rts, lanes, and alleys? Where such a pure mixture of
Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We
boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have
adverted. We _can_ suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random--at a
house with lodgers too--for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty
before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any house
of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman--a Frenchman in Seven Dials!
Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King's education had been neglected in
his infancy, and as he couldn't understand half the man said, he took it
for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in 'The Dials' for the first time, and
stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages, uncertain
which to take, will see enough around him to keep his curiosity and
attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular square
into which he has plunged, the streets and courts dart in all directions,
until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which hangs over the
house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain and confined; and
lounging at every corner, as if they came there to take a few gasps of
such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is too much exhausted
already, to be enabled to force itself into the narrow alleys around, are
groups of people, whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but
a regular Londoner's with astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who
having imbibed the contents of various 'three-outs' of gin and bitters in
the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of
domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel
satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other
ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are
all partisans on one side or other.

'Vy don't you pitch into her, Sarah?' exclaims one half-dressed matron,
by way of encouragement. 'Vy don't you? if _my_ 'usband had treated her
with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I'd tear her precious eyes
out--a wixen!'

'What's the matter, ma'am?' inquires another old woman, who has just
bustled up to the spot.

'Matter!' replies the first speaker, talking _at_ the obnoxious
combatant, 'matter! Here's poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed
children of her own, can't go out a charing for one