the glass-lights or convex-lights; and every housekeeper whose house fronts any street or lane, and is of the rent of ten pounds, and every person having the charge of a public building, are each required and obliged, in every dark night, from the twenty-ninth of September until the twenty-fifth day of March, to hang out one or more lanthorn or lanthorns, with sufficient cotton-wick candles lighted therein, and to continue the same burning in every such dark night, from the hour of six until the hour of eleven of the same night. The act of Common Council which makes these provisions, tells us they are "for securing the houses against robbers and thieves, for the prevention of murder, and the conveniency of passengers." Glorious provisions, indeed, were they for accomplishing those ends! When there were clouds over the moon, and whole streets and portions of streets were without light, because the inhabitants were not rated at ten pounds-and there was no light at all after eleven o'clock, we must admire the sagacity of the civic authorities, who thus proposed to put down robbery and murder. Defoe, who, in many things, was a century before his age, published a pamphlet in 1729, wherein he suggested a plan "by which our streets will be so strongly guarded, and so gloriously illuminated, that any part of London will be as safe and pleasant at midnight, as at noonday, and burglary totally impracticable." London continued to be strongly guarded by its "ancient and most quiet

watchmen," for another hundred years; and the authorities began to think of rendering the streets illuminated "with a convenient and sufficient number of glass-lamps," not until they had gone up in terror to George II., to implore "a speedy, rigorous, and exemplary execution of the laws upon the persons of offenders." There was small difference in social arrangements between the old days of "Hang out your lights," and those semi-modern days when society, pretending to be in the most civilised condition, was really going backwards in many of the essential matters that constitute the "salt of life."

EVIL MAY-DAY.

THERE was fear and trouble in London on the eve of May-day, in the ninth year of King Henry the Eighth.

The sun was setting as John Rest, the Mayor, hurried into the Guildhall, where the Aldermen, and the Recorder, and the Sheriffs had been suddenly assembled. He spake to them with a tremulous voice, saying that he had just come from the great Cardinal, at York House, who had told him, of his own sure knowledge, that it was the intention of the young and riotous people to rise and distress the strangers; and that the Cardinal had bid him go home, and wisely foresee that matter.

Then uprose a worshipful man, and said, that the grievances of the citizens were very great, and that the blood of the apprentices might be stirred to avenge their masters. "For," said he, "did I not hear Dr. Bell preach, on Easter Tuesday, and set forth how the aliens and strangers eat the bread from the poor fatherless children, and take the living from all the artificers, and the intercourse from all the merchants?" And then another worshipful man arose, and declared how he had heard John Lincoln, the broker, hold forth to a great crowd at the Porch of St. Mary, Spital, that the

English merchants could have no utterance; for the merchant strangers bring in all silks, cloth of gold, wine, iron, and such other merchandise that no man, almost, buys of an Englishman; and carry outward so much English tin, wool, and lead, that Englishmen that adventure outward can have no living. And then the worshipful assembly, with one or two exceptions, joined in the outcry against the merchant strangers, and especially against those who dealt in foreign nails, locks, baskets, cupboards, stools, tables, chests, and girdles; which, if they were wrought here, Englishmen might have some work and living.

Thus the guardians of the king's peace began to murmur, and clamour as bitterly as Dr. Bell or John Lincoln; and some were for doing nothing, and some were for calling out the watch, if the riot should take place, and the aliens should be slain.

But amidst these heats stood up the Under Sheriff Master Thomas More; and there was instant silence.

"Good, my masters," said he, "our business is to prevent a riot, not redress a grievance: and, moreover, I think the grievance, such as it be, is not to be redressed either by noise or staff-striking. If the stranger exchanges his wine and oil for our wool and tin, he gives us what we want in return for what he wants; and God's gifts are not hidden in a corner. If the alien sells baskets, and girdles, and painted cloths, why is it that you can't sell the

same work of your own hands? Because your workmanship is less skilful. We must amend ourselves before we blame the stranger for our poverty. My counsel is, that you all go to your own homes; lock up your apprentices till to-morrow's matinbell; exhort them to peacefulness; and we will bring in the May with our old jollity, and the shaft of St. Andrew shall be set up to the old song of 'Mighty Flora, goddess of fresh flowers.""

The council was broken up: and in all haste each alderman sent round his ward, that no man should stir out of his house after nine of the clock, and every one should keep his doors shut, and his servants within till seven of the morning. But the command was a fruitless one. There was in Chepe, as was the wont on May Even, a company of young men playing at bucklers-the good old English game which we now call single-stick. The moon was struggling with light clouds; but the young men went on with their play, for there was a bonfire in the street, and they were heedless or ignorant of the alderman's command. Paul's clock struck nine, and they were still at play. Then rushed into the midst of them the Worshipful Sir John Mondey, Alderman of Chepe; and he cried with a mighty voice, "Stop!"

But the young men did not stop. And louder called the alderman; and faster and more furious was the play. And then the serjeants of the ward rushed in upon the young men to take them to the Counter. Then uprose that cry which the Blue