From Charing-cross to Temple-bar, in spite of the modern improvements, one picks not a little of this sort of pleasure as he saunters along. Turning aside for a moment, let us step into Covent-gardens. There is the Church, so memorable from Hogarth’s picture; and so illustrative of the piety and taste of the Russels, one of whom being forced to build it here, amid his thousand tenants, gave Inigo Jones the order, and suggested the munificence of his plans in the words—“anything—a barn will do.” Accordingly, a barn it is. I searched its precincts for the grave of Butler, that marvellous Daguerreotypist of Puritanism, whose rhymes and aphorisms will live as long as the language which they so curiously shape and conjure into forms the most congenial to their pith and purpose. In the market one lingers amid the fruits and flowers, which here, every morning, offer to the Londoners a toothsome and brilliant display. “Buy my roses”—“cherry ripe, cherry red”—“strawberries, your honour”—and “flowers all a-blowing, all a-growing”—such are the sounds with which you are for a moment emparadised, albeit in London streets. Here also you spy an alderman’s dinner at every turn, and wonder how Chatterton could have contrived to starve, within call of such a surfeit. But alas! full many a ragged visitor looks on with lean and hungry stare, and famishes the more bitterly for the sight of plenty, which he cannot enjoy. But resuming our walk, we again step aside to look at the Savoy. To do this, we pitch down hill, towards the Thames; and there is all that remains of the famous Palace, in the little homely old Church, to which I did reverence in gratitude to God for the famous Conference, which resulted in enriching the Prayer-book with several good things, (and with the significant addition of two words in the Litany, _rebellion_ and _schism_, amongst the rest,) as the result of the Restoration. Next we survey the splendours of Somerset House, not without regretting the obliteration of the old historical landmarks which it has deposed. In the middle of the street, before it, is the Church of St. Mary-le-Strand, where stood, in good old times, that famous May-pole, so profane and odious to the Round-heads, but which makes so picturesque a figure in our visions of the past. It perished honourably at last, for when no longer used for Spring dances and revels, it was given to Sir Isaac Newton, who hung his telescope thereto, and made it serve him in exploring the stars. So come we to St. Clement Danes, where grave visions of Johnson, keeping Easter, and approaching the Holy Sacrament with fear and trembling, give dignity to its otherwise lack-lustre appearance. And here is the Bar, where we enter Fleet-street and the city, and where less serious memories of the great moralist afflict one’s desire to preserve propriety. Fancy him here, with Boswell to look at him, holding on to a post, and making the night resound with his