OLLA PODRIDA.

DIARY ON THE CONTINENT.

CHAPTER XVII.

London, June, 1837.

To one who has visited foreign climes, how very substantial every thing appears in England, from the child's plaything to the Duke of York's column! To use a joiner's phrase, every thing abroad is comparatively scampwork. Talk about the Palais Royale, the Rue Richelieu, and the splendour of the Parisian shops-why, two hundred yards of Regentstreet, commencing from Howell and James's, would buy the whole of them, and leave a ba

lance sufficient to buy the remainder of the French expositions. But still, if more substantial and massive, we are at the same time also heavy. We want more space, more air, more room to breathe, in London; we are too closely packed; we want gardens with trees to absorb the mephitic air, for what our lungs reject is suitable to vegetation. But we cannot have all we want in this world, so we must do without them.

What wealth is now pouring into the country! and, thank God, it is now somewhat better expended than it was in the bubble mania, which acted upon the plethora certainly, but bled us too freely and uselessly. The rail-road speculators have taken off many millions, and the money is well employed; for even allowing that, in some instances, the expectations of the parties who speculate may be disappointed, still it is spent in the country; and not only is it affording employment and sustenance to thousands, but the staple produce of England only is con

sumed. In these speculations in the millions required and immediately produced, you can witness the superiority of England. Undertakings from which foreign governments would shrink with dismay are here effected by the meeting of a few individuals.

And now for my commissions. What a list! And the first item is-two Canary birds, the last having been one fine morning found dead; nobody knows how; there was plenty of seed and water (put in after the servant found that they had been starved by his neglect), which, of course, proved that they did not die for want of food. I hate what are called pets; they are a great nuisance, for they will die, and then such a lamentation over them! In the "Fire Worshippers" Moore makes his Hinda say

"I never nursed a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well

And love me-it was sure to die."

Now Hinda was perfectly correct, except in thinking that she was peculiarly unfortunate. Every one who keeps pets might tell the same tale as Hinda. I recollect once a Canary bird died, and my young people were in a great tribulation; so to amuse them we made them a paper coffin, put the defunct therein, and sewed on the lid, dug a grave in the garden, and dressing them out in any remnants of black we could find for weepers, made a procession to the grave where it was buried. This little divertissement quite took their fancy. The next day one of the youngest came up to me and said, "Oh, papa, when will you die?"— A strange question, thought I, quite forgetting the procession of the day before." Why do you ask, my dear?"-" Oh, because it will be such fun burying you." "Much obliged to you, my

love."

There is much more intellect in birds than

people suppose. An instance of that occurred