The parish engine is pulled along by a lusty beadle, like an invalid chair at Brighton by one of the plethoric Sons of Plush. Six little boys subscribe their voices and their strength, but there is more of the former than the latter. There is merriment in Drury Lane; loud cries of "Fire" play gaily upon the ear. Even a policeman—that rarest object of _vertu_—is seen. He illuminates for two seconds the busy scene with the "light in his laughing eye" of bull. The fire-escape is unrolled, like a tall mummy, from its dark slumber of ages, and stretches its spider limbs high into the air as it yawns again into life. It crawls, like a centipede on its hind leg, as far as Temple Bar, and there draws itself up, like a big note of exclamation, and makes a full stop. Peradventure it reaches the fire three days afterwards. There is a time for all things. But whose is that ecstatic figure? It is as familiar to my vision as Cooper in George Barnwell. Who can it be? Yes—no—yes! It cannot be! By St. Jullien, it is the dismal Child of France! The clock of St. Clement's strikes ten. What! Monsieur, hast thou for three foggy hours been poring over those self-same pies? Thy admiration smacks, methinks, of the bigot. Thou art indeed an enthusiast. Hie thee to Soyer! Catch him between a poem and a _pâté_, bursting with the richest stuffing of the goose—I mean the _pâté_. Perform the same rites before his household pans of stew; let thy every limb speak thy admiration, and my head of hair, bought but yesterday at Truefitt's, he will give thee, for half such prodigal worship, thy weight in pies, be they of gooseberry or mutton, or the ham and veal dedicated to Thespis, or even the delicate eel, the dear object of thy silent love! Concealment has indeed fed upon thy damask cheek, and picked it—would I could say clean!—to the bone. "_Voici, mon Noble Seigneur, de quoi te régaler._" He sees not the proffered Joseph; he hears not my tones, sweet with charity. He stirs not: he stands on holy pavement. Poor Frenchman, I would tarry with thee, but I must rush me home to supper. Haven't I tripe waiting kindly for me! My clay, too, points to heavy wet; and my pewter will lose its head if I am not quickly with it. _Adieu._ * * * * * Night has spread its shutters over London. All is still, save a spirituous cry of "Va-_ri_-e-ty," that comes at muffled intervals leaping through the air. There is not a Gent to be seen. Even Lord Ellam has retired to his bed under the ducal counter. Sleep snores heavily in the Strand, and the nightmare rules in the City. All humanity, save editors and milkmen, is between the sheets.