If you want to go and lunch, or dine frugally, at the Cheshire
Cheese, eat black pudding and drink pale ale, sit in Dr. Johnson's
old seat, and put your head against the exact spot on the wall where
his rested,--although the traces of this form of worship are all too
apparent,--then you jump on a Lipton's Tea 'bus, and are deposited
at the very door. All is novel, and all is interesting, whether it
be crowded streets of the East End traversed by the Davies' Pea-Fed
Bacon 'buses, or whether you ride to the very outskirts of London,
through green fields and hedgerows, by the Ridge's Food or Nestle's
Milk route.

There are trams, too, which take one to delightful places, though
the seats on top extend lengthwise, after the old 'knifeboard
pattern,' and one does not get so good a view of the country as from
the 'garden seats' on the roof of the omnibus; still there is
nothing we like better on a warm morning than a good outing on the
Vinolia tram that we pick up in Shaftesbury Avenue. There is a
street running from Shaftesbury Avenue into Oxford Street, which was
once the village of St. Giles, one of the dozens of hamlets
swallowed up by the great maw of London, and it still looks like a
hamlet, although it has been absorbed for many years. We constantly
happen on these absorbed villages, from which, not a century ago,
people drove up to town in their coaches.

If you wish to see another phase of life, go out on a Saturday
evening, from nine o'clock on to eleven, starting on a Beecham's
Pill 'bus, and keep to the poorer districts, alighting occasionally
to stand with the crowd in the narrower thoroughfares.

It is a market night, and the streets will be a moving mass of men