himself from the constant habit of trying on
clothes and playing tricks as a boy in his father's
shop in Monmouth-street.

A CONTENTED PROPRIETOR.

I HAVE plenty of dutiful vassals,
   Have plenty of gold and to spare,
I have plenty of beautiful castles—
   But my castles are built in the air;
And my vassals are all airy creatures,
   From beautiful Dreamland are they,
          They drive me to balls
          And magnificent halls,
   And tell me my coach stops the way !
          But oh, what a pest,
          When it comes to the test,
   I am kept in a dreadful delay.
A plague on those wild little vassals,
   You can't trust a word that they say,
And I've heard that my beautiful castles
   Are sadly inclined to decay.

Father Wisdom advised me to sell them
   To the public — a benefit clear—
And Fancy engaged so to tell them,
   For Fancy's a fine auctioneer.
But the market by no means was lively,
   For castles the call was but cold ;
          Lead and iron were brisk,
          But gold none would risk
To invest on my battlements bold.
          So my turrets, unlet,
          I inhabit them yet,
   And rather rejoice they're not sold,
And never a bit am down-hearted,
   For my vassals still ply me with gold ;
My castles and I shan't be parted
   Till the heart of the owner be cold.

Again Father Wisdom address'd me——
   He's a horrid old bore in his way ;
He said rats and mice would infest me,
   As crumbled my towers to decay.
" They never can crumble, good father,
   They're lasting, when once they're begun;
          Our castles of air
          We can quickly repair,
   As the home of the spider's respun."
          So homeward I went
          To my castles, content,
   As the vesper-bell told day was done,
And they look'd just as lovely as ever,
   As burnish'd they stood in the sun.
Oh, ne'er from my castles I'll sever
   Till the sands of my glass shall be run !

LONDON PRESERVED.

A DESERTED justice-hall, with dirty mouldering
walls, broken doors and windows, shattered
floor, and crumbling ceiling. The dust and fog
of long-forgotten causes lowering everywhere,
making the small leaden-framed panes of glass
opaque, the dark wainscot grey, coating the
dark rafters with a heavy dingy fur, and
lading the atmosphere with a close unwholesome
smell. Time and neglect have made the once-
white ceiling like a huge map, in which black
and swollen rivers and tangled mountain ranges
are struggling for pre-eminence. Melancholy,
decay, and desolation are on all sides. The
holy of holies, where the profane vulgar could
not tread, but which was sacred to the venerable
gowned figures who cozily took it in turns to
dispense justice and to plead, is now open to
any passer-by. Where the public were permitted
to listen is bare and shabby as a well-
plucked client. The inner door of long-
discoloured baize flaps listlessly on its hinges, and
the true law-court little entrance-box it half
shuts in is a mere nest for spiders. A broken
patch of stonework in the centre of the room
shows where a stove once stood, round which
shabby nomads clustered for warmth, and
stayed punctually till the judge left, with a profound
indifference to plaintiff and defendant,
just as they do in other emporiums of justice
now. Your true law-court lounger has invariably
seen better days, is a ruined suitor
who has acquired a taste for long speeches and
legal quibbles, or has sunk so low as to be glad
of shelter from the cold streets, let it take what
form it will. It is easier to people this dismal
court with broken-down shabby-genteel listeners
than with the decorously robed doctors who
formerly sat round the dais and alternately
listened to and propounded words of wisdom.
A large red shaft, with the word "broken"
rudely scrawled on it in chalk, stands where the
judgment-seat was formerly; long rows of ugly
piping, like so many shiny dirty serpents, occupy
the seats of honour round it; staring red
vehicles, with odd brass fittings; buckets,
helmets, axes, and old uniforms fill up the
remainder of the space. A very few years ago
this was the snuggest little law-nest in the
world; now it is a hospital and store-room
for the Metropolitan Fire Brigade. For we
are in Doctors' Commons, and lawyers
themselves will be startled to learn that the old
Arches Court, the old Admiralty Court, the
old Prerogative Court, the old Consistory
Court, the old harbour for delegates, chancellors,
vicar- generals, commissaries, pro-
thonotaries, cursitors, seal-keepers, serjeants-at-
mace, doctors, deans, apparitors, proctors, and
what not, is being applied to such useful purposes
now. Let the reader leave the bustle of St.
Paul's-churchyard, and, turning under the archway
where a noble army of white-aproned
touters formerly stood, cross Knight Rider-
street, and enter the Commons. The square
itself is a memorial of the mutability of human
affairs. Its big sombre houses are closed. The
well-known names of the learned doctors who
formerly practised in the adjacent courts are still
on the doors, but have, in each instance, " All
letters and parcels to be addressed" Belgravia,
or to one of the western inns of court as their
accompaniment. The one court in which
ecclesiastical, testamentary, and maritime law was
tried alternately, and which, as we have seen, is
now ending its days shabbily, but usefully, is
through the further archway to the left. Here
the smack Henry and Betsy would bring its
action for salvage against the schooner Mary-
Jane; here a favoured gentleman was