There is a great deal of exaggeration in all this too. Why should not a man, with a moderate stud, go into Leicestershire and take the best meets just as he would in any other country? Are there no frosts-no bad days-no failure of scent-no ringing, short running foxes in Leicestershire as well as in other countries? Of blanks we say nothing.

There was always a disposition on the part of Nimrod to magnify Leicestershire and Leicestershire men into something beyond what they will fairly bear. No doubt it is a fine grass country, and many famous sportsmen resort to it from all parts of the kingdom; but it also draws a lot of noisy, perfumed, chattering coxcombs, who have no idea of hunting, and no real pleasure in the thing. One may go to Almack's or the park to look at the flower of English beauty, but as to going to Melton to look at the flower of English youth, that is an expedition few fox-hunters, we think, will be inclined to undertake. The man who is entitled to be in good society, will soon be in it whether he goes to Melton or not, while he who is not, will neither have his progress quickened nor retarded by his pilgrimage there. A gentleman's a gentleman, and a snob's a snob wherever they are. We use the word snob in the real acceptation of the term, not in the Nimrodian one, as applied to an unfortunate stranger in a country-cut coat in the hunting-field. Neither do we subscribe to the doctrine that Leicestershire is the only country in the world that appears to have been intended for fox-hunting. Nay, we are Goth enough to know countries we prefer to it, but having conducted our hero to his Elysium of the Chace, we will now leave him till the first of the ensuing month.

THE SEARCHERS OF THE SEWERS.

A TALE OF MODERN LONDON UNDERGROUND.

BY CHARLTON CAREW.

LONDON above ground, and London below! two worlds in close connexion, yet unseen, one by the other. As we walk through the busy streets of London above ground, and see its long line of densely populated houses, and its many thousand carriages whirling by, making earth tremble as they pass; and its crowd of human beings, jostling, pushing, and driving, as they flow onward in perpetual motion, intent on everything and nothing-when we see all this hurry and turmoil, does the thought never strike us that underneath the very roots (so to speak) of the houses, a river runs, while close to the water are lines of iron pipes choked with fire? A dream evoked by an Arabian fabulist could hardly present to our wondering senses fancies more strange or magician-like than this reality. Light and water-great luxuries of life— stream into our houses at the will of man; and the same voice that bids them come, sends them back again to their silent home. A marvel, yet a truth, of which we daily feel the benefit.

More extraordinary still is the fact that men are to be found who peril life in traversing the sewers, to search for things of value that have been swept into the stream through gutters and other openings. We gape with astonishment on reading Belzoni's feats in Egyptian caverns

and tombs; how he crawled into the dusky grave of the shrivelled mummy, and fetched into the light of day strange things of by-gone times; how, with untiring perseverance, he set at nought the opposition of crafty guides, and burst into the granite pyramid-vast emblem of man's ambition. We read of this, and wonder at his daring. Yet there are men who now plunge into subterranean London, where perils equally frightful to those of the great traveller, await them— perils that even the miner knows not; for, in these underground places, rats breed by myriads-creatures that, knowing nothing of man, fear him not, and would punish him for invasion of their territory.

Nor has the treasure-seeker of the sewers this alone to dread; to scare away the vermin, he carries a lantern which sometimes ignites the gas evolved in these unventilated tunnels, and the unhappy being within is stifled to death. But in dry weather, when the stream is inconsiderable, trinkets, silver spoons, or other small valuables, are sometimes discovered in the mud deposited by the turbid water in the

sewer.

On an afternoon in the early part of September, a man emerged from the mouth of the great sewer, opening into the Thames, and bent his way towards one of the poorer streets that lie between Whitefriars and the Strand. He held a lantern in his hand, which, together with all parts of his dress, was covered with splashes of mud. People stared at him as he went along the dusty streets, and wondered "where on earth he could have picked up so much dirt;" but he was too tired to attend to them, and too ragged to care for their sneers, if he had.

He turned up a narrow court, and was greeted by the words,— "Here's father, here's father," from many little voices. The man, though he was trembling with fatigue, smiled pleasantly to see his children thus welcome him back; but he sighed a minute after: one little thing was gnawing a bone that she had picked from the gutter. He kissed the eldest-she was a pretty child, though but half-clothed in rags and something very like a tear dropped from the man's eye as she whispered, "Have you brought any bread home, father? Johnny's been crying for his supper."

He turned his head away while he told her quickly (she thought it sounded harshly, but it was not so) to bring all the children in, and they should have some supper. The girl jumped away to do as she was bidden, and the father turned into his squalid room, where a woman sat, busily plying her needle. On hearing him enter, she lifted up her aching eyes, and starting from her seat, exclaimed, "Thank God! Robert, you're come back. I'm never happy when you are away in those frightful places."

There's nothing to fear, Ellen," returned the man; though even if there were you'd have nothing to distress yourself about, for I don't think I shall go again. I've met that Canfield, with another man, and they swear I shan't hunt the sewers any more. They say the privilege of doing so belongs to them, as they've been at it many years, and I've no right there. Right! What's their right any more than mine? What is a man's right, if he mayn't work-ay, and that like a pig wallowing in a ditch-for an honest penny? But the rascals drove me out, and I don't think they'd stand nice about smothering me in the mud. There were two of 'em, or I mightn't have gone so easy."

“Well, well, Robert," said his wife soothingly; "it's a dreadful place,

and you're better away from it. In about an hour's time I shall have finished this work, and then, perhaps, I shall get the money for it. The poor children are very hungry."

"Never mind the work, Ellen," returned Hampton-such was the man's name. "I've not come back quite empty-handed. See here; I've raked out this ring; it's gold, I think, and there's no inscription on it. Look at it carefully, and if you see anything on it by which we may discover the owner, he shall have it; though may be he's dead and gone long ago, for I found it in a chink of the brickwork, and I should say it has been there many a long year."

It was an old-fashioned, chased gold ring; there was no stone in it, no inscription, no crest, whereby its owner might be known.

"Are you sure there's nothing there, Ellen?" inquired Hampton. "It is a good deal worn," she replied; "but I don't think there's ever been any words marked upon it."

“Go and sell it, then, and bring back some bread and meat. Here come the children; don't be long, Ellen. Now then," he cried, as the little ones, with eager eyes, peered into the room, "we'll soon have some supper. Johnny, my boy, what's the matter?"

"Mother hasn't given me any thing to eat," blubbered Johnny," and I'm hungry."

She had worked hard, though, to gain food for him, but the child was too young to know that, and cried bitterly; thus adding mental torture to his mother's physical suffering. She did not answer a word to the boy's complaint, though it sorely pained her to hear his words, but hastily putting on her bonnet, she sallied forth with the ring. The children stood in a little knot at the doorway, anxiously waiting her arrival with the food their father had told them she was gone for. They stared up the court with their large eyes, wondering "what made mother so long;" for the baker's was not far round the corner.

At length Mary (the eldest) ran along the court to the street at the end, and looked about, but presently returned to the expectant group without bringing satisfactory tidings. Half an hour passed away, and the little crowd at the door was joined by Hampton, who had now begun to feel uneasy at his wife's protracted absence. Still she came not. Hampton, after speaking to the eldest girl, went out to the silversmith's, where he had directed his wife to sell the ring, and entered the shop. Several people were standing about the counter, talking to the master, and many more were outside the shop, peering through the windows, as though something curious was to be seen inside. Mrs. Hampton was not there. From the few words he heard spoken, the dreadful truth at once struck upon Hampton's brain.

"Where is my wife?" he cried.

"Who do you mean?" inquired the master of the shop.

"My wife. The woman who came here just now to sell a gold ring. Where is she?"

Several gentlemen here gathered round Hampton, and the crowd outside pressed still closer to the window, flattening their noses against the glass; while others blocked up the doorway.

"Did that ring, which the woman you call your wife brought here to sell, belong to you?" inquired the master.

"It did," replied Hampton.

"Where did you obtain it?"

What right have you to question me in this manner?" cried Hampton fiercely. "I say the ring was mine, and I won't tell you any more. Do you think there an't an honest man in the world but you fellows that have got a fine coat to your back? Is every poor man a thief? Ah! you may look at my rags, and turn up your bottle nose, but I've got a clear conscience, and that's more than many of you gentlemen can say. Where is my wife?"

At this moment a policeman, whom Hampton had not previously observed, stepped forward, and taking hold of him by the collar, said, "This sort of thing won't do here, my man. I know you, so come along with me."

Hampton struggled for a minute, but for a minute only. The degradation of being publicly borne along through a hooting crowd in the custody of a policeman, weighed him down, and he was silent. He was taken to prison, where his wife had previously been lodged, and deposited in a gloomy cell, in a corner of which he tumbled down-a heap without life, without hope.

Evening came on, and twilight; deeper and deeper yet, and then 'twas night. Lamps were lighted in the streets, and every shop threw its warm glow athwart the road-comfortable gleams that existed a few hours and then died away-till only the glare from some late tavern betokened life in the houses; at length even that was gone, and busy London slept peacefully. Yet still Hampton's eldest child stood at the door peering, with tearful eyes, up and down the court. The other children had cried themselves to sleep, but the eldest was too sick at heart to think of repose. Both parents gone she knew not whither! Oh! how she watched upward for the first streak of light that should announce the coming of day, that she might go abroad and learn the fate of her parents, even if she could not assist them! So there she stood: motionless as a statue, ay, and as white.

All this time Hampton lay in his cell, bound up in a trance, like a dead thing. Morning dawned, and with it consciousness of his situation; indistinct at first, and dreamy; then, like a blow, it struck him. He started up, seized hold of the iron bars that caged the window, and shook them like a madman, while foam oozed from between his clammy lips.

"Why are these things here?" he shouted. "What were these stony walls built for? why this iron door, and that grated window ? They are for thieves; yes, thieves; yet I am here. Curses on the man who put me into a thieves' house. Why be an honest man, if a jail gapes for one? Rogues, pickpockets, and slanderers can live like kings, while an honest man is thrown into a dungeon, and destroyed— crushed for the rest of his life. Ah, I see it; it is a crime to be poor -a dreadful crime; so I am here. And my wife, my poor Ellen; they could not even spare her, but dragged her through a howling crowd to a jail. Oh! that I had seen a man lay a finger upon her! it might have been his last moment!"

He relapsed into silence, and sank down; his face buried in his hands. Then he thought of his hungry children at home; of their little, thin faces, and of their going starving to bed; father and mother both away. Hampton was a man, but his sobs were audible as he constantly ejaculated, "My poor children!"

Hours passed by, and still the deep despair that laid hold of the

man clung to him like a palsy, and crushed those hopeful feelings that conscious innocence should have engendered. But Hampton was not gifted with that martyr-strength that would uphold him in his troubles; that inward might of virtue which keeps man erect, and enables him to look placidly around, though ten thousand howling fiends try to tear him down. For a time he sunk under the overwhelming disgrace of being thought a thief; and, like others whom accident or misfortune has placed in a similar situation, he lost that moral courage which should have spurned the hasty conclusions the world might form of his character; a virtue, the want of which makes man the mere slave of designing hypocrites. He was stricken down into comparative imbecility. In time he might have recovered from this state, and looked up proudly, as his innocence would warrant; but now, when the jailer roused him, he suffered himself to be led-not caring whither-to the prison van, hanging his head down as though he were the thief, and the thieves about him, honest men. Hampton saw in this dismal vehicle his wife, whose haggard eyes and blanched cheek gave sure evidence of the bleeding heart within. He was not allowed to speak to her, and they saw nothing of each other again till at the bar of a police court before an alderman.

This functionary-a pudding-headed man, with a "fair round belly;" who knew about as much of law as did the candles he made-heard the depositions with a very stolid countenance, and seemed a good deal puzzled at the fact of Hampton being in custody, though it was his wife who offered the ring for sale.

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'Let me see," said his worship. He couldn't see much, though, for his eyes were nearly choked up with good living. "Is the charge against the male prisoner, or the female? It is necessary that that should be clearly stated."

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There was a slight titter in court at the importance with which this was said; and the clerk, in an under tone, attempted to explain it. Ah, I see," said his worship; "the male prisoner stole the ring, and sent his wife to sell it. Is the owner of that ring in court?" (another titter.)

The silversmith to whom the ring was offered for sale, here said that he did not positively know the trinket had been stolen, but that the female prisoner, who brought it to his shop, gave so unsatisfactory an account of the way she possessed it, that he considered himself justified in giving her into custody. Then he related (for about the third time) the fact of Hampton's coming to the shop.

"Now then, I see how the case stands," said the magistrate. "Prisoner," he continued, in a pompous tone, addressing Mrs. Hampton, "how came you by the ring?"

She was about to answer when Hampton interrupted her, saying, "She got it from me, your worship; and I found it in the sewers under Temple Bar."

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Under Temple Bar!" cried the magistrate, in amazement. "How did you get under Temple Bar, my man? come, answer that."

"I tell you I was in the sewers," replied Hampton, doggedly. "I'll take your worship there if you like."

"In the sewers! Do you mean to tell me you slipped down a grating in the streets, like a rat? How dare you trifle with the

bench ?"