the thrill of horror which went through me at this sudden apparition. What!—a boat—a small boat—passing beneath that arch into yonder roaring gulf! Yes, yes, down through that awful water-way, with more than the swiftness of an arrow, shot the boat, or skiff, right into the jaws of the pool. A monstrous breaker curls over the prow—there is no hope; the boat is swamped, and all drowned in that strangling vortex. No! the boat, which appeared to have the buoyancy of a feather, skipped over the threatening horror, and, the next moment, was out of danger, the boatman—a true boatman of Cockaigne that—elevating one of his sculls in sign of triumph, the man hallooing, and the woman, a true Englishwoman that—of a certain class—waving her shawl. Whether any one observed them save myself, or whether the feat was a common one, I know not; but nobody appeared to take any notice of them. As for myself, I was so excited that I strove to clamber up the balustrade of the bridge, in order to obtain a better view of the daring adventurers. Before I could accomplish my design, however, I felt myself seized by the body, and, turning my head, perceived the old fruit-woman, who was clinging to me. ‘Nay, dear! don’t—don’t!’ said she. ‘Don’t fling yourself over—perhaps you may have better luck next time!’ ‘I was not going to fling myself over,’ said I, dropping from the balustrade; ‘how came you to think of such a thing?’ ‘Why, seeing you clamber up so fiercely, I thought you might have had ill luck, and that you wished to make away with yourself.’ ‘Ill luck,’ said I, going into the stone bower, and sitting down. ‘What do you mean? ill luck in what?’ ‘Why, no great harm, dear! cly-faking perhaps.’ ‘Are you coming over me with dialects,’ said I, ‘speaking unto me in fashions I wot nothing of?’ ‘Nay, dear! don’t look so strange with those eyes of your’n, nor talk so strangely; I don’t understand you.’ ‘Nor I you; what do you mean by cly-faking?’ ‘Lor, dear! no harm; only taking a handkerchief now and then.’ ‘Do you take me for a thief?’ ‘Nay, dear! don’t make use of bad language; we never calls them thieves here, but prigs and fakers: to tell you the truth, dear, seeing you spring at that railing put me in mind of my own dear son, who is now at Bot’ny: when he had bad luck, he always used to talk of flinging himself over the bridge; and, sure enough, when the traps were after him, he did fling himself into the river, but that was off the bank; nevertheless, the traps pulled him out, and he is now suffering his sentence; so you see you may speak out, if you have done anything in the harmless line, for I am my son’s own mother, I assure you.’ ‘So you think there’s no harm in stealing?’