sion for nearly a century gone by; and here, so long as Lon don shall keep her holding as a city, silence, probably, by night or day, shall never find a resting-place.

But we will tear ourselves from Covent Garden even in "the sweet" (as Falstaff calls it)" of the night," for we must take a peep at the other points of provisional concentration about town. We must look towards Cockspur Street, where the hay collects itself in such quantities that nothing but the stomach of a horse could ever hope to make away with it. And we must cross, too, into Smithfield, where herds of cattle keep coming in all night, and where it is amazing how anybody can get a wink of sleep for the barking of the dogs and the bellowing of the bulls, and, louder than all, the swearing of the drovers, against whom Heaven, Richard Martin, strengthen thine arm! Smithfield, however, to be seen to advantage, should be taken from its eastern bearing through the fogs of a November morning, when the lights in the west quadrangle at "The Ram," "The Goat," and "The Bull's Head" show like beacons (though they shine but dimly) amid the total darkness on all sides of them; and when, looking at the hubbub of traffic which roars through the outward street against the deep unheeding silence that reigns within the houses, a man might fancy he witnessed the rush of an invading army, or division, into a town which the inhabitants had the night before abandoned. Then pick your way round (for there is no venturing to cross) and peep through the steaming window-panes into the parlor of an inn, where graziers and salesmen, in their fantastic "auld world" dresses, flop-hatted and top-coated, booted and waist-be-girt; knee-capped, twenty-handkerchiefed, mudbe-splashed, and spurred, snore or smoke in arm-chairs; and, between whiles, drive bargains for thousands. Mark the huge bulk of these men, their bluff bearing and English countenances. Hark to their deep voices, strange dialects, and uncouth expression. Then take their attendant demons, the badged drovers, each his goad and cord in hand; and with garb so pieced together, patched, and tattered that it might pass for the costume of any age, being like the costume of none. Catch the style of the old-fashioned building before you, with its latticed windows and pent-house roof. Take the low ceiling of the sitting apartment, and the huge sea-coal fire that glows in it. Take the figures of the farmers within doors, and of the drovers hovering without; of the gaitered, smock-frocked

hostlers, carriers, and carmen: of the ragged, patient, waiting ponies, and the still more ragged and patient sheep-dogs-the most faithful, intelligent, and ill-used beings of their species; take these objects amid the darkness of the hour and the exaggeration of the fog, and then, with a little natural romance and a lively recollection of Shakspeare, you may (almost) fancy yourself thrown back into the glorious rudeness of the thirteenth century, arriving from a recent robbery (ah! those indeed were days) rich with the spoils of "whoreson caterpillars,' and calling for a light to walk between tavern and tavern!

But the sober clearness of a summer's morning is no nurse for these wild fancies. It shows all objects too plainly and distinctly for picturesque effect, the true secret of which lies in never exhibiting anything fully, but in showing just enough to excite the imagination, and in then leaving it room enough to act. So we will turn back from Smithfield, just in the cold gray light of daybreak, and cross Holborn to Chancery Lane, where the kennels by this time are overflowing; and rogues, with scoops, are watering the roads - that is, "making the dust one mud!" Now watchmen congregate round posts for a little sober conversation; old women make to their respective standings with hot saloop and bread and butter; and presently the light hung caravans of the fishmongers built at first in imitation of the hearses, and now re-imitated into Paddington stagecoaches begin to jingle along at a trot by Thames Street towards Billingsgate.

As the last stars fade in the horizon and the sun coquets with the church spires, new actors in sundry shapes appear upon the scene. Milkwomen in droves clank along with their (to be filled) pails. The poorer fish-dealers, on their own heads, undertake the "care of soles." Chimney-sweepers shuffle on, straining out a feeble cry. And parties walk home (rather chilly) from Vauxhall, flaunting in satin shoes, silk stockings, and ostrich feathers; stared at now and then by some gaping, slipshod baker, who fetches spring water from the pump to cool his sponge, and looks like the statue in Don Juan, or a sack of flour truant from the kneading-trough; or hooted by some lost thing, all mad, and pale, and ghastly—some creation of gin, and carmine, and soiled muslin, which shows by daylight as a being of other time and place - an apparition, a prodigy, a denizen of some forbidden sphere-a foul lamp, thickly glimmering out its dregs, which the sun's light by some accident has omitted to extinguish.

Five o'clock, and the world looks as if stretching itself to awake. Coal-wagons and drays start forth upon "long turns," their country intent denoted by the truss of hay placed above the load. Butchers step sturdily towards Islington or Smithfield. Anglers, children of hope! stride fieldwards with baskets on their backs. And Holborn and Snow Hill are crowded with pony-carts (since the Chancellor of the Exchequer rides nothing under fourteen hands) bearing butter, cheese, poultry, suckingpork, and eggs from Newgate market to the distant parishes of Marylebone and Pancras.

Six! And 'prentices begin to rub their eyes and curse their indentures. Maid-servants at "the Piccadilly end" of the town are not bound to stir just yet, but Russell Square and its dependencies set their spider-killers in motion betimes; for courts of law and counting-houses both sit at nine o'clock, and an advocate in practice of ten thousand a year must step into his carriage at five-and-thirty minutes past eight in the morning.

And now the different shops begin to open themselves for action. Our friend the baker is first, for he has been up all night, and he has to cool his loaves at the open windows as he draws them from the oven. Next comes the pastry-cook, lotting his remnant of cheese-cake, selling yesterday's dainties at halfprice to-day, and still making money (as it is said) by the dealing. Then coaches, splashed and dirty, come laboring into town; and coaches, fresh and clean, drive out; and by this time the mercers and jewelers set their portals wide, in favor of sweeping, sprinkling, and window-cleaning; for the show-glasses (and here again sigh our friends the apprentices) must be emptied all, and polished and refurnished before breakfast.

The clock strikes eight, and the night-walker must be seen no more. Hurry and bustle and breakfast are on foot. The milkman cries in haste, and yet can scarce make his rounds fast enough. Maids with clean aprons (and sometimes with clean plates) step forth, key in hand, for the modicum of fresh butter; and hot rolls (walk as you will) run over you at every corner. By nine the clerks have got down to their offices the attorneys have opened their bags, and the judges are on their benches; and the business of the day in London may now be said to have begun, which varies from hour to hour as strangely as the business of the night, and (to the curious observer) presents even a more ample field for speculation.

AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

"LET us drink and be merry,

Dance, joke, and rejoice,
With claret and sherry,

Theorbo and voice."
So sings the old song,
And a good one it is;
Few better were written
From that day to this:
And I hope I may say it,
And give no offense,
Few more will be better

An hundred years hence.

In this year eighteen hundred
And twenty and two,

There are plenty of false ones
And plenty of true:

There are brave men and cowards,
And bright men and asses;
There are lemon-faced prudes,
There are kind-hearted lasses.
He who quarrels with this
Is a man of no sense,
For so 'twill continue

An hundred years hence.

There are people who rave
Of the National Debt:
Let them pay off their own
And the nation's forget.
Others bawl for reform,
Which were easily done,
If each would resolve

To reform Number One.
For my part to wisdom

I make no pretense:

I'll be as wise as my neighbors

An hundred years hence.

I only rejoice that

My life has been cast

On the gallant and glorious

Bright days which we've past;

When the flag of Old England

Waved lordly in pride,
Wherever green Ocean

Spreads his murmuring tide:
And I pray that unbroken
Her watery fence

May still keep off invaders
An hundred years hence.

I rejoice that I saw her
Triumphant in war,
At sublime Waterloo,

At dear-bought Trafalgar;
On sea and on land,
Wheresoever she fought,
Trampling Jacobin tyrants
And slaves as she ought:
Of CHURCH and of KING

Still the firmest defense: So may she continue

An hundred years hence.

Why then need I grieve if
Some people there be,
Who, foes to their country,
Rejoice not with me?
Sure I know in my heart

That Whigs ever have been

Tyrannic, or turnspit,

Malignant, or mean:

THEY WERE AND ARE SCOUNDRELS

IN EVERY SENSE,

AND SCOUNDRELS THEY WILL BE

AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

So let us be jolly,

Why need we repine?

If grief is a folly,

Let's drown it in wine!
As they scared away fiends
By the ring of a bell,
So the ring of the glass
Shall blue devils expel:
With a bumper before us
The night we'll commence
By toasting true Tories

An hundred years hence.