mouth widely grinning, projecting chin, cheeks covered with grog blossoms, a large protuberance on his back, another on his chest; yet with these deformities he appeared uncommonly happy.  This was Mr. Punch.  He held in his right hand a tremendous bludgeon, with which he amused himself by rapping on the head every one who came within his reach.  This exhibition seems very absurd, yet not less than one hundred were present—­children, boys, old men, and even gentlemen and ladies, were standing by, and occasionally greeting the performer with the smile of approbation.  Mr. Punch, however, was not to have it all his own way, for another and better sort of Punch-like exhibition appeared a few yards off, that took away Mr. Punch’s audience, to the great dissatisfaction of that gentleman.  This was an exhibition called the Fantoccini, and far superior to any of the street performances which I have yet seen.  The curtain rose and displayed a beautiful theatre in miniature, and most gorgeously painted.  The organ which accompanied it struck up a hornpipe, and a sailor, dressed in his blue jacket, made his appearance and commenced keeping time with the utmost correctness.  This figure was not so long as Mr. Punch, but much better looking.  At the close of the hornpipe the little sailor made a bow, and tripped off, apparently conscious of having deserved the undivided applause of the bystanders.  The curtain dropped; but in two or three minutes it was again up, and a rope was discovered, extended on two cross pieces, for dancing upon.  The tune was changed to an air, in which the time was marked, a graceful figure appeared, jumped upon the rope with its balance pole, and displayed all the manoeuvres of an expert performer on the tight rope.  Many who would turn away in disgust from Mr. Punch, will stand for hours and look at the performances of the Fantoccini.  If people, like the Vicar of Wakefield, will sometimes “allow themselves to be happy,” they can hardly fail to have a hearty laugh at the drolleries of the Fantoccini.  There may be degrees of absurdity in the manner of wasting our time, but there is an evident affectation in decrying these humble and innocent exhibitions, by those who will sit till two or three in the morning to witness a pantomime at a theatre-royal.

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An autumn sun shone brightly through a remarkably transparent atmosphere this morning, which was a most striking contrast to the weather we have had during the past three days; and I again set out to see some of the lions of the city, commencing with the Tower of London.  Every American, on returning home from a visit to the old world, speaks with pride of the places he saw while in Europe; and of the many resorts of interest he has read of, few have made a more lasting impression upon his memory than the Tower of London.  The stories of the imprisoning of kings, and queens, the murdering of princes, the torturing of men and women, without regard to birth,