for an unknown author to maintain himself by his pen, letting alone a wife.

"I was thinking," said Godfrey, "that we might for a time make shift with a sitting-room and two bed-rooms; one of which would do for a servant, until I saw how matters turned out, for I have no wish to launch out into any unnecessary expense at the first."

"You will find the rent of three rooms no trifling matter in London," answered the editor. "I have but one, and am compelled to make it answer all purposes; it is my study, dining-room, and bedTrue enough, I have no wife. You know what a 'turn-up' is,-Goldsmith has described one

room.

'A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.'

But we have improved on these things since the doctor's time; and my bed by night furnishes me with a sofa by day. But we will cross one of the bridges; lodgings are more plentiful, and somewhat cheaper, on the Surry-side of the water than they are on this."

They walked arm-in-arm through the city, passed Temple-bar, and crossed Waterloo-bridge; that 'bridge of sighs' to many a shareholder. Their walk was a very pleasant one, for the editor was rich in anecdote, knew many of the faces they met; and our hero was astonished when he saw that some of the first men of the day plodded their way through the streets on foot, and mingled unnoticed in the passing crowd. And this, thought Godfrey, is London! for they had met more than one individual, who would not have passed through the borough of Buttervote without a crowd following at their heels; but here they walked with their cloaks wrapped around them, and not a head was turned to mark their passing by. And Godfrey shrank within himself; he thought of the extended hands which were ever ready to welcome him in the borough; but no one knew him there! A poet, a prince, or a pauper, might just be elbowed in the self-same crowd, and not an eye turn round in astonishment. He saw how very great a man might be considered in some very little town, and yet be known to nobody in London ;-that the mayor of Buttervote might walk from Chelsea to Whitechapel, and not a living soul know how great a man he was in his own little borough.

And such is London! in whose streets we have seen the Duke of Wellington, when walking, gather up the folds of his short cloak, that he might keep clear of some 'innocent blackness,' and not run down a poor sweep; have seen Godwin, the author of Caleb Williams, waiting in a low entry among apple-women and looped and windowed

raggedness,' until the shower abated. Your truly great men carry not their own grandeur; the world is their servant, and they toss their great-coats to it. They carry not an unnecessary garment; when they need it, it is there-a thousand hands are ready to put it on.

They had by this time reached Stamford-street; and as there was rather a 'taking' look about some of the houses, Godfrey expressed his inclination to locate there; but the editor had some idea of what a first-floor respectably furnished amounted to per week, so they struck more to the right, and into Lambeth.

There is a way of doing things in London very different to what you see elsewhere, especially in the lodging-letting department. In a country town you see a dirty piece of paper stuck in the window, with four red wafers, which tells you bluntly and boldly that there are either lodgings to let,' or 'good beds for travellers.' Not so in a decent lodging-letting, good-looking, London street. There you are informed in gold letters, on a shining black or blue ground, surrounded with a neat-looking frame, that there are 'genteel apartments to let for a gentleman.' Or, perchance, you see written, in a very neat hand, on a richly-embossed card, deeply fringed with riband, and looking quite like an ornament to the window, apartments to let respectably furnished; or still neater and more astounding, a back bed-room for a gentleman, with the use of the parlour which means that if a friend calls he can be shown into the parlour, until you can show him into the back bed-room; for the use of the parlour' is at the service of every lodger in the house for a few minutes, and you take your 'turn' as they do in a barber's shop. And should your friend stay too long, a voice is soon heard in the passage, exclaiming, "Gentlemen who keep company, should pay for a sitting-room, and not let people. wait about in this manner."

They surveyed several apartments, and those who had really anything respectable to let, asked two guineas per week for a first floor, which included attendance; and which attendance signified, that the poor little dirty Cinderella who opened the door, and did every thing, was to wait upon the first-floor lodgers (as well as the other half-dozen who already domiciled under the roof) when she had time. And, oh! the variety of beds, the real beds, the apologies for beds, and the concealed beds. Godfrey saw, in the course of the day, the bold fourposter, the cheap-looking tent, French-bedsteads without end, sofas, drawers, wardrobes, and the downright undisguised turn-up, where a servant might sleep, after she had worked until she could no longer

keep her eyes open; and he thought that they knew well how to make

the most of room in London.

"You find things look rather different here to what they do in the country?" said the editor, as they again continued their search. "There is very little of that true, homely English comfort to be found in such places as these. A real, downright London lodging-letting house is one of the most uncomfortable places in the civilized world. I mean one of those where the landlord lives by his lodgers, and is so good a hand at his business that he contrives to change them every week. Such houses as these are nearly all alike. I never enter one without feeling cold; there is not a single thing in the place that you can call your own. They were used by another the day before you came, and, probably, another takes possession the day after you have gone; and neither the landlord nor landlady cares who or what they were, so long as they are paid. All the chimney-pieces seem to me to be alike; they are ornamented with a number of little white dogs, birds, baskets, and shells, all looking like lumps of ice, and these the poor little dirty, half-fed servant girl has to dust every morning. If you chance to get up a little earlier than usual, you have to sit down and look on while she dusts them. I always feel a strong inclination to throw such useless trumpery out of the window. And the fire-irons look so cold and bright, they make you feel as if you were freezing. They always stand in the same position; it pains you to see them so long in the same place; and were you to remove them only an inch, when you came back you would find them standing in the self-same spot as they did before. As for the fire, you might carry it all away in your hat without burning yourself. Then there is sure to be a mirror over the mantel-piece, the frame covered with gauze. You would feel much more comfortable if the mirror was but cracked; you might then think that somebody or another had been merry in that cheerless room; but there are no signs of any one having played and romped there, no marks of restless children's hands to tell that they have used things as if they were their own, for they rarely let apartments to those who have children; the moody, the thoughtful, and the silent, are their favourites. Even the table-cover is free from grease; there is no drop of ink upon it, although it is nearly worn threadbare. As for the chairs and carpets, you feel half-afraid either to sit down on the one, or tread upon the other. Then your breakfast, they bring it up on a half-worn tray, bread, butter, tea, half cold, and a rasher of bacon that looks as if it had been laid in the sun