Of course if ever I travel by East London Line in days to come, I must resign myself to fate, and allow my person to be whistled and shrieked through; but saving such an occasion as that, in the words of Jerry Cruncher, I say--"Never no more--never no more," will I venture through the melancholy cellar; while in my own I say, that I'll wager that no man dare walk through at the stilly midnight hour, with the gas extinguished, and none to hear him while he hurries his echoing steps-- at least I'm sure that I would not. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. A COMMON OBJECT. Move on, oh pen! and in words whose hue is murky as his oilskin cape, tell with thy silent gall-dipped nibs of the tyrant of our streets--the Hyde Park hero--the helmet-crowned truncheon bearer--preserver of peace--marshal of erring vehicles--custodian of crime--the great numbered one--the unknown X--the Mayne force regulator--offspring of Peel, but never candid--myrmidon of a mighty law--confiscator of coster mongers' barrows--dark man dressed in blue--hero of a hundred names and hundred fights. Tell to the great washed and wiped, of this mighty conqueror, who, by a motion of his Berlin glove, sweeps from the muddy face of the street the noisy crowd. Put down naught in malice or extenuation; hide not his faults, his failings, or his fancies; chronicle not the smashing of a glossy Lincoln and Bennett, nor the splitting up the back of a Poole's surtout, when streets were thronged and Alexandra came; hint not at bribery; but tell of the man and his acts--acts explained in beloved old Carpenter as "substantive; deeds, exploits." Paint the aspect of the man in tunic blue and headpiece of hardened felt, praised by the custodian of our streets as light. How can we cavil at the Minerva or Britannia-like aspect when the wearer sails down the streets, looking as though he ruled the waves of population, a people who never, never, never, will be slaves. Romanised in mien, he wants but the flowing toga and sandalled shoon to shine as a centurion. What is it to him that small boys scoff? In the full comprehension of his powers he walks erect--gorgeous. Has he not, from earliest times, been object and aim of scurrilous shafts meant for wit, but launched with telling force? Has he not been styled the great absentee, and have not rumours touching mutton been circulated to his disadvantage? What though on wintry night, when bitter blows the boist'rous wind, the wand'rer spies a cheering light behind the area window blind. Who, if a whistle known of old should rouse the culinary maid to beckon down the warrior bold to have his empty stomach stayed, who then would grudge the meal--the kiss--the small beer draught--the smile--embrace? They're loved by others well, I wis, as him who wears the cotton lace--whose rolling eye--whose nostril wide, and towering form attractive draw, to inward thought--the fire's warm side--the bliss of love--the chill of law. He has before now descended and been