walls and furniture of my own chamber in
London. Asmodeus was seated by my side reading a Sunday newspaper--his
favourite reading.

"Ah!" said I, stretching myself with so great an earnestness, that I
believed at first my stature had been increased by the malice of the
Wizard, and that I stretched from one end of the room to the other--"Ah!
dear Asmodeus, how pleasant it is to find myself on earth again! After
all, these romantic wonders only do for a short time. Nothing like
London when one has been absent from it upon a Syntax search after the
Picturesque!"

"London is indeed a charming place,"--said the Devil--"all our
fraternity are very fond of it--it is the custom for the Parisians to
call it dull. What an instance of the vanity of patriotism--there is
vice enough in it to make any reasonable man cheerful."

"Yes: the gaiety of Paris is really a delusion. How poor its shops--how
paltry its equipages--how listless its crowds--compared with those of
London! If it was only for the pain in walking their accursed stones,
sloping down to a river in the middle of the street--all sense of idle
enjoyment would be spoilt. But in London--'the hum, the stir, the din of
men'--the activity and flush of life everywhere--the brilliant
shops--the various equipages--the signs of luxury, wealth, restlessness,
that meet you on all sides--give a much more healthful and vigorous
bound to the spirits, than the indolent loungers of the Tuileries,
spelling a thrice-read French paper which contains nothing, or sitting
on chairs by the hour together, unwilling to stir because they have paid
a penny for the seat--ever enjoy. O! if London would seem gay after
Paris, how much more so after a visit to the interior of the Earth.
And what is the news, my Asmodeus?"

"The Theatres have re-opened. Apropos of them--I will tell you a fine
instance of the futility of human ambition. Mr. Monck Mason took the
King's Theatre, saith report--(which is the creed of devils)--in order
to bring out an opera of his own, which Mr. Laporte, with a very
uncourteous discretion, had thought fit to refuse. The season
passes--and Mr. Monck Mason has ruined himself without being able to
bring out his opera after all! What a type of speculation. A speculator
is one who puts a needle in a hay-stack, and then burns all his hay
without finding the needle. It is hard to pay too dear for one's
whistle--but still more hard if one never plays a tune on the whistle
one pay