If this drawing suffered in the hands of the wood-engraver, it must have been beyond imagination beautiful, for, as it is, it shows us Leech in his full strength. Nothing, it seems to me, could surpass the figure of Lucy, whose expression of loving fear for the safety of the bold Sponge is shown to us in one of the prettiest faces conceivable. Sponge himself is no less successfully rendered as he smiles reassuringly at his beloved. The race--admirably described by the author--is run, and won by Mr. Sponge. "And now for the hero and heroine of our tale. The Sponges--for our friend married Lucy shortly after the steeplechase--stayed at Nonsuch House till the bailiffs walked in. Sir Harry then bolted to Boulogne, where he afterwards died. Being at length starved out of Nonsuch House," says the historian, "he--Sponge--arrived at his old quarters, the Bantam, in Bond Street, where he turned his attention very seriously to providing for Lucy and the little Sponge, who had now issued its prospectus. He thought over all the ways and means of making money without capital.... Professional steeplechasing Lucy decried, declaring she would rather return to her flag exercises at Astley's as soon as she was able than have her dear Sponge risking his neck that way. Our friend at length began to fear fortune-making was not so easy as he thought; indeed he was soon sure of it." Something had to be done; "accordingly, after due consultation with Lucy, he invested his all in fitting up and decorating the splendid establishment in Jermyn Street, St. James's, now known as the SPONGE CIGAR AND BETTING ROOMS, where noblemen, gentlemen, and officers in the Household troops may be accommodated with loans on their personal security to any amount." We see by Mr. Sponge's last advertisement that he has £116,000 to lend at 3½ per cent. CHAPTER VIII. "THE MARCHIONESS OF BRINVILLIERS," BY ALBERT SMITH. "December 20, 1844. "MY DEAR SIR, "Here we are at the 20th of the month, and I have only four pages of Smith's new story--no incident. Really, it is too much to expect that I can throw myself at a moment's notice into the seventeenth century, with all its difficulties of costume, etc., etc. What am I to do? There is a great want of system somewhere. I received a note from Mr. Marsh last night, stating for the first time that there would be _two_ illustrations to 'The Marchioness of Brinvilliers,' and also urging me to be very early with the plates, it being Christmas and all that! But, as I said before, I have not the matter to illustrate. _What am I to do?_ Added to all this, I must be engaged one day in the early part of next week on the melancholy occasion of the funeral of a poor little sister of mine. Pray, my dear sir, do what you can to expedite matters, and "Believe me, "Yours faithfully, "JOHN LEECH. "---- MORGAN, ESQ."