waited at the entrance; and not an instant
was lost in replacing the exhausted workmen.
Everything was done as quickly, and,
at the same time, as judiciously as possible;
the surgeon had at the first been ridden for,
at full speed, to the neighbouring town;
brandy and other stimulants, a rude lancet—
with which many of the men were but too
well practised operators,—bandages and
blankets were all placed ready at hand: for
the disaster was so common at Whiteknights
that every man at once knew what was proper
to be done. Those who were not actively
engaged about the cave, were busy in the
construction of a litter—perhaps a bier—for
the unhappy victims.

How this could have happened? was the
whispered wonder. John was known to be
far too prudent a man to have been working
without props, and yet fresh ones had to be
supplied to the rescuers, for they found
none as they advanced. The poor widow—
every moment made more sure of her
bereavement—stood a little way aside; having
begged for a spade and been refused, she
stood with her two children hanging to her
apron, staring fixedly at the pit's mouth.

Down at the cottage there was an old man
invoking Heaven's vengeance on his own
grey head and reproaching himself fiercely
with the consequences of his brutal vice; he
had stolen the poles from his son's pit on
the previous morning, to provide himself
with drink; and on that very day even
before he was quite recovered from his yesterday's
debauch, he was to see the victim of
his recklessness brought home a lifeless heap.
He saw John so brought in, but with the
eyes of a madman; his brain, weakened by
drunkenness, never recovered from that
shock.

Basket and barrow had been brought full
out of the pit a hundred times; and it was
almost noon before, from the bowels of the
very mountain as it seemed, there came up a
low moaning cry. "My child, my child,"
murmured the mother: and the digging
became straightway even yet more earnest,
almost frantic in its speed and violence.
Presently into the arms of Alice little Harry
was delivered, pale and corpse-like, but
alive; and then a shout as of an army was
set up by all the men.

They dug on until after sunset—long after
they had lost all hope of finding John
alive. His body was at last found. It
was placed upon the litter, and taken,
under the soft evening sky, down through
the beech wood home. Alice walked by its
side, holding its hand in hers, speechless,
and with dry eyes. She never knew until
after her father's death, how her dear John
was murdered. She used to wonder why
the old man shrank from her when she
visited him, as she often did, in his confinement.
The poor widow is living now, though
she has suffered grief and want. Her
daughter Jane has married a field labourer,
and her sons, by whom she is now well
supported, have never set foot in a pit since they
lost their father.

OUR COACMAN
OUR Coachman smokes a mighty pipe,
   And through a hedge of heard looks grim,
Wears breeks with sable leathern stripe,
   And square knee-patch, a wondrous trim!
And short blue coat with orange rim,
   And spurs, as though to ride by turns,
While on the shining hat of him
   In brass a regal eagle burns.
Not Piccadilly, not Cheapside,
(Thank Heaven!) is witness of his pride;
But, despot of our Diligence,
He drives from Prussia into France.
He wields his team with grunt-like words,
   His whip is like a carter's whip,
And slung with pied and tassel'd cords
   Sleeps the shrill servant of his lip;
To savage roar and strange ya-hip
   Well climbs each sturdy club-tail steed,
Down hill they rush, without a slip,
   In rattling, jingling, jolting speed.
And now through rugged streets we roll,
And now our Coachman's pensive soul,
Pour'd through the horn, apprises France
'Tis we—the Prussian Diligence!

WHERE ARE THEY?

WE have not the slightest desire of trenching
on the province or interfering with the
circulation of the numerous compendious
little works, the authors of which are so
desirous to know Who's Who? What's
What? or Which is Which? in eighteen
hundred and fifty-three, four, or five. We
hope that the result of their inquiries will be
eminently satisfactory to them; and that
they will allow us to confine ourselves to the
speculative query, "Where are they?"

Yes; where are they? "Whom?" you may
ask. To which we answer—People—people
who do and are doing the most extraordinary
things around us daily and hourly; but with
whom, in our whole life long, we seem
forbidden to come in contact, and regarding
whose whereabout we must needs be per-
petually perplexed. They must be
somewhere, these people, yet we never saw them,
never shall see them, perhaps; we may have
sate next them at dinner yesterday, ridden in
the same omnibus, occupied the next seat in
the pit, the same pew at church, jostled against
them in the city, five minutes ago, yet we are
no wiser, and must ramble up and down the
world till our span is accomplished, and our
ramblings are ended, still bootlessly repeating
the question, "Where are they?"

A chief cause for our distressing uncertainty
as to where the people we are in search
of are to be found, lies in the disagreeable
uniformity of costume prevalent in the
present day. We are worse off than were we
placed as observers in some savage country