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theatre if I dared; but it is out of the question. A man with downwards of £1000 a-year go to the pit! Impossible! So I have nothing for it but to go to the orchestra-stalls at three times the expense, and sit all night within six inches of a fellow who splits my ears with a trombone. Baked potatoes are, to my thinking, some of the few things worth living for; they tantalizę my nose at every street-corner on a winter night; but to me they are forbidden fruit. "Respectable "Respectable" people don't eat potatoes in the street. Of course not. is only one man in the world whom I really envy, and that is the man who thwacks the big drum in a huge van drawn by four horses and crowded with little children who are going on a picnic to Epping Forest. I would gladly give a £5 note (of the Bank of Elegance) to take that drummer's post and thwack that big drum all day long; but here again "Respectability" steps in and wrenches the drum sticks out of my hands. In a word, "Respectability" is the bane and bother of my life. I should be twice as happy if I were not half so respectable.

A WET DAY AT LLANGOLLEN.

I WAS still in the cradle when my nurse, a Welsh

woman, with a melodious voice and an inexhaustible store of romantic legends, made me acquainted with three personages whom I have ever since regarded with peculiar veneration. They were all country-people of her own-the first being a thief named Taffy, who, as she assured me, came to our house and stole a shin of

beef; the second, a philosophic miller, who dwelt on the banks of the Dee, and whose noble boast it was that he cared for nobody, no, not he, and that nobody cared for him; and the third, a pretty girl called Jenny Jones, who lived in the vale of Llangollen. Every one has his special favorites, whether in the region of veritable history, or in that of poetic fiction; and this matchless trio have been from earliest childhood to the present hour the darlings of my imagination. For their dear sake have I been rambling about the Cambrian mountains for the last three weeks; but I grieve to say that though I have made inquiries in all directions I have not as yet succeeded in finding the idols of my infantine fancy. Standing on Thursday last upon the Bridge of Llangollen, which, permit me to observe, for the information of architects, is a plain Gothic structure, consisting of four irregularly pointed arches of various dimensions with projecting angular buttresses-my thoughts took a melancholy hue, and a wave of solemn sentiment swept over my soul. (What a lot of S's to be sure!) "Talk of the everlasting hills and the imperishable firmament," quoth I to myself, "and set them in contrast with that fleeting shadow called Man! We need no such potent comparisons. Measure man with the works of his own hands! What is the life that dwells in flesh and blood to the life that dwells in brick and mortar? What is the life of a man compared to the life of a bridge? This bridge upon which I now stand, the admired of all admirers, was built by Anica, Bishop of St. Asaph, in the year of grace, 1350, which, according to Cocker, was 526 years ago. Across this immemorial structure have doubtless passed full many a time and oft Jenny Jones, loveliest of the maids of Llangollen ;

Taffy, who was afflicted with kleptomania in bovine matters; and that most stoical of millers who did not care three-halfpence for any human being, and for whom no human being cherished feelings of warmer interest. Where are they now-the village belle, the crafty shinstealer, and the pococurante mill-owner? Where are they all? They are gone-gone, never to return; but the bridge survives in all the pride and glory of indestructible masonry." So spake I to myself, and so speaking, I wiped away a tear. Suddenly it occurred to me that though these worthy people have vanished like the snow that fell last year, I might, at least, have the satisfaction of visiting their places of burial. At that moment came up a policeman, drest in a little blue authority and looking uncommonly nice in his neat uniform. “Sir,” said I, touching my hat, as you know is my wont in such an august presence, and assuming that tone of deference which I never fail to adopt in addressing one of "the force," "will you have the kindness to direct me to the graves of Jenny Jones, Taffy the thief, and the Miller, whose name I do not know, but who is celebrated for having turned up his nose at everybody, and at whom everybody turned up his nose." Pity is it you did not see the expression of the constable's face. He frowned at me so sternly that I verily believed he was going to run me in there and then. "As sure as fate," thought I, "this fellow means to lock me up in Mold jail." I was in a dreadful fright, and had some thoughts of jumping into the Dee; but a happy idea flashed upon my distracted brain. I will try what virtue there is in baccy. "Let me offer you a weed, sir,” I observed in the blandest accents. The sun was a fool to the smile that broke over his noble countenance. He

took the weed-indeed, he took two-and, in the twinkling of an eye, we were as intimate as though we had known one another for seven years. He expressed profound regret at being unable to give me any information respecting the final resting-places either of the Beefeater or the Miller, but he assured me that "Jenny Jones" was a road-side public-house not many yards distant, where I might rely on getting a good glass of ale. I asked him whether he had ever read Châteaubriand, and I was amazed to find that he had not. I reminded him that this was the most pathetic season of the year, and directing his attention to the fading glories of the foliage and the desolate aspect of the landscape, I quoted some passages from my favorite French essayist. "Sir," said I, "I adjure you by your brilliant buttons and the numbers flashing so radiantly from your collar, never to forget that a moral character is attached to autumnal scenes, the leaves falling like our years, the flowers fading like our hours, the clouds fleeting like our illusions, the light diminishing like our intelligence, the sun growing colder like our affections, the river becoming frozen like our lives-all bear secret relations to our destinies." In reply to these meditations the policeman made a succession of unearthly noises the most appalling I had ever heard. He seemed to be suddenly bereft of humanity. I thought he must be very ill indeed, and I was about to run for a doctor when I was assured by a by-stander that there was nothing the matter with the man, and that he was only talking Welsh. "Ah! well," said I, "if that is all that ails him, I won't let him off so easily. I will improve the occasion still further." I asked him whether he had ever read Alison's History of Europe. He replied in the

negative, adding that "he didn't want to!" All this time, mind you, we were standing upon the Bridge of Llangollen. "Seven-and-twenty years," said I, "have elapsed since Alison the historian visited your charming little town. He stood upon this very spot and surveyed the romantic scene with wonder and delight. It was exactly at this time of the year. Returning to the Hand Hotel, where he found, even as I have found, excellent accommodation at a moderate charge, he recorded his sensations in the following language:"The impression we feel from the scenery of autumn is accompanied with much exercise of thought; the leaves then begin to fade from the trees; the flowers and shrubs, with which the fields are adorned in the summer months, decay; the woods and groves are silent; the sun himself seems gradually to withdraw his light, or to become enfeebled in his power. Who is there, who at this season does not feel his mind impressed with a sentiment of melancholy; or who is able to resist that current of thought which, from such appearances of decay, so naturally leads him to the solemn imagination of that inevitable fate which is to bring on alike the decay of life, of empire, and of nature itself?" "Friend of my soul! what think you of that?" "Well, sir," said the policeman, "to be honest with you, I think it is uncommon dry, and not meaning you an ill answer, I don't care to listen to any more of it, so I'll bid you good morning." "Away! away to the mountain's brow!" I replied; and taking me at my word, off he went at a pace so rapid that two minutes had hardly passed ere his manly form was lost to my longing gaze. I don't suppose I shall ever lay eyes upon him again, and I'm sure I don't care a fig-stalk whether or no. No sooner

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