“‘The ides of March are come.’ ‘Ay, Cæsar; but not gone.’” The verandah was still there. But that very night, at a few minutes before twelve o’clock, a loud knock at the door called the owner of the house to the window which overlooked it. The moment he appeared, with his head and the nightcap upon it looming through the darkness, a cheer welcomed him from the opposite side of the street. Then came a pull, and smash, crash; the verandah, with all its trellis-work and ornaments, was gone. The rogues had sawed away the supports, made their ropes fast, and then, with wicked waggishness, summoned the gentleman of the house to witness the destruction of his offending property. We will chronicle another of the feats of the “Committee of Taste.” At that period Mr. Samuel Staniforth lived in the large house at the bottom of Ranelagh-street, afterwards converted into the famous Waterloo Hotel. Something about it, either a shutter, or a knocker, or a bell-handle, we have forgotten which, was excommunicated by this tasteful inquisition, and ordered to be removed. Mr. Staniforth was about the last man in the world to obey such a lawless mandate, being one of that class who, “if reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, would not give one on compulsion.” He therefore treated the notice served on him with contempt. And now the battle began in good earnest. “When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.” the thing denounced, whatever it was, was removed, then restored, and again removed, to be once more restored, and still in the original offending form, without an atom of alteration. And so the struggle went on, until Mr. Staniforth became highly exasperated, as well as extremely indignant at the persevering annoyance. Of this, the jokers, who met him with grave and sympathising faces every day in society, were fully aware, and only made thereby more resolute in their fun. In the extremity of his vexation he consulted George Rowe, the attorney, of whom we have made honourable mention in a former chapter. We speak from authority, for we had the story from Mr. Rowe himself, who used often to tell it with great glee. When the offended alderman had unbosomed all his griefs to the solicitor, and had urged him to exert all his vigilance to discover the offenders, and then to put in force all the terrors and pains and penalties of the law against them, the latter met the history of his sorrows with one of his good-natured and hearty laughs, to the great astonishment of his client, who certainly did not belong to the laughing portion of the creation. When he had settled himself into seriousness, he said, “Well, Mr. Staniforth, I suppose, after all, your object is to abate the nuisance, rather than trounce the sinners.” Staniforth, however, was not so sure that he would not like to do both, and “kill two birds with one stone.” But at last, after a long and serious