CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. London, June, 1837. To one who has visited foreign climes, how very substantial everything appears in England, from the child's plaything to the Duke of York's column! To use a joiners phrase, everything abroad is comparatively scamp-work. Talk about the Palais Royale, the Rue Richelieu, and the splendour of the Parisian shops--why, two hundred yards of Regent-street, commencing from Howell and James's, would buy the whole of them, and leave a balance sufficient to buy the remainder of the French _expositions_. But still, if more substantial and massive, we are at the same time also heavy. We want more space, more air, more room to breathe, in London; we are too closely packed; we want gardens with trees to absorb the mephitic air, for what our lungs reject is suitable to vegetation. But we cannot have all we want in this world, so we must do without them. What wealth is now pouring into the country! and, thank God, it is now somewhat better expended than it was in the bubble mania, which acted upon the plethora certainly, but bled us too freely and uselessly. The rail-road speculators have taken off many millions, and the money is well employed; for even allowing that, in some instances, the expectations of the parties who speculate may be disappointed, still it is spent in the country; and not only is it affording employment and sustenance to thousands, but the staple produce of England only is consumed. In these speculations--in the millions required and immediately produced, you can witness the superiority of England. Undertakings from which foreign governments would shrink with dismay are here effected by the meeting of a few individuals. And now for my commissions. What a list! And the first item is--two Canary birds, the last having been one fine morning found dead: nobody knows how; there was plenty of seed and water (put in after the servant found that they had been starved by his neglect), which, of course, proved that they did not die for want of food. I hate what are called pets; they are a great nuisance, for they will die, and then such a lamentation over them! In the "Fire Worshippers" Moore makes his Hinda say-- "I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me--it was sure to die."