of nonsense, as people send him back and forth from one bureaucrat to another. Finally he comes across a Barnacle who levels with him, telling him that he can fill out all the forms in the world and talk to everybody in the Office, but he will never get a real answer to anything. Arthur gives up, walks out, and runs into Meagles. Meagles is yelling at Daniel Doyce, calling him a criminal. Arthur can tell immediately that Doyce is no such thing. Finally Meagles calms down and Doyce tells his story. Doyce is a factory owner who twelve years ago invented some awesome thing. If the country adopted his awesome thing instead of the crappy old-fashioned thing they're using now, there would be much saving of money and time, and much rejoicing of people. All Doyce needs is a patent and the approval of the government for everyone to start using his invention, and for that he needs to go through - you guessed it - the Circumlocution Office. He's been trying for twelve years with no luck. Doyce says he's not alone - it's this way for all inventors in England, and that's why so many of them take their inventions to other countries. He may do the same. Take that, England!


prompt:
Chapter: A late, dull autumn night was closing in upon the river Saone. The
stream, like a sullied looking-glass in a gloomy place, reflected the
clouds heavily; and the low banks leaned over here and there, as if they
were half curious, and half afraid, to see their darkening pictures in
the water. The flat expanse of country about Chalons lay a long heavy
streak, occasionally made a little ragged by a row of poplar trees
against the wrathful sunset. On the banks of the river Saone it was wet,
        depressing, solitary; and the night deepened fast.

        One man slowly moving on towards Chalons was the only visible figure in
        the landscape. Cain might have looked as lonely and avoided. With an old
        sheepskin knapsack at his back, and a rough, unbarked stick cut out of
        some wood in his hand; miry, footsore, his shoes and gaiters trodden
        out, his hair and beard untrimmed; the cloak he carried over his
        shoulder, and the clothes he wore, sodden with wet; limping along in
        pain and difficulty; he looked as if the clouds were hurrying from him,
        as if the wail of the wind and the shuddering of the grass were directed
        against him, as if the low mysterious plashing of the water murmured at
        him, as if the fitful autumn night were disturbed by him.

        He glanced here, and he glanced there, sullenly but shrinkingly; and
        sometimes stopped and turned about, and looked all round him. Then he
        limped on again, toiling and muttering.

        'To the devil with this plain that has no end! To the devil with these
        stones that cut like knives! To the devil with this dismal darkness,
        wrapping itself about one with a chill! I hate you!'

        And he would have visited his hatred upon it all with the scowl he threw
        about him, if he could. He trudged a little further; and looking into
        the distance before him, stopped again.

        'I, hungry, thirsty, weary. You, imbeciles, where the lights are yonder,
        eating and drinking, and warming yourselves at fires! I wish I had the
        sacking of your town; I would repay you, my children!'

        But the teeth he set at the town, and the hand he shook at the town,
        brought the town no nearer; and the man was yet hungrier, and thirstier,
        and wearier, when his feet were on its jagged pavement, and he stood
        looking about him.

        There was the hotel with its gateway, and its savoury smell of cooking;
        there was the cafe with its bright windows, and its rattling of
        dominoes; there was the dyer's with its strips of red cloth on the
        doorposts; there was the silversmith's with its earrings, and its
        offerings for altars; there was the tobacco dealer's with its lively
        group of soldier customers coming out pipe in mouth; there were the bad
        odours of the town, and the rain and the refuse in the kennels, and
        the faint lamps slung across the road, and the huge Diligence, and its
        mountain of luggage, and its six grey horses with their tails tied up,
        getting under weigh at the coach office. But no small cabaret for a
        straitened traveller being within sight, he had to seek one round the
        dark corner, where the cabbage leaves lay thickest, trodden about the
        public cistern at which women had not yet left off drawing water. There,
        in the back street he found one, the Break of Day. The curtained windows
        clouded the Break of Day, but it seemed light and warm, and it announced
        in legible inscriptions with appropriate pictorial embellishment
        of billiard cue and ball, that at the Break of Day one could play
        billiards; that there one could find meat, drink, and lodgings, whether
        one came on horseback, or came on foot; and that it kept good wines,
        liqueurs, and brandy. The man turned the handle of the Break of Day
        door, and limped in.

        He touched his discoloured slouched hat, as he came in at the door, to
        a few men who occupied the room. Two were playing dominoes at one of the
        little tables; three or four were seated round the stove, conversing
        as they smoked; the billiard-table in the centre was left alone for the
        time; the landlady of the Daybreak sat behind her little counter among
        her cloudy bottles of syrups, baskets of cakes, and leaden drainage for
        glasses, working at her needle.

        Making his way to an empty little table in a corner of the room behind
        the stove, he put down his knapsack and his cloak upon the ground. As
        he raised his head from stooping to do so, he found the landlady beside
        him.

        'One can lodge here to-night, madame?'

        'Perfectly!' said the landlady in a high, sing-song, cheery voice.

        'Good. One can dine--sup--what you please to call it?'

        'Ah, perfectly!' cried the landlady as before.

        'Dispatch then, madame, if you please. Something to eat, as quickly as
        you can; and some wine at once. I am exhausted.'

        'It is very bad weather, monsieur,' said the landlady.

        'Cursed weather.'

        'And a very long road.'

        'A cursed road.'

        His hoarse voice failed him, and he rested his head upon his hands until
        a bottle of wine was brought from the counter. Having filled and emptied
        his little tumbler twice, and having broken off an end from the great
        loaf that was set before him with his cloth and napkin, soup-plate,
        salt, pepper, and oil, he rested his back against the corner of the
        wall, made a couch of the bench on which he sat, and began to chew
        crust, until such time as his repast should be ready.

        There had been that momentary interruption of the talk about the stove,
        and that temporary inattention to and distraction from one another,
        which is usually inseparable in such a company from the arrival of a
        stranger. It had passed over by this time; and the men had done glancing
        at him, and were talking again.

        'That's the true reason,' said one of them, bringing a story he had
        been telling, to a close, 'that's the true reason why they said that the
        devil was let loose.' The speaker was the tall Swiss belonging to the
        church, and he brought something of the authority of the church into the
        discussion--especially as the devil was in question.

        The landlady having given her directions for the new guest's
        entertainment to her husband, who acted as cook to the Break of Day, had
        resumed her needlework behind her counter. She was a smart, neat, bright
        little woman, with a good deal of cap and a good deal of stocking, and
        she struck into the conversation with several laughing nods of her head,
        but without looking up from her work.

        'Ah Heaven, then,' said she. 'When the boat came up from Lyons, and
        brought the news that the devil was actually let loose at Marseilles,
        some fly-catchers swallowed it. But I? No, not I.'

        'Madame, you are always right,' returned the tall Swiss. 'Doubtless you
        were enraged against that man, madame?'

        'Ay, yes, then!' cried the landlady, raising her eyes from her work,
        opening them very wide, and tossing her head on one side. 'Naturally,
        yes.'

        'He was a bad subject.'

        'He was a wicked wretch,' said the landlady, 'and well merited what he
        had the good fortune to escape. So much the worse.'

        'Stay, madame! Let us see,' returned the Swiss, argumentatively turning
        his cigar between his lips. 'It may have been his unfortunate destiny.
        He may have been the child of circumstances. It is always possible that
        he had, and has, good in him if one did but know how to find it out.
        Philosophical philanthropy teaches--'

        The rest of the little knot about the stove murmured an objection to
        the introduction of that threatening expression. Even the two players
        at dominoes glanced up from their game, as if to protest against
        philosophical philanthropy being brought by name into the Break of Day.

        'Hold there, you and your philanthropy,' cried the smiling landlady,
        nodding her head more than ever. 'Listen then. I am a woman, I. I know
        nothing of philosophical philanthropy. But I know what I have seen, and
        what I have looked in the face in this world here, where I find myself.
        And I tell you this, my friend, that there are people (men and women
                both, unfortunately) who have no good in them--none. That there are
        people whom it is necessary to detest without compromise. That there are
        people who must be dealt with as enemies of the human race. That there
        are people who have no human heart, and who must be crushed like savage
        beasts and cleared out of the way. They are but few, I hope; but I have
        seen (in this world here where I find myself, and even at the little
                Break of Day) that there are such people. And I do not doubt that this
        man--whatever they call him, I forget his name--is one of them.'

        The landlady's lively speech was received with greater favour at
        the Break of Day, than it would have elicited from certain amiable
        whitewashers of the class she so unreasonably objected to, nearer Great
        Britain.

        'My faith! If your philosophical philanthropy,' said the landlady,
        putting down her work, and rising to take the stranger's soup from her
        husband, who appeared with it at a side door, 'puts anybody at the mercy
        of such people by holding terms with them at all, in words or deeds, or
        both, take it away from the Break of Day, for it isn't worth a sou.'

        As she placed the soup before the guest, who changed his attitude to a
        sitting one, he looked her full in the face, and his moustache went up
        under his nose, and his nose came down over his moustache.

        'Well!' said the previous speaker, 'let us come back to our subject.
        Leaving all that aside, gentlemen, it was because the man was acquitted
        on his trial that people said at Marseilles that the devil was let
        loose. That was how the phrase began to circulate, and what it meant;
        nothing more.'

        'How do they call him?' said the landlady. 'Biraud, is it not?'

        'Rigaud, madame,' returned the tall Swiss.

        'Rigaud! To be sure.'

        The traveller's soup was succeeded by a dish of meat, and that by a dish
        of vegetables. He ate all that was placed before him, emptied his bottle
        of wine, called for a glass of rum, and smoked his cigarette with
        his cup of coffee. As he became refreshed, he became overbearing; and
        patronised the company at the Daybreak in certain small talk at which he
        assisted, as if his condition were far above his appearance.

        The company might have had other engagements, or they might have felt
        their inferiority, but in any case they dispersed by degrees, and not
        being replaced by other company, left their new patron in possession of
        the Break of Day. The landlord was clinking about in his kitchen; the
        landlady was quiet at her work; and the refreshed traveller sat smoking
        by the stove, warming his ragged feet.

        'Pardon me, madame--that Biraud.'

        'Rigaud, monsieur.'

        'Rigaud. Pardon me again--has contracted your displeasure, how?'

        The landlady, who had been at one moment thinking within herself that
        this was a handsome man, at another moment that this was an ill-looking
        man, observed the nose coming down and the moustache going up, and
        strongly inclined to the latter decision. Rigaud was a criminal, she
        said, who had killed his wife.

        'Ay, ay? Death of my life, that's a criminal indeed. But how do you know
        it?'

        'All the world knows it.'

        'Hah! And yet he escaped justice?'

        'Monsieur, the law could not prove it against him to its satisfaction.
        So the law says. Nevertheless, all the world knows he did it. The people
        knew it so well, that they tried to tear him to pieces.'

        'Being all in perfect accord with their own wives?' said the guest. 'Haha!'

        The landlady of the Break of Day looked at him again, and felt almost
        confirmed in her last decision. He had a fine hand, though, and he
        turned it with a great show. She began once more to think that he was
        not ill-looking after all.

        'Did you mention, madame--or was it mentioned among the gentlemen--what
        became of him?'

        The landlady shook her head; it being the first conversational stage at
        which her vivacious earnestness had ceased to nod it, keeping time to what
        she said. It had been mentioned at the Daybreak, she remarked, on the
        authority of the journals, that he had been kept in prison for his own
        safety. However that might be, he had escaped his deserts; so much the
        worse.

        The guest sat looking at her as he smoked out his final cigarette, and
        as she sat with her head bent over her work, with an expression that
        might have resolved her doubts, and brought her to a lasting conclusion
        on the subject of his good or bad looks if she had seen it. When she did
        look up, the expression was not there. The hand was smoothing his shaggy
        moustache.

        'May one ask to be shown to bed, madame?'

        Very willingly, monsieur. Hola, my husband! My husband would conduct him
        up-stairs. There was one traveller there, asleep, who had gone to bed
        very early indeed, being overpowered by fatigue; but it was a large
        chamber with two beds in it, and space enough for twenty. This the
        landlady of the Break of Day chirpingly explained, calling between
        whiles, 'Hola, my husband!' out at the side door.

        My husband answered at length, 'It is I, my wife!' and presenting
        himself in his cook's cap, lighted the traveller up a steep and narrow
        staircase; the traveller carrying his own cloak and knapsack, and
        bidding the landlady good night with a complimentary reference to the
        pleasure of seeing her again to-morrow. It was a large room, with a
        rough splintery floor, unplastered rafters overhead, and two bedsteads
        on opposite sides. Here 'my husband' put down the candle he carried, and
        with a sidelong look at his guest stooping over his knapsack, gruffly
        gave him the instruction, 'The bed to the right!' and left him to his
        repose. The landlord, whether he was a good or a bad physiognomist, had
        fully made up his mind that the guest was an ill-looking fellow.

        The guest looked contemptuously at the clean coarse bedding prepared for
        him, and, sitting down on the rush chair at the bedside, drew his money
        out of his pocket, and told it over in his hand. 'One must eat,' he
        muttered to himself, 'but by Heaven I must eat at the cost of some other
        man to-morrow!'

        As he sat pondering, and mechanically weighing his money in his palm,
        the deep breathing of the traveller in the other bed fell so regularly
        upon his hearing that it attracted his eyes in that direction. The man
        was covered up warm, and had drawn the white curtain at his head, so
        that he could be only heard, not seen. But the deep regular breathing,
        still going on while the other was taking off his worn shoes and
        gaiters, and still continuing when he had laid aside his coat and
        cravat, became at length a strong provocative to curiosity, and
        incentive to get a glimpse of the sleeper's face.

        The waking traveller, therefore, stole a little nearer, and yet a little
        nearer, and a little nearer to the sleeping traveller's bed, until he
        stood close beside it. Even then he could not see his face, for he had
        drawn the sheet over it. The regular breathing still continuing, he put
        his smooth white hand (such a treacherous hand it looked, as it went
                creeping from him!) to the sheet, and gently lifted it away.

        'Death of my soul!' he whispered, falling back, 'here's Cavalletto!'

        The little Italian, previously influenced in his sleep, perhaps, by the
        stealthy presence at his bedside, stopped in his regular breathing, and
        with a long deep respiration opened his eyes. At first they were not
        awake, though open. He lay for some seconds looking placidly at his
        old prison companion, and then, all at once, with a cry of surprise and
        alarm, sprang out of bed.

        'Hush! What's the matter? Keep quiet! It's I. You know me?' cried the
        other, in a suppressed voice.

        But John Baptist, widely staring, muttering a number of invocations
        and ejaculations, tremblingly backing into a corner, slipping on
        his trousers, and tying his coat by the two sleeves round his neck,
        manifested an unmistakable desire to escape by the door rather than
        renew the acquaintance. Seeing this, his old prison comrade fell back
        upon the door, and set his shoulders against it.

        'Cavalletto! Wake, boy! Rub your eyes and look at me. Not the name you
        used to call me--don't use that--Lagnier, say Lagnier!'

        John Baptist, staring at him with eyes opened to their utmost width,
        made a number of those national, backhanded shakes of the right
        forefinger in the air, as if he were resolved on negativing beforehand
        everything that the other could possibly advance during the whole term
        of his life.

        'Cavalletto! Give me your hand. You know Lagnier, the gentleman. Touch
        the hand of a gentleman!'

        Submitting himself to the old tone of condescending authority, John
        Baptist, not at all steady on his legs as yet, advanced and put his
        hand in his patron's. Monsieur Lagnier laughed; and having given it a
        squeeze, tossed it up and let it go.

        'Then you were--' faltered John Baptist.

        'Not shaved? No. See here!' cried Lagnier, giving his head a twirl; 'as
        tight on as your own.'

        John Baptist, with a slight shiver, looked all round the room as if to
        recall where he was. His patron took that opportunity of turning the key
        in the door, and then sat down upon his bed.

        'Look!' he said, holding up his shoes and gaiters. 'That's a poor trim
        for a gentleman, you'll say. No matter, you shall see how soon I'll mend
        it. Come and sit down. Take your old place!'

        John Baptist, looking anything but reassured, sat down on the floor at
        the bedside, keeping his eyes upon his patron all the time.

        'That's well!' cried Lagnier. 'Now we might be in the old infernal hole
        again, hey? How long have you been out?'

        'Two days after you, my master.'

        'How do you come here?'

        'I was cautioned not to stay there, and so I left the town at once,
        and since then I have changed about. I have been doing odds and ends at
        Avignon, at Pont Esprit, at Lyons; upon the Rhone, upon the Saone.' As
        he spoke, he rapidly mapped the places out with his sunburnt hand upon
        the floor.

        'And where are you going?'

        'Going, my master?'

        'Ay!'

        John Baptist seemed to desire to evade the question without knowing how.
        'By Bacchus!' he said at last, as if he were forced to the admission, 'I
        have sometimes had a thought of going to Paris, and perhaps to England.'

        'Cavalletto. This is in confidence. I also am going to Paris and perhaps
        to England. We'll go together.'

        The little man nodded his head, and showed his teeth; and yet seemed not
        quite convinced that it was a surpassingly desirable arrangement.

        'We'll go together,' repeated Lagnier. 'You shall see how soon I will
        force myself to be recognised as a gentleman, and you shall profit by
        it. It is agreed? Are we one?'

        'Oh, surely, surely!' said the little man.

        'Then you shall hear before I sleep--and in six words, for I want
        sleep--how I appear before you, I, Lagnier. Remember that. Not the
        other.'

        'Altro, altro! Not Ri----' Before John Baptist could finish the name, his
        comrade had got his hand under his chin and fiercely shut up his mouth.

        'Death! what are you doing? Do you want me to be trampled upon and
        stoned? Do _you_ want to be trampled upon and stoned? You would be. You
        don't imagine that they would set upon me, and let my prison chum go?
        Don't think it!'

        There was an expression in his face as he released his grip of his
        friend's jaw, from which his friend inferred that if the course of
        events really came to any stoning and trampling, Monsieur Lagnier would
        so distinguish him with his notice as to ensure his having his full
        share of it. He remembered what a cosmopolitan gentleman Monsieur
        Lagnier was, and how few weak distinctions he made.

        'I am a man,' said Monsieur Lagnier, 'whom society has deeply wronged
        since you last saw me. You know that I am sensitive and brave, and that
        it is my character to govern. How has society respected those qualities
        in me? I have been shrieked at through the streets. I have been guarded
        through the streets against men, and especially women, running at me
        armed with any weapons they could lay their hands on. I have lain in
        prison for security, with the place of my confinement kept a secret,
        lest I should be torn out of it and felled by a hundred blows. I have
        been carted out of Marseilles in the dead of night, and carried leagues
        away from it packed in straw. It has not been safe for me to go near my
        house; and, with a beggar's pittance in my pocket, I have walked through
        vile mud and weather ever since, until my feet are crippled--look at
        them! Such are the humiliations that society has inflicted upon me,
        possessing the qualities I have mentioned, and which you know me to
        possess. But society shall pay for it.'

        All this he said in his companion's ear, and with his hand before his
        lips.

        'Even here,' he went on in the same way, 'even in this mean
        drinking-shop, society pursues me. Madame defames me, and her guests
        defame me. I, too, a gentleman with manners and accomplishments
        to strike them dead! But the wrongs society has heaped upon me are
        treasured in this breast.'

        To all of which John Baptist, listening attentively to the suppressed
        hoarse voice, said from time to time, 'Surely, surely!' tossing his
        head and shutting his eyes, as if there were the clearest case against
        society that perfect candour could make out.

        'Put my shoes there,' continued Lagnier. 'Hang my cloak to dry there
        by the door. Take my hat.' He obeyed each instruction, as it was given.
        'And this is the bed to which society consigns me, is it? Hah. _Very_
        well!'

        As he stretched out his length upon it, with a ragged handkerchief
        bound round his wicked head, and only his wicked head showing above the
        bedclothes, John Baptist was rather strongly reminded of what had so
        very nearly happened to prevent the moustache from any more going up as
        it did, and the nose from any more coming down as it did.

        'Shaken out of destiny's dice-box again into your company, eh? By
        Heaven! So much the better for you. You'll profit by it. I shall need a
        long rest. Let me sleep in the morning.'

        John Baptist replied that he should sleep as long as he would, and
        wishing him a happy night, put out the candle. One might have supposed
        that the next proceeding of the Italian would have been to undress;
        but he did exactly the reverse, and dressed himself from head to foot,
        saving his shoes. When he had so done, he lay down upon his bed with
        some of its coverings over him, and his coat still tied round his neck,
        to get through the night.

        When he started up, the Godfather Break of Day was peeping at its
        namesake. He rose, took his shoes in his hand, turned the key in the
        door with great caution, and crept downstairs. Nothing was astir there
        but the smell of coffee, wine, tobacco, and syrups; and madame's little
        counter looked ghastly enough. But he had paid madame his little note
        at it over night, and wanted to see nobody--wanted nothing but to get on
        his shoes and his knapsack, open the door, and run away.

        He prospered in his object. No movement or voice was heard when he
        opened the door; no wicked head tied up in a ragged handkerchief looked
        out of the upper window. When the sun had raised his full disc above the
        flat line of the horizon, and was striking fire out of the long muddy
        vista of paved road with its weary avenue of little trees, a black speck
        moved along the road and splashed among the flaming pools of rain-water,
        which black speck was John Baptist Cavalletto running away from his
        patron.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: A traveler walks into a roadside inn in France. At the inn, the landlady and some customers are talking about Rigaud's case - the newspapers say that he was acquitted and released. Someone brings up the idea of "philosophical philanthropy" - the idea that there's no difference between morally good and bad actions or people, but that instead actions and people should be judged according to whether they increase the general well-being of humanity. This is a very easy standard, as you can imagine. Nothing subjective about figuring out what the well-being of all humanity consists of. The landlady is all, "um, no, some people are bad and need to be killed off." Anyway, the traveler is clearly Rigaud, but he doesn't identify himself. From the conversation it's obvious that he has just barely escaped mob violence in Marseilles. He gets a bed for the night but has to share the room. When he gets upstairs, he finds that his roommate is none other than... Cavalletto! Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, he had to walk into... uh... we mean, that's a crazy coincidence! Rigaud wakes up Cavalletto, says that his name is now Lagnier, and tries to get Cavalletto to be his servant again. As incentive, Lagnier threatens to tell everyone that Cavalletto was his cell-mate, implying that this way they'll both be lynched. But offering all sticks and no carrots is a poor managerial technique, as any boss will tell you. Rigaud/Lagnier goes to sleep. Cavalletto gets dressed, waits till Lagnier is asleep, then creeps out the door and runs away from the inn as fast as he can.