of the unpleasant odours arising from heaps of putrescent vegetables, or your hat being suddenly knocked off by a contact with some unlucky Irish basket-woman, with cabbages piled on her head sufficient for a month’s consumption at Williams’s boiled beef and cabbage warehouse, in the Old Bailey.  The narrow passages through this mart remind me of the Chinese streets, where all is shop, bustle, squeeze, and commerce.  The lips of the fair promenaders I collate (in my mind’s eye, gentle reader) with the delicious cherry, and match their complexions with the peach, the nectarine, the rose, red or white, and even sometimes with the russet apple.  Then again I lounge amidst chests of oranges, baskets of nuts, and other et cetera, which, as boys, we relished in the play-ground, or, in maturer years, have enjoyed at the wine feast.  Here I can saunter in a green-house among plants and heaths, studying botany and beauty.  Facing me is a herb-shop, where old nurses, like Medeas of the day, obtain herbs for the sick and dying; and within a door or two flourishes a vender of the choicest fruits, with a rich display of every luxury to delight the living and the healthy.

I know of no spot where such variety may be seen in so small a compass.  Rich and poor, from the almost naked to the almost naked lady (of fashion, of course.) “Oh crikey, Bill,” roared a chimney-sweep in high glee.  The villain turned a pirouette in his rags, and in the centre mall of the Garden too; he finished it awkwardly, made a stagger, and recovered himself against—­what?—­“Animus meminisse horret”—­against a lady’s white gown!  But he apologized.  Oh, ye gods! his apology was so sincere, his manner was so sincere, that the true and thorough gentleman was in his every act and word. (Mem. merely as a corroboration, the lady forgave him.) What a lesson would this act of the man of high callings (from the chimney-tops) have been to our mustachioed and be-whiskered dandies, who, instead of apologizing to a female after they may have splashed her from head to foot, trod on her heel, or nearly carried away her bonnet, feathers, cap, and wig, only add to her confusion by an unmanly, impudent stare or sneer!

But to the Garden again.  I like it much; it is replete with humour, fun, and drollery; it contributes a handsome revenue to the pocket of his Grace the Duke of Bedford, besides supplying half the town with cabbages and melons, (the richest Melon on record came from Covent-Garden, and was graciously presented to our gracious sovereign.)

The south side appears to be devoted to potatoes, a useful esculent, and of greater use to the poor than all the melons in christendom.  Here kidneys and champions are to be seen from Scotland, York, and Kent; and here have I observed the haggard forms of withered women

  “In rags and tatters, friendless and forlorn,”

creeping from shop to shop, bargaining for “a good pen’orth of the best boilers;” and here have I often watched the sturdy Irishman walking with a regular connoisseur’s eye, peeping out above a short pipe, and below a narrow-brimmed hat,—­a perfect, keen, twinkling, connoisseur’s eye, critically examining every basket for the best lot of his own peculiar.