story of a kinsman of mine, who, going home one foggy winter night
to Hampstead, when London was much smaller and the road lonesome,
suddenly encountered such a figure rushing past him, and presently
two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very unpleasant creature
indeed, to come into my mind unbidden, as I lie awake.

- The balloon ascents of last season. I must return to the
balloons. Why did the bleeding man start out of them? Never mind;
if I inquire, he will be back again. The balloons. This
particular public have inherently a great pleasure in the
contemplation of physical difficulties overcome; mainly, as I take
it, because the lives of a large majority of them are exceedingly
monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle against continual
difficulties, and further still, because anything in the form of
accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so very
serious in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox
of mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Surely nobody
supposes that the young mother in the pit who falls into fits of
laughter when the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all
diverted by such an occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent
workman in the gallery, who is transported beyond the ignorant
present by the delight with which he sees a stout gentleman pushed
out of a two pair of stairs window, to be slandered by the
suspicion that he would be in the least entertained by such a
spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always
appears to me that the secret of this enjoyment lies in the
temporary superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life;
in seeing casualties, attended when they really occur with bodily
and mental suffering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very
rough sort of poetry without the least harm being done to any one -