to the attempts, whether successful or failures, made by enamoured swains on horseback, in divers wily manners, to wheel round their steeds, so as to face, with a subtle air of fortuitousness, the quadruped whose happy luck it is to bear the elegant burden of their charmer; nor to the curious and significant glances which the proudest and most highborn of our demoiselles will direct to her whom they learn to be the Laïs or Phryne of the hour. For the moment we are specially struck with the conspicuous part which children take in the exhibition. Was there ever a time at which infants of ten and eleven years of age were so surprisingly knowing as they are now-ever a time at which the blueeyed little lass who has not yet emerged from the nursery, and who has years to wait ere she is free from the discipline of the governess, was so precociously initiated into the mysteries of the great world? As we stroll onwards we meet urchin after urchin led by the hand of juvenile mammas, with ostentatious solicitude and affection. The child of the period is something like the doll of the period-a gorgeouslyoverdressed little creature. What does it mean? Does this exceptional and scrupulous attention to the infant toilet argue a corresponding amount of interest in its welfare, or is it done, as Mr. Uppinall rudely suggests, 'simply for effect?' A certain order of young ladies are very fond, in the present day, of taking as their perpetual companions infinitesimally tiny dogs. Is the companionship of small children, conspicuously paraded, simply the expression of a taste which is generically identical? For ourselves, we must confess that we fail to recognise in the social phenomenon of the times-and a phenomenon it undoubtedly is-anything particularly agreeable. Do the mammas who pay such attention to their progeny, and display them to the external world in such gaudy attire, carry the same scrupulous care into the province of domestic life? These little ones who are attired like dolls -is the treatment accorded them very different from that given to

those delicate puppets of wood or wax which seem to animate the windows of the Burlington Arcade?

Tableau number three: Scene, let us say the club-window; but as for which particular window, and which particular club, these are points on which we must preserve a discreet and inviolable silence. The clubmen of London are a sensitive race of beings, and they love to cherish the idea that the joint-stock palaces which are their habitations are perfect shrines of secrecy. In an ordinary way the average Briton will bear caricaturing to any extent. In fact, he rather likes it than otherwise. You may depict his harmless little eccentricities as accurately and as grotesquely as you wish, provided you limit the scene of their display to the house which is said to be his castle. You may describe his wife as an over-dressed vulgarian, and his olive-branches as ubiquitous nuisances, and he will not, in a usual way, think you have taken any very unjustifiable liberty. But once depict him in print, or speak of him in conversation, as he seems and is at his club, and he will open upon you a perfect avalanche of vituperation. You are a spy, a

gazer through keyholes, an eavesdropper, an unprincipled purveyor of tittle-tattle, and what else it is hard to say. Passionless and even lethargic on most subjects, this is a point on which he waxes eloquent. Satirize his home-life as you please, desecrate the gods of his hearth if you will, but spare his club. This is his retreat-absolutely sacrosanct in his opinion: this is his social superstition, from whose chains no amount of argument will avail to liberate him. Laugh at his domestic existence by all means; his Penates will forgive your sneers; but there must be no trifling with his club. As for what goes on inside its walls, these are mysteries which he considers it sheer outrage and blasphemy to divulge. Horace, who has anticipated most phases and sentiments of nineteenth-century life, has embodied, in language superlatively exquisite and concise, this vague and curious feeling on the part of club men:

Est et fideli tuta silentio

Merces: vetabo qui Cereris sacram
Vulgarit arcane sub isdem
Sit trabibus fragilemve mecum
Solvat phaselon.'

Warned by this metrical admonition, we are not going to initiate our readers into the rites which are celebrated in the smoking-rooms of St. James's, or to attempt to reproduce the startlingly-brilliant utterances, pregnant, of course, with profound secrets of incalculable moment, which the typical club-man wishes the outside world to believe form the current sort of gossip inside the mansions of Pall Mall. We simply take our stand at a certain clubwindow now, because it offers a favourable vantage-ground for watching the flood-tide of existence as it flows up and down the thoroughfare in front of us. St. James's Street is a pleasant place enough for a lounge between the hours of four and five of an afternoon in the season. As you discuss the benighted wayfarers who pass beneath your eyes, the chances are that you will find more things and more objects than one to remind you that you are not so young as you once were.

'It's a curious thing,' remarks a contemplative philosopher, after an absence of two or three years from the metropolis, situated in such a locality as we describe, but instead of knowing every one now, I find that I did know every one's father.'

'Gad,' is the reply of a social sage of more senior standing still, 'wait a little longer, my boy, and you will find, like me, that you know every one's grandfather.'

This life at the club-window represents to no inconsiderable portion of metropolitan humanity the only solution at which they have as yet arrived of the problem of existence. Carriage after carriage sweeps by; they will tell you who each individual occupant is, and what are her or his antecedents. A venerable gentleman hobbles across the street, and his whole career is reviewed in a series of amusing anecdotes. A youthful Phaethon dashes by in a well-horsed equipage, and you have the story of an exciting elopement, the hero an impecunious but attractive scapegrace, the bride

almost a millionaire in her own right. A pedestrian, apparently a gentleman, whose age does not exceed forty summers, saunters along easily, and your companion, himself a personage scarcely in the heyday of boyhood, says

'I wonder whether Juventus Mundi will ever grow old. I can remember him twenty years back, and then he was scarcely youthful; but there he is as fresh as ever, considerably younger in appearance than either you or I are.'

'Ah! there are the Carmarthen girls, and my lady languid-looking as ever, but vigilant in reality with a vengeance. I should like to have a chat with them. I rather think I shall go into the Park.' And our friend strolls off, and perhaps we may as well follow him.

We move closely but slowly, but there is more than enough food for meditation amply to compensate us for our peripatetic delay. An old gentleman in a vehicle of antique appearance, partly consisting of wickerwork, drives past, his hat somewhat on one side, and an extremely substantial and lengthy cigar issuing from his mouth. Cruda deo viridisque senectus. He is the Earl of Longcourse, and has not been known to miss an afternoon in the Park during the season so far back as living memory can reach. Next in the line, driving a species of carriage known as a Victoria, horsed with a beautiful pair of Iceland ponies, comes a fair creature whose robes, with their exquisite fit, are a living testimony to the unrivalled skill of Mrs. Warton. Who is she? O the pity of it! Daughters scrutinise her curiously, mammas turn their heads the other way and complain that it is cold. There, driving in the almost exploded cabriolet, is Mr. Bigger, erect, complacent, and radiant as ever. Who is Mr. Bigger? A gentleman who has made his fortune by the manufacture of indiarubber bands, and is now very successfully working his way into society, for Mr. Bigger is unmarried, has been taken up by a few political magnates, and the manufacture of india-rubber bands is not a sort of business to be sneezed at.

That

lady there, who is bowed to right and left, and who gracefully returns the compliment, do you recognise her? No? Why, she gives the best dinner-parties in London, and has the most model mansion which Park Lane can boast. The Duke of Gatherum, it is said, made her the offer of his heart and hand last season; but just as Cæsar refused the diadem of imperial Rome, so did Mrs. Delaney decline the ducal honour. A gentleman on foot brushes past us, conspicuous for his careless dress and shaggy hair. 'Only a man with twenty thousand a year,' whispers some one to you, I can afford to go about like that.' Your same informant will probably tell you that the nobleman in question sat for the portrait of Lord St. Aldegonde in the ex-Premier's novel of 'Lothair.' It is said that the heart of this listless negligé peer is fairly captivated by the piquant Mrs. Delaney. The Countess of Blank, with her auburn-haired daughters, a well-known moneylender with particularly Hebraic nasal development, who drives a two-hundred guinea cob, Mrs. FitzJones, the wife of the great colonial broker, with her beautiful daughter; the Hon. Mrs. Claremont, who was once a nursery-maid, then a governess, and who is now as much coveted as any woman in Londonsuch is the worth of a face pretty but not beautiful, and a cool, farsighted mind-the wife of a colonial bishop, who is trembling on the verge of bankruptcy, a successful actor, the greatest portrait-painter of the age-if you look you will detect all these celebrities in the motley crowd before you. You miss some of the well-known faces of a twelvemonth since. Somehow or other they have vanished, where nobody knows, nor does any one care whence the new ones who take their places have sprung.

Fashion is a fickle goddess. There still exists, we believe, and is doubtless accepted by some as inspired with the soul of infallible veracity, a song defective in rhyme and mendacious in sentiment, which asserts that the Zoological Gardens on Sunday afternoon are the correct

thing.' Troja fuit, and the glories of 'the Zoo' are things of last year. In 1870 they have changed all this. The Botanical is tolerable; but desultory strolls and casual calls on friends seem to suit in a special manner the capricious mood of society at the commencemet of the season of 1870, and SO to have superseded 'the Zoo.' From the Botanical to the Horticultural Gardens the transition is natural enough; in the same way we may easily pass from the locality in which flowers grow to that in which they are sold. It is a study to notice the youth of the period engaged in the serious work of selecting bouquets for their respective buttonholes, and an imposing sight to witness the scrupulous care with which ensigns in line regiments choose and purchase floral decorations whose cost somewhat exceeds half their day's pay. However, that young gentleman yonder who has just entered the premises has by no means come for selfish purposes alone. He fixes upon a bouquet of overwhelming proportions, composed of choice hothouse plants, and then, the transaction concluded, gives the vendor an address whither to send it-Miss FitzCampian of the Theseum Theatre. Our friend entertains an idolatrous passion for this charming actress. It is the great satisfaction of his life to despatch to her such gifts as these. But Miss Fitz-Campian is the recipient of a good many more donations of a precisely similar description. It will be duly delivered to her at the stage-door; she will smile at the tribute of adoration from her fond swain, and in all probability display her appreciation of its worth and her generosity of nature by presenting it in turn to a sister artiste, who is less favoured in these matters, with an air of selfsatisfied pride and very complacent liberality. Studies at the florists are not the least suggestive to the observant and meditative mind of those which the season affords. Sketches at the Academy, with the episode of one of Sergeant Parsons' famous Richmond dinners, we must leave for another occasion.

HE state of the country became

Tsuch that the people lost all

patience. It was evident that a crisis had arrived, and that a great change was impending. There were two principal sources of difficulty and discontent, of which the first was Ireland.

The condition of that unhappy land grew worse and worse with every attempt to amend it. The abolition of the Church Establishment failed to satisfy one party and made avowed enemies of the other. The settlement of the Land Question produced a similar effect. The landlords took up arms and the tenants took down theirs-having been always well provided in this particular-and prepared for serious fighting. But this arrangement did not please some of the leaders of the people. One of these, at a monster open-air meeting occupying the greater part of Tipperary, candidly said that potting from behind hedges was all very well, but he objected to the field upon principle. He went on to say that when people fought upon equal terms the result to be anticipated was that suggested by the historical precedent of the Kilkenny cats. To wage open warfare against one another was to divert hostility from its legitimate channel; it would be far more sensible to unite their forces against the common enemy, who had left them no legitimate cause for agitation, and so deprived the Green Isle of its most cherished birthright. For what to them, he asked, were their altars, their liberties, their hearths and homes, compared with the privilege of getting up a row about them?

The sentiment was echoed throughout the peopled miles occupied by the meeting. It found a response in every Irish heart; and every Irish voice lent its echo of approbation. The solution of the difficulty had at last been found. A

resolution embodying the opinions of the speaker was carried unani

mously, and the speaker himself

was carried unanimously-upon the shoulders of the assembly-in a proud march of triumph.

The news was spread through Ireland with a celerity compared with which wildfire is a sluggish process of combustion. The idea was everywhere declared to be the Deus ex machinâ of the difficulty. So generally was it appreciated that the opponents upon the church question at once adopted it. The very colours of the combatants were united in the common cause. Orange and blue were worn in combination upon hats and hearts; and the 'wearing of the green' became general as a symbol of common nationality. Even party music was made to mingle in peace' like the waters at Avoca; and a patriotic composer produced a joint air, pleasingly compounded of Boyne Water' and 'Croppies lie down.' Among the outward signs of the times nothing was more common than to see the Catholic Cardinal and the Protestant Archbishop walking down Sackville Street together, or partaking in common, at a shop in Grafton Street, of the delicious Dublin pastry; while in the agricultural districts-that is to say nearly everywhere in Ireland-the landlords and tenants partook of mutual whisky; the peasants living in the hearts of the proprietors, and, we need scarcely say, paying no rent.

The next proposition was to send for the French; and a deputation, consisting of three gentlemen with shillelahs, and circular notes issued by Messrs. Kinahan, was despatched to Paris to invite them. But the French could not come, having quite enough to do in looking after their own affairs; for M. de Rochefort was by this time the head of the government, and was abolishing everything right and left. So

another proposition was to send for the Americans. The same deputation, supplied this time with a precautionary case of soda water, was accordingly sent to New York. The Americans could come of course; but before deciding to do so the President 'envoyed' a reporter of The New York Herald' to London. The reporter, in compliance with previous instructions, called upon the Queen at Windsor, and interviewed' her Majesty, with the view of ascertaining the nature of that illustrious lady's intentions in the matter. The Queen was very gracious; but the result of the conversation, as reported verbatim in the Herald morning (favoured by the Atlantic Telegraph, and cabled back by their own correspondents in time for the London papers on the morning following), was that no definite answer could be returned until the Queen had consulted her ministers and her ministers had consulted Parliament. So the reporter-after improving the occasion of his visit to this country by suggesting some useful reforms in the manufacture of cocktails-betook himself back to New York, where he happily arrived just in time for a sensation fire, a free fight, and an elopement at Saratoga Springs.

next

The subject was of course debated in the English Parliament. But though every body talked, nobody could bring forward a practical proposition with regard to it. The ministry resigned to avoid the responsibility; but the Opposition was too clever to accept it, so ministers had to remain. There was another grievance, too, pressing itself upon public attention at the time, which many thought more difficult to bear than even Ireland. This was the English climate. It had been getting worse and worse for years, and at last became unbearable. The sun had been scarcely seen for months; and it became necessary to light up the streets, the shops, and even the private touses, at two o'clock every day. The weather was always bad, and whenever it changed-which was about three times a week-the

change always seemed to be for the worse. On Monday there would be a fall of snow three feet deep on the ground, accompanied by a northeast wind; there was ice everywhere, even the river being frozen. By about Wednesday there was a rapid thaw, so that the damp penetrated even to people's bones. On Friday or Saturday tropical heat would set in, with, however, very little sun, and the inhabitants had to rush into the lightest of light clothing. Even these excessive changes came in no regular succession-the temperature always took the very turn least expected. There was immense suffering, as may be supposed, particularly among the poor. In the legislative chambers the effects were worse than elsewhere, owing to the artificial means used for their mitigation. The atmosphere varied between that of a nor-wester and a sirocco; and members were at one time in the evening sitting in great-coats and flannels-at another time denuding themselves to their shirt-sleeves. Order was almost completely set aside: when Mr. Speaker rose to enforce it he was usually blown back into his chair. The leaders of the Government and the Opposition had frequently to employ speakingtrumpets in order to make their opinions known in the body of the House. For the hot intervals punkahs were provided, on the suggestion of Colonel Sykes, who always took such opportunities for the ventilation of Indian grievances. Petitions from all parts of the country were presented against the heat, the cold, or the mugginess, as the case might be; it being considered that Government ought to do something in the matter by scientific means, and debates were endless with regard to it. Between Ireland and the weather, in fact, the Legislature had no peace. How were the two troubles to be averted? The question was constantly asked, but never answered.

At last Mr. Bernal Osborne-who had, after a great deal of trouble and delay, been elected by a facetious constituency made one of his jocular speeches upon the double