of the great metropolis amounted to £74,270 against £85,965 in 1855, and £108,051 in 1854. The revenue from cabs in the metropolis was £82,110 against £75,281, and £64,210 in 1854. Of the revenue on omnibuses last year, £69,493 accrued from mileage duty, £3791 from license duty, and £983 from drivers’ and conductors’ licenses. As regards the cab duty, £74,736 accrued from weekly duty, £5292 from license duty, and £2081 from drivers’ and watermen’s licenses. Speaking generally, Tennyson tells us— “Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born.” In London, 169 people die daily, and a babe is born every five minutes. The number of persons, says the Registrar-General, who died in 1856, in 116 public institutions, such as workhouses and hospitals, was 10,381. It is really shocking to think, and a deep stigma on the people,—or on the artificial arrangements of society, by which so much poverty is perpetuated,—that nearly one person out of five, who died that year, closed his days under a roof provided by law or public charity. In 1856 the police report 147 suicides. Dr. Wakley says, 4000 infants die annually of neglect. It is calculated 500 people are drowned in the Thames every year. In the first week of last year there were five deaths from intemperance alone. How much wretchedness lies in these facts,—for the deaths from actual intemperance bear but a small proportion to the deaths induced by the immoderate use of intoxicating liquors; and of the 500 drowned, by far the larger class, we have every reason to believe, are of the number of whom Hood wrote— “Mad with life’s history, Glad to death’s mystery Swift to be hurled— Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world!” A meeting was held last year of the unemployed, chiefly the carpenters, bricklayers, and bricklayers’ labourers of the metropolis, in which it was stated that their number—though very probably there may be some exaggeration here—is 35,000. If these men are married and have families, we get a further idea of the deep distress in this wealthy and luxurious capital,—this capital where the gold of Australia, the jewels of Golconda, the silks and spices of the East, come for sale, and are lavished as freely on the most questionable purposes and persons as on the noblest specimens of humanity and the most glorious objects for which men care to live. Then think of the inmates of the lunatic asylums, and the poor-houses, and the hospitals, in most cases sent there as the result of their own ignorance or imprudence. Last Christmas day the dinners provided at the workhouses for the inmates fed between 30 and 40,000. Add to these our prison population, and our criminal classes, and our prostitutes,—and what a picture we get of the Night Side of London, of the classes whose existence is a reproach or a curse. In London one man in every ninety belongs to the criminal class.