many streets crossing, leave a small irregular spot in the middle. In the centre of this spot, surrounded by a railing and raised on a piece of masonry, is a gigantic lamp-post-the whole forming what might be called an island of the streets... Every now and then the protection of this island is sought by groups of women and children, who amidst the general din and the noise of the wheels of so many vehicles dashing along in every direction, shrink from a bold rush across the whole breadth of the street.

Leaning against the lamp-post, we have leisure to look around on the sea of moving beings, things and objects which fleet past on every side...Let us glance at some of the advertising tricks; for there is no other town in the world where people advertise with so much persevering energy, on so grand a scale, at such enormous expense, with such impertinent puffery, and with such distinguished success... Behold, rolling down from Oxford Street, three immense wooden pyramids their outsides painted over with hieroglyphics*, and with monumental letters in English. These pyramids display faithful portraits of Isist and Osiris, of cats, storks, and of the apis; and amidst them one may read an inscription in glaring letters, as long as a yard, from which it pears, that there is now on view a panorama of Egypt,one more beautiful, instructing, and interesting than ever was exhibited... For this panorama, continues the inscription, shows the ebb and flood of the Nile, with its hippopotami and crocodiles, and part of the overland mail; and also the railway from Cairo to Alexandria, and the canal to Suez, exactly as projected. And all this for one shilling, with a full, lucid, and interesting lecture into the bargain.

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The Overland Route, the Globe, the Colosseum, Madame Tussaud's Wax Works, &c., are, indeed, wonder-works of human industry, skill, and invention; and in every respect are they superior to the usual productions of the

* Hieroglyphics, written characters (originally sacred) or symbols, which, instead of words, figured the animals or things intended to be represented.

† Isis, &c., the gods and sacred animals of the ancient Egyptians.

same kind... But, for all that, they must send their advertising vans into the streets; necessity compels them to strike the gong and blow the trumpet. Choice there is none: they must advertise or perish...Each day or each event produces a varied form of advertisement, and everywhere it meets your eye. It swells with the flag in the breeze, and it sets its seal on the pavement; it is on the water, on the paddle-boxes of the steamers, and under the waters in the Thames Tunnel. The arches of the bridges bear their advertisements... But for whom? For the tens of thousands who every day pass under in steamers. For the Thames, too, is one of the London streets, and by no means the least important of them. The advertisement roosts on the highest chimneys, and sparkles in colored letters on street lamps; it forms the prologue* of all the newspapers, and the epilogue † of all the books. It breaks in upon us with the sound of trumpets, and it awes us in the silent sorrow of the Hindoo.‡

Saunterings in London.

COVENT GARDEN MARKET.

FRUIT and vegetables surround one on every side; the road is blocked up with mountains of cabbages and turnips; and men and women push past with their arms bowed out by the cauliflowers under them, or the red tips of carrots pointing from their crammed aprons, or else their faces are red with the weight of the loaded head-basket.

The donkey-barrows, from their number and singularity, force one to stop and notice them. Every kind of ingenuity has been exercised to construct harness for the costers' steeds; where a buckle is wanting, tape or string make the fastening secure; traces are made of rope and old chain, and an old sack or cotton handkerchief is folded up as a

* Prologue, preface or address (chiefly with reference to a play, or dramatic poem).

† Epilogue, a poetical address spoken after the conclusion of a play. Hindoo: there are many Hindoo beggars in London, in their native dress, who stand at various points, with an air of apparent meekness, and in a fixed attitude, like bronze images.

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saddle-pad. Some few of the barrows make a magnificent exception, and are gay with bright brass; while one of the donkeys may be seen dressed in a suit of old plated carriage-harness, decorated with coronets in all directions... At some one of the coster conveyances stands the proprietor, arranging his goods, the dozing animal starting up from its sleep each time a heavy basket is hoisted on the tray. Others, with their green and white and red load neatly arranged, are ready for starting, but the coster is finishing his breakfast at the coffee-stall... On one barrow there may occasionally be seen a solitary sieve of apples, with the horse of some neighbouring cart helping himself to the pippins while the owner is away. The men that take charge of the trucks, while the costers visit the market, walk about with their arms full of whips and sticks. At one corner a donkey has slipped down, and lies on the stones covered with the cabbages and apples that have fallen from the cart.

The

The market itself presents a beautiful scene. In the clear bright air of an autumn morning the whole of the vast square is distinctly seen from one end to the other. sky is red and golden with the newly-risen sun, and the rays falling on the fresh and vivid colors of the fruit and vegetables, brighten up the picture as with a coat of varnish... There is no shouting, as at other markets, but a low murmuring hum is heard, like the sound of the sea at a distance, and through each entrance to the market the crowd sweeps by... Under the dark Piazza* little bright dots of gas-lights are seen burning in the shops; and in the paved square the people pass and cross each other in all directions, hampers crash together, and excepting the carters from the country, every one is on the move... Sometimes a huge column of baskets is seen in the air, and walks away in a marvellously steady manner; or a monster railway van, laden with sieves of fruit, and with the driver perched up on his high seat, jolts heavily over the stones... Cabbages are piled up into stacks, as it were. Carts heaped high with turnips, bunches of carrots, and plump

* Piazza, a covered street-the one side lined with gay shops; the other open, and supported by pillars.

mangel-wurzel, are seen in all directions. Flower-girls, with large bundles of violets under their arms, run past, leaving a trail of perfume behind them... Waggons, with their shafts sticking up in the air, are ranged before the salesmen's shops, the high green load railed in with hurdles, and every here and there bunches of turnips are seen flying in the air over the heads of the people... Groups of applewomen, with straw pads on their crushed bonnets, and coarse shawls crossing their bosoms, sit chatting in Irish, and smoking short pipes; every passer-by is hailed with the cry of "Want a baskit, yer honor?"... The porter, trembling under the piled-up hamper, trots along the street, with his teeth clenched, perspiring with the weight, and staggering at every step.

Inside, the market is all bustle and confusion. The people walk along with their eyes fixed on the goods, and frowning with thought. Men in all costumes, from the coster in his corduroy suit to the greengrocer in his blue apron, sweep past...A countryman, in an old straw hat and dusty boots, occasionally draws down the anger of a woman for walking about with his hands in the pockets of his smock-frock, and is asked, "if that is the way to behave on a market-day?" Even the granite pillars can not stop the crowd, for it separates and rushes past them, like the tide by a bridge pier... At every turn there is a fresh odor to sniff at; either the bitter aromatic perfume of the herbalists' shops breaks upon you, or the scent of oranges, then of apples, and then of onions, is caught for an instant as you move along...The brocoli tied up in square packets, with their curdled cream-like faces peeping outwards; the sieves of crimson-love apples, polished like china; the bundles of white glossy leeks, their roots dangling like fringe; the celery, with its pinky stalks and bright green tops, the dark purple pickling-cabbages, the scarlet carrots, the white knobs of turnips, the bright yellow balls of oranges, and the rich brown coats of the chestnuts attract the eye on every side... Then there are the apple-merchants, with their fruit of all colors, from the pale yellow green to the bright crimson, and the baskets ranged in rows on the pavement before the little shops.

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Round these the customers stand examining the stock, then whispering together over their bargain, and counting thei "Give money... you four shillings for this here lot, master," says a coster, speaking for his three companions. "Fourand-six is my price," answers the salesman. Say four, and it's a bargain," continues the man. I said my price," returns the dealer; "go and look round, and see if you can get 'em cheaper; if not, come back. I only want what's fair." The men, taking the salesman's advice, move on... The walnut-merchant, with the group of women before his shop, peeling the fruit, their fingers stained deep brown, is busy with the Irish purchasers. The onion stores, too, are surrounded by Hibernians, feeling and pressing the gold-colored roots, whose dry skins crackle as they are handled... Cases of lemons in their white paper jackets, and blue grapes, just seen above the sawdust, are ranged about; and in some places the ground is slippery as ice from the refuse leaves and walnut-husks scattered over the pavement. Mayhew.

THE LONDON POLICEMAN.

THE policeman, no matter whether in a uniform or in plain clothes, is a soldier of peace a sentinel on a neutral post, and as such he is as much entitled to respect as the soldier who takes the field against a foreign invader. This is the case in England... The policeman is always ready to give his assistance and friendly advice; the citizen is never brought into an embarrassing and disagreeable contact with the police; and the natural consequence of this state of things is, that the most friendly feelings exist between the policeman and the honest part of the population. Whenever the police have to interfere and want assistance, the inhabitants are ready to support them, for they know that the police seldom act without good reasons.

The streets which skirt the banks of the Thames are most horrible. There the policeman does not saunter along on his beat with that easy and comfortable air which distinguishes him in the western parts of the town. Indeed, in many instances, they walk by twos and twos, with dirks