a cheese! Ho! In that dark corner yonder!
Does any body lie there? Me Sir, Irish me,
a widder, with six children. And yonder?
Me Sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor
babes. And to the left there? Me Sir, Irish
me, along with two more Irish boys as is me
friends. And to the right there? Me Sir
and the Murphy fam'ly, numbering five
blessed souls. And what's this, coiling, now,
about my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully
in want of shaving, whom I have awakened
from sleep—and across my other foot lies
his wife—and by the shoes of Inspector Field
lie their three eldest—and their three youngest
are at present squeezed between the open
door and the wall. And why is there no
one on that little mat before the sullen fire?
Because O'Donovan, with wife and daughter,
is not come in yet from selling Lucifers!
Nor on the bit of sacking in the nearest
corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish
family is late to night, a-cadging in the
streets!

They are all awake now, the children excepted,
and most of them sit up, to stare.
Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming
eye, there is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded,
from a grave of rags. Who is the
landlord here?—I am, Mr. Field! says a
bundle of ribs and parchment against the
wall, scratching itself.—Will you spend this
money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee
for 'em all?—Yes Sir, I will! O he'll do it
Sir, he'll do it fair. He's honest! cry the
spectres. And with thanks and Good Night
sink into their graves again.

Thus, we make our New Oxford Streets,
and our other new streets, never heeding,
never asking, where the wretches whom we
clear out, crowd. With such scenes at our
doors, with all the plagues of Egypt tied up
with bits of cobweb in kennels so near our
homes, we timorously make our Nuisance Bills
and Boards of Health, nonentities, and think
to keep away the Wolves of Crime and Filth,
by our electioneering ducking to little vestrymen,
and our gentlemanly handling of Red
Tape!

Intelligence of the coffee money has got
abroad. The yard is full, and Rogers of the
flaming eye is beleaguered with entreaties
to show other Lodging Houses. Mine next!
Mine! Mine! Rogers, military, obdurate,
stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads
away; all falling back before him. Inspector
Field follows. Detective Serjeant, with his
barrier of arm across the little passage,
deliberately waits to close the procession. He
sees behind him, without any effort, and
exceedingly disturbs one individual far in the
rear by coolly calling out, " It won't do Mr.
Michael! Don't try it!"

After council holden in the street, we enter
other lodging houses, public-houses, many
lairs and holes; all noisome and offensive;
none so filthy and so crowded as where
Irish are. In one, The Ethiopian party are
expected home presently—were in Oxford
Street when last heard of—shall be fetched,
for our delight, within ten minutes. In
another, one of the two or three Professors
who draw Napoleon Buonaparte and a couple
of mackarel, on the pavement, and then let
the work of art out to a speculator, is refreshing
after his labors. In another, the vested
interest of the profitable nuisance has been in
one family for a hundred years, and the landlord
drives in comfortably from the country to
his snug little stew in town. In all, Inspector
Field is received with warmth. Coiners and
smashers droop before him; pickpockets
defer to him; the gentle sex (not very gentle
here) smile upon him. Half-drunken hags
check themselves in the midst of pots of beer,
or pints of gin, to drink to Mr. Field, and
pressingly to ask the honor of his finishing
the draught. One beldame in rusty black
has such admiration for him, that she runs
a whole street's length to shake him by
the hand; tumbling into a heap of mud by
the way, and still pressing her attentions when
her very form has ceased to be distinguishable
through it. Before the power of the law, the
power of superior sense—for common thieves
are fools beside these men— and the power of
a perfect mastery of their character, the
garrison of Rats' Castle and the adjacent
Fortresses make but a skulking show indeed
when reviewed by Inspector Field.

Saint Giles's clock says it will be midnight
in half-an-hour, and Inspector Field says we
must hurry to the Old Mint in the Borough.
The cab-driver is low-spirited, and has a
solemn sense of his responsibility. Now,
what's your fare, my lad?—O you know,
Inspector Field, what's the good of asking
me!

Say, Parker, strapped and great-coated,
and waiting in dim Borough doorway by
appointment, to replace the trusty Rogers
whom we left deep in Saint Giles's, are you
ready? Ready, Inspector Field, and at a
motion of my wrist behold my flaming eye.

This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of
the Old Mint, full of low lodging-houses, as
you see by the transparent canvas-lamps and
blinds, announcing beds for travellers! But
it is greatly changed, friend Field, from my
former knowledge of it; it is infinitely quieter
and more subdued than when I was here last,
some seven years ago? O yes! Inspector
Haynes, a first-rate man, is on this station now,
and plays the Devil with them!

Well, my lads! How are you to-night, my
lads! Playing cards here, eh? Who wins?—
Why, Mr. Field, I, the sulky gentleman with
the damp flat side-curls, rubbing my bleared
eye with the end of my neck-kerchief which
is like a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at
present, but I suppose I must take my pipe
out of my mouth, and be submissive to you
—I hope I see you well, Mr. Field?—Aye, all
right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got
up-stairs? Be pleased to show the rooms!