'Law is?' asked the Doctor.

'Yes,' said Mr. Craggs, 'everything is. Everything appears to me
to be made too easy, now-a-days. It's the vice of these times. If
the world is a joke (I am not prepared to say it isn't), it ought
to be made a very difficult joke to crack. It ought to be as hard
a struggle, sir, as possible. That's the intention. But, it's
being made far too easy. We are oiling the gates of life. They
ought to be rusty. We shall have them beginning to turn, soon,
with a smooth sound. Whereas they ought to grate upon their
hinges, sir.'

Mr. Craggs seemed positively to grate upon his own hinges, as he
delivered this opinion; to which he communicated immense effect -
being a cold, hard, dry, man, dressed in grey and white, like a
flint; with small twinkles in his eyes, as if something struck
sparks out of them. The three natural kingdoms, indeed, had each a
fanciful representative among this brotherhood of disputants; for
Snitchey was like a magpie or raven (only not so sleek), and the
Doctor had a streaked face like a winter-pippin, with here and
there a dimple to express the peckings of the birds, and a very
little bit of pigtail behind that stood for the stalk.

As the active figure of a handsome young man, dressed for a
journey, and followed by a porter bearing several packages and
baskets, entered the orchard at a brisk pace, and with an air of
gaiety and hope that accorded well with the morning, these three
drew together, like the brothers of the sister Fates, or like the
Graces most effectually disguised, or like the three weird prophets