CHAPTER XXII--A GRITTY STATE OF THINGS COMES ON.
Mr.Tartar's chambers were the neatest, the cleanest, and the best-ordered chambers ever seen under the sun, moon, and stars.

The floors were scrubbed to that extent, that you might have supposed the London blacks emancipated for ever, and gone out of the land for good.
Every inch of brass-work in Mr.Tartar's possession was polished and burnished, till it shone like a brazen mirror.

No speck, nor spot, nor spatter soiled the purity of any of Mr.Tartar's household gods, large, small, or middle-sized.

His sitting-room was like the admiral's cabin, his bath-room was like a dairy, his sleeping-chamber, fitted all about with lockers and drawers, was like a seedsman's shop; and his nicely-balanced cot just stirred in the midst, as if it breathed.
Everything belonging to Mr.Tartar had quarters of its own assigned to it: his maps and charts had their quarters; his books had theirs; his brushes had theirs; his boots had theirs; his clothes had theirs; his case-bottles had theirs; his telescopes and other instruments had theirs.
Everything was readily accessible.

Shelf, bracket, locker, hook, and drawer were equally within reach, and were equally contrived with a view to avoiding waste of room, and providing some snug inches of stowage for something that would have exactly fitted nowhere else.