attire, fail to impress me with any thing like admiration, and certainly do not excite within me the smallest thrill of envy. It is but the race of wealth, the competition of pomp, the exhibition of pitiful rivalry which now whirls along that smoking road: each is striving to outvie the other—not in greatness, nor in goodness, nor even in substantial comfort, but simply in the gew-gaws and trappings which are produced by the common artificer. I am not a "oneness-of-purpose" man, Bogle, nor do I set up for an "earnest spirit;" but all this sort of thing strikes me as incalculably mean and plebeian. There is, in fact, among the English people, especially the Londoners, a degree of toadyism and worship of the externals of Mammon, which would be utterly ludicrous in any other part of Europe. In some countries a man is esteemed for his personal talents and pretensions; in others, the claim of noble blood and unalloyed descent reflects a borrowed splendour and consideration upon individuals; but nowhere, except here, as far as I know, are claims to rank put forward on the foundation of a lacquered equipage, and a couple of flaunting and pimpled dependants, for whose sake one is almost tempted to believe that a portion of the human race are created without the awful and immortal attribute of a soul! Aristocracy-hunting, indeed, is a passion which is carried in London to a most incredible extent. Much as the son of the soap-boiler values himself on his wealth, he is yet a discontented person if he cannot by some means attach himself to a scion of nobility, of whose acquaintance he may boast to his less fortunate compeers. He will even go so far as to pay hard money for such an adventitious distinction; and many are the thousands which annually find their way from ignoble to titled pockets for this meanest of earthly privileges. Nay, I believe that there is no possible form of imposture which will not be assumed by some, for the sake of constituting an imaginary link between themselves and the members of the class whom they look up to with a species of adoration. I shall give you a very pregnant proof of this. A hereditary tendency to corns, and a lingering regard for the ancient bond of alliance between Scotland and France, have caused me for many years to submit my toes to papooshes of the foreign manufacture. In former times, it is true, I might have undergone reproach as a discourager of the home market—but all such scruples have been removed by the policy of Sir Robert Peel. Accordingly I went, the other day, to a rather celebrated warehouse in Regent Street, where ready-made Parisian boots are vended; and after some trouble selected a couple of pairs, which I fondly hoped might enhance the native symmetry of my instep. When the parcel came home, I opened it, and the first pair which I extricated bore on the inside and on the sole, the name of the Hon. Augustus Bosh. I thought at first there might be some mistake, but on inspection I was convinced that they were the same boots which, that morning, I had fitted on unsullied and unmarked, and, as Bosh and I seemed to be of about the same calibre of pedestal, I felt no hesitation in perambulating London for a couple of days upon his soles. I then drew forth the other pair, which, to my great astonishment, I found were marked as the property of a certain Viscount St Vitus. Now, I had only experimented in the first instance with the right moiety of these boots, and on attempting the other, I was annoyed to find that my heel was at least twice as large as that of the noble peer. In consequence I went back to the warehouse, and this time selected a virgin pair without spot or blemish, in order that I might possess at least one unquestionable footing of my own. It would not do, Bogle. The boots were sent to me inscribed as the property of Lord Alfred Le Pitcher, and at this moment I am installed in that respectable nobleman's leather. Now, mark the consequences. If I go down to the country, I shall inevitably be taken either for the Honourable Augustus, who is notorious for his defalcations in the ring, or for Le Pitcher, who is proverbially a roué and a spendthrift. In the one case I run the risk of a horse-whipping, in the other I am perfectly certain to be subjected to an exorbitant bill. Or, supposing that
