habitants of the terrace, the dwellers in the opposite villas are
seen returning to dinner. The lame match-man now hobbles along upon
his crutches, with his little basket of lucifers suspended at his
side. He is thoroughly deaf and three parts dumb, uttering nothing
beyond an incomprehensible kind of croak by way of a demand for
custom. He is a privileged being, whom nobody thinks of interfering
with. He has the _entree_ of all the gardens on both sides of the way,
and is the acknowledged depositary of scraps and remnants of all kinds
which have made their last appearance upon the dinner or supper table.

About five o'clock, the tinkling note of the muffin-bell strikes
agreeably upon the ear, suggestive of fragrant souchong and
bottom-crusts hot, crackling, and unctuous. Now ensues a delicate
savour in the atmosphere of the terrace kitchens, and it is just at
its height when Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson are seen walking
briskly up the terrace. They all go in at Smith's, where the
muffin-man went in about half an hour before, and left half his stock
behind him. By six o'clock, the lords and ladies of Our Terrace are
congregated round their tea-urns; and by seven, you may see from one
of the back-windows a tolerable number of the lords, arrayed in
dressing-gowns and slippers, and some of them with corpulent
meerschaums dangling from their mouths, strolling leisurely in the
gardens in the rear of their dwellings, and amusing themselves with
their children, whose prattling voices and innocent laughter mingle
with the twittering of those suburban songsters, the sparrows, and
with the rustling of the foliage, stirred by the evening breeze. These
pleasant sounds die away by degrees. Little boys and girls go to bed;
the gloom of twilight settles down upon the gardens; candles are
lighted in the drawing-rooms, and from a dozen houses at once
pianofortes commence their harmony. At No. 12, the drawing-room
windows are open, though the blinds are down; and the slow-pacing
policeman pauses in his round, and leans against the iron railings,
being suddenly brought up by the richly-harmonious strains of a glee
for three voices: Brown, Jones, and Robinson are doing the _Chough and
Crow_; and Smith, who prides himself on his semi-grand, which he tunes
with his own hands once a week, is doing the accompaniment in his best
style. The merry chorus swells delightfully upon the ear, and is heard
half way down the terrace: the few foot-pa