Englishmen, when they walk in a body, always indulge towards the sin gle-handed. About this time, too, the hackney horses put their best feet (where there is a choice) foremost; knowing of old, that, whence comes one lash, there as easily come two. The less public and more peaceful districts of town are next flattered for some twenty minutes by the loud knocks of coachmen, occasionally commuted into "touches of the bell," for the sake of the lodgers," or "the children," or, sometimes, "the old lady opposite.' And before the stroke of midnight, in these comparatively pacific regions, the tom-cats and the watchmen reign with undisputed sway.

In the greater thoroughfares of London, however, and especially about Fleet Street and the Strand, the tumult of evening does not subside so easily. From twelve, by Paul's clock, until after two in the morning, the Gates of the Temple, and the nooks under St Dunstan's Church; the corners of Bell Yard, Star Court, and Chancery Lane; the doors of the Rainbow, the Cock, and the other minor coffee-houses of Fleet Street, are beset by habitual idlers, or latestirring "professional people,' -members of spouting-clubs, and secondrate actors,-barristers without law, and medical students guiltless of physic; besides these, there flourish a set of City "choice spirits," who can't get so far west as" Pedley's Oyster-rooms,' or "The Saloon," in Piccadilly, but must take their "lark" (moving homewards) between the Adelphi Theatre and Whitechapel; and now-and-then, perhaps, some grocer of Farringdon falls (vino gravatus) into the irregularity of a set-to, and pays thirty shillings, "making-up" money, to his Jew-antagonist at St Bride's Watchhouse, to save a jobation, at Guildhall, from the sitting Alderman, next day. This is the very "witching time," par excellence, of night,

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"When graves yield up their dead !" (because resurrection-men will have it so), when lamps are "rifled at," and sots pushed out of public-houses; and when the sober wayfarer starts, ever and anon, at that prolonged Hillyoh-ho-ho-that bellow, as it were, crescendo, peculiar, I think, to the throats of the English, which frightens watchmen into their hutches, and quiet

citizens into the kennel. This whoop by the way prolonged, which invites MANKIND, as it were, to clear the way, is, with us, a pure national, and not a local, characteristic. Both high and low affect the practice; both "good men" and bullies. We have it at Oxford and at Cambridge, where the gownsmen, if opposed, strip, and buff to their work like stout "forty minutes" fellows; and again in London, where your flustered haberdasher, after defying perhaps a whole street, at last provokes somebody to thrash him, and is beat without a blow in his defence.

By two o'clock, however, the riotous get pretty well disposed of; some snug and flea-bitten, in their own personal garrets; more (and still fleabitten) in the compters of the police. The wickets of the night-houses, after this, open only to known customers; and the flying pieman ceases his call. The pickpockets, linked with the refuse of another pestilence of the town, are seen sauntering lazily towards their lurking places, in gangs of five and six together. And when these last stragglers of darkness have swept over the pavé, the debris of the evening may be considered as cleared off; and, except an occasional crash of oystershells cast (maugre Angelo Taylor) from some lobster-shop, or the sharp rattle of a late billiard ball echoing from the rooms over Mrs Salmon's, silence, or something like it, obtains for some brief minutes, while the idlers of night give place to the darkworking men of business.

The earliest disturbers of London, until within these few years, were the market gardeners; who rolled lazily through the suburbs, about three, with their filled-up carts and waggons ;—

some

"well to do," and pompous, parading their four high-fed horses apiece; others, poor (and modest,) drawing with a single quadruped, and he, God wot, looking as though stray cabbage leaves were his holidayfare, that is, supposing (what is not supposable) that such a thing as a holiday ever happened to him ;-all the spring vehicles, however, top-heavy with baskets of raspberries, strawberries, and currants; and followed by heavier machines bearing gooseberries, or frame potatoes; the cauliflowers, pease, and such more pon

derous and plebeian esculents, having creaked into town (as they might) in the course of the preceding evening.

But two or three mild winters, of late, in succession, have brought a new article of foreign trade into England. Ice, for the use of the confectioners, comes now to us all the way from Norway; where a gentleman, we understand, is making arrangements to send over even snow, at a far cheaper rate than it can afford to fall in this country;-so that frost, in fact, (as regards Great Britain and Ireland) may consider itself discharged from further attendance; and, with the help of a few more devices in the way of commercial arrangement, and perhaps a new improvement or two as to the application of steam, it shall go hard but we will, shortly, turn the seasons out of doors altogether. And this imported ice, (jealous of sunshine) is foremost in our streets now of mornings, moving along, in huge cart-loads, from the below-bridge wharfs; and looking, as it lies in bulk, like so much conglutinated Epsom salts.

Meantime, the river, above bridge, is not suffered to lie idle; but the fruits of Putney and Fulham walk upon the shoulders of porters, from Hungerford and the Adelphi stairs, to the great mart of vegetable matter, 'Covent Garden. And upon this spot (Covent Garden) which circumstances seem to have erected into a sort of museum for all the varied staple of a crowded capital city;-to which all the patron friends of all the ills that scourge mankind, seem to have rushed, with one consent, day and night, to hold divan;-where Luxury roams gorgeous through her long range of lighted taverns, and brims the bowl with wine, which Discord waits to dash with blood;-where hunger, squalor, nakedness, and disease, dance, antic, round our NATIONAL MONUMENTS of national wealth and superfluity;

where vices, too hideous to be contemplated in detail, assert their royalty over us, alike, in every class, and every condition ;-blazing, in transient lustre, amid the splendid hotels of the Piazza ; starving, in rags, (yet scarce more abject) amongst the horrid fastnesses of Bedford Court! -Upon this spot, where all things monstrous are crowded and jumbled together; where the sounds seem

all confused, and the sights all anomalous;-where the wild laugh of revelry, and the low moan of suffering; the subdued whisper of entreaty, and the hoarse bark of execration, mingle, and mix, and blend, and half neutralize each other ;-upon this spot, Covent Garden,—jovial Covent Garden,-the darling haunt alike of folly and of wit,-the great mart of all London for oranges, outcasts, and old clothes,-where the jokes are mostly good,-where the cookery is always excellent,-where the claret is commonly the best in England; and the morality never failingly the worst ;on this spot, one continued uproar, of labour or dissipation, has endured, without intermission, for nearly a century gone by; and here, so long as London 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 t November morning; when the lights, in the west quadrangle, at "The Ram," "The Goat," and " The Bull's Head," shew 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

parlour 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, mud-be-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 penthouse 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, smockfrocked 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 Shakespeare, you may (almost) fancy yourself thrown back into the glorious rudeness of the thirteenth century, arriving from a recent robbery, (ahl, 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 shews all objects too plainly and distinctly for picturesque effect; the true secret of which, lies in never exhibiting anything fully, but in shewing 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 grey 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 conver

sation; 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 stage-coaches-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 soals." 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, slip-shod 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 shews by day-light, 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. Coalwaggons 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, sucking-pork, and eggs, from Newgate market to the distant parishes of Mary-le-bone 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

tied all, and polished, and refurnished, before breakfast.

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 is 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 half-price to-day; and still making money (as it is said) by the dealing. Then coaches, splashed and dirty, come labouring into town; and coaches, fresh and clean, drive out; and, by this time, the mercers and jewellers set their portals wide, in favour of sweeping, sprinkling, and window cleaning; for the show glasses (and here again sigh our friends the apprentices) must be emp

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 morning' 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.

TITUS.

DEAR NORTH,-You have, I suppose, read over the proceedings of the Times-the bloody Old Times, as Cobbett calls it against Dowling, commonly known among his compeers by the name of Spectacle Dowling, at present reporter on the Morning Chronicle. The Gazette of Printing-house Square on this occasion obviously deserved the sanguinary appellation conferred on it by the great ci-devant halberdier above quoted, for, by the way in which the business was brought forward, Dowling's life was aimed at, and the "dirty-faced editors" of the Times evidently looked forward to the gratifying sight of a gentleman of the press dangling at the end of a rope for the gratification of the plebs of Carlisle.

I honestly confess that I know nothing of Dowling, whether he is an honest man or a rogue, nor do I care, except that, for the sake of general morality, I hope he is the former. If he were hanged anywhere in my neighbourhood, I should go to his exhibition, having a fancy for such spectacles. He is nothing to me more than Haggart, or Mother M'Kinnon, or

Abraham Moore, or the Treasurer, or Ivers from Carlow, or Ings the butcher. But I own I saw the whole history with ineffable delight. It is a glorious light and shadow of pressgang life. After this transaction, the title of gentleman is more beautifully applicable to the members of the amiable and enlightened body. O flesh! flesh! how art thou fishified! Once on a time we used to be told-I believe it was Louis Quatorze himself who first said it-that though the King could make a lord, it passed his power to make a gentleman; whereas, now-adays, this being the nineteenth century, the era of civilization, the epoch of Orator Hunt, Princess Caraboo, Prince Hohenlohe, Princess Olive, Joanna Southcote, Ned Irving, Dr Eady, the Edinburgh Review, and other great characters, the existence and success of whom stamp a value on the age, there is not a proprietor of that amalgam of filth, called a Cockney newspaper, who cannot create his gentlemen ad libitum, by the simple process of paying a few dozen shillings per week, as wages, for retailing the Parliamentary wisdom of Peter Moore,