The last of these men, whom we recollect before the establishment of the new police, had the beat in the neighbourhood of Clayton-square. Many of our readers must recollect him. He was a six-foot muscular Irishman. “Well, Pat,” some of the young ones, who are middle aged gentlemen now, used to say to him, “Well, Pat, what of O’Connell?” On such occasions Pat invariably drew himself up, like a soldier on parade, to his full height, looked devoutly upwards, and then solemnly exclaimed, “There’s One above, sir—and—next to him—is Daniel O’Connell!” And it was a name to conjure with in his day! We respected, as often as we heard of it, that poor fellow’s reverence for his mighty countryman, and felt that, had we been Irish, we also should have placed that name first and foremost in our calendar of saints, martyrs, patriots and heroes. Who is there now of his name and nation who can rise and say, “Mr. Speaker, I address you as the representative of Ireland.” But, forward. How the old times, and the old things, and the old oil-lamps, and the old watchmen have all passed away and disappeared! And the old pigtails, too, have vanished with them. When we first escaped from petticoats into jacket and trousers, every man, young and old, wore a hairy appendage at the back of his head, called a pigtail, as if anxious to support Lord Monboddo’s theory, that man had originally been a tailed animal of the monkey tribe; for surely our _wholesale re-tailing_, if we may so speak, could have been for no other purpose. Pigtails were of various sorts and sizes. The sailors wore an immense club of hair reaching half-way down their backs, like that worn by one of Ingoldsby’s heroes, and thus described by him,— “And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, Like a pump handle stuck on the end of a stick.”