To grasp the luscious berry
(His fate suggested, 'tis quite plain,
The pastime of bob-cherry);
Not Tantalus was doomed to bear
More than those luckless chaps,
Who, muffinless, must ever wear
Those tempting muffin caps.
A PANIC AT THE BANK.
It was the 11th of November. It had been raining since three o'clock. A thick fog enveloped London. Horses smoked, as if in a terrible passion with the weather; and omnibuses rolled along, breaking for once their daily custom of stopping at every lamp-post on the way. I had a secret presentiment something strange would happen.
St. Paul's struck one—two—three—four o'clock. I counted them distinctly, one by one. They sounded like a death-knell. A dead silence ensued, invaded only by the cries of "Cl'pam!" "M'l'end!" that broke forth in fitful shouts from contending cads. I did not feel well. I was leaning against a lamp-post at the corner of the Bank—wet to the skin. My mind was very uneasy. I had that day accepted a bill. I was vowing within myself never to accept another, when a sudden noise—a fearful rush—recalled me to my senses. I looked around, and saw a large stream of human beings pouring, in fearful force, from the principal door of the Bank. Man seemed leagued in enmity against man—clerk looked on fellow-clerk with the lowering eyes of a malignant fiend. Their looks alarmed me. Not a policeman was in sight! What should I do? Was the Bank on fire? I had no money there, still there are moments when we can feel for others. It was like a human river broken from its bank, carrying ruin and terror wherever it went. Could it be a panic? I recollected my Julia had 500l. standing there in the suitable name of Smith. I dashed the drops of perspiration from my fevered brow. I endeavoured to recollect myself. It was but one effort. I determined, let it cost me what it would, to follow them to the end.