just turned, or have been turned out from an
oyster-room. They are all three very drunk,
have on each other's hats, and one of them
lias a quantity of dressed lobster in his cravat.

These promising gentlemen are "out on the
spree." The doors of the flash public-houses
and oyster-rooms are letting out similar
detachments of choice spirits all down the
Haymarket; some of a most patrician sort,
with most fierce moustachios and whiskers;
whom I think I have seen before, and whom
I may very probably see again, in jackboots
and golden epaulettes, prancing on huge black
horses by the side of Her Majesty's carriage,
going to open Parliament. They call this
"life." They will probably sleep in the
Station-house this morning, and will be fined
various sums for riotous conduct. They will
get drunk, I dare say, three hundred times in
the course of a year, for about three years.
In the last-mentioned space of time they will
bonnet many dozen policemen, break some
hundreds of gas-lamps, have some hundreds
of " larks," and scores of " rows." They will
go to Epsom by the rail, and create
disturbances on the course, and among the
sticks. They will frequent the Adelphi at
half-price, and haunt night-houses afterwards.
They will spend their salaries in debauchery,
and obtain fresh supplies of money from bill-
discounters, and be swindled out of it by the
proprietors of betting-lists. Some day, when
their health and their money are gone—when
they are sued on all their bills, and by all the
tradesmen they have plundered — they will be
discharged from their situations, or be
discarded by their friends. Then they will
subside into Whitecross Street and the
Insolvent Debtors' Court — and then, God
knows, they will die miserably, I suppose: of
delirium tremens, may be.

I have taken a fancy to have a stroll —" save
the mark! " — in St. James's Park, and am
about to descend the huge flight of stone
steps leading to the Mall, when I encounter a
martial band, consisting of a grenadier in a
great-coat, and holding a lighted lantern (it is
light as noon-day), an officer in a cloak, and
four or five more grenadiers in great-coats,
looking remarkably ridiculous in those hideous
grey garments. As to the officer, he appears
to regard everything with an air of unmitigated
disgust, and to look at the duty upon
which he is engaged as a special bore. I
regard it rather in the light of a farce. Yet, if
I mistake not, these are " Grand Rounds," or
something of the sort. When the officer gets
within a few yards of the sentinel, at the
Duke of York's Column, he shouts out some
unintelligible question, to which the bearer of
"Brown Bess " gives a responsive, but as
unintelligible howl. Then the foremost
grenadier plays in an imbecile manner with his
lantern, like King Lear with his straw, and
the officer flourishes his sword; and " Grand
Rounds " are over, as far as the Duke of
York is concerned, I suppose; for the whole
party trot gravely down Pall Mall, towards
the Duchess of Kent's.

I leave them to their devices, and saunter
moodily into the Mall. It is but a quarter to
five, now; and I am so jaded and tired that
I can scarcely drag one foot after another.
The rain has ceased; but the morning air
is raw and cold; and the rawness clings, as it
were, to the marrow of my bones. My hair
is wet, and falls in draggled hanks on my
cheeks. My feet seem to have grown
preposterously large, and my boots as
preposterously small. I wish I was a dog or a
dormouse! I long for a haystack, or a heap
of sacks, or anything. I even think I could
find repose on one of those terrible inclined,
planes which you see tilted towards you
through the window of the Morgue at Paris.
I have a good mind to smash a lamp, and be
taken to the Station-house. I have a good
mind to throw myself over Westminster
Bridge. I suppose I am afraid; for I don't
do either.

Seeing a bench under a tree, I fling myself
thereon; and, hard and full of knots and
bumps as it is, roll myself into a species
of ball, and strive to go to sleep. But oh,
vain delusion! I am horribly, excruciatingly
wakeful. To make the matter worse, I get
up, and take a turn or two — then I feel as
though I could sleep standing; but availing
myself of what I consider a favourably drowsy
moment, I cast myself on the bench again,
and find myself as wakeful as before!

There is a young vagrant— a tramp of some
eighteen summers — sitting beside me fast
asleep, and snoring with provoking pertinacity.
He is half naked, and has neither shoes nor
stockings. Yet he sleeps, and very soundly
too, to all appearance. As the loud-sounding
Horse-Guards clock strikes five, he wakes,
eyes me for a moment, and muttering "hard
lines, mate," turns to sleep again. In the
mysterious free-masonry of misery, he calls me
"mate." I suppose, eventually, that I catch
from him some portion of his vagrant acquirement
of somnolence under difficulties, for,
after writhing and turning on the comfortless
wooden seat till every bone and muscle are
sore, I fall into a deep, deep sleep— so deep it
seems like death.

So deep that I don't hear the quarters
striking of that nuisance to Park-sleepers, the
Horse-Guards clock — and rise only, suddenly
en sursaut, as six o'clock strikes. My vagrant
friend has departed, and being apprehensive
myself of cross-examination from an approaching
policeman (not knowing, in fact, what
hideous crime sleeping in St. James's Park
might be) I also withdraw, feeling very fagged
and footsore yet slightly refreshed by the
hour's nap I have had. I pass the stands
where the cows are milked, and curds and
whey dispensed, on summer evenings; and
enter Charing Cross by the long Spring
Garden passage.

I have been apprised several times during