ot roam,
The police will help him so far
As to find him here a home.

This is indeed a quiet refuge for world-wearied men; a sanctuary
undisturbed by the fears of the weak or the passions of the strong.
All reasonable wants are gratified here; nothing is hoped for any
more. The poor burglar burdened with unsaleable "grab" and the
reproaches of a venal world sorrowfully seeks an asylum here. He
brings nothing in his hand; he seeks nothing but rest. He whispers
through the key-hole--

Nil cupientium
Nudus castra peto.

Look at this prisoner slumbering peacefully beside his _huqqa_ under
the suggestive bottle tree (there is something touching in his
selecting the shade of a _bottle_ tree: Horace clearly had no _bottle_
tree; or he would never have lain under a strawberry (and cream)
tree). You can see that he has been softly nurtured. What a sleek,
sturdy fellow he is! He is a covenanted servant here, having passed an
examination in gang robbery accompanied by violence and prevarication.
He cannot be discharged under a long term of years. Uncovenanted
pilferers, in for a week, regard him with respect and envy. And
certainly his lot is enviable; he has no cares, no anxieties. Famine
and the depreciation of silver are nothing to him. Rain or sunshine,
he lives in plenty. His days are spent in an innocent round of duties,
relieved by sleep and contemplation of [Greek: to on]. In the long
heats of summer he whiles away the time with carpet-making; between
the showers of autumn he digs, like our first parents, in the Doctor's
garden; and in winter, as there is no billiard-table, he takes a turn
on the treadmill with his mates. Perhaps, as he does so, he recites
Charles Lamb's Pindaric ode:--

Great mill!
That by thy motion proper
(No thanks to wind or sail, or toiling rill)
Grinding that stubborn-corn, the human will,
Turn'st out men's consciences,
That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet
As flour from purest wheat,
Into thy hopper.

Yet sometimes a murmur rises like a summer zephyr even from the soft
lap of luxury and ease. Even the hardened criminal, dandled on the
knee of a patriarchal Government, will sometimes complain and try to
give the Doctor trouble. But the Doctor has a specific--a brief
incantation that allays every species of inflammatory discontent.
"Look here, my man! If I hear any more of thi