and

much-wronged ballet-dancer. Inspector Millament vexed himself very little about such trifling incongruities. He read and read on, and wandered in a world of dormant peerages, of murderous baronets, and ladies of title addicted to the study of toxicology, of gipsies and brigand-chiefs, men with masks and women with daggers, of stolen children, withered hags, heartless gamesters, nefarious roués, foreign princesses, Jesuit fathers, grave-diggers, resurrection-men, lunatics, and ghosts. This was his ideal world. Just deducting the ghosts, I don't think that the world he really lived and played a very powerful and occult part in, was a world much less strange or much less terrible; but who regards the marvels that surround him? who takes account of the things that lie at his feet? who will believe that the events enacting under his eyes are History? We have all of us a horizon at the end of our noses; but we disdain to look so closely, and must strain our eyes far, far afield. Not many weeks since, a good friend was kind enough to remonstrate with me on the utter and glaring improbability, nay impossibility of some of the characters I have drawn in this story. In vain I strove to assure him that I had taken the world as I had found it, painted (with a free brush, it might be) but from the very life. With great difficulty he granted Mrs. Armytage. I had something to show him which disarmed even his scepticism as to the verisemblance of that lady; but as for Mr. Sims, or for Ephraim Tigg the Rasper, he would not hear of them for a moment. And yet I think I know where to put my hand on people ten times stranger in their ways of life than Sims or Tigg, poor, common rogues as they are; and but a very few days after our controversy, my friend came well-nigh raving to me about the details of the "Northumberland-Street Tragedy." Tragedy! a wretched Coburg melodrama it was, at best; there are real five-act tragedies going on about us every day,-far more fearful, far more horrifying than that slaughter-house fray. The ladies are even more difficult to convince than the gentlemen. They won't have Mrs. Armytage. There was never any body like her, they say. Miss Salusbury also is to them simply an impossible character. Month after month these complaints, these protests, reach me. I am bidden to write a story all about purity and honesty and truth and the home-affections, and the rest of it. Well, I will try to do so; but you must not be surprised to find my portion of Temple Bar so many blank pages. It would be writing so many lines in white chalk on so many planes of virgin snow. If you want the lait d'ânesse fresh from the animal, you must go elsewhere. I have none to sell. Which is best, I wonder: to write namby-pamby historiettes of Jemmy and Jenny Jessamy's love-passages; to describe monsters of innocence and loveliness; to paint a twopenny Garden of Eden, with no serpent in it more dangerous than a Jesuit priest, the poor Jesuits! they have never done half the harm that the people who go into frenzies of bigotry about them have done, or to describe the world as it wags, not only in its good, but in its evil fashion? Do all the good books that are written about good people save their readers

from being covetous and lying and slanderous and sensual? Are the gentlefolks who come up to the Divorce Court quite ignorant of the nature of coldboiled-veal-without-salt novels (in three vols.)? And, finally, how would you like a newspaper in which there were no police-reports, no law or assize intelligence, no leading articles on any other subjects save missionary societies, governess institutions, the art of pickling onions, and the best means of obliterating freckles? While I live, and while I write, I shall just tell the stories of the people I have met, and of the lives they have led, so far as I have known them,-in my own fashion; and when I begin to paint the Graces from imagination, and the Virtues from hearsay, it will be time for me to retire to the Asylum for Idiots at Earlswood, and gibber.

There is another kind of story-telling in which, perhaps, with some moderate faculty of humour and observation, and with a liver very much out of order, one might succeed. Shall I map out a world for you bounded on one side by Belgravia, and on the other by Russell Square: assume that all my acquaintances are in the habit of dining at seven o'clock, going to court, and keeping carriages and pair, and sneer at the unhappy wretches who have "plated side-dishes" at their feasts, call their eighteenpenny claret Laffitte, hire greengrocers to wait upon them on state occasions, and proceed to the Drawing - Room at St. James's in a hired cab? or shall I be in a perpetual fume because people "go about saying things about me," because Jones accuses me of opium-eating, and Tompkins of having poisoned my grandmother, and Robinson of being a returned convict? Goodness gracious! what does it all matter? what harm is there in the greengrocer so long as he is an honest man, and has clean hands, and doesn't spill the lobster-sauce over our pantaloons? I would rather help myself from the table; but am I to quarrel with my neighbour for preferring the greengrocer and the grim ceremony of handing things round? And the eighteen penny claret. Who does not tell fibs about his wine? Cambacérés, Talleyrand, were not always to be depended upon in their stories about their vintages. I have heard even teetotallers grow Munchausenesque about the virtues of strange pumps. There is a certain stage of good-fellowship when all men-to the most truthful have a tendency towards glorifying themselves and telling lies. And the people who "go about saying things,"-a fico for them all! -have they got ninety-eight thousand pounds snugly lying in consols? Are they the only living descendants of Timour the Tartar, and Marino Faliero? Can they squeeze a pewter-pot flat between their fingers, or swallow a red-hot poker, or play the overture to Der Freischutz on their chins? I may have these powers and possessions, or I may not. Do you think that you can say more against me than I can against you? How about that eight-day clock? How about that little affair at Torquay? I knew the scale in a contested election turned once by this simple placard, "Ask Mr. A. (one of the candidates) about the widow of poor Mr. Smith." There had never been a widow of poor Mr. Smith, there had never been a

poor Mr. Smith at all; but the placard took amazingly; it was copied and repeated every where: the candidate was pursued by howling mobs demanding what he had done with poor Mr. Smith's widow; and in the end he was beaten by a humiliating majority. There is nothing like the "poor Mr. Smith" system of attack. Aha! traducer! Tu quoque: you're another! and the traitor Benedict Arnold used to confess that the accusation, perfectly unfounded, of having once "killed a man in a claretcoloured coat," sometimes lay heavier on his mind than the curses of his country and the blood of André.

It is so seldom, nowadays, that I allow myself a good hearty digression, that having once begun, I thought it as well to proceed until you were exasperated, and I was satiated. This agreeable state of things being, I conclude, attained, I will return to Inspector Millament and Sergeant South, promising not to digress again for a great many chapters.

A word as to the personal appearance of the Inspector. He was tall, like his attendant Sergeant, but he had long since given up all youthful vanities in attire. Inspector Millament assumed the imposing, the paternal, the venerable. He was stately in mien, of a grave countenance, rubicund, but abundant in white hair and whiskers, almost approaching the full beard. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and gold-rimmed spectacles. His manly chest was covered by a black-velvet waistcoat of comfortable, but austere cut. He wore gaiters. He was never seen without an umbrella with a crutched handle. From one of his side-pockets usually bulged a packet of his adored periodicals. There was about him an indefinable combination of the "heavy father" in a comedy and a retired military officer in real life.

Both Inspector Millament and Sergeant South were married. They had pretty little cottages at Camberwell, and were as close neighbours as they were close friends. At home they smoked their pipes and drank their social glass; and read-the Inspector his continuous romances, and the Sergeant the theatrical advertisements, in default of play-bills-in peace and comfort. Both had large families; and it may be mentioned as a somewhat curious feature in their respective domesticities, that neither Mrs. Inspector Millament nor Mrs. Sergeant South ever made the slightest disturbance if the liege lord of one or the other stopped out until the unholiest hours in the night-morning, or, leaving home for a quiet stroll, didn't come back again for a fortnight. They were quite accustomed to such vagaries.

Millament without South, or South without Millament, would have been trustworthy and efficient officers, I have no doubt; but they were seldom seen asunder. They hunted much better together. The newspapers always associated their names; nay, police-magistrates experienced a kind of pleasure when they were told that such or such an important case was under the management of Inspector Millament and Sergeant South.

It was about half-after one p.m. on the day when the distinguished party visited the Monmouth Chambers that the Inspector and his colleague

were sauntering by the northern approach to Waterloo Bridge. There were plenty of announcements relative to entertainments, poses plastiques, and theatrical novelties for the Sergeant to peruse; and there was apparently plenty of leisure for the Inspector to finish the last chapter of " Amy Montmorenci, or the Odd-Fellow's Niece." The day was delightful; every thing wore a cheerful and sunshiny aspect, and the people who passed to and fro glanced approvingly at the two friends, doubtless thinking them a very nice pair of gentlemen indeed. As, indeed, they were.

"It don't finish well, South, and that's a fact," the Inspector remarked, shutting up "Amy Montmorenci," and replacing the periodical in his pocket. "She ought to have come into the fortune in her own right, instead of marrying that lily-livered son of a gun who was made out to be an earl."

"That way of finishing it would never have done for the Vic.,"" mused the Sergeant, intent on a playbill. "The women ought always to have the best of it. Virtue rewarded, and that sort of thing. Halloa! here's the French Plays a-coming."

There was no bill of Mr. Mitchell's (then) charming little theatre near; but Inspector Millament seemed perfectly well to understand what was meant by the "French Plays."

"On to the bridge," he said quickly to his subordinate, and passed through the turnstile.

The collector who took his halfpenny and that of Sergeant South gave a respectful grin as they went through, and remarked subsequently to a youth, with a face like a muffin and a cap like a crumpet, who assisted him in his fiscal duties, that "there was something up." Many a time had the toll-collector seen Inspector Millament and Sergeant South pass through his wicket, until at last he seemed to have almost an intuitive knowledge of when they were going quietly to their own homes, and when "there was something up."

The two sauntered along the bridge; the Inspector taking a smiling survey of Somerset House, the Sergeant gazing with rapt attention, first at the shot tower, and then at the lion on the summit of the brewery on the Surrey side. Then both faced about and stood still.

There came towards them from Middlesex a gentleman of gay and jaunty carriage, and attired in the first style of fashion. I say in the first style of fashion; for his raiment was splendid and well cut; his hat was shiny, and his boots were bright. His linen was of the finest and whitest. He had many chains and many rings, and, curious to relate, he wore his heart upon his sleeve.

"What swells they do come out, to be sure, sometimes," Sergeant South remarked, half in admiration, half in disparagement. "I've seen that chap as seedy as a scarecrow."

"A theatrical lot, South, a theatrical lot," returned his superior; "no offence to you, though," he added, as though he feared the Sergeant might take the remark as a reflection on his liking for playbill literature.

"There's no man admires the drama more than I do, South. But they're always acting a part, those Frenchmen; and there's no denying it. Look at that French count in Love and Madness. Makes use of his whiskers and braiding to betray a poor trusting widow-woman. They're all alike.” "The last part I saw him acting," the Sergeant said with a grin, 66 was one where clean linen wasn't wanted."

"They are slovenly," acquiesced the Inspector. "They've no notion of the neat and quiet in apparel: the real Old English Gentleman cut ;" and he glanced approvingly at his black-velvet waistcoat and gaiters. "But they're a knowing lot, South,-a shrewd, a very shrewd and artful lot, I can assure you."

The bravely-attired gentleman who wore his heart upon his sleeve rapidly neared them. He was, to all seeming, in the best of spirits, and sang a little song, of which the refrain was,

"Eh, vive le Roi, et Simon Lefranc,

Son favori, son favori!"

"There's a deal in that way he has of singing," the Sergeant whispered, enticingly but approvingly.

"It does carry things off; but its too stagy for me," was the Inspector's verdict. "But here he is. Ah, Monsieur Lefranc, good morning to you."

M. Simon Lefranc, no longer a commercial traveller in difficulties, but a dandy of the very first water, was enchanted, ravished, to behold his dear friends. He pressed both their hands warmly. He longed for the day when he could enjoy, more at his ease, the pleasure of their society. But business must be attended to. "At all events," he added, "we shall have a charming day to-morrow at the races."

"Yes; it's likely enough to be fine, Monsieur," said the Inspector, "and there'll be plenty of enjoyment on the road and on the course. But we'll all get our hands full of business, I think, to-morrow; eh, South?" he concluded, turning to his companion.

"Chock-full," replied the Sergeant; "so has Monsieur Lefranc there." "Bah! a trifle! a mere bagatelle! My little affair might have been over an hour ago. I could have caged my bird before noon, but we had agreed to wait, and for certain reasons to strike all our coups together. She is certain to be at the races, you say?"

"She

"As sure as eggs is eggs," the Sergeant conclusively responded. won't miss, nor any of our birds either. Besides, they'll all be well watched during the night. You've got all the papers?"

"Every thing. Warrant of extradition. All complete."

"Is there any thing else, Monsieur Lefranc ? unless, indeed, you'd like to take a pint of wine," asked Inspector Millament.

"There is nothing else; and a million thanks for your hospitable offer; but I am engaged to lunch at Long's Hotel at two."

"Then we won't detain you. My mate and I have a little business down the Cut, and shall be at it all the afternoon: you'll be down the Yard, I suppose, to-night? The Commissioner may wish to see you."