creatures wanted to walk in a garden on the few
Sunday afternoons when the Scotch climate
would allow of such reckless and abandoned
dissipation.

I have yet another revelation to make to that
Great Discoverer to whom these pages are
especially dedicated. What I have now to
chronicle, is a thing affecting a larger capital than
the Modern Athens. I must tell a truth about
London—London in 1862.

In this great metropolis, and in this great year
of its civilisation, it is not safe to walk along the
streets after dusk. On the 8th of November,
it was remarked by Mr. Knox, the sensible
and energetic magistrate, that " to walk in the
streets of London after dark was as dangerous
as venturing into a tiger's den." And well
might he say so. Night after night respectable
men walking to their homes are attacked, without
even the preliminary words "Your money or
your life," are cruelly beaten and maimed, the
objects of value which they happen to have about
them are seized, and they are left by the side of
the road till some good Samaritan comes by and
picks them up. One day you hear that on the
preceding evening a worthy man coming home
from a temperance meeting was set upon as he
turned a corner of a street, by four of the
tigers spoken of by Mr. Knox, and was so
savagely treated that when he came up to give
his evidence his face looked as if it had been
seamed with fire. At another time the town is
filled with dismay at hearing of a woman who,
walking along a populous thoroughfare called
Long Acre, at half-past three o'clock of the
afternoon, was assailed by a brace of these
ferocious animals, and made to deliver up her reticule
then and there, in the heart of London, and by
broad daylight. It is to no purpose to multiply
instances which at the time when I am writing
are of daily occurrence. It is enough to say, and
a disgraceful thing it is to record, that the news
of these things has created quite a panic in the
town; that men think twice as to the thoroughfare
they will select by which to get to their
homes, and that when they hear footsteps behind
them they are not at their ease until they have
turned and examined what manner of man is
following.

On the same day when Mr. Knox put it on
record that the streets of London were as
dangerous as a tiger's den, it was also announced in
the public newspapers that a move had been
made—almost for the first time—in exactly the
right direction, by a certain police-officer, whose
conduct in this instance cannot be too highly
commended. This good man has acted on the
principle that " prevention is better than cure."
Seeing a couple of very ill-looking ruffians lounging
about in a suspicious manner, lurking in the
shadow of doorways, following gentlemen about,
and in one or two cases asking them the way to
places without at all following the directions
given—seeing all this, I say, this policeman,
acting with discretion and energy together, loses
no time in giving the two ruffians into custody
on the charge of loitering in a suspicious manner,
apparently with the intention of committing a
felony. The conduct of this same policeman
cannot be too highly spoken of. That preventive
policy was the right policy, and with all my heart
and soul I wish that during this crisis it had
been more largely acted upon. The only way to
prevent the streets of London from being a
tiger's den is, clearly and unmistakably, to shut
up the tigers. They are easily known. Seldom
does one go out, without seeing many specimens
of the true Bengal breed lurking about and
waiting for the night to commence their depre-
dations.

I confine myself to one or two sections of this
subject in writing this Chronicle. I wish to
register the fact that in this year this abominable
thing goes on, and I wish to point out the
remedies for such an abomination.

Conceive this case. A man of pacific habits,
and of middle age, who has of necessity as a
useful citizen spent all his life in London, working
at his desk, and resting in his home, is
returning to that home one evening along one of
our suburban thoroughfares. This man is such
an one as the age produces, as its needs require
the existence of in large numbers. He is somewhat
undersized, slight of build. His muscles
are unaccustomed to much exercise. He knows
nothing of brawls and fighting, and has not
used his fists since he was at school. This may
not be quite the sort of person to make the hero of
a book out of; but for all that he is the kind of
man of whom it is absolutely necessary that there
should be thousands in a great city while it is in
its present condition. He is a harmless, necessary
man, and entitled to our respect in every
way. As he walks along that same suburban
thoroughfare, he becomes conscious that in front
of him are a couple of heavy, powerful ruffians,
who are going his way. They are, however,
lounging on the road, and as he is walking faster
than they are, he will soon overtake them. He
is rather in a hurry to-night, for it is a great
occasion at home—a birthday—the children are to
sit up till he gets back, and there is a parcel
sticking out of the good man's pocket, which
may or may not be a present. So the two powerful-
looking loiterers are soon overtaken and
passed; for, they make way for our friend in a
shambling manner, eyeing him keenly as he
goes by, with his umbrella stumping on the
pathway, and his brown-paper parcel sticking
out of his pocket. As soon as the good man
has passed, the two powerful ruffians whisper
and quicken their pace a little, but Goodman
takes little note of this at the time. Presently,
he is overtaken by the two ruffians, who in turn
pass him and take another look at him under a
gas-lamp. After this, the men loiter again, and
Goodman again overtakes and passes them. And
now it begins to strike him in an unpleasant manner,
that it almost looks as if the men were