deposited me, for safety, in St. Anne’s watch-house, till the following morning; when being sufficiently recovered to give a collected account of that eventful evening, the ingenious Mr. W., of the Morning Herald, was so much interested by my narrative that he kindly did me the favour of drawing it up for publication in the following form. [Illustration: “WELL! I NEVER COULD KEEP MY LEGS!”] _Police Intelligence.--Bow Street._ “This morning a stout country gentleman, in a new suit of mud, evidently town made, was charged with having walked _Waverly_ over-night till he got his _Kennelworth_ in a gutter in Mary-le-bone. The Jack-o’-lanthorn who picked him up could make nothing out of him, but that he was some sort of a _Quaker_, and declared that the whole country was in a _shocking_ state. He acknowledged having taken rather too much _Lisbon_; but according to Mr. Daly, he sniffed of whiskey ‘as strong as natur.’ The defendant attempted with a _sotto voce_ (Anglice, a tipsy voice), to make some excuse, but was stopped and fined in the usual sum, by Sir Richard. He found his way out of the office, muttering that he thought it very hard to have to pay _five hogs_ for being only as drunk as _one_.” ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. “The rain it raineth every day.” THE Dawn is overcast, the morning low’rs, On ev’ry window-frame hang beaded damps Like rows of small illumination lamps, To celebrate the Jubilee of Show’rs! A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves, The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers, And from the Houses’ eaves Tumble eaves-droppers. The hundred clerks that live along the street, Bondsmen to mercantile and City schemers, With squashing, sloshing, and galoching feet, Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like steamers, Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend-- Umbrellas pass of every shade of green, And now and then a crimson one is seen, Like an Umbrella _ripen’d_. Over the way a waggon Stand with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking, While in the George and Dragon The man is keeping himself dry--and drinking! The Butcher’s boy skulks underneath his tray, Hats shine--shoes don’t--and down droop collars, And one blue Parasol cries all the way To school, in company with four small scholars! [Illustration: PRIDE AND HUMILITY.] Unhappy is the man to-day who rides, Making his journey sloppier, not shorter; Aye, there they go, a dozen of outsides, Performing on “a Stage with real water!” A dripping Pauper crawls along the way, The only real willing out-of-doorer And says, or seems to say, “Well, I am poor enough--but here’s a _pourer!_”