man of them, in a glance, immediately takes
an inventory of the furniture and an accurate
sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor
feels that any gentleman in company could
take him up, if need should be, without the
smallest hesitation, twenty years hence.

The whole party are in plain clothes.
Sergeant Dornton, about fifty years of age,
with a ruddy face and a high sun-burnt
forehead, has the air of one who has been a
Sergeant in the army—he might have sat to
Wilkie for the Soldier in the Reading of the
Will. He is famous for steadily pursuing the
inductive process, and, from small beginnings,
working on from clue to clue until he bags
his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and
thicker-set, and marked with the small pox,
has something of a reserved and thoughtful
air, as if he were engaged in deep arithmetical
calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance
with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a
smooth-faced man with a fresh bright
complexion, and a strange air of simplicity, is a
dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a
light-haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a
prodigious hand at pursuing private inquiries
of a delicate nature. Straw, a little wiry
Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong
sense, would knock at a door and ask a series
of questions in any mild character you chose
to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy
upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant.
They are, one and all, respectable-looking
men; of perfectly good deportment and
unusual intelligence; with nothing lounging
or slinking in their manners; with an air
of keen observation, and quick perception
when addressed; and generally presenting
in their faces, traces more or less marked
of habitually leading lives of strong mental
excitement. They have all good eyes; and
they all can, and they all do, look full at
whomsoever they speak to.

We light the cigars, and hand round the
glasses (which are very temperately used
indeed), and the conversation begins by a
modest amateur reference on the Editorial
part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield
immediately removes his cigar from his lips,
waves his right hand, and says, "Regarding
the Swell Mob, Sir, I can't do better than call
upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason
why? I'll tell you. Sergeant Witchem is
better acquainted with the Swell Mob than
any officer in London."

Our heart leaping up when we beheld this
rainbow in the sky, we turn to Serjeant
Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-
chosen language, goes into the subject forthwith.
Meantime, the whole of his brother
officers are closely interested in attending to
what he says, and observing its effect.
Presently they begin to strike in, one or two
together, when an opportunity offers, and
the conversation becomes general. But these
brother officers only come in to the assistance
of each other—not to the contradiction—and
a more amicable brotherhood there could not
be. From the swell mob, we diverge to the
kindred topics of cracksmen, fences, public-
house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young
people who go out "gonophing," and other
"schools," to which our readers have already
been introduced. It is observable throughout
these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the
Scotchman, is always exact and statistical, and
that when any question of figures arises, everybody
as by one consent pauses, and looks to
him.

When we have exhausted the various
schools of Art—during which discussion the
whole body have remained profoundly attentive,
except when some unusual noise at the
Theatre over the way, has induced some
gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the
window in that direction, behind his next
neighbour's back—we burrow for information
on such points as the following. Whether
there really are any highway robberies in
London, or whether some circumstances not
convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved
party, usually precede the robberies
complained of, under that head, which quite
change their character? Certainly the latter,
almost always. Whether in the case of
robberies in houses, where servants are
necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under
suspicion ever becomes so like guilt in
appearance, that a good officer need be cautious
how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing
is so common or deceptive as such appearances
at first. Whether in a place of public amusement,
a thief knows an officer, and an officer
knows a thief,—supposing them, beforehand,
stranger to each other—because each
recognises in the other, under all disguise, an
inattention to what is going on, and a purpose
that is not the purpose of being entertained?
Yes. That's the way exactly. Whether it
is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the
alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by
themselves, in prisons, or penitentiaries, or
anywhere? In general, nothing more absurd.
Lying is their habit and their trade; and they
would rather lie—even if they hadn't an
interest in it, and didn't want to make
themselves agreeable—than tell the truth.

From these topics, we glide into a review of
the most celebrated and horrible of the great
crimes that have been committed within the
last fifteen or twenty years. The men
engaged in the discovery of almost all of them,
and in the pursuit or apprehension of the
murderers, are here, down to the very last
instance. One of our guests gave chase to
and boarded the Emigrant Ship, in which the
murderess last hanged in London was
supposed to have embarked. We learn from
him that his errand was not announced to
the passengers, who may have no idea of it to
this hour. That he went below, with the
captain, lamp in hand—it being dark, and the
whole steerage abed and seasick—and engaged
the Mrs. Manning who was on board, in a