OBSERVATIONS IN THE STREET.

W

E invariably encounter in our peregrinations certain people, who have some peculiar feature or other as infallibly distinguishing them from their fellow bipeds, as the marks assigned by Nature to point out the differences existing amongst quadrupedal tribes.

The Fop walks on his toes with stilted affectation, smiles and simpers, and his pace never exceeds an idle saunter. He adjusts alternately the cock of his hat and the set of his curls, and arranges his stock and pulls down his waistcoat about five times in twice as many minutes. He fails not to admire himself in every mirror he encounters,―mirrors possessing the same attraction for his personal points as the loadstone has for the needle to which he is indebted for them.

The Lounger differs from the Fop, inasmuch as he is constantly occupied with everything but himself; he has generally a limited income; and his world is confined to the neighbourhood of the parks, the clubs, and the theatres. His time is passed in alternately lounging to and from one or the other, and his "pauses and rests" are coffee-rooms, cigardivans, and billiard-tables. The jeux d' esprit of "Punch," he retails as "capital things that were said at my club last night." He always is (or pretends to have been) one of the first at every opera, ballet, play, concert, ball, exhibition, or other public place, and no doubt he will be the first to trail his cane round Trafalgar Square, and puff the cloud of his Cuba at the foot of Nelson's Pillar. He knows exactly what took place in "the House" last night, and what will transpire on the first reading of the new Bill for getting rid of light sovereigns

I

by hawking them about at a penny each. The Lounger scans every pretty face, every pretty ancle, he meets; stops at every print-shop, even if it is constructed in an umbrella; and peeps into every crowd. He has no employment but that of killing time, and is not deficient in knowledge, albeit 't is more varied than profound, for he has acquired some information from the stall of every wonder-hawker-some fact from the "external-paper-hanging stations" of the "Great Metropolis," which, though but little regarded at the present moment, Mr. Grant will doubtless one day present some "Rambling Recollections" of to the British Public.

The Loiterer must not be confounded with the Lounger, for he is a different species of the same genus, invariably on the look-out for a friend, having always unfortunately left. his purse at home. His salutation begins with "Delighted to meet you, my dear fellow, lend me a sovereign-demn'd awkward-come out without any tin." His last words are, "Well, good bye, I'm going! I'm going!" which, unless you open your purse-strings, he repeats you feel inclined to turn auctioneer and knock him down.

until

The man who considers the future, looks upward; he who reflects on the past, looks down. He that looks before him is occupied with the present; he who gazes carelessly

from right to left, thinks of nothing; but it is more than probable that he who frequently looks behind him fears his creditors.

The Proud Man walks with head erect, body stiff as buckram, and half-closed, winking eyes, as though he was above noticing those he meets. The opinion he entertains of himself ensconces his thumb in the arm-hole

is easily guessed by the self-satisfaction with which he

of his waistcoat, extending his digits in the directions of the cardinal points.

The Simpleton walks fast, and swings his arms to and fro like pendulums. His hat is placed back upon his head, that all the world may see the small os frontis that holds his little brains. His eyes carry a vacant stare, and his widely-opened mouth presents an inexhaustible stock of "broad grins."

He who has an appointment with his lady-love, walks very fast (as he should do), and does not slacken his pace to peep under a single bonnet. Upon his return, however, he reviews them all in succession, and with a scrutiny that would do honour to an inspector-general. The man who lounges about alone and talks aloud of himself to himself, is, in his own mind, perfectly satisfied with himself.

The well-bred man who indulges in a cigar as companion of his promenade, removes the dusky Yarico to a respectful distance when he passes closely by a lady, but the vulgar man invariably puffs his smoke into her face. When the former is in her company, he asks if the Havannah be offensive to her, or casts it at once aside; but the latter presumes she " can stand fire."

The man who quietly wends his way, reflects, meditates, or calculates. He who is absorbed by a speculative project, walks quickly; and he whose imagination is enthusiastic of success in trade or love (they so often go together), runs, rather than walks.

The man who trots mincingly along, with his countenance inclined forward, twinkling his eyes and jogging his shoulders, is generally a babbler, captious and boastful.

The studiously-dressed man, who smooths his beaver with his palms and dusts his boots. with his bandanna, is punctilious in most things to a trifle.

He who wears a profusion of gold chains, arranged in every possible festoon, who displays his brooches, rings, and gewgaws, is a sharper, a quack dentist, a sheriff's-officer, a jew discounter, a self-constituted count, or else a man who has suddenly acquired a fortune, and wishes all the world to perceive it and his want of taste at the same time.