relieved, asleep, and snoring most portentously
—a little exhausted, perhaps, by nine hours'
constant walking on his beat. In the right-hand
corner of this room—which is a bare
room like a guard-house without the drums and
muskets—is a dock, or space railed off for
prisoners: opposite, a window breast-high at
which an Inspector always presides day and
night to hear charges. Passing by a corner-door
into his office on the other side of this
window, we find it much like any other office—
inky, dull, and quiet—papers  stuck against the
walls—perfect library of old charges on shelves
overhead—stools and desks—a hall-porter's
chair, little used—gaslights—fire—sober clock.
At one desk stands a policeman, duly coated
and caped, looking stiffly over his glazed
stock at a handbill he is copying. Two
Inspectors sit near, working away at a great
rate with noisy pens that sound like little
rattles.

The clock points a quarter before nine.
One of the Inspectors takes under his arm a
slate, the night's muster roll, and an orderly
book. He proceeds to the Yard. The gas
jet, shining from the office through its
window, and a couple of street lamps
indistinctly light the place.

On the appearance of the inspecting officer
in the yard, and at the sound of the word
"Attention!" about seventy white faces,
peering out above half-a-dozen parallel lines
of dark figures, fall into military ranks in
"open order."  A man from each section—a
Serjeant—comes forward to form the staff of
the commanding officer. The roll is called over,
and certain men are told off as a Reserve, to
remain at the station for any exigencies that
may arise. The book is then opened, and the
Inspector reads aloud a series of warnings.
P. C. John Jones, J, No. 202, was discovered
drunk on duty on such a day, and dismissed
the force. Serjeant Jenkins did not
report that a robbery had been complained
of in such a street, and is suspended for a
month. The whole division are then enlightened
as to the names, addresses, ages, and
heights, of all persons who have been
"missing" from a radius of fifteen miles
from Charing Cross (the police definition of
the Metropolis) since the previous night;
as to the colours of their hair, eyes, and
clothes; as to the cut of their coats, the fashion
and material of their gowns, the shape of their
hats or bonnets, the make of their boots. So
minute and definite are all these personal
descriptions, that a P. C. (the official ellipsis
for Police Constable) must be very sleepy, or
unusually dull of observation, if, in the event
of his meeting with any of these missing
individuals, he does not put them in train
of restoration to their anxious friends. Lost
articles of property are then enumerated
and described with equal exactness. When
we reflect that the same routine is being
performed at the same moment at the head
of every police regiment or division in the
Metropolis, it seems extraordinary how any
thing or person can be lost in London.
Among the trifles enumerated as "found," are
a horse and cart, a small dog, a brooch, a
baby, and a firkin of butter.

Emotion is no part of a policeman's duty.
If felt, it must be suppressed: he listens as
stolidly to the following account of the baby,
as to the history of the horse and cart, the
little dog, the brooch, and the butter.

S. DIVISION. Found, at Eight and a quarter
P.M., on the 2nd instant, by [a gentleman
named], of Bayham Street, Carnden Town, on the
step of his door, the body of a new-born Infant,
tied up in a Holland Bag. Had on a Calico Bed-gown
and Muslin Cap, trimmed with Satin Ribbon.
Also a Note, stating, "Any one who finds this
precious burthen, pay him the last duties which
a Mother—much in distress and trouble of mind
—is unable to do. May the blessing of God be
on you!"

The book is closed. The mother "much in
distress and trouble of mind," is shut up with
it; and the Inspector proceeds to make his
inspection. He marches past each rank. The
men, one by one, produce their kit; consisting
of lantern, rattle, and staff. He sees that
each man is clean and properly provided for
the duties of the night. Returning to his
former station amidst the serjeants, he gives
the word "Close up!"

The men now form a compact body, and
the serjeants take their stand at the head of
their respective ranks. But, before this
efficient body of troops deploy to their various
beats, they are addressed by the superior
officer much as a colonel harangues his regiment
before going into action. The Inspector's
speech—sharp and pithily delivered—is
something to this effect:

"Now, men, I must again beg of you to be
very careful in your examination of empty
houses. See that the doors are fast; and, if not,
search for any persons unlawfully concealed
therein. Number nineteen section will allow no
destitute parties to herd together under the
Adelphi arches. Section Number twenty-four
will be very particular in insisting on all
gentlemen's carriages [it is an opera night]
keeping the rank, close to the kerb-stone, and
in cautioning the coachmen not to leave their
horses. Be sure and look sharp after flower-
girls. Offering flowers for sale is a pretence.
The girls are either beggars or thieves; but
you must exercise great caution. You must
not interfere with them unless you actually
hear them asking charity, or see them trying
pockets, or engaged in actual theft. The
chief thing, however, is the empty houses;
thieves get from them into the adjoining
premises,and then there's a burglary.—
"Tention, to the left face, march!"

The sections march off in Indian file, and
the Inspector returns to his office by one door,
while the half-dozen "Reserves" go into the
outer-room by another. The former, now
buttons on his great coat: and, after supper,