strawberry, the delicate lemon—the speciality of
Verrey's high-class saloons, the delicacy of
routs and fashionable balls, within the
compass of every Englishman who is the possessor
of a penny: to enable the ice to be purchased
for a "brown," and the lowly to call it, if they
listed, a hice—this was in reality a
philanthropic, a lofty, almost sublime achievement.
Nobly has the end crowned the work. I find
Frigido's counter besieged by ice-eaters. I
find they eat one, two, three penny ices in
succession, taking a vanille as a whet, as one
might take chablis and oysters; a strawberry
as a pièce de resistance; and a lemon as a
bonne bouche or hors d'Å“uvre. I hope penny
ices are not conducive to cholera. Frigido
says no, and that on the contrary they are a
preventive. Be it so. Give a vanille. So.
Another, of another sort. Hum! I find
that there is a pervading flavour about
Frigido's ices which I may describe as "spooney."
They do certainly all taste of a spoon not
silver, with a suspicion perhaps of tin can and
damp cloth. But they are very cold and very
sweet; and the myriad consumers appear to
relish them hugely. I find the boys and the
girls dissipating quite in the Lucullus style
upon penny ices. I find adolescents treating
their sweethearts to vanille. I find fathers
of families dispensing strawberries to their
children all round. I find a plaid tunic
standing a lemon to a turn-down collar. I
would rather see Scarlet Proboscis yonder,
who looks contemptuously on at the scene,
stand a penny ice to his friend Greybeard
than two-penn'orth of gin.

Frigido still pursues the gauffre trade in a
remote corner; but the snows of Mont Blanc
seem rapidly gelidating the little crater of
his Vesuvius. He has many assistants now,
all Italians. Quickly do they spoon the ices
out, quicker still do the coppers rattle into
the till. I should not be surprised to see
Frigido, about the year after next, driving a
mail phaeton down Pall Mall.

But I am bound for the steamboats and
the river, and must no longer tarry in the
Arcade among the penny ices. I pass along
that railed-off portion of Hungerford Bridge
which leads on to the steam-boat pier, followed
and preceded by the same well-dressed crowds.
I note as I pass a curious little announcement
on the first bridge tower, setting forth
that any one loitering on the bridge and so
obstruction the pathway will be liable to a
fine of five pounds and imprisonment. Surely
this diminitive placard would have looked
better on the Rialto, or the Bridge of Sighs,
two hundred years ago, written in choice
Italian, and signed by the dread Council of
Ten. What! fine or imprison me, because I
choose to lean over the bridge, and gaze on
the blue dome of Paul's, or on the fretillating
crowds below, or on the moon at night,
without obstructing anybody's pathway!
Surely, now that we are sure of our great
constitutional guarantees, our habeas corpus,
our emancipation of everything and everybody,
we are somewhat too easy to allow little petty
tyrannies to clasp us in their crablike
embrace. But the steamboats are continually
arriving and departing, and I hasten to
the pier.

To Chelsea, Battersea, Hammersmith,
Richmond, and Kew. To London Bridge,
Rotherhithe, Greenwich, and Gravesend. The
little steamers, ant-hill like with human
beings, hurry to and fro ceaselessly. They
run in and out; they make a desperate
disturbance in the uncomplaining water, splashing
and puffing, and rumbling and choking, and
getting better again, as if they were the most
important steamers in the world: Himalayas
for instance, carrying entire regiments, and
batteries of sixty-eight pounders, to the seat
of war.

They are something better, after all. Small,
lowly, and unromantic, though they be, they
bear on the broad bosom of the Thames
peaceable, honest, industrious Humanity, in
peaceful, honest, happy recreation. Who
shall say (if we will speak our minds about
it, and not be deterred by noisy petitioners of
parliament, twenty signatures to a man) how
many hearts these little steamers lighten,
how many frames they send reinvigorated to
work to-morrow; how much each of these
noisy little boats does for peace and temperance,
and the harmony of families, and the
love of all mankind!

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.
A GREEK CARNIVAL.

"WELL, Demetraki, what do you want?"

Demetraki is a paunchy man, and the
Carnival appears to have had a rubifying
effect upon his nose. He is a shuffler,
as all the Greeks, I think, are. He
could not say twice two are four in a plain
manner; but, at last, as I am turning
to my newspaper again in despair of being
able to get anything out of him, he hitches
up his clothes, and tells me that there are
great doings going on upon the other side of
the mountain. To-day, the Greeks must
make the most of their time, he thinks; for
to-morrow begins a fifty days' fast, and a fast
among the Greeks is a serious business. It is
their idea indeed of fulfilling the duties of
religion in an exemplary manner; and all
who will not eat meat in Lent, have a passport
for heaven.

It is a fine breezy morning. I clamber
over the rocks, in front of my house, and
follow Demetraki, as he waddles toilsomely
up the hill; at last, after a moderate
number of falls, and one or two dashing
leaps, we get into the tide of the holiday
makers. It is pleasant to see them go trooping
along hand in hand, and singing in chorus.
It is pleasant to notice their homely decent
dresses, and the joy which God has given
them reflected even on the faces of rayahs
and slaves. After a little time they begin to