Moss, of Thavies Inn, 'cutest and cleverest of criminal attorneys, is at Venice, occupying the moments which his _valet de place_ allows him to have to himself in working out the outline of the defence in a case of gigantic fraud, the trial of which is coming off next sessions, in his room at Danieli's Hotel. Lethargy and languor in the public offices, where the chiefs are away on leave, and the juniors left in town appear, from the medical certificates they are sending in, to be suffering from every kind of mortal illness, and where the "immediate attention" promised to your communication becomes more vague and shadowy than ever; in merchants' establishments, where the clerks, finding it impossible to get "regularly away," compromise the matter by taking lodgings at Gravesend or in up-the-river villages, and running to and fro daily; in large shops, where the assistants bless the early-closing movement, and bound away on Saturday afternoon with an agility which argues well for their jumping many other things besides counters. George Street, Hanover Square, is much too distinguished a quarter not to suffer under the general depression. There has not been a marriage at the church for six weeks; the rector is away at the Lakes; and the clerk has modified his responses, and is saving his voice until the return of those to whom it is worth his while to address himself. The beadle has laid by his gorgeous uniform, on week-days wears mufti, and on Sundays comes out in a kind of compromise, alternately airing the hat and the coat, but never appearing in both together. The pew-openers' untipped palms are grimier than ever, the regular congregation are absent, no strangers ask for seats, and the dust on the pews is an inch thick. No horsey-looking men, chewing toothpicks, and spitting refreshingly around, garnish the portals of Limmer's; the silver sand sprinkled over the doorsteps as usual is untrodden, save by the pumps of the one waiter, who knows no one is likely to come; and as weary as ever was Mariana in her moated grange, he lounges to the door, yawns, and lounges back, to cover his head with his napkin for fly-diverting purposes, and seeks refuge in sleep. The dentist is out of town; and the dentist's man has exchanged his striped jacket and his black trousers for a heather suit, specially recommended by the tailor for deer-stalking or grouse-shooting, clad in which, he sits during the daytime in the dining-room reading _Bell's Life_, and at night, after delicately scenting himself with camphor procured from his master's drug-drawers, proceeds to some garden of public resort. The paper patterns, marked with mysterious numbers, and inscribed with the names of dukes and marquises, which hang in the shop of Stecknadel the tailor, have a thick coating of dust; for the noble customers whose fair proportions they represent have not had them in requisition for weeks past. Stecknadel is away at Boppard on the Rhine, where he has a