of the present day, in a word, can have but little idea of London some
six or eight score years back. Thou pudding-sided old dandy of St.
James's Street, with thy lacquered boots, thy dyed whiskers, and thy
suffocating waistband, what art thou to thy brilliant predecessor in the
same quarter? The Brougham from which thou descendest at the portal of
the "Carlton" or the "Travellers'," is like everybody else's; thy
black coat has no more plaits, nor buttons, nor fancy in it than thy
neighbor's; thy hat was made on the very block on which Lord Addlepate's
was cast, who has just entered the Club before thee. You and he yawn
together out of the same omnibus-box every night; you fancy yourselves
men of pleasure; you fancy yourselves men of fashion; you fancy
yourselves men of taste; in fancy, in taste, in opinion, in philosophy,
the newspaper legislates for you; it is there you get your jokes and
your thoughts, and your facts and your wisdom--poor Pall Mall dullards.
Stupid slaves of the press, on that ground which you at present occupy,
there were men of wit and pleasure and fashion, some five-and-twenty
lustres ago.

We are at Button's--the well-known sign of the "Turk's Head." The crowd
of periwigged heads at the windows--the swearing chairmen round the
steps (the blazoned and coronalled panels of whose vehicles denote the
lofty rank of their owners),--the throng of embroidered beaux entering
or departing, and rendering the air fragrant with the odors of pulvillio
and pomander, proclaim the celebrated resort of London's Wit and
Fashion. It is the corner of Regent Street. Carlton House has not yet
been taken down.

A stately gentleman in crimson velvet and gold is sipping chocolate
at one of the tables, in earnest converse with a friend whose suit is
likewise embroidered, but stained by time, or wine mayhap, or wear. A