A few minutes before one o'clock on the morning of Sunday, the 8th of
February, 1857, Policeman Smithers, of the Third District, was meditatively
pursuing his path of duty through the quietest streets of Ward Five,
beguiling, as usual, the weariness of his watch by reminiscent
AEthiopianisms, mellifluous in design, though not severely artistic in
execution. Passing from the turbulent precincts of Portland and Causeway
Streets, he had entered upon the solitudes of Green Street, along which he
now dragged himself dreamily enough, ever extracting consolations from
lugubrious cadences mournfully intoned. Very silent was the
neighborhood. Very dismal the night. Very dreary and damp was Mr. Smithers;
for a vile fog wrapped itself around him, filling his body with moist
misery, and his mind with anticipated rheumatic horrors. Still he surged
heavily along, tired Nature with tuneful charms sweetly restoring.

As he wound off a tender tribute to the virtues of the Ancient Tray, and
was about sounding the opening notes of a requiem over the memory of the
lost African Lily, surnamed Dale, one o'clock was announced by the bell of
the Lynde-Street Church. Mr. Smithers's heart warmed a little at the
thought of speedy respite from his midnight toil, and with hastening step
he approached Chambers Street, and came within range of his relief post. He
paused a moment upon the corner, and gazed around. It is the peculiar
instinct of a policeman to become suspicious at every corner.

Nothing stirring. Silence everywhere. He listens acutely. No sound. He
strains his eyes to penetrate the misty atmosphere. He is satisfied that
order reigns. He prepares to resume his march, and the measure of his
melancholy chant.

Three seconds more, and Policeman Smithers is another being. Now his hand