educated and accomplished lady, but I doubt whether I could find one with a kinder heart.' : M. Pascal Camus spoke this in the tone of a man who confers a great favour; and though, after his death, Annette would be a portionless orphan, it did not occur to him to look on the matter in any other light. It will perhaps be saying more in Madame Marengo's praise than we might otherwise express, to state that she took precisely the same view of the subject. She only saw the moral trust reposed in her, and she was deeply affected. It was the first time, too, that the schoolmaster had ever addressed to her a word of praise the tears rose to her eyes, and in the height of her emotion she begged M. Camus to forgive her all that she had ever done against him. Then she confessed to him that she had been the cause of his losing his pupil, and that numbers upon numbers of times she had called him, behind his back, an old Cossack This irreverent appellation rather shocked M. Camus; but he made a heroic effort, and as Madame Marengo was evidently deeply penitent, he declared that he forgave her. It was his duty, he said, as a Christian, for he felt his end approaching. Madame Marengo assured him that he was much better, but M. Pascal Camus persisted that he was dying. All men of genius,' said he solemnly, foretell the hour of their death: it is not therefore astonishing that I should be able to predict mine. I shall die,, added he, after a moment's pause, | at seventy seconds past eight o'clock to-morrow morning. Mind, Madame Marengo, at seventy seconds past eight!' Well, do drink some of your tisane; there's a dear,' interposed Madame Marengo, rather alarmed at the sick man's excited look. M. Camus was the most docile of patients; he took the drink, and as it was of a soporific quality, he soon sank into a deep sleep. Madame Marengo was not very superstitious, but she had heard of such things as deathbed predictions, and she had strong faith in her own presentiments. Now she happened to feel a particular presentiment, which told her that M. Camus would really die at the appointed hour great, therefore, was her anxiety during the night. M. Camus never wakened once: this looked extremely suspicious: morning came, and still the patient slept: eight o'clock struck, and Madame Marengo's heart beat high: she watched M. Camus with feverish anxiety: the seventy seconds passed, and still he did not waken: in short, M. Camus did not open his eyes until a quarter past ten. Though rather pleased to find himself alive and well, he was exceedingly surprised there must be some mistake: the clock did not go right: this was the first prediction of his which had not proved correct. At this moment the doctor came in. He declared that the patient was much better; a favourable crisis had occurred during the night. M. Camus immediately brightened up: this explained everything he was to have died at seventy seconds past eight, but a favourable crisis having occurred, the consequence was, &c. &c. Madame Marengo's presentiment admitted of a similar explanation, and both were perfectly satisfied. : flocked in, the dyer's nephew among the rest; and in less than a year, M. Camus was able not only to return Paul's loan, but even to repay Madame Marengo the sums she had spent upon him during his illness. Several years have passed away since the reconciliation of M. Pascal Camus and Madame Marengo. They have wisely abjured speaking on politics, and are now as stanch friends as they were formerly bitter enemies. They have learned, that though people may not agree on certain points, still there is no reason why they should be enemies. Though Paul was the instrument of their reconciliation, both the cardeuse and the schoolmaster declare that their friendship is simply owing to the excellent qualities which they have since then discovered in each other-qualities of which they could of course know nothing as long as they remained mutually hostile. It will serve to show the confidence which reigns between them to state, that they have lately agreed, but in secret, that a marriage between Paul and Annette would be a very eligible affair in a few years' time. But as both the parties are yet rather young, the elder ones have wisely determined, though they have long marked their secret attachment, to say nothing on the subject yet; and indeed it was premature to mention it even here. There are a great many Madame Marengos and Monsieur Pascal Camuses in this world, who quarrel half their lives without knowing why. What a pity they will not try the other system, by way of change! They would find it much less troublesome, and ten times as pleasant, after all. SONG birds, it is generally admitted, are among the The blackbird is a native of England, staying with us the whole year, and is the largest and earliest of our messengers of spring. It is the first of the seven tribes which constitute the turdus or thrush genus, and is found all over Europe, but appears to be less constant in Holland than in other places; in that country, though numerous in the autumn months, it is rare in winter. Blackbirds are found also in Northern Asia, as far down as Syria: a large portion of the earth's surface is thus enlivened by their song. In England, they commonly begin to sing in February: while the ground is covered with snow, before a leaf is to be seen, or other birds have commenced their warblings, they pour out their clear notes from some thick hedgerow or the corner of a wood. M. Camus now recovered rapidly. In less than a month, he no longer needed Madame Marengo's assistance, and was able to attend to his pupils. He then discovered that they had all left him. Their parents declared, much in the same language which he had once applied to Madame Marengo, that both himself and his school-room smelt of the fever. This was a sad blow for Blackbirds couple early soon after beginning to sing, the schoolmaster; but it happened that, at that very and lay twice in the season-the first time about the end time, Paul ascertained that the savings' bank, in which of March; but this brood is seldom reared, owing to the he had deposited a few hundred francs, saved from his general inclemency of the season, and the want of shelearnings, was a remarkably unsafe place for money. He ter. The first laying-five or six eggs-is always more immediately expressed a wish to invest it in some safe numerous than the second; a fact noticed long ago by speculation. In short, though not without much press- Aristotle, and verified by later observers. The birds ing, Paul induced M. Camus to accept of a loan, part of are said to be shy and suspicious: the place, however, which was to be applied to his immediate wants, whilst in which they build appears to be chosen without rewith the rest the school-room was to be fitted up in style. gard to concealment; for they often select bushes and This produced a wonderful effect: pupils immediately | low trees in gardens, or hedgerows by the side of much frequented walks. The nest is made of rushes, twigs, or coarse grass, cemented together with clay, and lined with wool, hay, or hair. According to some naturalists, the birds render the clay walls of their nest more secure by mixing in hogs' bristles, and leave a hole in the bottom for the escape of water, which, if April be showery, would fill the interior, and destroy the eggs. Sometimes, as if for greater stability, the materials of the nest will be made to embrace a branch of the bush in which it is built; the structure is, however, very rudely finished, and exhibits none of that neatness displayed by many smaller birds. The colour of the eggs is a bluish-green, clouded with deeper shades of the same hue, and dusky patches and veins. In some parts of the country, particularly the north, the blackbird is still called the merle, from its Latin name merula. Scott tells us, in one of his spirited ballads ''Tis good, 'tis good, in gay green wood, When mavis and merle are singing.' The bird's habit of flying mera, or solitary, is said by Varro to have gained it this appellation. The merle appears to have been a favourite among our older poets: Chaucer and Spenser make frequent mention of his musical name. He was also known as the ousel. Drayton uses both expressions 'The ousel near at hand, that hath a golden bill, Shakspeare, too, sings of 'The woosel-cock, so black of hue, The blackbird, according to Buffon, is of a more decided black than the raven, its plumage being less affected by reflection. The bill of the young does not acquire the yellow tinge until they are a year old; the inside of the mouth, the heel, and soles of the feet, then become of the same colour, and a beautiful circle of gold forms round the eyes. The female is not so dark as the male, her feathers incline to a rusty black or brownish hue. During the period of incubation, the male will frequently sit on the eggs for four or five hours, while his mate 'Sudden flits To pick the scanty meal.' The sight of these birds is very acute, which enables them to detect an enemy from a great distance; their reputed shyness may probably arise from this cause, and their taking to flight on the first alarm. It is, however, certain, that if much watched or disturbed, they will abandon their nests, and on such occasions are said to break their eggs, or destroy the young. Although the low position in which blackbirds generally place their nests exposes them to many casualties, they are slow to learn from experience. Gesner, however, relates an instance of two young broods having been eaten by a cat from a nest built at the foot of a hedge. After the second loss, the parent birds abandoned the old nest, and constructed another in an apple-tree, at a height of eight feet above the ground, out of reach of the enemy. On some occasions blackbirds seem to forget their habitual mistrust, and invite observation. A pair once built their nest among some dry thorns in a pile of fagots in a garden near Windsor, close to which men were passing the whole day with wheelbarrows. The nest was so near the ground as to be completely exposed to view, but the birds persevered and reared their young. Another pair built, a few years ago, in the camelia-house of the Messrs Loddiges of Hackney, where the female was frequently seen sitting on the nest by the numerous visitors to the celebrated nursery. An instance is recorded among others, in Stanley's Birds,' of a blackbird's nest on the ground, in a tuft of grass or rushes, close to the seat of a rabbit-the tail, in fact, of the rabbit being in contact with the nest. As the seat as well as the nest were both occupied, these two companions must have sat meditating together for many a day in perfect peace and good fellowship.' The old birds separate as soon as their offspring are able to live without aid, and never come together again until the next breeding time. Although attentive to their young, they take but little care of themselves, and in the winter are often found frozen to death in the hedges. They are very cleanly in their habits, and appear to derive much enjoyment from bathing and preening their feathers. They accommodate themselves easily to diversities of climate, and live to the age of seven or eight years; but from the attacks of birds of prey, and abandonment of nests, they are not so numerous as might be expected. They eat all sorts of berries, fruits, and insects, and display much cunning and ingenuity in hunting for snails in gardens during the winter, and breaking the shells against the wall or hard ground. The number of noxious creatures destroyed by these birds is surprising; but the good they do in this way is too often lost sight of by growers of fruit. Blackbirds, there is little doubt, have to answer for the misdeeds of other depredators. Their bright yellow bill and dark plumage cause them to be more easily detected than birds of the ordinary colour; they have, besides, the habit of uttering a quick shrill cry of alarm when suddenly disturbed, which naturally draws attention. They have thus come to be regarded as insatiable destroyers of fruit, and in many places a war of extermination is carried on against them. Others of the feathered race have suffered from the same prejudice, which arises entirely from a want of true knowledge. The best-informed naturalists agree that birds are more sinned against than sinning. A remarkable instance occurred about the middle of last century in New England: there was a general failure of the crops, and the inhabitants, attributing the deficiency to the depredations of jackdaws, turned out, and shot every bird of that tribe they could find. But for some years afterwards, such was the prodigious increase of insects and reptiles, that the crops were but little increased. A grass plot attached to a country-house was once visited by a dozen or two of blackbirds for several days in succession; they ploughed it up so diligently with their bills, as to make the surface look rough and decayed. The owner of the property, unwilling to shoot the intruders, caused the grass plot to be dug up in several places, when it was found to be overrun with the larvae of chafers. The birds were left in undisturbed possession; and although the walls were covered with ripe fruit, they left it for the grubs, which they effectually destroyed, and the grass plot soon resumed its original appearance. We can fancy the humane proprietor here spoken of acquainted with Tennyson's thoughtful lines 'Oh, blackbird! sing me something well; * * * די The blackbird's music has found responsive echo in many a heart; many a 'mute inglorious Milton' has been inspired by it, whose thought never expressed itself in words. The peasant poet Clare alludes repeatedly to the 'never-caring blackbird;' and we may conclude our notice of this interesting warbler with a sonnet in which the musical inspiration is happily conveyed— and other high mountains, are sometimes found birds of most beautiful songsters: his song consists of many this sort all over white. We ourselves saw one in a strophes, following at short intervals, among which poulterer's shop at Rome, party-coloured of black and are some more staid chirping hoarse notes, varied with white. But this we look upon as accidental: either the clear whistles; but it is specially distinguished, and coldness of the region, or the constant intuition of snow, heard at a great distance, by a loud flute-like tratuc effecting this alteration of colour-as in crows, ravens, tratatoe, which has also been compared to the sounds &c.-so that we do not think a white blackbird (pardon | david, hans david. According to Bechstein, the natuthe seeming contradiction in adjecto) to differ speci- ral song of the blackbird is not destitute of melody; fically from a black one.' The same fact had not but it is broken by noisy tones, and is agreeable only escaped the notice of older writers: Pliny believed the in the open country. When wild, it sings only from blackbird to turn red in winter. Le Vaillant describes March to July; but when caged, during the whole an African blackbird, called, from its note, the 'John- year, except when moulting. Its voice is so strong Frederic;' and another, which seems to repeat the Dutch and clear, that in a city it may be heard from one end phrase, Piet, myn vrouw. There is also a blue blackbird, of a long street to the other. Its memory is so good, found in Gibraltar, the Pyrenees, and the islands of the that it retains, without mixing them, several airs at Mediterranean: its singing very much resembles that once, and it will even repeat little sentences. It is a of the nightingale. Instances of white blackbirds have great favourite with the lovers of a plaintive, clear, been met with in this country: the albino is generally and musical song.' found in a nest with three or four others of the natural hue; sometimes the head only is white. There was one, about ten years since, in the Zoological Gardens at London, which had been taken in Northamptonshire; and a stuffed specimen, cream-coloured, is preserved at the British Museum. On the continent, the flesh of blackbirds is esteemed a great delicacy, particularly after the vendange, or grape-harvest-they are then fat and in good condition. Preference, however, is generally given to those which have fed on olives and myrtle berries. By ancient physicians the flesh was regarded as provocative of good-humour, and easy of digestion. They prescribed it as a remedy against dysentery and colic: the gall dissolved in vinegar was an excellent cosmetic for the skin. The oil contained in the body of the bird was applied for the cure of sciatica; and this oil, together with the volatile salt supposed to abound in the flesh, was said to render it a specific against the plague. Blackbirds, it is said, were once rare in the north of England; but now they are numerous, and in the neighbourhood of Newcastle have almost driven away the common thrush. In the Orkneys, the bird is called the chucket from its winter note-chuck, chuck. The power of imitation is strong in the blackbird: one has been heard to give a respectable version of the nightingale's melody, and another to crow like a cock. The latter sat perched on a tree close to a mill where poultry were kept, and evidently enjoyed the imitations. Sometimes it broke off in the middle of the cock-a-d-, flapped its wings, and whistled its ordinary note. When kept in the house, the birds will imitate many sounds of the human voice, and may be taught little airs, which they seldom forget. The natural song of blackbirds can only be heard in perfection when they are at liberty: it is too powerful to be listened to in-doors: in winter, their voice becomes hoarse and disagreeable. They begin to sing with the earliest dawn, and may still be heard when twilight is deepening into darkness, especially on the evenings of close, sultry days. Gilbert White enumerates the blackbird among others which are silent about July or August; the latter, he observes, is the mutest month of all the fine season. In September, when the woods begin to put on their autumnal tints, the blackbird may again be heard whistling from the thorny brake,' and he retains his musical voice until the cold weather has fairly set in. Different opinions prevail as to the character of the blackbird's music. Aristotle describes the bird as stammering and chattering in winter, but in summer growing darker in colour, and making a loud noise with open throat. The cocks,' says Willoughby, are very canorous, whistling and singing very pleasantly all the spring and summer-time, only their note is too loud and shrill near hand.' To some ears the note suggests nothing but melancholy — a chant of lamentation; the hearers, however, must have been in a melancholy mood, for the music is peculiarly cheerful and exhilarating. The male blackbird,' in the words of an intelligent observer, is one of our 'Methinks, methinks a happy life is thine, Bird of the jetty wing and golden bill! Unto the taste: at noon we hear thee still; Thou hast thy noontide canticle of praise The orchard-grounds, and 'mid the pleasant ways OCCASIONAL NOTE. LINGERING PREJUDICES AGAINST SCOTLAND. IN a recent trial before the Court of Queen's Bench, a barrister, wishing to show that a witness could not have been simple enough to sign a particular self-condemnatory document without reading it, thought it a good point to show that he was an attorney; but this was not enough-he was a Scotch attorney; as if nothing but the shrewdest regard to his own interest was to be expected from a person so describable. The nature of the individual case is nothing to the purpose; but in so far as a great body of people is reflected on, we think ourselves called on to protest against the climax of the learned counsel. It belongs to a class of prejudices which we thought had long been left to the most ignorant of our southern compatriots. It surely is unworthy of an educated person of our age thus to sanction and assist in keeping alive antipathies to which a legislative measure of a hundred and forty years' standing gave a practical quietus. We should have thought that the evils arising from such antipathies were exemplified in so strong a manner in another section of the empire, that any rational or considerate Englishman would hesitate to evoke even a dormant specimen of this most unhappy class of feelings. Fortunately, Scotland is so contented in the enjoyment of the well-earned fruits of her own honourable industry, that she can afford to smile at such poor shafts of wit. But the discredit of launching them is not on this account the less. It occurs forcibly to a Scotchman on hearing of such pellets being thrown at his country, through the English journals or any other medium, that the conduct of the chief of the three nations to the Irish proceeds on a strikingly diverse principle. From Ireland-no matter from what cause-England has for many years expe rienced extreme annoyance. Ireland is the millstone round her neck. She spent seven millions upon Ireland in one year. Listen to a private individual Englishman, and he tells you, beneath his breath, that he is sick of this murderous beggarly associate, in whom he finds no honour or truth, but an endless, thankless 'Give, give!' England, however, publicly treats this matter with signal tenderness-no jibe, such as that of our barrister, would be ventured on in either the Queen's Bench, or the House of Commons, or at any public meeting. England dare not use such terms towards Ireland. It is curious to see her less considerate sons so ready to venture on jokes to the discredit of Scotland, which for centuries has given no offencebut from which nothing is dreaded. How far the contrast is honourable to her, we need not stop to consider. We have already given more lines to the subject than it is worth; but a general remark may yet be allowed. If England has any sympathies with the two associated kingdoms, they flow as six to one in favour of Ireland. How like this is to the way of the world in private life! Literature and common talk are full of the cant of a sentimental interest about unfortunate persons, however truly the authors of their own misfortunes, and even although some dash of criminality, romantic or otherwise, may attach to them. But the worthy, industrious, frugal man, who sees after his own affairs and troubles nobody-who fulfils all the great duties towards his family, his friends, and the public, not excepting an abundant but modest beneficence towards the meritorious poverty round about him—that is a kind of man of a different stamp. He is not picturesque. He does not excite benevolence. Perhaps his success in life rather provokes envy. No one has any sympathy for him. This is the case of Scotland. Of course, in the satisfaction arising from duties well performed, and aims wholly legitimate and praiseworthy, there is ample compensation for every injustice that may arise from prejudices so vulgar and so ridiculous. WALKS TO OFFICE-CAPRICORNUS TO CANCER. ing streets, better worth recording than the items of departed dinners. How the continuous tide of human life pours on, hither and thither, in a resistless current, offering in itself a mighty range for contemplation! We know an old lady who shed tears as she stood and watched the multitudinous life of a busy thoroughfare: and truly is it impressive, presenting as it does every variety of human character. There are things to be of London, which can be seen and heard nowhere else, seen and heard among the crowds that throng the streets and which are as much a part of London as its parks and public buildings. The jibe and jest of folly-the hard sententiousness of business-the sneer of envythe groan of misery-are strangely mingled in London. We have lived for some years in London, and in our daily peregrinations through the streets, many objects have struck us as noteworthy, which may possess a general interest. Our residence is 'over the water,' which means on the Surrey side of the Thames, about threequarters of an hour's walk from Blackfriars Bridge, away in what is at present debateable ground between smoke and sunshine. We are just out of one of the main thoroughfares, down a short lane, on one side of which is a real hedge, such as you see miles away in the country, and a goodly sprinkling of trees; and at night, all is as quiet as in a country village. We start in the morning at nine, and walk fast or leisurely according to the season; and if we have a few minutes to spare, can always dispose of them profitably at some book-stall on the way: many stray facts and valued volumes have we picked up by this means at little cost. In the winter, when the weather is fine, we step at once from our door on to a hard frozen path, that rings beneath our feet; the hedge and trees are white with a frosty incrustation; and on reaching the high road, we find its clean surface striped by countless wheel-tracks. But after the first furlong or two, the brightness and naturalness of surrounding objects deteriorate with every step of progress citywards, in a gradually-increasing uproar, gloom, and dinginess. Half a mile behind, all was clean and crisp; now the pavement begins to look as though it had been coated with damp ashes, which, a little farther on, are transformed into black slippery mud, trying to the pedestrian's patience, and provocative of ire in omnibus conductors and cab drivers. When you started, the sun was shining in a clear sky; but as you went on, he began to look a little tawny, then brown, and now he looms in lurid redness through the smoky atmosphere, which deposits itself in New Zealand tattoo lines round your eyes, nose, and mouth, makes your breath look as though it came from a cokefurnace, and half stifles you into the bargain. The We have read of a man whose whole life was passed in London, and who, walking daily to and from his official duties during a period of forty years, never found anything worth jotting down in his diary except his dinners and the name of the house in which they were eaten. Just imagine an individual, after nearly half a century of active service, retiring on a 'superannuated allowance,' with no other record of the past than a big catalogue of masticatory achievements! What a resource on rainy days, when the newspaper was exhausted, and the customary stroll could not be taken, to bring out the heavy volume, and 'chew the cud of sweet and bitter fancies' over its suggestive memoranda, which might run thus: Feb. 19, 1830-Dined in Butcher-hall Lane; alamode beef and college pudding; half-and-white rime still clinging to the tilt-cover of wagons half: or, July 6, 1831-Lamb chops and asparagus at Pamphilon's; gooseberry tart; cheese; stout! It follows, of course, that the writer of such a journal must be a bachelor; a wife and children would have given him something better to do than keep a chronological account of eatings and drinkings. Were it possible to investigate motives, we should perhaps find nothing but the physical fact of a good digestion. That a man may never write anything is within belief; but that one who kept a diary, and walked about the streets of London for a lifetime, could never find an accident, or a foggy day to commemorate, staggers credibility. It is possible that the very greatness and multiformity of the subject may make taking notes' difficult or impossible to an unpractised hand. A slight habit of observation will, however, detect a thousand things in the restless, roar coming in from the country, is looked at with astonishment by people in the streets, nine out of ten of whom would hardly believe that the atmosphere is clear and exhilarating at a distance of two or three miles. The gloom deepens, and you are past all doubts as to its being one of the annually-recurring genuine London fogs. Gaslights are burning in the shops, flinging bewildering shadows across the streets, and making everything look strange and spectral. On crossing the bridge, the fog seems denser than ever-not a glimpse of the river is to be seen. Steamboats, however, are feeling their way along, and the murky fumes from their funnels remind you of smoke-vomiting monsters in some Dantean inferno. Sometimes the dismal pall lifts and floats away about the middle of the day, and the glad sun comes out (for it is mostly in clear weather that the real metropolitan fog makes its visitation), and man and beast can breathe again. At other times, it clings all day, and creates a scene, on the approach of night, scarcely possible to describe. The gas lamps are of no more use than farthing rushlights; omnibus drivers lose their way in Fleet Street and the Strand, or mistake Temple-Bar for the Horse Guards, and shout to one another as mariners navigating an unknown sea. The habitual frequenter of the streets is as much at a loss as the veriest stranger: to walk is almost as adventurous an undertaking as travelling in the desert without a compass; and when, on nearing home, you emerge from the smoke, you draw a long breath with a feeling of having escaped some horrid calamity, and lost a day. Such is one of London's phenomena: but the same walk presents other characteristics for consideration, moral as well as physical. Nowhere is the struggle for existence so apparent as in the suburbs of the huge city, and nowhere is it attempted under more hopeless circumstances. The effort may probably be more intense in town,' but it is more concealed, masked by the profusion of brass, blaze, and glitter. But here, in the outskirts, where there is as yet no neighbourhood, no back streets swarming with a poor population, always readymoney customers, the attempts to establish a business seem little better than frantic. In some, the fraudulent intention is palpable from the very outset; but others excite our sympathy. A newly-married couple come out, and take one of the 'run-up' houses, all shop and closets, for which the suburban approaches to London are famous. The husband is a respectable artisan, or clerk at a coal-wharf; his wife has learned dressmaking, and incontinently the window is filled with little frocks, coats, and caps for children, ticketed at foolishly low prices to tempt purchasers. FIRST FLOOR TO LET' stares you in the face from the central pane, day after day, as you go by; but the accommodation is too raw, and the rooms too small, for a respectable, quiet lodger; and they either stand empty, or, as the rent must be made up at all events, are let to a man employed at a neighbouring glue factory, who manages to squeeze his household gear, wife, and two children into them. Henceforth a dirty blind gives a squalid appearance to the first floor window: the struggle, however, goes on below the trim and showy articles first exhibited disappear, and give place to others of a plainer style; and a glance at the interior shows you that the shop window contains the whole of the stock in trade. At last, on passing some morning, you see the shutters closed: the inmates have made a moonlight flitting of it, and gone to tempt fortune in another parish, or to hide their disappointment in a lodging close to the husband's place of business. The history of one is the history of a thousand-green-grocers, haberdashers, stationers, whatever may be the business. A few struggle on for a few years, until back streets are built, which drain them off from the main thoroughfare; better and larger shops spring up, and their places are taken by tradesmen with capital. What eventually becomes of all those who do not succeed, must remain matter for grave speculation. The great human tide begins to flow citywards as early as six in the morning. A few scattered mechanics and porters are then hastening to their work. At seven, the number is augmented, with here and there an 'assistant,' or a bookseller's 'collector.' At eight, troops of merchants' and lawyers' clerks make their appearance; and from the hour at which their daily employment begins, are called the 'Nine-o'clock-men. A few stragglers from this division fill up the next hour, when the Ten-o'clock-men' may be seen all going in one direction along the now busy thoroughfare. They are generally more advanced in life, and more staid in appearance, than those who preceded. Many are picked up by the omnibuses, which now come speeding on, crowded with passengers who must be in the city by ten. Not a few, however, prefer to walk. They fall in with acquaintances, by whose side they have paced the same route for years, and their conversation, as you may hear in passing, is mostly of a hearty, cheerful tone-the inspiring effect of a good breakfast. With what generous pity is their hand often thrust into their coat pocket for stray halfpence to be dropped into the outstretched palm of some shivering beggar; and they seem to have a friendly word or nod for almost every one they meet. There is a contagious cheeriness in all this, but it is liable to fluctuation. We have watched those same individuals on their return from office, at four in the afternoon; their manner is then reserved, not unfrequently abrupt and somewhat snappish, which effectually keeps beggars at bay, and intimidates crossingsweepers. We were long at a loss to account for this transformation of character, until a friend, well experienced in the phenomena of urban life, whispered that a Londoner going home to his dinner is always impatient and out of temper. Now you meet a troop of German musicians, in round white hats, or slouching Italians with barrel pianos, on their way to the farthest suburban limit, from whence they play their way gradually homewards. Street music, compared with what it was a few years since, has undergone a great improvement. Young females occasionally pass you, coming from town, with a thin book or roll of music in their hand. How various are the characters they present!-some thoughtful and anxious, others mechanical and business-like, others, again, flippant and restless. They are governesses going to their daily task of teaching and training young children. You may read their qualifications at a glance, and discover those really fitted for their office. Some few who receive an adequate salary may be seen in the omnibuses; they are of the better sort: but for most, teaching is a weary duty, undertaken as a last resource. Here, too, you meet men with portfolios under their arms-artists who give lessons at a guinea a quarter. How sensitive they appear of being too closely scanned, for none but themselves know the trouble they have to retain a show of respectability about their threadbare garments! It is rare, even in the coldest weather, that you see them wearing a cloak or overcoat, and the attempt to brave it out is obvious. The struggle in many cases must be most painful and melancholy. How much more independent and contented appear the men hawking garden stuff in wheelbarrows, or bakers delivering their customers' bread! But it is of such that a large proportion of the necessitous world consists, which shrinks and suffers unseen within the greater world of London, all pleasure or business around them. The sparse traffic of the suburbs affords them no concealment, and the sight of them lets us into many a secret of the struggle for existence in the crowded metropolis. How the cries and confusion increase as you approach the more crowded streets! The shops, too, have an air of business about them, and are less precariously supported than those you have hitherto passed. Here and there, however, you still see one whose existence depends on those of uncertain ways and means, where viands of most equivocal appearance are exposed for sale, while a scrawl on a black board announces, Hot sheeps' heads every night from eight to eleven.' Another will be, Notorious halfpenny shaving-shop.' A third declares a Rise in bones, and old iron;' adding, by way of postscript, Any gentleman's black eye cured in five minutes for twopence.' A few yards farther, you read, Ball this evening at seven; tickets threepence each, refreshments included!'-facts pregnant with meaning, exhibiting the physical resources of a numerous class of the population. 6 When the suburban roads converge, and pour their traffic into one line of street, it is no longer easy to detect individual characteristics; groups must now be taken instead of units. You need no other warrant that Christmas is nigh than the grocers' shops. What a profusion of plums and currants, spices and candied fruits! In fact, you have only to look at a grocer's or linendraper's window, at any time of the year, to know |