Lazarus yonder is no longer the contemptible
wretch he was when we threw him a penny
on Cornhill two hours ago. His frame has
expanded, his countenance has brightened, his mien
has become bright and buoyant. Who knows the
rapturous visions passing through his brain, or
the blissfulness which prompts that half-expressed
smile? The smallest feeted houris, the
most toothsome birds'-nests and stewed dogs, nay,
the yellow mandarin's button itself, are Lazarus's
now. What cares he for policemen, for
the cuffs and kicks, the slurs and sneers, of the
barbarians from whom he has to beg? Yahee's
shabby stifling little room is his glory and
delight. To it he looks forward through the long
and weary day; by its pleasures he is compensated
for the pains and penalties of his weary life.
Booboo,too,has already forgotten the grievance he
recounted half an hour ago, and with eyes raised
to the ceiling, is in a rapturous half-trance. The
visions this miserable little hole has seen; the
sweet and solemn strains of music; the mighty
feasts; the terrible dramas; the weird romances;
the fierce love; the strange fantastic worship;
the mad dreams; the gorgeous processions; the
brilliant crowds; the mystic shadows which
have occupied it—would fill a volume. Mr.
Inspector Roberts, a friend to whom I have been
indebted for much interesting information, tells
me that before meals the strange people lodging
with Yahee are seen to kneel down, and, looking
up to the ceiling, jabber something to
themselves—a description which, I have little doubt,
a Malay or Chinese policeman would have little
difficulty in applying to the prayers of the English
or other barbarians. But the strange interest
of the little place is centred, not in the food or
worship, not in the variety of skins, and their
range from drab and mahogany to ebon and
jet, but in the strange unholy pleasures enjoyed
in it, and the glimpse it gives you of barbaric
life.

Old Yahee is as exceptional an instance of
opium eating and smoking being pursued
with impunity, as any tremulous dotard who is
seen tossing off his dram, and it would be as
ridiculous to quote the one as the other, as a
fair example of the influence of a degrading
habit. Booboo and the rest are full of grievances;
complain they cannot get ships, or shall never
see father or mother, brother or sister, again—a
handsome young Malay was especially lachrymose
on this last point—but the plain truth is
they are all such slaves to the drug of which
Yahee is high priest, that when they once fall
out of the groove of labour to which they have
been accustomed, recovery is impossible. Like
the dreamer in Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton's
beautiful story, the day is less to them than the
night; their Heaven may be purchased by the
few pence they beg of passers-by; and those
who remember the agonies undergone by
Coleridge and De Quincey when struggling to
emancipate themselves from the service of the
opium-demon, will not wonder at the utter
self-abandonment of poor Lazarus and his tribe.
Mother Abdallah, Lascar Sal, Cheeny Emma,
and the rest, are the only Englishwomen he has
known; and his existence is divided between a
misery which is very real, and a happiness which
is as fictitious and evanescent as that of the moth
killing itself at the candle's flame. I saw Lazarus
last, cowering on the pavement near Waterloo
Bridge; there is not a day in which he may not
be found, dazed and dreary, ragged, wan, and
wretched, in one or other of our West-end streets.
He gave a ghastly smile when I reminded him of
our evening at Yahee's; and lifting up his
lack-lustre eyes, and cringing more than ever, held
out his tracts and mutely asked for alms. His
manner made a fine and suggestive contrast to
the contemptuous air with which I had seen
him wave the same bundle of sorry literature at
the opium-feast; and in this contrast I, in my
dim way, fancied I discerned the moral of
Lazarus's life.

CHESTERFIELD JUNIOR.
A SON'S ADVICE TO HIS FATHER.

My Dear Father. "What is the Thames
Embankment to be called?" you ask.

As far as I have been able to ascertain, no
name has, as yet, been decided on for the new
river-side thoroughfare which is just now in
course of construction. It is very important
that a good one should be fixed upon. The
Thames Embankment seems to be looked upon
by every one as an opportunity afforded to the
London authorities of showing their regret for
past short-comings, and their desire to improve
during the time to come. It is like a new
chance of amending his life afforded to a profligate
or an habitual idler, and it is desirable that
we should avail ourselves of it to the very
fullest extent. If we duly repent of Trafalgar-square,
and of other metropolitan misdeeds, let
us by all means show that we do so now, when
we have the chance. A piece of ground
containing several acres of clear space has—so to
speak—turned up unexpectedly in the very
centre of our metropolis; it is much to be
desired that we should deal discreetly with it in
every way, and, above all, that we should decide
rightly what name is to be bestowed upon this
important strip of reclaimed land.

What is the Thames Embankment to be
called? It is a grave question. In giving
names to our streets and public places, there
are various principles on which it is possible for
us to act. We may act on a commemorative
principle, calling our street after some
illustrious person, or giving it a name which shall
recal some weighty episode in the national
history, as a victory, or some political event of a
critical sort. This is one principle on which it
is good and legitimate to act, and in adhering
to which we are not likely to go wrong. Again,
we may bestow a name indicated by the nature
of the street itself, the place to, or from, which
it leads, or the nature of the ground over which
the thoroughfare passes. Lastly, we may act
altogether arbitrarily, or on the lucus à non