could have persuaded Drew that there was a
better coffee-house in Europe, than Cogswell's.
You would only be set down as a mendacious
traveller, and forfeit his goodwill into the
bargain, if you said such a thing. When
Cogswell (at the request of a few friends, or
rather as a compromise) consented to cook
two joints on a Wednesday (only on a
Wednesday), no man hailed the change with
more satisfaction than Drew; yet he had
never complained of eating chops, but only
said, mildly, that a change, now and then
was agreeable. At this, Pedders (who used
to make the joke about the rain) said
something that ended with "chop and change;"
but the pun only slept in Drew's ear. I could
never help tittering behind my Magazine or
paper—boy as I was—to see Drew's restlessness
when a stranger came in on a Wednesday,
and hesitated what to have for dinner.
He must speak; he could no more help it,
than he could turn a summersault. "Try
the roast lamb, sir. It's beautiful!" He
would positively get up from his seat, if he
happened to be eating, and, taking his plate
over, exhibit its contents to the stranger,
turning it sideways and back again with a
motion of the wrist, in order that he might
shew it to advantage; and then he would
say triumphantly, "A perfect picture, sir!"
I have even known him—though with the
exception of this little mania, he was
considered a polite man—go and stand in front
of the stranger while he was eating, and say,
"How do you find it, sir? Is it not excellent?"
Cogswell lost in him his most devoted
supporter. I went in to Cogswell's one dull
wintry afternoon, many years ago, when
nobody was in the shop but myself; and as I
was edging into one of the boxes, I suddenly
gave so strange a shudder, that nothing shall
ever persuade me but that I had edged
right through the ghost of poor Drew, sitting
in his accustomed place.

I can never think of Cogswell's, as it was
in old times, without thinking of Godby,
lean, shadowy, hollow-stomached, weazy, bald
old Godby. He was a clerk to a proctor, and
I think he must have been the oldest clerk in
London. He had been a solicitor; but had
failed, and become reduced to serve the
aforesaid proctor at the salary of a mere lad.
He told me, privately, that what he got
from Scruff and Milder hardly paid for his
snuff—yet I verily believe he lived upon it.
His ordinary food was French rolls, with an
occasional rasher of bacon. He used to say
he "didn't like chops, and it was a pity
Cogswell's did not cook a joint;" but, when
they did cook a joint, he continued to eat
rolls and rashers, and never uttered a
complaint again. He wore his cravat so loose,
that his chin would drop into it now and
then; his face was thin and liney; and he
had a hooked nose. When he began to be
bald (about half a century before I knew him),
he used to comb his hair upwards from all
sides towards the crown; and he continued
the practice, by habit, long after all chance of
hiding his baldness had disappeared. He
always wore his coat close buttoned across
his chest; and he would spar sometimes at
nothing, and strike himself such blows there,
in proof of his iron frame—that he would
afterwards pant with the exertion. When
he entered sometimes breathless, from having
walked a couple of hundred yards, and when
any one jokingly enquired if he had been
running, he answered, "No, sir. No man ever
saw me run;" but on less serious occasions,
he invariably spoke of himself in the third
person: adding some epithet of endearment.

As I sit writing these last lines in my coffee-
house, a crowd of long departed, but young
and old customers come in, and silently fill all
the boxes with their shadowy forms. Gravat
is there, ready still to tell the history of any
noble family in England that happens to be
talked about. I know what he would say
if I were to ask of anybody in his hearing
"Who is the Duke of Blackwater?" "The
present Duke of Blackwater, sir, is the son of
the old duke, commonly called 'the limping
Duke.' It was his brother, Lord Bonne, who
obtained an unenviable notoriety by running
away with the wife of Cole the actor, and
afterwards fighting a duel with Sir James
Portbin, who married Cole's eldest daughter
—also celebrated for her histrionic talents."
There is young Mr. Slip, whom Cogswell
(contrary to rule) trusted, was deceived, and
became hard-hearted in consequence. There
is Parsons, who always prefaced a remark
with "Ahem! It is an observation of
Paley—" There is Mr. Peep, of the staff of
some evening paper, scribbling on tissue
paper with a manifold writer. There is
Coulter, who would roar out from the furthermost
box for more milk or sugar, and could
take more liberties in Cogswell's than any
other man dared.

But these are the shadows of old customers;
and many still remain in the flesh, of whom
time serves not now to tell. It is time
that I gather these leaves together, and
pay my reckoning, and take down my hat
and coat from their peg, and go out again into
the bustling world.

CHIPS.

FUNERALS IN PARIS.

IN London, discontent has often been
expressed very strongly against the various
abuses and absurdities connected with the
business of an undertaker, as it is now
conducted. Measures have been planned more
than once for the purpose of providing a
reformed system of carrying the dead to
burial, by which surviving relatives may be
enabled to pay the last outward tribute of
respect to the departed without paying a
tribute too ridiculous to the good company by
whom the funeral has been performed. It is