from whom the rack should not wring the secret.
In the prosaic "season," he has distinctly the
appearance of a man conscious of money in the
savings bank, and taking his stand on his
respectability with both feet. At that time it is as
impossible to associate him with relaxation, or any
human weakness, as it is to meet his eye without
feeling guilty of indisposition. In the blest
Arcadian time, how changed! I have seen him,
in a pepper-and-salt jacket—jacket—and drab
trousers, with his arm round the waist of a
bootmaker's housemaid, smiling in open day. I
have seen him at the pump by the Albany,
unsolicitedly pumping for two fair young creatures,
whose figures as they bent over their cans, were
—if I may be allowed an original expression—a
model for the sculptor. I have seen him trying
the piano in the Doctor's drawing-room with his
forefinger, and have heard him humming tunes in
praise of lovely woman. I have seen him seated
on a fire-engine, and going (obviously in search
of excitement) to a fire. I saw him, one moonlight
evening when the peace and purity of our
Arcadian west were at their height, polk with
the lovely daughter of a cleaner of gloves, from
the door-steps of his own residence, across
Saville-row, round by Clifford-street and Old
Burlington-street, back to Burlington-gardens.
Is this the Golden Age revived, or Iron
London?

The Dentist's servant. Is that man no
mystery to us, no type of invisible power? The
tremendous individual knows (who else does?)
what is done with the extracted teeth; he knows
what goes on in the little room where something
is always being washed or filed; he knows what
warm spicy infusion is put into the comfortable
tumbler from which we rinse our wounded
mouth, with a gap in it that feels a foot wide;
he knows whether the thing we spit into is a
fixture communicating with the Thames, or
could be cleared away for a dance; he sees the
horrible parlour when there are no patients in it,
and he could reveal, if he would, what becomes
of the Every-Day Book then. The conviction
of my coward conscience when I see that man
in a professional light, is, that he knows all the
statistics of my teeth and gums, my double
teeth, my single teeth, my stopped teeth, and
my sound. In this Arcadian rest, I am fearless
of him as of a harmless powerless creature
in a Scotch cap, who adores a young lady
in a voluminous crinoline, at a neighbouring
billiard-room, and whose passion would be
uninfluenced if every one of her teeth were
false. They may be. He takes them all on
trust.

In secluded corners of the place of my seclusion,
there are little shops withdrawn from public
curiosity, and never two together, where
servants' perquisites are bought. The cook may
dispose of grease at these modest and
convenient marts; the butler, of bottles; the valet
and lady's maid, of clothes; most servants,
indeed, of most things they may happen to lay
hold of. I have been told that in sterner times
loving correspondence otherwise interdicted
may be maintained by letter through the agency
of some of these useful establishments. In the
Arcadian autumn, no such device is necessary.
Everybody loves, and openly and blamelessly
loves. My landlord's young man loves the whole
of one side of the way of old Bond-street, and is
beloved several doors up new Bond-street
besides. I never look out of window but I
see kissing of hands going on all around me.
It is the morning custom to glide from shop to
shop and exchange tender sentiments; it is the
evening custom for couples to stand hand in
hand at house doors, or roam, linked in that
flowery manner, through the unpeopled streets.
There is nothing else to do but love; and what
there is to do, is done.

In unison with this pursuit, a chaste
simplicity obtains in the domestic habits of
Arcadia. Its few scattered people dine early, live
moderately, sup socially, and sleep soundly. It
is rumoured that the Beadles of the Arcade, from
being the mortal enemies of boys, have signed
with tears an address to Lord Shaftesbury, and
subscribed to a ragged school. No wonder!
For they might turn their heavy maces into
crooks and tend sheep in the Arcade, to the
purling of the water-carts as they give the
thirsty streets much more to drink than they can
carry.

A happy Golden Age, and a serene tranquillity.
Charming picture, but it will fade. The iron
age will return, London will come back to town,
if I show my tongue then in Saville-row for half
a minute I shall be prescribed for, the Doctor's
man and the Dentist's man will then pretend
that these days of unprofessional innocence
never existed. Where Mr. and Mrs. Klem and
their bed will be, at that time, passes human
knowledge; but my hatter hermitage will then
know them no more, nor will it then know me.
The desk at which I have written these meditations
will retributively assist at the making out
of my account, and the wheels of gorgeous
carriages and the hoofs of high-stepping horses will
crush the silence out of Bond-street—will grind
Arcadia away, and give it to the elements in
granite powder.

A ROMAN SUNDAY.

ONCE upon a time, there entered into Jerusalem
a mysterious and unique procession of men
and women, who shouted Hosannas loudly, and
cast down their garments upon the ground, and
carried great palm branches in their hands, all
in honour of One who came riding in meekly,
seated upon an ass.

To see this famous progress commemorated—
first scene in the most touching of all earthly
dramas—I find myself, of a fierce grilling morning,
with the air beating down in dull oppressive
waves as from a hothouse—standing under the
shadow of the monster temple we have called
Saint Paul's elder and handsomer sister. She
looks a little too flaunting and gay, in that
bright golden-coloured dress of hers, considering
the sad and solemn character of the occasion;