complete stranger, and ignorant of the usages of the place, convinced him that in this case discretion was the better policy. He accordingly took advantage of the next street to turn down, and make his way into the higher parts of the city. He had nearly reached the extreme end of this turning, when he faced round to try to discover his locality; and, to his surprise, fancied he could see in the distance three dark figures following him, resembling the persons whom he had seen a few moments before.

Under the impression that their object was none of the best, he was glad to find that the next corner was the commencement of a well-lighted street, down which he quietly took his way.

It will not be necessary to detail to the reader the various turnings and windings by which Godfrey advanced on his journey, until he became completely lost. The few questions which he had the opportuity of asking, were either answered in French, of which his knowledge was limited, in Spanish or Dutch, of which he knew nothing, or in broken Englishso broken, that the information he received was equally unsatisfactory.

He looked in vain for a hackney-coach, but no such commodity was to be seen; and the glimmering light from lamps suspended across the street was insufficient to enable a complete stranger to read the names of the streets. Fairly brought to a stand, he began to feel uneasy. The few persons he met evidently noticed his bewildered movements, and it was just within the range of possibility that they might be willing to take advantage of his difficulty. Around him were scattered groups of onestoried dwellings, imperfectly lighted as described; and beyond him was a place where the lights seemed to cease altogether, wearing the aspect of a forest, as well as he could judge.

How long he might have stood in this state of uncertainty and suspense, it would be difficult to say, when he was put on the right path by a very sudden and startling incident. A deep-toned bell, apparently in his immediate neighbourhood, struck up a loud and rapid alarm, which continued without cessation. It had not been ringing for many seconds before another bell at some distance commenced in the same manner, shortly afterwards followed by another and another, until the din with which the whole city resounded became almost deafening.

Before he had time to speculate on the character of this demonstration, he was surprised to see the hitherto silent streets suddenly become instinct with life and motion; and from one dark door and another men and boys would emerge and rush down the street, yelling with all their might. In the open windows and on the door-steps women would cluster, huddling their infants in their arms, and gazing after their fugitive relatives with countenances of concern. What with the ringing of bells, the jingling of lumbering vehicles which the alarm had suddenly started into motion, and the frantic cries of youths and men who tore furiously down the street, Selborne was wellnigh bewildered; when it just occurred to him that by following the stream of people he might be led through a portion of the city with which he was acquainted; which conjecture ultimately proved true. When he had joined the main stream of people, he could comprehend the nature of the alarm, for every one appeared to feel a responsibility upon himself to run at the top of his speed, and yell at the top of his voice, as he ran, the word "Fire! fire!" But the mystery scarcely needed this explanation, as a broad bright light suddenly burst out at some little distance ahead, illumining every object around. By

this light he could see plainly the towering dome of the St. Charles, and other landmarks, by which he became perfectly aware of his position; but being anxious to see the end of this visitation, he followed with the crowd to the scene of action, and there found a dwelling-house almost enveloped in a sheet of flame. The excitement here, though great, was of a more silent and useful character than the preliminary demonstration had been, and only in cases of personal activity and daring displayed by the firemen would vent itself in a shout of approbation from the mob.

One man was in a room in the upper story, busy flinging out everything he could seize; while the crowd below were as zealously placing these articles beyond the reach of the fire. The flames were already within the room where the fireman was, and it seemed to the spectators that his danger was imminent in remaining an instant longer.

Time after time, as the gallant fellow retired from the window, and the smoke and flames hid him from sight, the crowd seemed to think he had been lost altogether, and waited in breathless suspense for his reappearance, which was as repeatedly hailed with a shout of joy; until at last a portion of the roof fell in, and the flames, no longer pent up within walls, shot out in a straight line of fire, before which everything seemed to crumble away. Then the figure of the fireman quickly appeared at the window; and scrambling to the ladder placed immediately under it, he safely descended.

Just at that moment a loud shriek was heard, and the crowd was seen to make way for a woman who rushed towards the building. My child! Oh God, my child!" she exclaimed.

66

A breathless silence ensued.

"Save my child !"

"Is there no man here who will try to save my child?" she appealed from one to another with terrible energy, but without success; one by one, each man shook his head.

"It's too late now, madam; it can't be done," said one.

"Too late!" said she, with a stern pathos; "then it is not too late for me;" and, rushing forward, immersed herself and garments in the overflowing channel at the side of the street, then made for the door of the burning house.

Maternal instinct is a beautiful thing. With an energy almost superhuman, she repulsed the efforts of those who sought to detain her, and soon disappeared in the smoke of the conflagration. The time seemed to hang now. Many men, almost ashamed to be outdone in personal courage by a woman, forced their way in, but were speedily compelled to return from the violence of the fire. Besides, they wanted the strong impulse of nature which guided the distracted mother to her slumbering babe.

Selborne was amongst the number who rushed forward in this endeavour, and was just about to enter, when the woman made her appearance with the child in her arms, securely covered up under her soaking garments.

To disclose its pretty face to the pure air, to imprint one frantic kiss on its forehead, and place it in the arms of the nearest bystander, was the work of an instant, before she sank insensible to the ground.

any

This bystander was no other than our hero, who was thus thrust into an adventure without choice of his own. But his duties were not of long continuance, for the efforts of the spectators to recover the fainting female were soon successful; and he had only time to discover that the

child in his arms was a girl of about twelve years of age, with delicate features, a pleasing expression, and bright black eyes. He moreover discovered that these eyes were regarding him curiously all the while; but when observed, his fair burden immediately struggled to free herself; which he suffered her to do, when she proceeded to her mother's side, and clung to her garments with an appearance of alarm-whether real or affected, Selborne could not determine. This face, which some people would not have called pretty, and which Selborne had seen but imperfectly and for a very short while, haunted him for some time after-` wards; and as she was borne away by the solicitude of a crowd of matrons, he felt that all interest in this scene for him had departed, and left the place; but shortly after was detained by a catastrophe which unhinged his nerves rather more than the preceding one, and which by no means could be said to terminate so happily.

He had gained the edge of the crowd, and was proceeding in the direction of the hotel, as indicated by the still bright flames of the fire, when a person walked hurriedly past him with a swaggering gait, and fell down at a short distance across his path. Taking him for some midnight reveller, he would have passed on; but observing that the man lay like a log where he had fallen, without stirring, Selborne went to the spot, and, partially raising him, tried to set him on his feet-an effort which this person appeared to decline, by shaking his head, placing at the same time his hand upon his side. Selborne hastily opened his clothes, and found a wide cut, from which blood was flowing freely. He bound it up with a handkerchief, and then, looking round for some neighbouring house where he might place the wounded man, perceived a one-storied cottage with the door partially open, and a light burning inside.

Thinking at a venture that this would be a good place for bestowing his charge, he raised him, and with some difficulty placed him on the step of the door, while he entered at once to announce his errand. Much to his surprise, there was no one within. A table, some chairs, two camp bedsteads, and a smouldering fire on the hearth, were all the room appeared to contain. Without hesitation, therefore, he brought in the wounded man, and guided him to one of the bedsteads, whereon he placed him as gently as he possibly could. Notwithstanding he did so with the tenderness of a nurse, the motion extracted one or two groans from the sufferer.

Selborne was glad to hear any sounds which indicated his companion to possess any vitality, and questioned him as to the cause of his wound. The sufferer replied at intervals, and as if the labour of speaking gave him pain, to the effect that he had been stabbed while passing the crowd at the fire; and having given this information, whether from exhaustion or indisposition to be communicative, he closed his eyes, and received all Godfrey's questions in resolute silence.

"What is to be done now ?" said Godfrey to himself; "it is absurd to suppose I am going to remain here all night, although it would not be right to leave this man here in his present state. Stay," said he, half aloud, "I will go to the nearest house and inform the people, and perhaps may be able to procure help."

"Don't leave me," said the sick man, who would appear to have overheard his soliloquy; "I shall be well soon, I shall then go with down again, sir, pray."

you ;-sit

Godfrey was not a person to resist an appeal of this kind, and he seated himself again, saying at the same time," If my remaining here could

be of service to you, I would stay with pleasure; but I expect to find some conveyance to remove you to a more comfortable place." "Yes, sir; very true, sir. I will go with you presently," returned the other, grasping Godfrey's arm. He then closed his eyes, and was soon,

to all appearance, fast asleep.

Godfrey disengaged himself from his grasp, and, after stirring the fire into a blaze, reseated himself with some impatience.

The flame burnt itself out, and his companion still slept. The shadows of the room again resolved themselves into an impenetrable darkness, and no sound but the crackling of the charred embers on the hearth broke the silence of the night. All sounds outside were hushed. There was not even a hum, as if the distant city were subsiding into repose. The silence to Godfrey was insupportable. It was intense, and, like the Egyptian darkness, might be felt. He grew uncomfortable; and, his fancy being excited, listened so carefully, that his ears rang with disagreeable and painful sounds, and more than once he felt almost assured that the room contained others than themselves.

His nervous system strung to a high and painful pitch, he was unable to bear the suspense longer, and, shaking his companion, said testily"Come, sir, if you do not wake up soon I shall be obliged to leave you." The person so addressed started up into a sitting posture, and, evidently in alarm, shouted out—

"Who are you?-Keep off-mind! -Oh! excuse me, sir," said he, perceiving his error, "I was only half awake."

Godfrey repeated his remark.

"Oh yes," replied the stranger; "do very well now, I reckon.

Those

cursed fellows have left a little more life than they thought to. I shall

do

very well, sir."

"Should you know them again?" inquired Godfrey.

"In a thousand, by G-," said his companion. "But why do you ask?" "I thought we might possibly get them arrested in the morning," said Godfrey; "that is, if they are not off by this time." "Off?" exclaimed the stranger. 66 "No?" said Godfrey.

They won't think of making off."

"Not they. I'll swear they think they have killed me; and yet any one may find them at their usual place to-morrow morning, and no one dare arrest them."

"Bless me!" said Godfrey; "this is curious law."

"Law, sir? it ain't law, it's liberty."

"Liberty and law can flourish together in some countries," said Godfrey, drily.

66

Well," said the stranger, rather sullenly, "the law 'll do, any how. I reckon I shall be even with those fellows before very long."

"Then you know who they were?" said Godfrey.

66

Perfectly," replied he; "they were

"Yes, who were they?" said Godfrey, impatiently, seeing the other paused here.

They were three--"

At this moment there was noise of footsteps outside; the door creaked, and some persons entered. The sick man glanced toward them for a moment, then jumped up with a cry

of horror.

Selborne turned quickly round, and recognised the three men whom he had seen on the levee.

THE THEATRES.

ALTHOUGH the period that lapses between the shutting of the great Lumleian establishment and the general opening of the theatres is somewhat of the dullest, there are nevertheless two or three points which now present themselves to those who watch the progress of the drama in our metropolis. The age of the "larger houses" is, we believe, past, and to make observations on the real state of theatricals we must direct our glances to nooks and corners at which we should never have dreamed of looking ten years ago. The Haymarket and the Lyceum, which may be called the principal English theatres at the present day, are not yet open; and the Adelphi, which is the most prosperous theatre of any day, has not yet put forth its novelties; but we have the New Strand Theatre, which has kept open during the whole of the summer, Marylebone, and Sadler's Wells. These three establishments seem destined to play an important part in modern dramatic history.

The company at the New Strand Theatre is formed of the principals of the old Olympic, which was burned down at the beginning of the present year, with the important addition of Mr. William Farren, who is not only the chief actor, but the lessee of the house. A more compact company for the performance of domestic drama and light farce can hardly be conceived. Mrs. Stirling is one of the most versatile and accomplished actresses of her time. She has worked her way through a long discipline of inferior characters, and, within the last few years, has come forward as an admirable representative of comic vivacity, or of the agonies of domestic drama. She has also the advantage of being a perfectly "safe" artiste. She is thoroughly devoted to her profession, and you never find her tripping or hobbling with her words; but she takes up every part calmly and collectedly; and she has mirth and grief, to be employed whenever they are required. Mr. Leigh Murray originally came before the London public as an actor of "juvenile tragedy." He is always careful and studious, and is blessed with a remarkably handsome person and a most gentlemanlike deportment. As a hero of domestic drama, and also as an actor in farce, where good looks are required, and something of earnestness is mingled with the pleasantry, he is probably not to be rivalled by any young performer in London. Mr. Compton is now one of the first low comedians of his time; and though he is somewhat of a dry humourist, he is beginning to infuse more and more unction into his dryness. As for Mr. Farren himself, years of displayed talent testify to his worth; and he is still unapproachable in his line. Such a set of artistes working well together (as they do) can hardly fail to form the nucleus of a permanent company, when a gentleman of solidity like Mr. Farren's places himself at the head of their undertaking.

At Marylebone Theatre there is a certain spirit of elegance which distinguishes it from all theatres, except the Lyceum. The manager, Mr. Watts, is a gentleman of the most princely liberality, and, whether his audiences be numerous or scanty, they always find the dramas dressed and painted to perfection. The "star" of this establishment is Mrs Mowatt, the American actress-one of the most beautiful women ever seen on