Hark! how the streets with treble voices ring, We no longer hear the cries which had some association of harmonious sounds with fragrant flowers. They degenerated, no doubt, as our people ceased to be musical; and the din of" noiseful gain" exterminated them. 66 Of the street trades that are past and forgotten, the smallcoal-man was one of the most remarkable. He tells a tale of a city with few fires; for who could now imagine a man earning a living by bawling" Small coals" from door to door, without any supply but that in the sack which he carries on his shoulders? His cry was, however, a rival with that of "Wood to cleave." In a capital full of haberdashers, what chance would an aged man now have with his flattering solicitation of Pretty pins, pretty women?' He who carries a barrel on his back, with a measure and funnel at his side, bawling "Fine writing-ink," is wanted neither by clerks nor authors. There is a grocer's shop at every turn; and who therefore needs him who salutes us with "Lilywhite vinegar?" The history of cries is a history of social changes. The working trades, as well as the venders of things that can be bought in every street, are now banished from our thoroughfares. "Old chairs to mend" still salutes us in some retired suburb; and we still see the knife-grinder's wheel; but who vociferates “Any work for John Cooper?" or "A brass pot or an iron pot to mend?" The trades are gone to those who pay scot and lot. What should we think of our prison discipline now-a-day, if the voice of lamentation was heard in every street," Some broken bread and meat for the poor prisoners; for the Lord's sake, pity the poor?" John Howard put down this cry. Or what should we say of the vigilance of Excise-officers if the cry of aqua vitæ met our ears? The chiropedist has now his half-guinea fee; in the old days he stood at corners, with knife and scissors in hand, crying" Corns to pick." There are some occupations of the streets, however, which remain essentially the same, though the form be somewhat varied. The sellers of food are of course amongst these. "Hot peascods," and hot sheep's-feet, are not popular delicacies, as in the time of Lydgate. "Hot wardens," and "Hot codlings," are not the cries which invite us to taste of stewed pears and baked apples. But we have still apples hissing over a charcoal fire; and potatoes steaming in a shining apparatus, with savoury salt-butter to put between the "fruit" when it is cut; and greasy sausages, redolent of onions and marjoram; and crisp brown flounders; and the mutton-pie man, with his "toss for a penny." Rice-milk, furmety, barley-broth, and saloop are no longer in request. The greatest improvement of London in our own day has been the establishment of coffeeshops, where the artisan may take his breakfast with comfort, and even with luxury. It was given in evidence before the Committee on Imports, that there are now about eighteen hundred coffee-shops in London where the charge for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread and butter is as low as a penny; where a good breakfast may be had for threepence; where no intoxicating liquors are sold; and where the newspapers and the best periodical works may be regularly found. In one of the largest of these establishments, where the charge is three halfpence for a cup of coffee and twopence for a cup of tea, sixteen hundred persons are daily served. This is a vast improvement upon the old saloop-man, who sold his steaming mixture to the shivering mechanic as he crept to his work. It is something better for human happiness than the palmy days of the old coffee-houses. The Tatler' and Spectator' were the refiners of manners; and the papers which are dated from White's and the Grecian derive something perhaps from the tone of society which there prevailed. Let not those, if any there be, who hold that knowledge and taste should be luxuries for the few, curl the lip when Mr. Humphries, a coffee-shop keeper, informs them, that since he has been in business a manifest improvement has taken place in the taste for literature amongst the classes who frequent his house. 6 THE FLUTE-PLAYER. HARRY JONES was one of the smartest young men of the village in which he was born. His parents were industrious and contented; and he himself was of that active and cheerful disposition, which derives a pleasure from habitual employments, and requires no excitement of vice or folly in the hours of leisure. Harry Jones was by trade a cabinet-maker. He was a skilful and ingenious workman, and his master delighted to exhibit the tables and drawers which Harry manufactured, as the best specimens of his workshop. He lived in a small. town, to which the refinements of larger societies were almost entirely unknown. On a summer evening he might be distinguished on a neighbouring green as the best bowler at cricket; and at the annual revel, he could try a fall with any lad of the surrounding villages. But his chief delight was his proficiency as a flute-player. He made himself master of the newest country dances; and occasionally astonished his friends with some more elaborate piece of harmony, which required considerable science and taste in its execution. He was a distinguished member of the band of volunteer performers at his parish church; and had several times received the praises of the minister for the skill with which he regulated the less practised abilities of his companions. All these recreations were in themselves innocent; and Harry Jones had sufficient sense and virtue not to permit them to divert his attention from the duties of his occupation, nor to make him forget that life had more important objects than the pursuit even of sinless amusement. By his industry and frugality, Harry, at the age of twenty-five, had saved a little money. His master was kind and liberal towards him, and having himself other occupations to attend to, resigned his little interest as a cabinet-maker to the hero of our story, Harry became, if possible, more assiduous; he did not want friends and customers, and there was a particular object which gave an additional spur to his industry; he naturally and properly desired a wife as soon as he had acquired the means of maintaining one. In a neighbouring village he had formed an acquaintance with a young woman, who possessed those excellencies which strongly recommended themselves to the prudential part of his character. Her parents were honest and pious people, who had brought up their daughter with the strictest attention to economy, and with those habits of regularity which assign to every duty an exact time and place for its fulfilment. These habits of order and punctuality had become a second nature to Martha. She would not allow herself to deviate from the prescribed path, nor could she endure any deviation in those by whom she was surrounded. She had a sincere and affectionate heart; but this precision had given something of coldness and formality to her character. Harry, with the fondness of a lover's eyes, saw everything to admire; he considered that her seriousness would properly regulate his cheerfulness, and that the strict discipline which she exercised over her own actions would control his inclination for hasty and various modes of occupation. He was satisfied that he could not make a more prudent choice, and the world thought so also. They married. At the end of the first fortnight after their union, Harry sat down by his evening fireside exceedingly fatigued; he felt incapable of exertion, and remained for some time listless and dispirited. Martha began to read aloud from a serious book, but she did not choose the most favourable moment for making a proper impression: Harry yawned and almost fell asleep. Martha laid down her book, and recommended him to look over his accounts with every disposition to do right and oblige his wife, Harry felt that the labours of the day were past. He thought of his flute. The sense of fatigue was at once forgotten, as he again placed his old book of tunes before him. He played his briskest jigs-but Martha did not beat time he tried his most pathetic airs -but Martha remained unmoved. He discovered to his mortification that his wife did not love music. The next evening Harry did not forget the recreation of his flute; he played in his very best style, and he appealed to Martha for encouragement and approbation. Her praise was of a very negative quality. The Sabbath came, and Harry, as usual, took his place in the music gallery; he put forth all his powers, and exercised no common address to make his associates play in tune. As they walked home he ventured to ask Martha what she thought of their little band. She answered in a tone between indifference and contempt. His pride was hurt, and he determined to say no more upon the subject. The flute continued to be produced every evening, and Harry ceased to expect the praise or ask the attention of his wife. But even this indifference did not long continue. On one occasion he observed something like a frown upon her brow; on another, he heard a pettish expression pronounced in a whispered and hurried tone. At length hostility was openly declared against the flute, and Martha wondered how a man of any sense could waste his time, and annoy his family, by such a stupid pursuit. Harry bore this exceedingly well; for the love of his wife came to the aid of his naturally good temper. He locked up the flute. But he was disappointed in expecting that Martha would offer him any substitute for his favourite amusement after his hours of labour. Her notions were those of a rigid and unsparing industry.. She was never tired of her domestic occupations, and she wondered how a man who had his living to get could ever tire in the pursuit of his calling. When the hour of work was over, Harry sat down in his little parlour, but his wife was seldom with him. It was true that the boards of his house were cleaner than any of his neighbours';-that the saucepans of his kitchen shone with a brightness which all the good housewives of the parish envied ;--and that not a cinder deformed the neatness of his hearth without calling forth the brush and the shovel for its instant removal. But then it was also true that he sometimes caught cold at his dinner hour, from the wetness which the floor acquired from the indefatigable |