umes no cares, the people likewise have no cares. The state may be
rent, the court a nest of intrigue, King and Parliament at odds, the
treasury bankrupt: but what care they; for the King cares not. Is not
the day prosperous? Are not the taverns in remotest London filled with
roistering spirits who drink and sing to their hearts' content of their
deeds in the wars just done? Can they not steal when hungry and demand
when dry?

Aye, the worldly ones are cavaliers now--for a cavalier is King--e'en
though the sword once followed Cromwell and the gay cloak and the big
flying plume do not quite hide the not-yet-discarded cuirass of an
Ironside.

Cockpits and theatres! It is the Restoration! The maypole is up again at
Maypole Lane, and the milk-maids bedecked with garlands dance to the
tunes of the fiddle. Boys no longer serve for heroines at the play, as
was the misfortune in Shakespeare's day. The air is full of hilarity and
joy.

Let us too for a little hour forget responsibility and fall in with the
spirit of the times; while we tipple and toast, and vainly boast: "The
King! Long live the King!"

Old Drury Lane was alive as the sun was setting, on the day of our visit
to London Town, with loungers and loafers; busy-bodies and hawkers;
traffickers of sweets and other petty wares; swaggering soldiers,
roistering by, stopping forsooth to throw kisses to inviting eyes at the
windows above.

As we turn into Little Russell Street from the Lane, passing many chairs
richly made, awaiting their fair occupants, we come upon the main
entrance to the King's House. Not an imposing or spacious structure to
be sure, it nevertheless was suited to the managerial purposes of the
day, which were, as now, to spend as little and get as much as may be.
The pit was barely protected from the weather by a glazed cupola; so
that the audience could not always hear the sweetest song to a finish
without a drenching, or dwell upon the shapeliness of the prettiest
ankle, that revealed itself in the dance by means of candles set on
cressets, which in those days sadly served the purposes of foot-lights.

It was Dryden's night. His play was on--"The Conquest of Granada." The
best of London were there; for a first night then was as attractive as a
first night now. In the balcony were draped boxes, in which lovely gowns
were seen--lovely hair and lovely gems; but the fair faces were often
masked.

The King sat listless in the royal box, watching th