public justice, he concludes with a positive assurance, that if you ever renew your acquaintance with him, so far from standing “betwixt the wind and your nobility,” you shall have the benefit of a month’s exercise on the tread-mill, “and no mistake.” And now comes Mr. Ferdinand Fitzsnooks. He stands forward--but how different is his bearing from that of the pseudo Mr. Smith, who has just jumped into a cab in waiting, with coronets emblazoned on the panels. He does not listen to the charges with inattention; nor does he venture to meet the magistrate’s eye, as it occasionally is turned to that part of the court where he stands. He has been silly and noisy and riotous--but he has done no mischief. He is found guilty, and fined three pounds. The pale girl behind him--she with the infant in her arms--begins to sob, while Ferdinand appeals to the bench, and on the plea of a first offence, solicits a remission of the penalty. But Rhadamanthus is not sterner than his judge. Pshaw! worthy sir, let him go! he is but a drudge in a lawyer’s office--his master is strict--he will lose his situation, and what will that pale girl and her infant do? No; the upright magistrate is obdurate--and the slang of what “justice requires” is his only answer to the prisoner’s appeal. The jailer, a filthy, dogged, drunken, red-nosed brute, taps him on the shoulder and inquires, in pickpocket parlance, whether he can “stump the rowdy?” A melancholy shake of the head tells his inability, and he is committed for--what?--want of money--to the House of Correction for a fortnight. Worthy sir--pause before you send that silly young man to prison. Look at his wife--she is barely eighteen--young, pretty, and inexperienced. She has not a relative in London,--and steeped in poverty and surrounded with temptations, will you rob her for fourteen days of her protector, because he cannot command three sovereigns? True, you fined Mr. Smith two pounds more, and also talked something about the tread-mill--but, for your very life, you would not have ventured to commit him. I could show you Mr. Smith’s name in the peerage--ay, and high up, too; and he could have as easily given you a cheque upon his bankers for five thousand, as he handed you the penalty of five pounds. And this is law!--England, England! you call yourself the land of freedom! But what has all this to do with your story? Reader,--I beg your pardon, and thank you for the hint.