A shoal of spinsters, book'd for France, (All talking of Cheapside;) An old she-scribbler of romance, All authorship and pride; A diner-out, (timeworn and trite,) A _gobe-mouche_ group.--Good-night, good-night! A strolling actor and his wife, Both going to "make hay;" An Alderman, at fork and knife, The wonder of his day! Three Earls, without an appetite, Gazing, in spleen.--Good-night, good-night! Ye dear, delicious memories! That to our midriffs cling As children to their Christmas pies, (So, all the New-School sing; In collars loose, and waistcoats white,) All, all farewell!--Good-night, good-night! The charming author of that most charming of all brochures, _Le Voyage autour de ma Chambre_, says, that the less a man has to write about, the better he writes. But this charming author was a Frenchman; he was born in the land where three dinners can be made of one potato, and where moonshine is a substantial part of every thing. He performed his voyage, standing on a waxed floor, and making a circuit of his shelves; the titles of his books had been his facts, and the titillations of his snuff the food of his fancy. But John Bull is of another style of thinking. His appetite requires solid realities, and I give him docks, wharfs, steam-engines, and manufactures, for his powerful mastication.--But, what scents are these, rising with such potentiality upon the morning breeze? What sounds, "by distance made more sweet?" What a multitude of black, brown, bustling beings are crushing up that narrow avenue, from these open boats, like a new invasion of the pirate squadrons from the north of old. Oh, Billingsgate!--I scent thee-- ----"As when to them who sail Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past Mozambic, far at sea the north winds blow Sabæan odours from the spicy shore Of Araby the Blest. With such delay Well-pleased, they slack their course, and many a league, Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles." The effect was not equally rapturous in the Thames; but on we flew, passing groups of buildings which would have overtopped all the castles on the Rhine, had they but been on fair ground; depots of wealth, which would have purchased half the provinces beyond the girdle of the Black Forest; and huge steamers, which would have towed a captive Armada to the Tower. The TOWER! what memories are called up by the name! How frowning are those black battlements, how strong those rugged walls, how massive those iron-spiked gates! Every stone is historical, and every era of its existence has been marked by the mightiest changes of men, monarchs, and times; then I see the fortress, the palace and the prison of kings!