Five o'clock, and the world looks as if stretching itself to awake. Coal-wagons and drays start forth upon "long turns," their country intent denoted by the truss of hay placed above the load. Butchers step sturdily towards Islington or Smithfield. Anglers, children of hope! stride fieldwards with baskets on their backs. And Holborn and Snow Hill are crowded with pony-carts (since the Chancellor of the Exchequer rides nothing under fourteen hands) bearing butter, cheese, poultry, suckingpork, and eggs from Newgate market to the distant parishes of Marylebone and Pancras. Six! And 'prentices begin to rub their eyes and curse their indentures. Maid-servants at "the Piccadilly end" of the town are not bound to stir just yet, but Russell Square and its dependencies set their spider-killers in motion betimes; for courts of law and counting-houses both sit at nine o'clock, and an advocate in practice of ten thousand a year must step into his carriage at five-and-thirty minutes past eight in the morning. And now the different shops begin to open themselves for action. Our friend the baker is first, for he has been up all night, and he has to cool his loaves at the open windows as he draws them from the oven. Next comes the pastry-cook, lotting his remnant of cheese-cake, selling yesterday's dainties at halfprice to-day, and still making money (as it is said) by the dealing. Then coaches, splashed and dirty, come laboring into town; and coaches, fresh and clean, drive out; and by this time the mercers and jewelers set their portals wide, in favor of sweeping, sprinkling, and window-cleaning; for the show-glasses (and here again sigh our friends the apprentices) must be emptied all, and polished and refurnished before breakfast. The clock strikes eight, and the night-walker must be seen no more. Hurry and bustle and breakfast are on foot. The milkman cries in haste, and yet can scarce make his rounds fast enough. Maids with clean aprons (and sometimes with clean plates) step forth, key in hand, for the modicum of fresh butter; and hot rolls (walk as you will) run over you at every corner. By nine the clerks have got down to their offices - the attorneys have opened their bags, and the judges are on their benches; and the business of the day in London may now be said to have begun, which varies from hour to hour as strangely as the business of the night, and (to the curious observer) presents even a more ample field for speculation. AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE. "LET us drink and be merry, Dance, joke, and rejoice, Theorbo and voice." An hundred years hence. In this year eighteen hundred There are plenty of false ones There are brave men and cowards, An hundred years hence. There are people who rave To reform Number One. I make no pretense: I'll be as wise as my neighbors An hundred years hence. I only rejoice that My life has been cast On the gallant and glorious Bright days which we've past; When the flag of Old England Waved lordly in pride, May still keep off invaders I rejoice that I saw her At dear-bought Trafalgar; Still the firmest defense: So may she continue An hundred years hence. Why then need I grieve if That Whigs ever have been Tyrannic, or turnspit, Malignant, or mean: THEY WERE AND ARE SCOUNDRELS IN EVERY SENSE, AND SCOUNDRELS THEY WILL BE AN HUNDRED YEARS HENCE. So let us be jolly, Why need we repine? If grief is a folly, Let's drown it in wine! |