We have spoken in a former chapter of the oil lamps, which, “few and far between,” just made darkness visible, and of the old watchmen, who were supposed or not supposed to be the guardians of our lives and property. The latter deserve another word. The old watchmen, or “Charleys,” as they were generally called, were perfect “curiosities of humanity,” and the principle on which they were selected and the rules by which they were guided were as curious as themselves. They seem to be chosen as schoolmasters are still chosen in remote villages in the rural districts, namely, because they were fit for nothing else, and must be kept off the parish as long as possible. They were for the most part, wheezy, asthmatic old men, generally with a very bad cough, and groaning under the weight of an immense great coat, with immense capes, which almost crushed them to the ground, the very ditto, indeed of him of whom it was written, “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door.” They carried a thick staff, not so much a weapon of offence as to support their tottering steps. They had also rattles in their hands, typical, we presume, of the coming rattles in the throat, for they were of no earthly use whatever. Each of them was furnished with a snug box, in which they slept as long as possible. But, if ever they did wake up, their proceedings were of a most remarkable kind. They set forth round their beat with a lantern in their hands, as a kind of a beacon to warn thieves and rogues that it was time to hide, until these guardians of the night had performed the farce of vigilance and gone back to snore. Moreover, like an army marching to surprise an enemy with all the regimental bands performing a grand chorus, they also gave notice of their approach to the same kind of gentry by yelling the hour of the night and the state of the weather with a tremulous and querulous voice, something between a grunt and a squeak, which even yet reminds us of the lines in Dunciad; “Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous: answer him, ye owls.”