It seems I had got within a few yards of a
grating which was an end o' the drain, and the
close quarters made the rats so fierce. The
policeman heard my shriek, and had listened at
the grating, and then got help; but he was only
laughed at, for they could get no further answer
out o' me. It was then about half-past three
on a summer's morning; and though the grate
was got open, they were about to give it up,
saying the policeman had been humbugged;
when a couple o' sweeps came up, and the little
un offered to go down back'ards, and he did,
and came out directly after, saying that he
could feel a man's head with his toes.

That policeman has had many a glass at my
expense since, and I hope he'll have a many
more; and when he tells me the story, which I like
to hear—but always take care shall be when
Polly's away—he says he knows I should have
liked to see how they tore that drain up in no
time. To which there's always such an echo in
my heart, that it comes quite natural to say,
"You're right, my boy!"

CALAMITY-MONGERING.

AMONG the curiosities which appear in the
Memoir-Gallery of Horace Walpole (that
incomparable teller of stories, prescient man of
taste, steadfast friend of those whom he
professed to befriend, and withal, that egregious
coxcomb), figures the China merchant's jar,
advertised as THE ONE JAR CRACKED BY THE
EARTHQUAKE—a quaint and laughable
curiosity; the description of which might justifiably
be stereotyped in the first column of our great
journal, as illustrating what English men and
women covet, and like to see.

But that such coveting and preference do
not restrict themselves to what is quaint and
laughable, we have had—and, more's the pity,
still have—too frequently recurring proof.
When a shocking and bloodthirsty murder has
been committed, what so delicious as to make
acquaintance with the precise implements of the
crime, or the property of the victims? Many
a year ago, the practicable gig and horse
belonging to the miserable gambler Weare, of
Gill's Hill Cottage, murdered by Hunt, Thurtell,
and Probert, were retained, to figure on
the stage of one of our London theatres; and
men and women had a richer relish for the
murder, because the identical vehicle and beast
were trotted out to excite their horror. Yet
note the strange inconsistencies of our
hungerers after sensation. Yellow starch—once
on a time indispensable to My Lady's ruff—was
done to death by its figuring round the neck of
that poisoning sorceress, Mrs. Turner, of Somerset
and Overbury memory, when she was
decked for the scaffold. Black satin ranged
at a low figure among ladies and their maids,
for a long period subsequent to its selection by
the precious murderess, Mrs. Manning, as the
garment in which it would be most becoming
for her to present herself "on the drop." (Is it
not rather extraordinary, by the way, that the
great journal should lately have quoted this
Chief, She-Devil of liars, as an authority on a
question of fact, and should have dwelt upon
her horror of a public execution, when she
prepared herself for her own with a black satin
dress, bran-new boots, and pink silk stockings?)

But here is a very recent announcement:

*   *   *  the  *   *   *  Theatre  *   *   *.—
THIS EVENING, the GRAND PANTOMIME.
Monsieur and Madame Stertzenbach. Johnny Day,
the Champion Walker (nine years old). Olmar.
Mr. John King, and other Survivors from the
steam-ship London, will appear on the stage.
BITTER COLD.

One of the attractions announced (it may be
stated in a parenthesis) is the gentleman who
walks in theatres upside down, with his heels
in rings on the roof—and who went into
a court of justice, not so very long ago, to
prove that he was "the only China jar cracked
by the earthquake," and that acrobats who had
traded on his name (which, by the way, did not
happen to be baptismal) had done so in an
illicit manner.

"Let that pass," as Goldsmith's Beau Tibbs
said. But how can any honest heart let pass the
exhibition of shipwrecked men, saved by God's
mercy from the saddest sea-calamity which has
been told since the wreck of the Royal Charter?
This is no China-jar curiosity. The tale of the
destruction of the London has touched every
heart, has made many an eye wet, has been
thought over in the watches of the night by
people secure in their own nestling-places, who
hold yet

      Of the old sea a reverential fear,

and who cannot help, in wakeful moments, hearing
the winds, and thinking of the waves, and
taking part in the vicissitudes of fortune attending
those who travel to and fro across the
mighty waters.

It seems that the captain was a good man and
true, even assuming a mistake in his seamanship;
—that the passengers on board, when once the
tremendous peril in which they stood was fully
disclosed to them, did not belie their country
or their religion, but met their doom calmly.
It seems that the few people in the forlorn boat
(one disabled by a hurt, a day earlier) were
manly and courageous, and staunch one to the
other; that there was no selfishness, no flinching,
no impatience, no rapacity. Why degrade
such a noble story? Why dim so bright an
example? And, would not pit, boxes, and
gallery, enjoy a procession of real widows, real
orphans, and real bereaved relatives?

Surely the advertisement, "The wrecked men
of the London," presented on a London play-
bill, offers a dismal rebuke to those who are
over-apt to boast of England's progress since the
days of Mrs. Turner's yellow starch, and Mr.
Weare's murder, and Mrs. Manning's historical
black satin gown.

Since the above was penned, a yet more
intolerable abuse of the topics and interests of the
hour has been flaring in a play-bill. The other