—and I shall die — the men with the ropes
upon the bank, and with a ladder — it is tied to
the ropes — it is pushed along the ice towards
me — a man is crawling along the ladder — but
too late, for surely this is death — the voices on
the bank — what do they say? The man is not
far off — he crawls — so slowly — too late — I cannot
hold — I cannot see — or hear — or feel — and
I shall — die——

Not then. Saved, to write these words some
fifteen years afterwards, and to pause from time
to time as I do so, and think how those years
have passed. Saved, to remember this rescue
for an hour after it happened, and then to go
back into the world forgetting it. Saved, to
pass through other dangers and to escape other
perils; but never, perhaps, to be at such close
quarters with death.

I have no distinct recollection—I never had
any — of how I was got out of the water. I
remember something of crouching beside the man
on the ladder, a huddled mass of ice and freezing
water, the ladder being swiftly drawn ashore by
the ropes which were fastened to it, and breaking
in once or twice in its progress over the
surface of the ice. I remember the horror of
each of these new accidents. I remember
running as fast as I could, supported on each side
by an iceman, from the Round Pond to the
receiving-house of the Humane Society. I
remember that some one had been sent on to
order the warm bath, which I found ready on
my arrival. I remember how difficult it was to
get my wet clothes off. I remember rejoicing
that my stockings were not the pair which were
darned so much at the knee, and which would
have been discreditable; and I recollect seeing
the water poured out of my watch — it was a
silver one, but a good performer — on the ground;
and then I remember feeling very happy, while
the superintendent of the place—a man of some
forty years of age, with a kind face and great
bushy whiskers — kept throwing the warm water
over my chest with his hands as I lay in the
bath, and thought how warm it felt, and how
strange it was that water should be the first
thing resorted to, to repair the mischief which
water had done.

Is misfortune good for us, that it makes us
feel so happy afterwards? I shall never forget
the peace of that time. I shall never forget how,
looking up at the face of this man as he sat
beside the bath; I thought I had never seen any
one who looked so good and so benevolent. He
was a man who had the appearance of a sea-
captain, and was the sort of person one would
wish to have by one in a storm, or indeed in any
kind of danger.

The receiving-house in Hyde Park is not in
its interior arrangements unlike a ward in a
hospital. Clean, and warm, and airy, it is provided
with the means of having several warm baths at
one time, and of readily putting in practice all the
directions which are given in the Society's book
for the restoration of those in whom life is
suspended. As soon as I had been long enough in
the warm bath, I was taken out and put into a
bed between two warm blankets, heated from
beneath by a hot water apparatus, but without
sheets. The next remedy applied, was a glass
of scalding brandy-and-water of considerable
strength; after drinking which I lay down
again, and thought I had never been so warm or
so comfortable in all my life. I remained
there all the afternoon, in a half-dreamy state,
watching the attendants as they moved about
the room, putting to rights the things which had
been deranged on my account, and listening to
the sound of the turning over of leaves, which
came from an adjoining room, where the
superintendent was sitting, waiting till he might be
wanted again, and reading, to beguile the time,
a book of shipwrecks. Meanwhile, a messenger
had been sent to my house for dry clothes. The
messenger thoughtfully chosen was a woman, lest,
if one of the men in his remarkable costume had
gone, he might alarm those to whom he was sent
in an unnecessary degree. By the time the dry
clothes had arrived, I was just waking up from
a pleasant doze. I was soon dressed, and was
safe at home by the fireside, before the lamps were
lighted in the streets.

It happened but a few afternoons before this
present writing, that the Eye-witness was passing
in his solitary walk along the north bank
of the Serpentine, just as the short daylight
of December was coming to an end. It was
a damp and melancholy evening, and the piece
of water described last week as the scene of so
much life and excitement, was deserted, except
by one lonely and overgrown blue-coat boy, who
stood on the bank testing the strength of what
remained of the ice, with one of his long, yellow
legs, and holding on the while by a post which
supported one of those exhortations to protect
the water-fowl, which meet the public eye so
often in our parks. The E.-W. had been thinking,
as he walked along, and saw a couple of
these same water-fowl careering over his head,
in a flight surely more rapid than that of other
birds, that with such powers of diving, swimming,
and flying combined, these creatures had a very
agreeable notion of passing their lives. Well
fed, able to enjoy the privileges of birds,
beasts, and fish at once, and with nothing
to do, their lot seems without a drawback;
it is a curious refutation of the theory that
happiness is equally divided, to turn from a
contemplation of the existence of these water-
fowl, to that of a donkey upon Hampstead
Heath.

Occupied with these thoughts, the E.-W. had
walked on till he found himself opposite that
receiving-house of the Royal Humane Society,
in which he had passed through the course of
treatment described above. It must be owned
that the building is not a cheerful edifice, and
that it is strangely and funereally suggestive
of a mausoleum. And yet a strong inclination
came upon your Eye-witness, as he stood before
the house, to revisit the room in which he had
been so humanely dealt with, years ago. Cruising