t the
Judge and Jury he was employed as one of the mock counsel; but he became
too intemperate even for that, and enlisted, and miserably died. They
have tragic ends, many of these frequenters of Judge and Jury Clubs, and
it is sad to think that, when the merriment is the loudest, and the drink
is most stimulating, and the fellowship most jovial, there is burlesque
even then.

THE CAVE OF HARMONY.

Reader, do you know the Cave of Harmony? If you do not, so much the
better. If you are one of its _habitues_, I fear no words of mine can
make you forsake it. It is said the Cave is altered since we were
there--so much the better; Thackeray, I think, had something to do with
that reform--and that now nothing objectionable is sung. Still, I doubt
whether drinking and harmony after 12 P.M. can do much good. You and I,
it may be, are old men,

"Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks,
Empty scarecrows you and I."

We have run through youth with money in our pockets and time on our
hands, and have seen all that life can offer, and know, what so many do
not, that pleasure's cup but sparkles near the brim. What we have done
and been has been wine working on the fiery impulses of young blood, but
now, sir, with our hair turning grey and our eyes growing dim, shall we
not lift up a warning voice, and ask youth to pause ere it take the final
plunge which for years, it may be for ever, shall estrange it from
innocence, and peace, and God.

It is midnight in the great city in which we write. For a while sorrow
and care are veiled from the eyes of men, and to the poorest and most
toilworn come pleasant dreams. The shops have long been closed, the roar
of the streets has died away, the theatres have discharged their jaded
crowds, and as we walk along, meeting now and then a poor drunkard
reeling home--or a policeman silently patrolling the streets--or one of
the unfortunates, by turns man's victim and curse--or some of the
votaries of dissipation who are awake when other men are asleep--we
realize all the grandeur and poetry and magnificence of London by night,
and wonder not that Savage and Johnson should have found such a
fascination in the scene, and that other sons of genius have read such
sermons in its eloquent stones. Let us stroll towards Covent Garden--in
another hour it will be ringing with the oaths and execrations of
seemingly all the market gardeners in Middlesex--and enter that doorway
indicated by t