t as long and satiny. He is
fond of smoothing his face with them; he brings them both up to his
ears and works them forward like slow fans. Transformation indeed. I
defy you to recognise him for the same man--except for a faint
reminiscence about his tail.

But all's of a piece. The crossing-sweeper now has shaggy legs which
end in hoofs. His way of looking at young people is very
unpleasant;--and one had always thought him such a kindly old man. The
butcher's boy--what a torso!--is walking with his arm round the waist
of the young lady in Number seven. These are lovers, you see; but it's
mostly on her side. He tilts up her chin and gives her a kiss before
he goes; and she stands looking after him with shining eyes, hoping
that he will turn round before he gets to the corner. But he doesn't.

Wait, now, wait, wait--who is this lovely, straining, beating creature
darting here and there about the square, bruising herself, poor
beautiful thing, against the railings? A sylph, a caught fairy?
Surely, surely, I know somebody--is it?--It can't be. That careworn
lady? God in Heaven, is it she? Enough! Show me no more. I will show
you no more, my dear sir, if it agitates you; but I confess that I
have come to regard it as one of the most interesting spectacles in
London. The mere information--to say nothing of the amusement--which I
have derived from it would fill a volume; but if it did, I may add, I
myself should undoubtedly fill a cell in Holloway. I will therefore
spare you what I know about the Doctor's wife, and what happens to
Lieutenant-Colonel Storter when I see him through these windows--I
could never have believed it unless I had seen it. These things are
not done, I know; but observed in this medium they seem quite
ordinary. Lastly--for I can't go through the catalogue--I will speak
of the air as I see it from here. My dear sir, the air is alive,
thronged with life. Spirits, forms, lovely immaterial diaphanous
shapes, are weaving endless patterns over the face of the day. They
shine like salmon at a weir, or they darken the sky as redwings in the
autumn fields; they circle, shrieking as they flash, like swallows at
evening; they battle and wrangle together; or they join hands and
whirl about the square in an endless chain. Of their beauty, their
grace of form and movement, of the shifting filmy colour, hue blending
in hue, of their swiftness, their glancing eyes, their exuberant joy
or grief I cannot now speak. Bes