for aught we know, it is "jest a-going to
begin" at this moment. In our progress
towards the Gate, however, we look in at a
few more public-houses. Here is a costermonger's
house, where the very trucks and
baskets are brought to the bar. Here is that
famous hostelry, where is preserved an oil-painting,
containing authentic portraits of the
three Whitechapel worthies, who once drank
one hundred-and-one pots of beer at one sitting.
The name of the captain of this gallant
band was "Old Fish." Here, again, is a
thieves' house—thievish all over, from the
squint-eyed landlord to the ruffianly customers.
Go in at one door, and go out at
another; and don't change more five pound
notes at the bar than you can help, my friend.
Here are houses with queer signs—the "Grave
Maurice," supposed to be a corruption of
some dead-and-gone German Landgrave, and
"The Blind Beggar," close to Mile End
Gate.

Another "gaff" on the right-hand side of the
road—but on a grander scale. The Effingham
Saloon, with real boxes, a real pit, and a real
gallery; dreadfully dirty, and with a dirtier
audience. No comic singing, but the drama
—the real, legitimate drama. There is a bold
bandit, in buff-boots, calling on "yon blew
Ev'n to bring-a down-a rewing on ther
taraytor's ed." There is nothing new in him,
nor in the young lady in pink calico, with her
back hair down, expressive of affliction. Nor
in the Pavilion Theatre over the way, where
"Rugantino the Terrible" is the stock
piece, and where there are more buff-boots,
rusty broad-swords, calico-skirts, and back
hairs.

Shops, Gin-palaces, Saloons—Saloons, Gin-palaces,
Shops; Costermongers, Thieves, and
Beggars—Beggars, Thieves, and Costermongers.
As we near the Gate, the London
Hospital looms heavily on one side, while on
the other the bare, bleak walls of Whitechapel
Workhouse stretch grimly along, with
a woful skirting-board of crouching Irish
paupers, who have arrived too late for admission
into the Workhouse, and are houseless
for the night.

Going along, and still anxious to see
what is to be seen, I look, curiously, at the
portraits hanging on the walls of the coffee-houses
and bar-parlours. The democratic
element is not very strong in Whitechapel, it
would seem; tor the effigies of Her Majesty
and Prince Albert are as a hundred to one of
the effigies of the Cuffies and Meaghers of the
sword. One portrait, though, I see everywhere;
its multiplications beating all royal,
noble, and democratic portraits hollow, and
far outnumbering the Dog Billies, and
winners of memorable Derbys. In tavern and
taproom, in shop and parlour, I see everywhere
the portrait or the bust of Sir Robert
Peel.

Mile End Gate at last, and midnight
chimes. There is a "cheap-jack," on a
rickety platform, and vaunting wares more
rickety still, who gets vehemently eloquent
as it gets later. But his auditory gradually
disperse, and the whole road seems to grow
suddenly quiet. Do you know why? The
public-houses are closed. The pie-shops, it is
true, yet send forth savoury steams; but the
rain comes down heavily. Therefore; and
as I (and I fear you, too, dear reader) have
had enough of Whitechapel for one while; let
us jump into this last omnibus bound westwards,
reflecting that if we have not discovered
the North West Passage, or the
source of the Niger, we have beheld a strange
country, and some strange phases of life.

QUEEN ZULEIMA.

NOT less a Queen, because I wear
No crown upon my weeping hair!

Not less a Mother, that my breast
Is childless, and a rifled nest!

Not less a Woman, for the oath
I swore — to be avenged for both!

O youth! thou hast a comely grace;
Strange sympathy is in thy face.

And hast thou heard of mine and me,
In that old City by the sea?

Give me thy hand, and let me feel
What one soft pressure may reveal.

I read by hands; 'twas thus I tried
My husband, when I was a bride.

'Tis well! but that it throbs too much,
As if it felt its mother's touch.

Thy mother? Tell me, is she far?
And art thou, youth, her wand'ring star?

It trembles! Dost thou fear a Queen
Discrown'd, and seen as I am seen!

Nay! kneel not, kneel not! Wherefore thus
Is this wild trembling come on us?

Two strangers! Did I tremble then
Before the hosts of eager men:

That sea of savage lips and eyes,
Clamouring murder to the skies?

They threw my husband from his throne ,
They mock'd me as I sat alone.

I sat in state, and let them mock:
Mad waves against the regal rock!

Robed and crown'd, I calmly smiled,
And lifted up my little child.

"Your future King!" I cried aloud;
And many of the people bow'd.

But, as I held it, strode a man—
A stern, black-bearded ruffian—

He strode, and snatch'd my child away,
Albeit I left my throne to pray.

I clung about his knotty knees,
And wept and shriek'd my agonies.