-as almanacks would say, "about this time much real happiness may be expected." Here we leave the young couple, and turn round a gable in the passage, and enter the back parlour, occupied by the widow of an officer-if we may judge by the military miniature over the mantel-piece, and an old epaulet-box which contains her front or afternoon ringlets. She is a massive woman, with a voice of command, and a sweep in her train-splendid under any other circumstances, but ridiculous in the occupant of a back-parlour. The servant of the house has a decided horror of her, her orders being continual and authoritative, as if the poor slave was her own private property;-the Siddonian tones which she brings to bear upon an order for two ounces of ham, but not much fat, and the half pint of porter drawn with a head, is grand beyond conception. Her morning costume is peculiar, though not picturesque; for, while dusting her quarters, she puts on what she terms her stable-dress-here she is:

2

Having introduced you to the lady, I leave you to fight it out, and walk gently up stairs; they are rather dark, being further obscured by the blind of the staircase window, which is a red-brown landscape, with a very autumnal tint: the beautiful arrangement of this does not strike you at first, and is only discoverable by the full opening of the street door. The stair carpets are shabby. We are on the first-floor; this is the respectable part of the house, that doesn't know the parlours or the second-floor; here the landlady herself-terrible to the

garrets-leaves her dignity at the door, and condescends to dust the ornaments for her lodger.

The occupant is a little lady under the shadow of widowhood, with an annuity and a body-servant-a young girl done into an old woman by the aid of apron, broad-bordered cap, and high dress; her child-like features, peeping from amidst the matronly frills, have a decided comic effect, laughable in the extreme,-that is, if we dared laugh at anything appertaining to the first-floor lodger. The lady has long discarded the weeds, which choked up the blossoms of her beauty, and takes in the Belle Assemblée. (In fairness to any aspirant for the annuity, we must say that the lady is much past her kittenhood.) She believes, however, that she is still young enough to embarrass herself with linen-drapers' and mantua-makers' bills. Poor creature! she flutters out one day in an arophane bonnet, and the next day is forced to swathe her poor old jaws in flannel, attributing the misfortune to some tooth which has been gone many a day. She is one of a large class who war against time, fighting and scratching against grey hairs, till they are out of breath; as if Time were a tax-gatherer, who would consent to call again. She is the idolatry of the landlady on account of the certainty of dividends.

Proceed we up stairs. The stair-carpet is older, and more worn, and ends at the next landing. The second-floor is reached! here we find two front rooms, where equality is established, this is the only part of the house where it is so.

The right-hand room is occupied by an aged woman, of lady-like manners, and her daughter: the room is neatness itself; the windowcurtains are unmatched in the neighbourhood for whiteness. By a small table, placed in a favourable light, you perceive a fair girl occupied with some water-colour drawings, with a bouquet of flowers as a study. She is an artist, and by her exertions adds to the comfort of her mother, who raises her eyes from her book to look with fondness upon her daughter's occupation. The light streams through her fair ringlets, as she stoops over her labour of love, and gives almost an angelic transparency to her soft features: she turns her head, and returns the love-look with interest! She speaks! How beautiful does reverence and affection make the voice sound!-Close the door, we have no right to listen even to the secrets of the pure and innocent! The next room is filled by the voice of childhood; a little rosy face peeps from the door, and with the instinct of infancy, that knows where love is to be found, beats with his tiny hand upon the fair artist's door, to summon her as his playmate; the young mother follows him, and seizes the young truant, and carries him back to his own quarters: here is another infant sleeping in its cot; the needlework laying upon the table, and everything about the rcom bespeaking order and industry. A few toys are scattered upon the floor, belonging to the elder child, who, hiding behind the window-curtain, frowns his displeasure at his detention. A transparent shade over a table, placed in one of the window recesses, covered with tools, shews the absent husband to be an engraver.

Further up still, we come to the garrets. Much abused rooms! stigmatised locality! refuge of the destitute, maids-of-all-work, and poets! we approach you with fear and trembling! Take care you don't knock your head against the shelving ceiling, or your shins against the superannuated bedstead, which, too old even for a garret

lodger, is thrown out to cumber up the narrow space left by old trunks, bandboxes, and all the collected rubbish of the concern. Four black doors stare you in the face; the one on the right is occupied by a great mystery! It is a tall dark man, with a beard blacker than his coat. His trousers are of a circumscribed kind, with guiding straps, and Blucher boots, which are always at loggerheads with the bottoms of the aforesaid nether integuments: he is supposed to be connected with the press, penny or otherwise, as he uses much ink and paper, and is particularly busy in the murder-season. Although literary, he is not looked upon with any respect by any in the house, except the maid-of-all-work, as he fetches his own beer, and saves her much trouble by making his own bed, which is effected-it being a turn-up-by giving it a turn or shake as he lowers it at night, or rather morning; for he has a latch-key, and is frequently heard at blue daylight, miscounting the stairs, and breathing very hard. He is perfectly unknown to the tradesmen who supply the house, he being in the habit of catering for himself, slightly varying his diet between saveloys and bread and cheese, bringing them home in a quiet way in his pocket.

The next door-stop!-you must not go there!—that's the girl's

room.

The next has for a very long time had no occupant but the wind, which has given the door a delirium tremens, much to the annoyance of the literary man, who rushes out and tries to stop its noise with a last week's number of crimson crimes-which only makes it shake the more.

The last is the den of the landlady herself, who, with a rapacity peculiar to the genus, lives in all sort of discomfort, for the sake of profit, and who would, if she could find a customer, let this her last hold, and live in the outhouse. You must guess at the interior of this room; its comforts are composed of things rejected by everybody in the house. I would show it you, but dont like to disturb her! for, entre nous, I owe her a quarter's rent!

SONG.

A PROUD land is England! None prouder, I ween,
The chief among nations, of ocean the queen ;
So wide in dominion the sun owns her sway,

For, dimless in glory, it knows not decay;
But smiling for ever o'er mountain and vale,
Though far, 'tis the voice of a Briton cries-"Hail !"
The sea yieldeth tribute, its pearls are her own;
Earth brings forth its treasures from zone unto zone.
How proud, then, is England!-uone prouder, I ween,
The chief among nations, of ocean the queen!

A proud land is England !-nor scornful the boast,
While her children are firm as her rock-shielded coast,
With the pure wreath of honour entwined on her brow,
She will ever be foremost, as first she is now!
What the sword has achieved, let the sickle retain,—
With a world for her sceptre, what more could she gain?
Should the foeman assail, there are stout hearts will prove
That the lion, when roused, hath no trace of the dove!
How proud, then, is England !-none prouder, I ween,
The chief among nations, of ocean the queen!

INDEX

TO THE SEVENTEENTH VOLUME.