was led away heaving and snorting frightfully.

Somebody smashed Mulligan's hat over his eyes, and I led him forth into
the silent morning. The chirrup of the birds, the freshness of the rosy
air, and a penn'orth of coffee that I got for him at a stall in the
Regent Circus, revived him somewhat. When I quitted him, he was not
angry but sad. He was desirous, it is true, of avenging the wrongs of
Erin in battle line; he wished also to share the grave of Sarsfield and
Hugh O'Neill; but he was sure that Miss Perkins, as well as Miss Little,
was desperately in love with him; and I left him on a doorstep in tears.

"Is it best to be laughing-mad, or crying-mad, in the world?" says I
moodily, coming into my street. Betsy the maid was already up and at
work, on her knees, scouring the steps, and cheerfully beginning her
honest daily labor.

OUR STREET

BY MR. M. A TITMARSH.

Our street, from the little nook which I occupy in it, and whence I
and a fellow-lodger and friend of mine cynically observe it, presents a
strange motley scene. We are in a state of transition. We are not as yet
in the town, and we have left the country, where we were when I came
to lodge with Mrs. Cammysole, my excellent landlady. I then took
second-floor apartments at No. 17, Waddilove Street, and since, although
I have never moved (having various little comforts about me), I find
myself living at No. 46A, Pocklington Gardens.

Why is this? Why am I to pay eighteen shillings instead of fifteen? I
was quite as happy in Waddilove Street; but the fact is, a great
portion of that venerable old district has passed away, and we are being
absorbed into the splendid new white-stuccoed Doric-porticoed genteel
Pocklington quarter. Sir Thomas Gibbs Pocklington, M. P. for the borough
of Lathanplaster, is the founder of the district and his own fortune.
The Pocklington Estate Office is in the Square, on a line with
Waddil--with Pocklington Gardens I mean. The old inn, the "Ram and
Magpie," where the market-gardeners used to bait, came out this year
with a new white face and title, the shield, &c. of the "Pocklington
Arms." Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard, Cavendish, De Ros,
De la Zouche, all mingled together.

Even our house, 46A, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in
compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of
impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs,
Sir Thomas's agent and