the eighth Commandment, a man sang out with particular energy, “Incline our hearts to keep this law,” I should think, “Aha, Master Basso, did you have pears for breakfast this morning?” Crime is walking round me, that is clear.  Who is the perpetrator? . . .  What a changed aspect the world has, since these last few lines were written!  I have been walking round about my premises, and in consultation with a gentleman in a single-breasted blue coat, with pewter buttons, and a tape ornament on the collar.  He has looked at the holes in the wall, and the amputated tree.  We have formed our plan of defence—­perhaps of attack.  Perhaps some day you may read in the papers, “Daring attempt at burglary—­heroic victory over the villains,” &c. &c.  Rascals as yet unknown! perhaps you, too, may read these words, and may be induced to pause in your fatal intention.  Take the advice of a sincere friend, and keep off.  To find a man writhing in my man-trap, another mayhap impaled in my ditch, to pick off another from my tree (scoundrel! as though he were a pear) will give me no pleasure; but such things may happen.  Be warned in time, villains!  Or, if you must pursue your calling as cracksmen, have the goodness to try some other shutters.  Enough! subside into your darkness, children of night!  Thieves! we seek not to have you hanged—­you are but as pegs whereon to hang others.

I may have said before, that if I were going to be hanged myself, I think I should take an accurate note of my sensations, request to stop at some Public-house on the road to Tyburn and be provided with a private room and writing-materials, and give an account of my state of mind.  Then, gee up, carter! beg your reverence to continue your apposite, though not novel, remarks on my situation;—­and so we drive up to Tyburn turnpike, where an expectant crowd, the obliging sheriffs, and the dexterous and rapid Mr. Ketch are already in waiting.

A number of laboring people are sauntering about our streets and taking their rest on this holiday—­fellows who have no more stolen my pears than they have robbed the crown jewels out of the Tower—­and I say I cannot help thinking in my own mind, “Are you the rascal who got over my wall last night?” Is the suspicion haunting my mind written on my countenance?  I trust not.  What if one man after another were to come up to me and say, “How dare you, sir, suspect me in your mind of stealing your fruit?  Go be hanged, you and your jargonels!” You rascal thief! it is not merely three-halfp’orth of sooty fruit you rob me of, it is my peace of mind—­my artless innocence and trust in my fellow-creatures, my childlike belief that everything they say is true.  How can I hold out the hand of friendship in this condition, when my first impression is, “My good sir, I strongly suspect that you were up my pear-tree last night?” It is a dreadful state of mind.  The core is black; the death-stricken fruit drops on the bough, and a great worm is within—­fattening, and feasting, and wriggling!  Who stole the pears?  I say.  Is it you, brother?  Is it you, madam?  Come! are you ready to answer—­respondere parati et cantare pares? (O shame! shame!)