attention to the subject of infant thieves, and
he informed me, that the fact, of which I made
so much, though it might be much to me on
account of the loss, was a common occurrence.

"Yes, Sir," said I, "but, if I seem to make
much of it, you must also add my first shock
at such very early depravity—a depravity that
makes but one step between the cradle and
the gallows! Surely, Mr. Tweezer, you do
not call that a common occurrence?"

Mr. Tweezer assured me that it was. He
told me he had often attended at the Police
Courts, and had been an eye and ear-witness
to scenes quite equal to the one I mentioned
having recently read in a newspaper police
report. Only two days ago he was present
when a little boy of nine years of age was
brought up for examination. It was proved
that he had robbed a till in a shop in broad
day, and while the shopman was there. He
had watched the man till he moved away
from behind the counter, and then dropping
on all-fours, the diminutive thief crawled
along the floor on his hands and knees, got
underneath the counter, and raising one hand,
softly drew out the till-drawer, and took
three shillings and sixpence. He would have
got safe off, but for a customer entering the
door just as he was creeping out.

"Dreadful precocity!" said I. "My oil
and Italian merchant told me that a short
time ago three little boys came to his shop
door, and begged in the most eloquent terms,
for a half-penny, 'to buy a bit of bread.' He
did not give them the half-penny, but he
gave each of them a piece of bread. They
had been gone about five minutes, when he
discovered they had stolen a bottle of olives
to eat with it. He consoled himself, however,
with the reflection that the boys, no doubt,
took the olives for preserved gooseberries, or
nice plums; so that whether they ate them
direct out of the bottle, or had a pudding
made of them, the expression of face with
which he knew they would look at each other
on the first mouthful, would well repay him
for the loss. But as to the impudence of
infant thieves, even in the presence of the
magistrate, of which you tell me, surely this
is not a common occurrence?"

"It continually happens," replied Mr.
Tweezer: "I once saw a little imp, of not
more than ten years of age—and very small
even for that age—brought before the magistrate
for attempting to steal a bundle of dried
sprats from a fishmonger's, simply watching
a moment when nobody was in the shop. He
was caught by a policeman happening to pass
the door just as he darted out with his prize.
But the sprats were not found upon him. He
had contrived to get rid of them, the instant
he found himself seized. When the
magistrate asked him what he had to say for
himself, he replied, 'Ax fifty-two' (the number of
the policeman) 'what he has to say, your
worship, for taking hold on a hinnocent boy in
that way, all for nothink?' The magistrate
was amazed. 'For nothing! you little rascal,'
said he, 'why, did you not steal a bundle of
dried sprats?' 'No, your worship, not a bit
on it—on my hoath, if I did.' The magistrate
fixed his eye upon the little imp. 'Then
what did you do in the shop?' said he, 'why
did you go in there when nobody else was in
sight?' Without an instant's hesitation, the
imp aforesaid replied, 'A boy flung my cap
into the shop for a lark—and I went arter
it—that's all, your worship!'"

"But this," said I, "did not get him off?"

"Of course not," replied Mr. Tweezer;
"his defence was received with a burst of
laughter, and he was ordered two days'
imprisonment, and to be whipped."

"Some private room, then, is attached to
the magistrate's office for this summary
process of whipping;" said I, "and the boy is
afterwards taken to a place of confinement
near at hand, I suppose?"

"Oh, by no means," exclaimed Mr. Tweezer;
"don't imagine that matters are conducted in
any such simple, convenient, and inexpensive
form as that. Something elaborate, costly,
and quite unnecessary, is the rule on these
occasions. There is no private room attached
to any magistrates' office for the summary
castigation of infant criminals; neither are
they confined in any House of Correction near
at hand, for the four-and-twenty, or eight-
and-forty, hours' imprisonment, which they
are sometimes ordered. No, no; a far more
imposing paraphernalia is considered requisite.
The little urchin—and, of course, it often
occurs that there is only one—is duly
conducted to the huge, black, close-covered
police-van, with its pair of fine horses, coachman,
police-guard outside behind, and,
perhaps, a second policeman seated inside with
'the prisoner.' Away they drive, in dark
solemnity, through the streets, 'the observed
of all observers,' and take their way to
Westminster, and then through a variety of squalid
streets and ways, till they arrive at the great
Tothill Fields Bridewell. The massive gates
are unlocked—inward rolls the sombre van—
more gates are unlocked—the prisoners are
ordered to alight—and, behold! out gets a
little, dirty, ragged, trembling, half-fledged
London Sparrow, and is deposited on the
broad gravel-walk leading up to the
Governor's house! He is then left standing, with
scared looks, staring round at the great stony
solitude of dead walls and blind buildings,
and walls with black chevaux-de-frize of iron
along the top of them, till relieved by the
arrival of an officer, who 'conducts him to his
apartment,' where, in presence of 'his medical
attendant,' he is duly introduced by the
proper officer to 'his birch-rod,' and is then
placed in solitary confinement during the
remaining four-and-twenty hours of the term
of his sentence!"

"And you have seen all this, sir?" said I.

"No," replied Mr. Tweezer, "not with my
own eyes. I have never been to Bridewell;