of incandescent flakes could have obtained
the desired result. There uprose a wail, as
if a multitude of infants were being murdered,
and little spiral columns of reddish smoke
rose in corkscrews in the air. There opened a
hole in the moving mass, at the spot where
the melted resin had fallen. At the bottom
of the hole a skeleton was visible; it was
the skeleton of the horse—a horse no longer.
In the cavities, cells, and compartments of
its framework, groups of satiated rats had
taken up their lodging; some had gone to
sleep, like drunkards, overcome by intoxication,
falling under a public-house table. They
were drunk with horseflesh.

"Now, let in the dogs!" was the second
word of command given by Brissot-Thivars
to his men.

"What! It is not finished yet?" cried
Balzac, who had not lost a single item of the
rare and novel observations which the
spectacle afforded.

"Finished!" answered the Inspector of
Public Salubrity, with ironical pride.
"Finished! It is not even yet begun."

This magnificent boast confounded the
visitors, but it pleased them, notwithstanding.
Balzac felt at that moment such admiration
for Brissot-Thivars, that it tore from
him the singular eulogy: "Ah, you would
have made a famous manager of a theatre!"

The compliment went to the heart of the
worthy inspector; his chin buried itself in
his broad cravat to hide its delight. Never
had Public Salubrity enjoyed a happier
moment on earth.

The dogs entered the arena, and the carnage
began. The first few minutes were glorious
for them. They were mad with joy. They
killed; they gave tongue; they gave tongue,
they killed; they bagged two at a shot, like
first-rate sportsmen. A pair of rats were
often entrapped in the same snapping bite.
And when they thought their victims dead,
they shook them about, as puppies will shake
an empty glove. Then they cast them aside,
and recommenced the massacre; but all
pleasures end in exhaustion. The excitement of
the dogs gradually diminished; cruelty gave
place to clemency—clemency which was only
fatigue in disguise. And yet, if they had
scattered death around, in reality they had
destroyed just nothing at all. The first
quarter of an hour was all their own, the
second was by no means so. There were
barkings which sounded much more like
accents of pain than shouts of victory. The
reaction had begun. There were many and
many bleeding ears; there were muzzles from
which hung bunches of rats who were now
taking their revenge on the enemy. It was
in vain to try and shake the assailants off;
they held on so firm and tight that the
countenances of the combatants were disfigured
for life. Others limped along with wounded
feet, while others could not stir a peg. The
rest, doubtless, defended themselves bravely,
but still they had to act on the defensive.
The original position was completely changed.
The chances might have turned out
unfavourable to the dogs, if their masters, alarmed
at their danger and also to crown the fête,
had not issued from the iron gate with naked
arms brandishing clubs, turning the tide of
battle, and changing defeat into victory.
What joy for the dogs was the sight of this
reinforcement! They recovered their former
energy.

The struggle was renewed. The men were
superb. Every blow of the stick sent coveys
of rats—one might have said partridges—
flying. The dogs snapped them up in
mid-air, completing the illusion. The rats,
exasperated, despairing, bounded over the backs
of the dogs, climbed up the men, ran into
their beards and hair, round their necks,
between their legs, over their shoulders,
panted, whistled, clung together, and bit the
sticks with such fury as to leave their teeth
in them. Many broke their own necks by a
rush against the wall, committing suicide rather
than yield,—like stoical rats of antiquity.
Naturally the victory remained on the side
of the men ; but it cost them dear. A duel
fought with sabres with their fellow men
would not have put them into a more pitiable
condition.

The fête was ended. Brissot-Thivars,
steaming with enthusiasm, ran to Balzac,
who received him in his arms.

"What a drama, is it not?" said the
Inspector of Public Salubrity.

"A drama?" exclaimed Balzac, delighted
with his night's amusement. "Say a poem,
and you will still be far short of the truth."

MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S
READINGS.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read at SHREWSBURY on the
12th of August ; at CHESTER on the 13th; at LIVERPOOL
on the 18th, 19th, 20th, and 21st; at DUBLIN on the 23rd,
24th, 25th, and 26th ; at BELFAST on the 27th and 28th ;
at CORK on the 30th and 31st of August.

Now ready, price Five Shillings and Sixpence,
bound in cloth,
THE SEVENTEENTH VOLUME
OF
HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
Containing the Numbers issued between the Nineteenth
of December last year, and the Twelfth of June in
the present year.
To be had of all Booksellers.