ow do you like being here?" I asked.

He said that he enjoyed it. The only blot on his pleasure was the fear that
the Abbey might fall on him, and he therefore hoped that _The Times'_ fund
was progressing by leaps and bounds.

His immediate neighbours, on the contrary, exhibited no serenity whatever,
and I found Canning and Palmerston shivering with apprehension in their
frockcoats. The worst of it was that I could say nothing to reassure them.

Here and there, however, a desire for locomotion was expressed. Dr.
Johnson, in the enclosure behind St. Clement Danes, is very restive. I
asked him if he would object to removal. "Sir," said the Little
Lexicographer (as his sculptor has made him), "I should derive satisfaction
from it. A man cannot be considered as enviable who spends all his time in
the contemplation, from an unvacatable position, of a street to the
perambulation of which he devoted many of his happiest hours."

I ventured to agree.

"Nor," continued the sage, "is it a source of contentment to a man of
integrity to observe an unceasing procession of Americans on their way to
partake of pudding in a hostelry that has made its name and prosperity out
of a mythical association with himself and be unable to correct the error."

"Are you in general in favour of statuary?" I made bold to ask.

"Painting," said he, "consumes labour not disproportionate to its effect;
but a fellow will hack half a year at a block of marble to make something
in stone that hardly resembles a man. Look around you; look at me. The
value of statuary is owing to its difficulty. You would not value the
finest head cut upon a carrot."

But one effect of this General Post among the statues is good, and it
should delight Mr. ASQUITH. Cromwell, now outside Westminster Hall, is to
be moved into the House.

E.V.L.

* * * * *

FLOWERS' NAMES.

MARIGOLDS.

As MARY was a-walking
All on a summer day,
The flowers all stood curtseying
And bowing in her way;
The blushing poppies hung their heads
And whispered MARY'S name,
And all the wood anemones
Hung down their heads in shame.

The violet hid behind her leaves
And veiled her timid face,
And all the flowers bowed a-down,
For holy was the place.
Only a little common flower
Looked boldly up and smiled
To see the happy mother come
A-carrying her Child.

The little Child He laughed aloud