din of assaulting sticks, and sometimes the clash of naked steel. Dr. Johnson describes how those quarrels were common when he first came to London; and how at length things were better ordered. But the change must in great part be imputed to the gradual improvement of the streets. In Gay's time there was no safety but within the posts.

"Though expedition bids, yet never stray

Where no ranged posts defend the rugged way; Here laden carts with thundering waggons meet, Wheels clash with wheels, and bar the narrow street." In wet and gusty weather the unhappy walker heard the crazy signs swinging over his head, as Gulliver describes the Red Lion of Brentford. The spouts of every house were streaming at his feet, or drenching his laced hat and his powdered wig with unpitying torrents. At every step some bulk or shop-projection narrowed the narrow road, and drove him against the coach-wheels. The chairmen, if there was room to pass, occupied all the space between the wall and the posts. The "hooded maid" came sometimes gingerly along, with pattens and umbrella (then exclusively used by women), and of courtesy he must yield the wall. The small-coal man, and the sweep, and the barber, took the wall, in assertion of their clothessoiling prerogative; and the bully thrust him, or was himself thrust, "to the muddy kennel's side." The great rule for the pedestrian was,—

"Ever be watchful to maintain the wall."

The dignity of the wall, and its inconveniences, were as old as the time of James and Charles. Donne, in his first Satire, describes the difficulties of one who took the wall:

"Now we are in the street; he first of all,
Improvidently proud, creeps to the wall,
And so, imprisoned and hemmed in by me,
Sells for a little state his liberty."

The streets, in the good old times, often presented obstructions to the pedestrian which appear to us like the

wonders of some unknown region. In the more recent unhappy days of public executions the wayfarer passed up Ludgate Hill with an eye averted from the Old Bailey; for there, as Monday morning came, duly hung some three, and it may be six, unhappy victims of a merciless code, judicially murdered, according to our better notions. Then was the rush to see the horrid sight, and the dense crowd pouring away from it; and the pickpocket active under the gallows; and the business of life interrupted for a quarter of an hour, with little emotion even amongst the steady walkers who heeded not the spectacle: it was a thing of course. And so was the pillory in earlier times. Gay says nothing of the feelings of the passeron; he had only to take care of his clothes:

"Where, elevated o'er the gaping crowd,

Clasp'd in the board the perjur'd head is bow'd,
Betimes retreat; here, thick as hailstones pour,
Turnips and half-hatch'd eggs, a mingled shower,
Among the rabble rain: some random throw

May with the trickling yolk thy cheek o'erflow." People used to talk of these things as coolly as Garrard wrote to Lord Strafford of them: "No mercy showed to Prynne; he stood in the pillory, and lost his first ear in a pillory in the palace at Westminster in full term; his other in Cheapside, where, while he stood, his volumes were burnt under his nose, which had almost suffocated him." The cruelty is not mitigated by the subsequent account of Garrard, that Mr. Prynne "hath got his ears sewed on, that they grow again, as before, to his head." If the mob round the pillory was safely passed, there was another mob often to be encountered. Rushing along Cheapside, or Covent Garden, or by the Maypole in the Strand, came the foot-ball players. It is scarcely conceivable, when London had settled into civilization, little more than a century ago,--when we had our famed Augustan age of Addisons and Popes,-when laced coats, and flowing wigs, and silver buckles, ventured into the streets, and the beau prided himself on

"The nice conduct of a clouded cane,-"

that the great thoroughfares through which men now move, "intent on high designs," should be a field for foot-ball:

"The prentice quits his shop to join the crew;

Increasing crowds the flying game pursue."

This is no poetical fiction. It was the same immediately after the Restoration. It was the same in the days of Elizabeth. To this game went the sturdy apprentices, with all the train of idlers in a motley population; and when their blood was up, as it generally was in this exercise, which Stubbes calls "a bloody and murthering practice, rather than a fellowly sport or pastime," they had little heed to the passengers in the streets, whether there was passing by

"a velvet justice with a long

"

Great train of blue-coats, twelve or fourteen strong;" or a gentle lady on her palfrey, wearing her "visor made of velvet." The courtier, described in Hall, had an awful chance to save his "perewinkle" in such an encounter; when with his "bonnet vail'd," according to the "courtesies" of his time,

Travelling along in London way,"

he has to recover his "auburn locks" from the "ditch " that crosses the thoroughfare.

The days we are noticing were not those of pedestrians. The "red-heel'd shoes" of the time of Anne were as little suited for walking as the "pantofles " of Elizabeth, "whereof some be of white leather, some of black, and some of red; some of black velvet, some of white, some of red, some of green, rayed, carved, cut, and stitched all over with silk, and laid on with gold, silver, and such like." So Stubbes describes the "corked shoes" of his day; and he adds, what seems very apparent, "to go abroad in them as they are now used altogether, is rather a let or hindrance to a man than otherwise." These fine shoes belonged to the transition state between the horse and Anatomy of Abuses.

* Donne.

† Stubbes.

the coach; when men were becoming "effeminate” in the use of the new vehicles, which we have seen the Water-Poet denounced; and the highways of London were not quite suited to the walker. Shoes such as those are ridiculed by Stubbes as uneasy to go in ;" and he adds, "they exagerate a mountain of mire, and gather a heap of clay and baggage together."

THE ITALIAN WANDERER.

THE captain of an English merchant-vessel was walking at a hurried pace along the Cours, the principal street at Marseilles, intent upon transacting the last commercial business which detained him in that city. His brig was lying in the harbour, with all her crew on board;-the wind was favourable. He stopped an instant at the door of an hotel, to bid farewell to a friend,-when a little boy seized the skirt of his coat, and, with almost extravagant volubility, accompanied by very significant gestures, showed that he had some favour of a peculiar nature to ask from the good-tempered seaman. The boy was, evidently, not a beggar; but the impatient Captain thrust a few small coin into his hand, and increased the rapidity of his movement. Still his little friend was at his heels; -and pursued him with unceasing perseverance, till they both stopped at the door of the merchant whom the Englishman sought. Fairly run to earth, he was obliged to grant a moment's attention to the importunate child; -but even his patience was fruitless. The boy spoke only his native Italian, with the exception of a few of the very commonest words of French; the Captain's acquaintance with languages was upon a level with that of many other honest voyagers, who would scorn to permit their own dear English to be corrupted by the slightest disuse. Still the boy was inexorably persevering;-and the Captain, to save time, was obliged to take him to his friend the merchant, who was proud of his talents as an interpreter, and delighted to carry on his

correspondence with London, Hamburgh, and Leghorn, in the languages of their respective countries.

The mystery was speedily solved. The little Italian had followed the English Captain from the quay, where he had watched him giving the last orders to his men. He wanted to go to England.

"Psha! the silly boy, what can he do in England? Does he mean to carry images, or exhibit monkeys? "He wants to find his father."

His father had

The poor child rapidly told his story. been compelled, by the distractions of Italy, having taken an active part in the ill-judged Neapolitan insurrection, to fly from his native shores. He had left Julian, his only child, with a sister residing at Palermo. His relative was dead; he had no one to protect him; he had, perhaps, money enough to pay his passage to England ; -he was determined to seek his father.

"But what will the poor boy do, when he gets to London? He will starve."

The doubt was communicated;-but the anxious Julian exultingly produced twenty ducats, with which he proposed to pay his passage, and to maintain himself after his arrival.

The Englishman laughed;-but the gesticulations of the boy were irresistible. The merchant made interest to procure for him a passport, without delay. A handsome poodle, which the sailor had not before observed, was leaping upon the boy, who seemed anxious to communicate to the dog a decision which had caused him so much gladness.

"He does not mean to take that confounded cur with him?"-said the sailor.

The interpreter remonstrated ;-but the boy was firm. His dog had wandered with him along the coast; had shared with him his scanty food, and his leafy bed. He could not part with his dog; it was his dear father's favourite.

The last appeal subdued the Captain ;--and Julian, with his dog, was soon under weigh.

The young adventurer performed his voyage without