arches ; but I abandon the idea of seeking
refuge there, for I am naturally timorous, and
I can't help thinking of chloroform and life-
preservers in connexion with them. Though
I have little to be robbed of, Heaven knows.

I have heard, too, of tramps' lodging-houses,
and of the "twopenny rope." I am not prepared to
state that I would not avail myself
of that species of accommodation for I am
getting terribly tired and foot-sore. But I
don't know where to seek for it, and I am
ashamed to ask.

I would give something to lie down, too. I
wonder whether that cabman would think it
beneath his dignity to accept a pot of porter,
and allow me to repose in his vehicle till he
got a fare? I know some of them never get
one during the night, and I could snooze
comfortably in hackney-carriage two thousand and
twenty-two. But I cannot form a favourable
opinion of the driver, who is discussing beer
and blasphemy with the waterman; and
neither he nor any of his brother Jehus,
indeed, seem at all the persons to ask a favour of.

It is Opera night, as I learn from the
accidentally-heard remark of a passing policeman.
To watch the departing equipages will, surely,
help to pass the time on bravely, and with
something almost like hope, I stroll to Covent
Garden Theatre.

I am in the thick of it at once. Such a
scrambling, pushing, jostling, and shouting!
Such pawing of spirited horses, and objurgations
of excited policemen! Now, Mrs. Fitz-somebody's
carriage stops the way; and now,
Mr. Smith, of the Stock Exchange, with two
ladies on each arm, stands bewildered in a
chaos of carriages, helplessly ejaculating
"Cab." Now is there a playful episode in the
shape of a policeman dodging a pickpocket
among horses' heads, and under wheels; and
now a pitiable one, in the person of an elderly
maiden lady, who has lost her party in the
crush, and her shoe in the mud, and is hopping
about the piazza like an agonised sparrow.
It is all over soon, however. The carriages
rattle, and the cabs lumber away. The great
city people, lords of Lombard-street, and
kaisers of Cornhill, depart in gorgeous
chariots, emblazoned in front and at the back.
The dukes and marquises, and people of that
sort, glide away in tiny broughams, and
infinitesimal clarences. The highest personage of
the land drives off in a plain chariot, with two
servants in plain black, more like a doctor (as
I hear a gentleman from the country near me
indignantly exclaim), than a Queen. Mr.
Smith has found his party, and the sparrow-
like lady her shoe, by this time. Nearly
everybody is gone. Stay, the gentleman who
thinks it a " genteel " thing to go to the
Opera, appears on the threshold carefully
adjusting his white neckcloth with the huge
bow, and donning a garment something
between a smockfrock and a horsecloth, which
is called, I believe, the " Opera envelope."
He will walk .home to Camberwell with his
lorgnette case in his hand, and in white kid
gloves, to let everybody know where he has
been. The policemen and the prostitutes will
be edified, no doubt. Following him comes
the habitué, who is a lover of music, I am
sure, he puts his gloves, neatly folded, into
his breast-pocket, stows away his opera-glass,
and buttons his coat. Then he goes quietly
over to the Albion, where I watch him gravely
disposing of a pint of porter at the bar. He
is ten to one a gentleman : and I am sure he
is a sensible man. And now all, horse and
foot, are departed ; the heavy portals are
closed, and the Royal Italian Opera is left to
the fireman, to darkness, and to me.

The bed question has enjoyed a temporary
respite while these proceedings are taking
place. Its discussion is postponed still
further by the amusement and instruction I
derive from watching the performances in the
ham and beef shop at the corner of Bow
Street. Here are crowds of customers, hot
and hungry from the Lyceum or Drury Lane,
and clamorous for sandwiches. Ham
sandwiches, beef sandwiches, German sausage
sandwiches — legions of sandwiches are cut
and consumed. The cry is " mustard," and
anon the coppers rattle, and payment is
tendered and change given. Then come the
people who carry home half a pound of " cold
round " or three-pennyworth of " brisket;"
I scrutinise them, their purchases, and their
money. I watch the scale with rapt
attention, and wait with trembling eagerness
the terrific combat between that last piece
of fat and the half ounce weight. The
half ounce has it; and the beef merchant
gives the meat a satisfied slap with the
back of his knife, and rattles the price
triumphantly. I have been so intent on all
this, that I have taken no heed of time as
yet; so, when custom begins to flag, glancing
at the clock, I am agreeably surprised to find
it is ten minutes past one.

A weary waste of hours yet to traverse—
the silence of the night season yet to endure.
There are many abroad still; but the
reputable wayfarers drop off gradually, and the
disreputable ones increase with alarming
rapidity. The great-coated policeman, the
shivering Irish night prowlers, and some
fleeting shadows that seem to be of women,
have taken undisputed possession of Bow-
street and Long-acre; and but for a sprinkling
of young thieves, and a few tipsy
bricklayers, would have it all their own way in
Drury Lane.

I have wandered into this last-named
unsavoury thoroughfare, and stand disconsolately surveying its aspect. And it strikes me
now, that it is eminently distinguished for its
street-corners. There is scarcely a soul to be
seen in the street itself, but all the corners
have posts, and nearly all the posts are
garnished with leaning figures—now two
stalwart policemen holding municipal
converse — now two women, God help them!