shillings' worth of "heaves," and carry off a
halfpenny wooden pear in triumph. Now, it
hails, as it always does hail, formidable
wooden truncheons round the heads, bodies,
and shins of the proprietors of the said
knock-em-downs, whom nothing hurts. Now,
inscrutable creatures, in smock frocks, beg for
bottles. Now, a coarse vagabond, or idiot, or
a compound of the two, never beheld by
mortal off a race-course, hurries about, with
ample skirts and a tattered parasol, counterfeiting
a woman. Now, a shabby man, with
an overhangmg forehead, and a slinking eye,
produces a small board, and invites your
attention to something novel and curious—
three thimbles and one little pea—with a one,
two, three,—and a two, three, one,—and a one
—and a two—in the middle —right hand, left
hand—go you any bet from a crown to five
sovereigns you don't lift the thimble the pea's
under! Now, another gentleman (with a
stick) much interested in the experiment, will
"go " two sovereigns that he does lift the
thimble, provided strictly, that the shabby
man holds his hand still, and don't touch 'em
again. Now, the bet's made, and the gentleman
with the stick, lifts obviously the wrong
thimble, and loses. Now, it is as clear as day
to an innocent bystander, that the loser must
have won if he had not blindly lifted the
wrong thimble—in which he is strongly
confirmed by another gentleman with a stick,
also much interested, who proposes to " go
him" halves—a friendly sovereign to his
sovereign against the bank. Now, the
innocent agrees, and loses;—and so the world
turns round bringing innocents with it in
abundance, though the three confederates are
wretched actors, and could live by no other
trade if they couldn't do it better.

Now, there is another bell, and another
clearing of the course, and another dog, and
another man, and another race. Now, there
are all these things all over again. Now,
down among the carriage-wheels and poles, a
scrubby growth of drunken postboys and the
like has sprung into existence, like weeds
among the many-colored flowers of fine ladies
in broughams, and so forth. Now, the
drinking-booths are all full, and tobacco-smoke is
abroad, and an extremely civil gentleman
confidentially proposes roulette. And now,
faces begin to be jaded, and horses are
harnessed, and wherever the old grey-headed
beggarman goes, he gets among traces and
splinter-bars, and is roared at.

So now we are on the road again, going
home. Now, there are longer stoppages than
in the morning; for we are a dense mass of
men and women, wheels, horses, and dust.
Now, all the houses on the road seem to be
turned inside out, like the carriages on the
course, and the people belonging to the houses,
like the people belonging to the carriages,
occupy stations which they never occupy at
another time on leads, on housetops, on
outbuildings, at windows, in balconies, in
doorways, in gardens. Schools are drawn out to
see the company go by. The academies for
young gentlemen favor us with dried peas;
the Establishments for Young Ladies (into
which sanctuaries many wooden pears are
pitched), with bright eyes. We become
sentimental, and wish we could marry Clapham.
The crowd thickens on both sides of the road.
All London appears to have come out to
see us. It is like a triumphant entry—except
that, on the whole, we rather amuse than
impress the populace. There are little
love-scenes among the chestnut trees by
the roadside — young gentlemen in gardens
resentful of glances at young ladies from
coach-tops—other young gentlemen in other
gardens, minding young ladies, whose arms
seem to be trained like the vines. There are
good family pictures—stout fathers and jolly
mothers — rosy cheeks squeezed in between
the rails — and infinitesimal jockeys winning
in canters on walking-sticks. There are
smart maid-servants among the grooms at
stable-doors, where Cook looms large and
glowing. There is plenty of smoking and
drinking among the tilted vans and at the
public-houses, and some singing, but general
order and good-humour. So, we leave the
gardens and come into the streets, and if we
there encounter a few ruffians throwing flour
and chalk about, we know them for the dregs
and refuse of a fine, trustworthy people,
deserving of all confidence and honor.

And now we are at home again — far from
absolutely certain of the name of the winner
of the Derby — knowing nothing whatever
about any other race of the day — still tenderly
affected by the beauty of Clapham — and
thoughtful over the ashes of Fortnum and
Mason.

DISAPPEARANCES.

I AM not in the habit of seeing the "Household
Words" regularly; but a friend, who
lately sent me some of the back numbers,
recommended me to read " all the papers
relating to the Detective and Protective
Police," which I accordingly did — not as the
generality of readers have done, as they
appeared week by week, or with pauses between,
but consecutively, as a popular history of the
Metropolitan Police; and, as I suppose it may
also be considered, a history of the Police
force in every large town in England. When
I had ended these papers, I did not feel
disposed to read any others at that time, but
preferred falling into a train of reverie and
recollection.

First of all I remembered, with a smile, the
unexpected manner in which a relation of
mine was discovered by an acquaintance, who
had mislaid or forgotten Mr. B.'s address.
Now my dear cousin, Mr. B., charming as he
is in many points, has the little peculiarity of
liking to change his lodgings once every three
months on an average, which occasions some