ar of a woman being run over in the street,
you may be sure she is neither young nor pretty,--and so seeing her
greatly distressed about the figure she cut, and companionless, I took
pity on her, and going with her found, after some search, an old woman
in a garret with a husband, child, and grandchild, all huddled and
starving in one room together. The husband was a waterman. He had
"stove" his boat some years before, and was never able to get another;
had two sons at sea; paid two shillings a week for the room, which they
said was one shilling too dear, being only large enough to allow of two
or three chairs, a table, and a turn-up bed. Poor Sarah took off her
frock and washed it before me, without a sign of distress or
embarrassment; and then we went off together and had a bit of a
dance,--a rough-and-tumble fore-and-after,--at the nearest booth. With
her bonnet off, and neat cap, her beautiful complexion and dark hair and
eyes, how happened it that she was really modest and well-behaved? And
how came she there? After some resolute questioning, I determined to see
her home, at least so far as to set her down in safety in the
neighborhood where she lived. The coach was crowded with strangers. It
was late, and they were silent, and I thought sulky. Just as we were
passing a lamp, after we had entered a wide thoroughfare, I saw a man's
face under a woman's bonnet. Though not absolutely frightened, I was
rather startled, and more and more unwilling to leave the poor girl to
the mercy of strangers; for I saw, or thought I saw, signs of
intelligence between two of the party; and in short, I never left her
till the danger was over.

There were mountebanks and fortune-tellers and gypsies at every turn.
The prettiest I met with told my fortune. "You are liked better by the
women," said she, "than by the men." Very true. "You are loved by a
widow named Mary." My landlady was a widow, and her name was Mary.
"Which do you like best, Mary or Bessie?" In addition to Mary, there was
another pleasant friend, supposed to be a natural daughter of George
IV., named Bessie. But how the plague did the little gypsy know this? I
found out, I believe, long after the whole affair was forgotten. There
was present, without my knowledge, a man who was always full of such
tricks, who knew me well, and who threw the gypsy in my way and put her
up to all she knew. This was Humphries the engraver.

There was a great ball too,--a magnificent ball,-