There were full two hundred beings. They formed one unbroken, moving mass. They were running, as if with one will, frantically together. Their speed was unnatural. The rain only made them run the faster. Not an umbrella had they amongst them. At last they reached the corner. The clerks behind ran as if for their very lives. I was alarmed, and ran after them, the agent of some mysterious fear. I lost sight of them for a moment. Again I saw them—and, oh! what a scene presented itself to me! A band of at least two hundred desperate clerks were struggling, fighting madly, to get admission all into one omnibus. Their screams were dreadful. One fat cashier was lying, dead or wounded, under the door-step, bathed in mud. Another was shouting in agony, at the door, unable to work his way out or in. Twenty or thirty clerks were climbing, to the imminent peril of their lives, on to the roof. At the same time a severe engagement was taking place amongst a determined dozen on the box, to decide by brutal force who should remain master of the one seat. In the algebraical fraction of a minute every place was invaded, and the omnibus rolled away before me, like some frightful dream. How many lives were lost I cannot tell. The subject was too painful to inquire into. I felt a degree of pity for the pettiness of human nature, and had a strong glass of brandy-and-water. Never, as long as I live, shall I forget the 11th of November! [This phenomenon, we have been told, is not so strange as it may appear. Let the curious reader only be present at the Bank, on the first _rainy_ day, when the clock strikes four, and he will infallibly—should there be only one omnibus in waiting—witness the same desperate struggle for places as occurred to our German-minded correspondent on the memorable 11th. It is a very amusing sport, we have been told, to be a spectator (under an umbrella) of this animated clerk-race.] LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. BY THE LATE DANIEL LAMBERT. Ellen, I will not praise thine eyes, Nor laud the beauties of thy cheek; For I have grown into a size, That ladies titter when I speak Of love! and vow they'll ne'er be won By suitors weighing half a ton. I will not sing of every spell That decks thy form—thou'rt not for me; For I've a voice that doth excel A school-boy blowing in a key: And lovely lips have o'er and o'er Declared my singing quite a bore. But let me breathe this fervent prayer, That when to him thou hold'st most dear Thou yield'st thine hand, oh! make him swear To shun the wiles of bottled beer; And, should he pause, then point me out, And say—"Behold, that's horrid stout!" FINE ART DISTRIBUTION.