My eyes are once again turned to the clock face. It is One o’Clock in the Afternoon, and I must think of London. Come back, ye memories: open Sesame, ye secret chambers of the brain, and let me transport myself away from the dry skittle-ground, the seven grave cows and the vicious sow, to plunge once more into the toil and trouble of the seething, eddying Mistress City of the world. There are so many things going on at one o’clock in the day; the steam of life is by that time so thoroughly “up,” that I am embarrassed somewhat to know which scenes would be the best to select from the plethora of tableaux I find among my stereoscopic slides. One o’clock is the great time for making business appointments. You meet your lawyer at one; you walk down to the office of the newspaper you may happen to write for, and settle the subject of your leading article, at one. One o’clock is a capital hour to step round to your stockbroker, in Pope’s Head Alley, Cornhill, and do a little business in stocks or shares. At one o’clock the Prime Minister, or his colleagues, have resignation enough to listen (with tolerable patience) to some half dozen deputations who come to harangue them about nothing in particular; at one o’clock obliging noblemen take the chair at public meetings at the Freemasons’, or the London Tavern. At one o’clock—from one to two rather—the aristocracy indulge in the sumptuous meal known as “lunch.” At one o’clock that vast, yet to thousands unknown and unrecked of city, which I may call Dock London, is in full activity after some twenty minutes’ suspension while the workmen take _their_ lunch.