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'My friends,' gravely remonstrated Sylvius, 'you ask for wine. It is a bad thing for you; it stupefies you, and makes you quarrelsome. We have work to do; it is necessary to keep our heads cool and clear. I propose that you partake of the two beverages proper to your professions, beer and milk; but, by way of agreeable change, the croque-morts shall drink the milk, and the nurses the beer.' 'No,' responded all alike, 'it is wine we want.'
'Momus,' said Sylvius, 'bring twenty-four bottles of beer, and a dozen of milk.' We have no milk here, gentlemen.' 'It can be fetched from the dairy round the corner. But before you go down to get it, Momus, give us all the kiss of peace.' The cafétier almost swooned back on to his chair. Meanwhile the language of the nurses and the croquemorts was loud and coarse. 'Those of you,' said Sylvius, anxious to
oblige them in any way but their own-'those of you who do not like milk and beer alone had better have them mixed.'
At this moment the garçon appeared with the refreshments that had been ordered. Garçon, is the milk warm?' 'Oui, monsieur.' 'Is the beer warm?' The garçon seemed to dream. Heat the milk and the beer together in the same vessel,' directed Sylvius. But the croquemorts and the nurses threw themselves upon him as one man. friends hastened to the rescue. fearful mêlée ensued. The cafétier vanished, his hair beginning to show signs of whiteness. Nurses, croque-morts, Bohemians, all were mingled in one heaving and involved mass, shrieking, swearing, kicking, scratching, striking. The guard came up to stop the disorder; they arrested Schann, Sylvius, and the philosopher. These spent the night' in confinement; but next day Momus sold his estaminet. A. H. G.
IGHT glad to relinquish the bustle of town
On a soft, mossy bank I sit lazily down,
And consider what food for reflection I've got.
And an odour steals o'er me-it is of mint sauce.
A brood of young ducks in the water I see;
(That pond's like pea-soup, it's so thick and so green;) After well-devilled white-bait, as all must agree,
A duckling of Rouen's a dish for the Queen.
What enlivening sounds from the farmyard I hear!
'Love rules,' says some poet, 'the court, camp, and grove.'
And at Lovegrove's,* my stars! what repasts I have taken!
UP AND DOWN THE LONDON STREETS.
WE will now pass westward
through Temple Bar, and as we glance at that erection-a standing proof that threatened buildings, like threatened men, live long-we remember Dr. Johnson and Boswell, and the sly glance at the Jacobite heads then exposed on the Bar, and
the neat application of the classical quotation-Perhaps our ashes may mingle with theirs'-the old Doctor's Jacobite theories surviving, though his sound good sense made him an eminently practical Loyalist. And now we are-as the beggars well know-out of the jurisdiction
*Mine host of the Artichoke Tavern at Blackwall. VOL. X.-NO. LV.
of the City Police, and in the Strand. This, a friend of ours, who writes novels, Mr. Shirley Brooks, declares to be the pleasantest and handsomest and most English street in London,' and says that 'to walk the Strand is to obtain a liberal education.' We dare say that many of our young friends would like to be educated upon those easy terms -in the school of Peripatetic Philosophy.
But the Strand was not always handsome and pleasant. It was, in the time of the unfortunate Edward II., merely a road between the two cities, the footway overrun with thickets and bushes, and not paved until great Harry's 'day, when the owners of the land between Charing Cross and Strand Cross were compelled to make a sound road and
build three bridges-one at Strand
The first ascertained inhabitant was Henry III.'s uncle, Peter of Savoy, and the Bishops were the earliest emigrants from the City as building closed up its streets, their sacred calling making them less anxious for the security afforded by the City walls. At the period of the Reformation nine bishops possessed inns, or hostels, by the river side, and all these inns had gardens stretching to the silent highway of the Thames, which was then preferred to the street as a means of transit.
Essex House-so named from Elizabeth's favourite (Essex Street and Devereux Court mark the site) -had been the town-house of the
ARUNDEL HOUSE, STRAND, LONDON. (From an Old Print.)
see of Exeter, and passed from Dudley Earl of Leicester to Essex, the liberal friend of Spenser
· He ofte gained giftes and goodly grace Of that great Lord.'
The story of the rebellious, headstrong, and ungrateful Essex is too well known to be repeated now, and we will only remind you that he came hither determined to die rather than be taken. A great force soon hemmed him in, and planted artillery against the house-one piece on the tower of St. Clement's Church. The result you know. Essex and his friend Southampton were sent to the Tower, to be tried and suffer death on the morning of Ash Wednesday, Raleigh looking on from a window of the Armoury. Essex's son, the Parliamentary general, was
born here. A pair of fine large pillars, perhaps belonging to the water-gate, are all that now remain of Essex House.
In the next great house in the Strand, Arundel House, died the Countess of Nottingham, who received (by the mistake of the lad who conveyed it) the ring Essex sent to Elizabeth. The Admiral forbade its delivery to the Queen, and when the Countess on her death-bed made this discovery, and begged the Queen's forgiveness, says Dr. Birch, her Majesty answered, "God may forgive you, I never can!" and left the room with great emotion. The Queen was so struck with the story that she never went into bed nor took sustenance from that instant, but lay upon the carpet with cushions around her, in the
profoundest melancholy. Elizabeth died on the 24th of March, three days after the funeral of the Countess had been kept at Chelsea.' So ends the story, which we were bound to tell you; but are equally bound to add that historians, who do not copy everything set down by their predecessors, disbelieve the whole of it.
Arundel House was sold by Edward VI. to Henry Seymour, during whose possession strange intrigues and dalliances are recorded, and in which the Princess Elizabeth figures, it is said, somewhat equivocally. Seymour married Queen-Dowager Catherine-the last wife of Henry VIII.; she was said to have died the next year of poison. But ignorant and excited people, even in these days, are apt to imagine such things without reason, as we have heard some few years ago in the case of the series of royal deaths in Portugal. Elizabeth is thought to have liked Seymour, but his treasonable practices sadly interfered with his love affairs, and, in fact, brought him to the block. The house was bought by the Earl of Arundel, and passed in succession to Thomas Howard, who adorned it with works of art, both of sculpture and painting-willing, according to Clarendon, 'to be thought a scholar; whereas to all parts of learning he was almost illiterate, and much disposed to levity and delights which, indeed, were very despicable and childish.' He made a magnificent collection of marbles, however; and Clarendon had the happy faculty of saying very unpleasant things about people he disliked, and he disliked a good many people.
At the house of Lady Primrose, in Essex Street, the Young Pretender paid his secret visit to London, in 1750; and Flora Macdonald found refuge there. At the Essex Head Dr. Johnson established a club, which Boswell and others continued eight years after the doctor's death.
In Norfolk Street lodged Peter the Great when visited by King William, and Peter returned the visit, going in a hackney-coach, and probably having a brandy-bottle with him. Peter was a great man, and a great savage. You may place
to which side of the account you like his disgust at the number of lawyers in Westminster Hall, and his statement that in Russia he had but two, and meant to hang one of them when he got back.
In Norfolk Street lived Mr. Shippen, the Jacobite, who was sent to the Tower by George I. for saying 'the only infelicity of his Majesty's reign is his ignorance of our language and constitution'- rather serious deficiencies. Walpole said of him: 'I will not say who are corrupt; but I will say who was not corruptible-that man was Shippen.'
Old Somerset House was built by Protector Somerset, brother of Queen Jane Seymour, and uncle to Edward VI. The great cloister on the north side of Old St. Paul's, and which contained the grim and celebrated 'Dance of Death,' was demolished to find stone for the building, and besides the Bishop's Inn, the church of St. John of Jerusalem at Clerkenwell was pulled down to make space for it and its gardens. The Protector was beheaded in 1552, and did not see the completion of the building on which he had expended about 50,000l. of our money.
Queen Elizabeth granted the keeping of Somerset House to her cousin, honest Lord Hunsdon, to whom she offered on his death-bed what she had before refused, the Earldom of Wiltshire. 'Madam,' said he, 'seeing you counted me not worthy of this honour while I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now I am dying.' Elizabeth went hence to open the Royal Exchange. Charles I. assigned Somerset House to Henrietta Maria, and Inigo Jones erected a chapel for her. A few tombs of her Roman Catholic attendants are built into the cellars under the great square of the present building. During the Christmas festivities the Queen took part in a masque, and Prynne's Histriomastix' appeared the next day with a marginal note (too coarse to repeat, and which was declared to reflect on her Majesty), for which he, Prynne, lost his ears. From Somerset House Charles I. expelled Henrietta's foreign courtiers and household, after the Queen had torn the hair from her head in