to their springs and distressing to the
unfortunate animals which have to draw them.

"Why, I have continually seen," said my
brother, " I have continually seen heavily
laden vehicles firmly stuck in a fresh patch
of Macadamisation, the wheels deeply
imbedded in the loose and shingly mass, and
the horses straining their skin into wrinkles,
in vain efforts to move their load. Look how
the carriages coast round the edges of a
newly-mended piece of road, following in
each other's tracks, and carefully eschewing
the vast heaps of piled-up granite in the
centre. See how the lumps fly from beneath
the wheels of that omnibus on to the pavement,
spirting among the legs of the
pedestrians. Think of the danger to that pretty
pair of ancles that have to support their
proprietress as she crosses in her thin boots. It
is ten to one against her getting over without
a sprain. And think of my night's rest, when
the road is mended beneath my bedroom
window. Will anybody tell me," adds my
brother Columbus, warming to his subject,
"that in this age of machinery and invention,
no system can be devised of scattering granite
'o'er a smiling land' after a more endurable
sort than this that I have described? Will
anybody tell me that no plan could be hit
upon, by which these rocky masses might be
broken up into very little bits no bigger than
the lumps of sugar in this basin, and rolled
as soon as they are put down, so that the
road shall be fit for use at once?  Will
anybody tell me this? Pooh!"

I am glad I reported this speech just as
Columbus spoke it, for I have since heard
that Mrs. Dunny has been telling her friends
and acquaintances that Mr. Columbus Startles
wanted to pave the streets with lumps of
sugar out of a sugar-basin, and to roll it flat
afterwards with a rolling-pin. Think, Mr.
Editor, of his remarks being twisted and
misinterpreted like this. I am sorry, though,
to have to add that he did say that were he
entrusted with the carrying out of his own
system of paving, the very first masses of
stone which he should select for his purpose,
and which he would pound the smallest of
all, would be some of the beautiful statues
which decorate the interior of Saint Paul's
Cathedral, and which are the ornament of
other parts of our metropolis.

Now this I am afraid is very bad, but not
perhaps so bad as his wanting to persuade us
that we might live in flats, or floors, just as
comfortably as in little separate houses.
Imagine his saying that these flats are in
reality separate houses, only that they are
divided by horizontal walls, in the shape of
the floor and ceiling, instead of perpendicular
ones. Fancy his saying that the house door
should stand open all the day long, and that
the staircase should be regarded as a street,
and the door of your suite of rooms be what
your street-door is now. My brother says,
that by adopting this plan, we should improve
our street architecture, and be able to keep
the size of London a little more within,
bounds. He says, also, that the experiment
recently made at Westminster, should have
been tried in a more favourite neighbourhood;
and that, in the otherwise admirable
arrangements of the flat system as there
attempted, there is this defect, that the staircase
has been treated like that which runs
through an ordinary private house, and that
in order to keep it so, a back staircase for
tradespeople is constructed, communicating
with all the kitchens in the house and affording
facilities for a too great degree of
intercourse among the servants. This should not
have been the case. The main staircase
should serve for everybody who wants access
to the different flats, and there should simply
be two doors opening on it, one for visitors,
and the other for servants and tradespeople.

I suspect that this particular form of
perversion of ideas my brother has picked up in
Paris, which town he is shamefully fond of
for an Englishman. A nasty place; I was
there once for a week, and cried incessantly
for the whole seven days. But if he has
picked up these notions in Paris, I wonder
where he has got hold of the dreadful ideas
with which he came out at a later period of
this same evening on the subject of the
Metropolitan Police Force. A nice reputable
set of men I am sure, always ready to knock
us up at night on all sorts of occasions when,
unless they had mentioned it, one would
have thought there was no danger at all;
always ready, too, to assist the servants, and
to come down and see that there are no
dangerous characters about the kitchen. Why,
it was only the other day that, going down
stairs just before dinner (which I very seldom
do), I found one of these obliging creatures
helping the cook to turn the mutton broth
out of the stewpan—it is such a heavy stewpan,
cook says—into the tureen. The good-
natured policeman seemed quite embarrassed
at my finding out his act of kindness, and
when I thanked him, he answered me with
so much emotion in his voice, that it quite
sounded as if he was speaking with his
mouth full.

It was not long ago, too—just when we
had that very cold weather last November—
that one of these vigilant persons began
knocking in the most praiseworthy manner
at our door at a quarter to three in the
morning—and a very cold morning too—
when we were all fast asleep and warm and
comfortable in our beds. This attentive
officer could not make us hear, and remained
at the door for about twenty minutes, knocking
postman's knocks incessantly. I learnt
this from himself afterwards; and he also
mentioned what made it still more creditable,
that he would not desert his post, although
he heard all the time screams for Police in
the very next street. I did not hear the
noise at the door for some time, and when I