Holloway carried off Mr. Steele's
hat and wore it about London, till, at the instigation
of Hatfield, he one day filled it with
stones and threw it over Westminster Bridge.
The booty was only twenty-seven shillings.

The two wretches were hung at Newgate on
February 23, 1807. Holloway kept swearing
he was innocent, and shouting, " No verdict,
no verdict, gentlemen. Innocent, innocent."
The long delay in the arrest of the men, and
some lingering belief in their innocence, had
attracted forty thousand people to the narrow
street of the old Bailey. When the malefactors
appeared on the scaffold, the mob seethed
like a black and angry sea. A struggle for life
began, and several women and boys were instantly
crushed to death. A savage fight for
life ensued. At the end of Green Arbourcourt,
nearly opposite the debtors' door, a
pieman unfortunately dropped his basket, and
many persons falling over this, were instantly
trampled to death. A cart overloaded
with spectators breaking down just then added
to the horror and despair of the scene. The
episodes were agonising. A father saw his son,
a fine boy of twelve, trodden to death, but escaped
himself with some cruel bruises. A woman
with a child at the breast, in dying threw her
child to a bystander, who tossed it to another
who threw it to another, until it reached some
people in a cart, who saved it. Upwards of a
cart-load of shoes, hats, and petticoats were
picked up. Twenty-seven bodies were taken
to St. Bartholomew's Hospital alone.

Two more legends of the heath must not be
forgotten. In James the First's time (December
5, 1606), two young hot-blooded lawyers fought
a duel alone in a wild part of the heath. They
were found, side by side, each having spitted
the other with his rapier. In this extremity
they had become reconciled, though too weak
from loss of blood to help each other. Three
years before this, Sir John Townsend (who had
been knighted at the siege of Cadiz by the
chivalrous Earl of Essex) fought a duel here
on horseback with Sir Matthew Brown, Baron
of Beechworth, with sword and pistol. Both
combatants were dangerously wounded in this
desperate and fierce rencontre, Sir Matthew
dying on the spot, and Sir John Townsend
soon after. So the crow flies, and so the
world went once.

FATAL ZERO.
A DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG: A SHORT SERIAL STORY.
CHAPTER III.

THE Briton—I know him by his talking
loud about my " breakfast." How
often do I hear the florid, white- whiskered
Briton, suffering from the heat acutely,
tell his friend and tell me—for he does not
care who hears him, and prefers an audience
that " he'd speak to Gungl, at the
Hesse, about giving some more of that
wild deer," or "that he was going to get
his cutlets, and very odd the Times was so
late;" or else what seems the standard
grumble, about "kreutzers and their infernal
money. Look, I say, what can you
make of such things as these?" And he
does seem to think that wherever the
Englishman goes, his money, meats, steaks,
joints, beds, clubs, Times, &c., should go
with him, and be the money, meat, steaks
of the country. (My dearest Dora, will
you know me after this, or do you suppose
it is your poor invalid that is writing?
Such a change in me already—to be affecting
to be funny!) But I go on. Then
I see the great doctor of the place, Seidler,
whose book, Homburg and its Springs, is
in every bookseller's. He is walking about
here, talking to the English, who hang on
his words, and his carriage and horses
wait, at the end of the walk—a good advertisement,
for every stranger asks whose it
is. The Briton with the white whiskers, I
remark, is great on Seidler. At dinner he
tells every one what " Seidler said to me
this morning. Seidler made me cut off
a tumbler of the kayserbrowning, and told
me if I had taken it another day he would
not have answered for it. Egad! I was
working away, and if he hadn't stopped
me," &c. Seidler, I can see, is looked on
as a magician who can do as he likes with
the springs, and mysteriously check their
whole efficiency if you offend him. Any
one who takes them without consulting
him goes to destruction at once; or else
they do the patient no good at all. We
might as well be quaffing common spring
water. A third of a tumbler, he will
say, every half-hour in the morning, or
a tumbler at seven, and half a tumbler
at a quarter to ten. The idea seems to
be, that, delayed till ten, the prescription
would have no efficacy; and I see the
fresh white- whiskered man, watch in hand,
counting the moments. I go myself to
Seidler, and believe him to be clever; and
he certainly hit off my case at once. But
these little tricks the English themselves
force on him, as their maladies are so
tricky and fanciful. He says, three weeks of
the water, and, of course, of Seidler—three
tumblers of the former, and one interview
with the latter per diem—"will make a
new man of me." And I believe him.
My dear, shall I confess it, I can bear this
separation, and am not craving to be back.
It will be better in the end I should be
here. But after ten days I know I shall
get restless and eager to see your pretty
face. Now, dear, I stop this log, for I