before him, smoking his pipe, half-absorbed
in the soothing clouds of the Virginian weed,
half by a mental discussion as to the
expediency of turning out for a stroll in the cool
of the afternoon. Sunday in, sits at the door of
his little barber's shop,still with his newspaper,
and ready with his razor should any Sunday-
outer, determined to be a dandy, but rather
late in thinking about it, rush in to be
shaved. Sunday in, who has been out on
Saturday night, late and drunk, lounges out
of his third-floor window, haggard, unshaven,
and unbuttoned. Sunday in, and yet out, is
perched on his little stool in the box entrance
porch of the Adelphi theatre, taking the
time of the passing onmibuses (in my youth
I used to fancy that man was an artist, a
government spy, a surveyor, a hermit, all
sorts of things). There are Sunday ins in
waiters yawning at the doors of hotels; in
stage-door keepers, eating their dinners from
yellow basins in their key-hung, letter-garnished
sanctuaries; in clerks in west end
banking-houses, keeping Sunday guard on
Mammon in their rotation; in omnibus-drivers
and conductors; in cab-drivers dozing
on their boxes; in hot stokers in their shirt-sleeves,
perspiring in their melting engine-rooms
in river steamboats; in trimly-shaven
inspectors doing day duty in station houses;
in barmaids and potboys at public-houses;
in guards, drivers, stokers, clerks, porters in
the great railway hierarchy; in milk-women
and fruit-vendors, and servant-maids cleaning
the plates after the Sunday's dinner, or
sitting at the window of the kitchen area,
writing those marvellously-spelt housemaids'
letters, or sorting the contents of the never-failing
workbox (it is against Sunday
discipline to sew), or listening to the purring of
that servants' best companion, and often
only one, the cat. Oh, the shame, the wickedness,
that the units should work, in order
that the millions may make holiday! But, the
sun, the trees, the birds, our hearts, our frames,
all say, Rejoice and rest on Sunday; and must
we rest without rejoicing, or rest by putting
ourselves on a treadmill of gloom? If our
brother does a little work to-day that we may
rest; is it so very dreadful, if we be just to
him at another time? One side must
preponderate a little. When the balance
shall be perfectly equal, and the scale
turns not in the substance or the division
of the twentieth part of one poor scruple,
nay, not in the estimation of a hair,
then the Millennium will be come, and there
will be an end of it all.

Here is Hungerford Market. Choked. Red
omnibuses, yellow omnibuses, blue omnibuses,
green omnibuses, cast their crowded cargoes
out into the arcade. Thousands of well-dressed
legs arrive with their superincumbent
bodies to swell the throng. The
tobacconist, cannot serve twopenny cheroots
and three-halfpenny cubas (more Sunday
labour) fast enough. High o'er the crowd,
like Roderick the Goth, on his chariot, or Lars
Porsena in his ivory chair, tower the big
scarlet bodies, and big (though recently
lessened) muff-caps of the British Grenadiers
out for the day, twirling penny canes in their
hands, giving their arms to diminutive females,
or complacently seating little children upon
the high places of their huge white worsted
epaulettes. And here is another wonder.
The Guards are generally supposed to be in
Turkey, yet there seem full as many
performing their gallant garrison duties as in the
departed times of peace, when there was
piping, and before we were told to "beware
the bear." Can the Grenadiers come back
from Varna by special steamer every Saturday
evening to enjoy their Sunday out, in
Hungerford Market and on the river? That
is impossible, I know, yet appearances look
like it.

Penetrating in that anomalous Hungerford
Arcade, where on week-days lobsters and
lithographs, prawns and picture frames,
oysters and ginger beer bottles, salmon and
small tooth combs are mixed together in such
heterogeneous confusion, I see a crowd, a first
night of a new piece crowd, a last night of an
old favourite crowd, a Greenwich fair crowd,
an examination of an atrocious murderer
crowd, wedged together before a large double
fronted shop. I elbow my way through this
mob, which abroad would portend a
revolution, or a pronunciamento against ministers
at least, but which, on reaching the shop
door, only portends in Hungerford Arcade
Frigido's penny ices. Viva Frigido! He (we
will assume that he was a marquis with a
villa upon a lake before the hated Austrians
overran the fair plains of Lombardy) formerly
made gauffres quite in a small way in a narrow
stall in a back street somewhere in the dubious
regions between Soho and the Dials. We
have watched Frigido narrowly for a long
time. We never ate his gauffres, because we
have no faith in the nutritive qualities of
those unsubstantial framelets of pastry, and
were apprehensive that the powdered sugar
dispensed over them by means of a pepper
castor, might possibly be gritty to the taste
and stony to the stomach. But we watched
him in his humble stall with a kindly interest.
We watched him with his tiny furnace, and
strange implements, and stores of gauffre
batter; and when he started in the penny ice
line we hailed the delicacy as a great idea—
not an original one, perhaps. Those who
have made pilgrimages in that part of the city
of King Bomba, known as Napoli senza Sole,
will doubtless remember the itinerant vendors
of gelati, and in even the better streets the
Acquiaole, in their gay little wheeled temples,
something between Flemish pulpits and
Chinese joss-houses, who sold iced drinks, iced
fruits, iced water, for sums less by a despairing
amount of fractions than the smallest copper
token in circulation here. But to bring the
ice—the lordly vanille, the aristocratic