Carters and porters now shout and swear where stout old knights and ladies fair held high revelry; and sugar hogsheads, and rum puncheons, and cotton bales are now hoisted, and roll, and creak, and clash where prisoners once groaned and chains clanked. It is a new version of _arma cedunt togæ_. But we are becoming grave; we moralise; we preach; _Vive la bagatelle_. Let us go back for a few moments to the subject of the last chapter, and speak a little more of those mischief-mongers who dignified themselves with the title of “The Committee of Taste.” We therein stated that Daltera was the understood or suspected head of the said Committee. On the same authority, neither better nor worse than the assertion of common report, it was whispered that, amongst its members, were some other dashing spirits of the day, to wit, Mr. William, _alias_ “Billy Graham,” “Young Sutton,” as Mr. William of that ilk was always called, “Bob Pickering,” _cum multis aliis_, the _multis aliis_ including some, we find, who are yet amongst us, and whom, therefore, we would not name for all the world, and so expose them to their children and grandchildren, who look up to them as models of gravity, propriety, and piety. One venerable gentleman, whom, from his confessions, we suspect to have been at least an honorary member, said to us only the other day,—and in such a free and easy and impenitent sort of way, that we verily believe that, with youth restored, and opportunity returned, and policemen and gas-lamps extinguished, he would soon be at his old pranks again,—“Daltera was always pre-eminent for good taste, and was, therefore, elected President of the Committee.” Finding that our friend was inclined to be communicative, we pressed him for more of his reminiscences, when he added, “They were fine fellows, and woe unto anything that came under their waggish displeasure!” They carried on, he told us, a long war, a repetition of that which has been already described between them and Mr. Staniforth, with Mr. Parke, the celebrated surgeon, touching the shape of his knocker. Dr. Solomon, who then lived in the large house at the top of Low-hill, had his grounds studded over with statues, of which he was not a little proud. They were voted to be not classical by the men of taste, and the decree went forth for their removal, and was carried out on the appointed night, when they were all taken from their pedestals, the “old charley” of the beat being either asleep, or feed or frightened into silence. And we must record another of their performances.