those gentlemen who may not, in one week, if
he choose, acquire as dismal a knowledge of
the Hell upon earth in which he lives, in
regard of these children, as this Inspector has
—as we have—as no man can by possibility
shut out, who will walk this town with open
eyes observant of what is crying to GOD in the
streets. If we were one of those six hundred
and fifty-six, and had the courage to declare
that we know the day must come when these
children must be taken, by the strong hand,
out of our shameful public ways, and must
be rescued—when the State must (no will,
or will not, in the case, but must) take
up neglected and ignorant children wheresoever
they are found, severely punishing the
parents when they can be found, too, and
forcing them, if they have any means of
existence, to contribute something towards the
reclamation of their offspring, but never again
entrusting them with the duties they have
abandoned;—if we were to say this, and were
to add that as the day must come, it cannot
come too soon, and had best come now—Red
Tape would arise against us in ten thousand
shapes of virtuous opposition, and cocks would
crow, and donkeys would bray, and owls would
hoot, and strangers would be espied, and
houses would be counted out, and we should
be satisfactorily put down. Meanwhile, in
Aberdeen, the horror has risen to that height,
that against the law, the authorities have by
force swept their streets clear of these
unchristian objects, and have, to the utmost
extent of their illegal power, successfully
done this very thing. Do none of the six
hundred and fifty-six know of it—do none
of them look into it—do none of them lay
down their newspapers when they read of a
baby sentenced for the third, fourth, fifth,
sixth, seventh time to imprisonment and
whipping, and ask themselves the question,
"Is there any earthly thing this child can do
when this new sentence is fulfilled, but steal
again, and be again imprisoned and again
flogged, until, a precocious human devil, it is
shipped away to corrupt a new world?"
Do none of the six hundred and fifty-six,
care to walk from Charing Cross to
Whitechapel—to look into Wentworth Street—
to stray into the lanes of Westminster—to
go into a prison almost within the shadow of
their own Victoria Tower—to see with their
eyes and hear with their ears, what such
childhood is, and what escape it has from
being what it is? Well! Red Tape is easier,
and tells for more in blue books, and will
give you a committee five years long if you
like, to enquire whether the wind ever blows,
or the rain ever falls—and then you can
talk about it, and do nothing.

Our meditations are suddenly interrupted.

"Here's a pretty business!" cries a pale
man in a breathless hurry, at the window.
"Somebody has been tampering with my
door-lock!"

"How do you mean, sir?"

"Why, I live round the corner, and I had
been to the Play, and I left my door on the
lock (it 's a Chubb!) and I come back, and
the lock won't act. It has been tampered
with. There either are, or have been, thieves
in the place!"

"Reserve!"

"Sir!"

"Take another man with you, and a couple
of ladders, and see to this gentleman's house."

A sallow anxious little man rushes in.

"O! you haven't seen anything of such a
thing as a black and tan spaniel, have you?"

"Is it a spaniel dog we have got in the
yard? " the Inspector inquires of the jailer.

"No, sir, it's a brown tarrier?"

"O! It can't be my dog then. A brown
tarrier? O! Good night, gentlemen! Thank
you."

"Good night, sir."

The Reserve just now dispatched with the
other man and the two ladders, returns,
gruff-voiced and a little disgusted.

"Well? what's up round the corner?"

"Nothing the matter with the lock, sir.
I opened it with the key directly!"

We fall into a doze before the fire. Only
one little rattle of a pen is springing now, for
the other Inspector has put on his great coat
and gone out, to make the round of his beat
and look after his men. We become aware
in our sleep of a scuffling on the pavement
outside. It approaches, and becomes noisy
and hollow on the boarded floor within. We
again repair to the window.

A very ill-looking woman in the dock. A
very stupid little gentleman, very much overcome
with liquor, and with his head extremely
towzled, endeavouring to make out the meaning
of two immoveable Policemen, and indistinctly
muttering a desire to know "war it's
awr abow."

"Well?" says the Inspector, possessed of
the case in a look.

"I was on duty, sir, in Lincoln's Inn Fields
just now," says one of the Policemen, "when
I see this gent"—

Here, "this gent," with an air of great
dignity, again observes, "Mirrer Insperrer, I
requesherknow war it's awr ABOW."

"We'll hear you presently, sir. Go on!"

—"when I see this gent, in conversation
again the railings with this woman. I
requested him to move on, and observed his
watch-guard hanging loose out of his pocket.
'You 've lost your watch,' I said. Then I
turned to her! 'And you 've got it,' I said.
'I an't,' she said. Then she said, turning
to him, 'You know you 've been in company
with many others to-night, flower-girls, and
a lot more.' 'I shall take you,' I said, anyhow.
Then I turned my lantern on her, and
saw this silver watch, with the glass broke,
lying behind her on the stones. Then I took
her into custody, and the other constable
brought the gent along."

"Jailer!" says the Inspector.