a good administrator, another did nothing; one had no
detail, another too much; one was a screw, another a spendthrift; this
man could make a set speech, but could not reply; his rival, capital at
a reply but clumsy in a formal oration.

At this time London was a very dull city, instead of being, as it is
now, a very amusing one. Probably there never was a city in the world,
with so vast a population, which was so melancholy. The aristocracy
probably have always found amusements adapted to the manners of the time
and the age in which they lived. The middle classes, half a century
ago, had little distraction from their monotonous toil and melancholy
anxieties, except, perhaps, what they found in religious and
philanthropic societies. Their general life must have been very dull.
Some traditionary merriment always lingered among the working classes of
England. Both in town and country they had always their games and fairs
and junketing parties, which have developed into excursion trains and
colossal pic-nics. But of all classes of the community, in the days
of our fathers, there was none so unfortunate in respect of public
amusements as the bachelors about town. There were, one might almost
say, only two theatres, and they so huge, that it was difficult to see
or hear in either. Their monopolies, no longer redeemed by the stately
genius of the Kembles, the pathos of Miss O'Neill, or the fiery passion
of Kean, were already menaced, and were soon about to fall; but the
crowd of diminutive but sparkling substitutes, which have since taken
their place, had not yet appeared, and half-price at Drury Lane or
Covent Garden was a dreary distraction after a morning of desk work.
There were no Alhambras then, and no Cremornes, no palaces of crystal in
terraced gardens, no casinos, no music-halls, no aquaria, no promenade
concerts. Evans' existed, but not in the fulness of its modern
development; and the most popular place of resort was the barbarous
conviviality of the Cider Cellar.

Mr. Trenchard had paid the bill, collected his quotas and rewarded the
waiter, and then, as they all rose, said to Endymion, "We are going to
the Divan. Do you smoke?"

Endymion shook his head; but Trenchard added, "Well, you will some day;
but you had better come with us. You need not smoke; you can order a cup
of coffee, and then you may read all the newspapers and magazines. It is
a nice lounge."

So, emerging from Naseby Street into the Strand, t