fully
through one at least of my "trials."

A species of filial instinct suggested to me the propriety of seeing
Newgate, where my father lay, awaiting the arrival of the convict ship
that was to convey him to Van Diemen's Land; and thither I accordingly
repaired, not to enter, but simply to gaze, with a very awestruck
imagination, upon that double-barred cage of human ferocity and crime.

In itself the circumstance has nothing worthy of record nor should I
mention it, save that to the deep impression of that morning do I owe a
certain shrinking horror of all great crime; that impression has been of
incalculable benefit to me through life.

I strained my eyes to mark if, amid the faces closely pressed against
the strong bars, I could recognize that of my parent, but in vain; there
was a terrible sameness in their features, as if the individual had sunk
in the criminal, that left all discrimination difficult; and so I turned
away satisfied that I had done a son's part most completely.

CHAPTER V. A PEEP AT "HIGH AND LOW COMPANY"

I have often heard it observed that one has as little to do with the
choice of his mode of life as with the name he receives at baptism. I
rather incline to the opinion that this is true. My own very varied and
somewhat dissimilar occupations were certainly far less the result of
any preconceived plan or scheme than the mere "turn-up" of the rolling
die of Fortune.

It was while revolving a species of fatalism in this wise, and calmly
assuring myself that I was not born to be starved, that I strolled along
Merrion Square on the same afternoon of my expulsion from Trinity and
visit to Newgate.

There were brilliant equipages, cavaliers, and ladies on horseback;
handsome bouses, with balconies often thronged by attractive-looking
occupants; and vast crowds of gayly dressed persons promenaded within
the square itself, where a military band performed; in fact, there was
more than enough to interest and amuse one of higher pretensions in the
scale of pleasure than myself.

While I was thus gazing on this brilliant panorama of the outdoor life
of a great city, and wondering and guessing what precise object thus
brought people together,--for no feature of a market, or a fair, or any
festive occupation solved the difficulty,--I was struck by a class of
characters who seemed to play the subordinate parts of the drama,--a set
of ragged, ill-fed, half-starved boys, who followed in crowds each