t thoroughfare in Europe? At the theatres they
have a new name for their melodramatic pieces, and call them "Sensation
Dramas." What a sensation Drama this is! What have people been flocking
to see at the Adelphi Theatre for the last hundred and fifty nights?
A woman pitched overboard out of a boat, and a certain Miles taking a
tremendous "header," and bringing her to shore? Bagatelle! What is this
compared to the real life-drama, of which a midday representation takes
place just opposite the Adelphi in Northumberland Street? The
brave Dumas, the intrepid Ainsworth, the terrible Eugene Sue, the
cold-shudder-inspiring "Woman in White," the astounding author of
the "Mysteries of the Court of London," never invented anything more
tremendous than this. It might have happened to you and me. We want
to borrow a little money. We are directed to an agent. We propose a
pecuniary transaction at a short date. He goes into the next room, as
we fancy, to get the bank-notes, and returns with "two very pretty,
delicate little ivory-handled pistols," and blows a portion of our
heads off. After this, what is the use of being squeamish about the
probabilities and possibilities in the writing of fiction? Years ago I
remember making merry over a play of Dumas, called Kean, in which
the "Coal-Hole Tavern" was represented on the Thames, with a fleet of
pirate-ships moored alongside. Pirate-ships? Why not? What a cavern of
terror was this in Northumberland Street, with its splendid furniture
covered with dust, its empty bottles, in the midst of which sits a grim
"agent," amusing himself by firing pistols, aiming at the unconscious
mantel-piece, or at the heads of his customers!

After this, what is not possible? It is possible Hungerford Market is
mined, and will explode some day. Mind how you go in for a penny ice
unawares. "Pray, step this way," says a quiet person at the door. You
enter--into a back room:--a quiet room; rather a dark room. "Pray, take
your place in a chair." And she goes to fetch the penny ice. Malheureux!
The chair sinks down with you--sinks, and sinks, and sinks--a large wet
flannel suddenly envelopes your face and throttles you. Need we say any
more? After Northumberland Street, what is improbable? Surely there
is no difficulty in crediting Bluebeard. I withdraw my last month's
opinions about ogres. Ogres? Why not? I protest I have seldom
contemplated anything more terribly ludicrous than this "agent" in the
dingy splen