Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 448 | Page 8

the season; and
he himself is a model of a coster, clean shaved, clean shod, and trimly
dressed, with a flower in his button-hole, an everlasting smile upon his
face, and the nattiest of neck-ties. The cunning rogue pretends to be
smitten with Betty, and most likely does the same with all the other
Bettys of the neighbourhood, to all of whom he chatters incessantly of
everything and everybody--save and except of the wife and three
children waiting for him at home. He will leave a good portion of his
stock behind him when he quits the terrace.
After Charley has disappeared, there is a pause for an hour or two in the
flow of professionals past Our Terrace. The few pedestrians that pass
along are chiefly gentlefolks, who have come abroad this fine morning
for an airing--to take a constitutional, and to pick up an appetite for
dinner. You may chance to hear the cry of 'Oranges and nuts,' or of
'Cod--live cod,' and you may be entertained by a band of musicians in a
gaily-coloured van patrolling for the purpose of advertising the merits
of something or other which is to be had for nothing at all, or the next
thing to it, if you can prevail upon yourself to go and fetch it. Perhaps
Punch and Judy will pitch their little citadel in front of your dwelling;
or, more likely still, a band of mock Ethiopians, with fiddle, castanets,
and banjo, may tempt your liberality with a performance of Uncle Ned
or Old Dan Tucker; or a corps of German musicians may trumpet you
into a fit of martial ardour; or a wandering professor of the German
flute soothe you into a state of romance.
As the afternoon wears on, the tranquillity grows more profound. The
villas opposite stand asleep in the sunshine; the sound of a single
footstep is heard on the pavement; and anon you hear the feeble,
cracked voice of old Willie, the water-cress man, distinctly articulating
the cry of 'Water-cresses; fine brown water-cresses; royal Albert
water-cresses; the best in London--everybody say so.' The
water-cresses are welcomed on the terrace as an ornament and

something more to the tea-table; and while tea is getting ready for the
inhabitants of the terrace, the dwellers in the opposite villas are seen
returning to dinner. The lame match-man now hobbles along upon his
crutches, with his little basket of lucifers suspended at his side. He is
thoroughly deaf and three parts dumb, uttering nothing beyond an
incomprehensible kind of croak by way of a demand for custom. He is
a privileged being, whom nobody thinks of interfering with. He has the
entrée of all the gardens on both sides of the way, and is the
acknowledged depositary of scraps and remnants of all kinds which
have made their last appearance upon the dinner or supper table.
About five o'clock, the tinkling note of the muffin-bell strikes
agreeably upon the ear, suggestive of fragrant souchong and
bottom-crusts hot, crackling, and unctuous. Now ensues a delicate
savour in the atmosphere of the terrace kitchens, and it is just at its
height when Smith, Brown, Jones, and Robinson are seen walking
briskly up the terrace. They all go in at Smith's, where the muffin-man
went in about half an hour before, and left half his stock behind him.
By six o'clock, the lords and ladies of Our Terrace are congregated
round their tea-urns; and by seven, you may see from one of the
back-windows a tolerable number of the lords, arrayed in
dressing-gowns and slippers, and some of them with corpulent
meerschaums dangling from their mouths, strolling leisurely in the
gardens in the rear of their dwellings, and amusing themselves with
their children, whose prattling voices and innocent laughter mingle
with the twittering of those suburban songsters, the sparrows, and with
the rustling of the foliage, stirred by the evening breeze. These pleasant
sounds die away by degrees. Little boys and girls go to bed; the gloom
of twilight settles down upon the gardens; candles are lighted in the
drawing-rooms, and from a dozen houses at once pianofortes
commence their harmony. At No. 12, the drawing-room windows are
open, though the blinds are down; and the slow-pacing policeman
pauses in his round, and leans against the iron railings, being suddenly
brought up by the richly-harmonious strains of a glee for three voices:
Brown, Jones, and Robinson are doing the Chough and Crow; and
Smith, who prides himself on his semi-grand, which he tunes with his
own hands once a week, is doing the accompaniment in his best style.

The merry chorus swells delightfully upon the ear, and is heard half
way down the terrace: the few foot-passengers who are passing stop
under the window to listen, till one of them is imprudent