Chapter III: Act II: Exterior of a Casual Ward. Time 9 P.M. Thirty Shivering

Creatures in charge of Practical Policeman, discovered waiting outside in the wind and rain._

_First Shivering Creature._ I say, Bobby, d'you think we shall git in 'ere? I'm almost froze, and am that drippin' there ain't a bloomin' dry rag upon me.

_Practical Policeman (who has already been to three other Casual Wards with his "charges" but has found them all full)._ You wait a minute; perhaps we shall have luck here. (_The Master appears._) Well, Mister Master, have you got any room?

_Master._ No; full as we can hold. (_Surveying the shivering crowd._) How many are you? Twenty or thirty! Hum--well, I might squeeze in five. Pick 'em out.

[First Shivering Creature _and four others are passed into a damp
close, stone-paved room, crowded with human beings, some of which
are lying on a few wooden benches, the majority being huddled in
heaps upon the floor_.

_First Shivering Creature._ Wot! Call this a night's lodging? Why, quod's a pallis to it! [_Sinks down in a corner, and huddles himself to sleep with the rest._

_Master (concluding his address to Policeman)._ Well, good-night to you. Your best game would be Wapping, I should say--not, though, that I think they'll be able to help you.

[_Shuts door on Policeman and his "charges," who try Wapping, from
which place, being "full," they are directed in turns to several
other Wards in different parts of the Metropolis, but after trudging
about for hours and finding no room anywhere, they eventually draw
up outside a Casual Ward in the Bermondsey district at_ 1 A.M.

_Practical Policeman (coming to the point)._ Well, as I can't get you in 'ere, nor, as it seems, anywheres, I must leave you to shift for yourselves.

[_Retires pensively._

_Second Shivering Creature._ Well, mates, there ain't then nuffink for it but the "Square" agin; so I'm hoff.

[_Straggles aimlessly westward, followed at intervals by other
Shivering Creatures as Curtain descends on "capitally organised"
Tableau._

* * * * *

MOST APPROPRIATE EVIDENCE.--Mistress MARGARET DILLON, Midwife and Monthly nurse, who brought an action against the Irish Secretary for slander, had determined to produce in Court several most respectable wet-nusses to character.

* * * * *

Messrs. CHATTO AND WINDUS advertise _Jack the Fisherman_, by Miss PHELPS. A catching title, and which sounds like a continuation of _Exchange for a Sole_, by Miss LINSKILL.

* * * * *

_Her Ladyship._ "I'M SO GLAD YOU ARE COMING TO OUR CONCERT IN THE SCHOOLROOM TO-NIGHT, PRICE! MISS DAVEY, THE GREAT CONTRALTO FROM LONDON, IS COMING TO HELP US, YOU KNOW!"

_Old Servant._ "YES, MY LADY, WE WAS A SAYING IN THE SERVANTS' 'ALL AS WE FELT VERY HANXIOUS ABOUT 'ER. THEY DON'T APPRECIATE ANYTHING REALLY FUST-RATE DOWN 'ERE. NOW YOU AND MISS HEMMAR ALWAYS TAKES BEAUTIFUL, MY LADY!"]

* * * * *

THE SCHOOLMASTER OF THE FUTURE.

_Skilled Mechanic of Old School loquitur_:--

It's a nice pretty state of affairs, if you look at the business
all round!
If someone don't alter it somehow, Old England must come to the
ground.
I've thought it all out a good bit, for it touches us home, don't
you see;
It puzzles the swells, so, no doubt, it's too much of a twister for
me.
But I look at the thing from a side which they can't have their eye
on,--not close,--
A fair forty year at the bench ought to give one the tip, I suppose.

If me and my mates and the masters, the Book _and_ the Bench, could
combine
To take the job fairly in hand, I suppose we could strike out a line.
Odd luck if we couldn't, at least; but we _don't_ pull together, you
see:
Pull devil pull baker's the game,--it's a mad one, as most will agree.
The Book and the Bench! There's the nip. And a fellow will see--if
he'll look--
That although the three R's are good value, a man cannot _live_ by
the Book.

True, Bench without Book may be blindish, but Book without Bench may
be worse,
To read penny papers won't feed you, if you haven't pence in your
purse.
Men can't live on cackle not nohow, the bulk of 'em that is to say;
A few gassy spouts can, of course; for _they_ prate, don't you see,
and _we_ pay;
But _that_ rule will not work all round, thanks be!--a skilled hand,
a sharp eye
Are the artisan's proper rig-out; and as for the rest of it, why
Mr. Schoolmaster there does his best with his 'ologies, 'isms, and
things,
But if a man's lot is to trudge, it is small use a-fitting him wings.
No, I 'm not against learning, not me; but life's battle means
gumption and tools,
That is for the general ruck, and the saps who deny it are fools.
I remembered my father, old Millwright, in days as no more will be
seen,
When a man put his soul in his work, a mechanic was not a machine.
It would take lots o' "technical" teaching to bring our lads up to his
trim,
Or make our mere chippers and filers a match for such workmen as
_him_.
He _had_ been through the mill, a rare grind, for apprenticeship
then meant it's name.
I have known him take ten quid a week, only wish I could earn half the
same.
Times altered? Of course; so have systems, and not for the better some
ways.
I've read, for I _can_ read, you know, of the wild old apprentices'
days,
When the shout of "Clubs! Clubs!" roused the town, and political
feelings ran high,
And the stiff Spanish courtiers went weak in the hams at the ominous
cry.

Wild blades!--but the youngsters could work, knew their craft; but you
pale, loose-limbed lout,
The sort of crammed hobbledehoy that the School-Board appears to turn
out,
Who can spell out Sedition in penn'orths, and howl it out hot in the
Square,
If you give him the "Work" that he yells for with so much wild blather
and blare,
What sort of a fist will he make of it? Which of the blustering band
Has a really sound head on his shoulders, a really skilled craft to
his hand?

And Capital wrangles with Labour, each hating the other like snakes;
And the Foreigner creeps in and up, and the Board Agent comes and he
takes
Our boys, and he crams 'em with kibosh as makes 'em too big for their
breeches;
But real true bread-winning knowledge--the stuff that the Bench only
teaches--
They don't find set down in their books, with their 'isms and
'ometries--no;
But the nipper's turned out in the world, and then what shall he turn
to?--where go?
Cheap clerking, or rule-of-thumb drudgery, bands, and black flags, and
that rot?
They may give it what fine names they like, but it simply means going
to pot!
And the swells snarl and sneer, and the bobbies are bid to be sharp
with their staves,
And the dupes who get all the cracked heads are informed if they don't
they'll be slaves.

(_And the sooner we get him the better._)

BRITISH WORKMAN: "BOTHER YOUR 'OLOGIES AND 'OMETRIES, LET _ME_ TEACH HIM SOMETHING USEFUL!"]

Seems to me all a muddle all round. Half the Masters are grinders and
grabs,
And the men, when not cynical churls, are too apt to be shirkers and
blabs.
I don't see it's a lively look out for my mates, in the country or
town,
With "Standards" and School-rates still rising, and most other things
going down.

Nice thing for the nippers too, ain't it? The boys may be stuffed at
both ends,
Without "technical" knowledge they're wasters; them as tells 'em this
truth are their friends.
There 'aint no true "Apprentices" now; seven years of sound teaching
don't please.
But the masters and workers appear to be sweet upon freedom and ease;
Old "Indentures" are too long and tight, so they just shuffle on and
slop through,
And it's diamond cut diamond all round, till Trade seems just a
regular do.
I was trained in a different school, and my motto's good work for good
wage;
But the sweaters and spouters between 'em spoil _that_ in this
book-learned age.
Mister School Teacher just take my tip, I can tell you you're on the
wrong lay;
You get paid, so I've heard, by results; the results, Sir, are bad,
and _don't_ pay.
Boys learning to read, and then spending their pence upon "Highwaymen"
trash;
Lads knowing the _pons asinorum_, who can't make a door or a sash;
Louts lolloping round on the loose, spouting fragments of Socialist
stuff;
Mobs of "workmen," played shuttlecock with by the ranter, the "red,"
and the rough;
True hands by the thousand left idle, poor mouths by the myriad
unfilled,
Because Wealth's so hard upon Labour, and Labour's so often unskilled;
These are rummy "results!" See this lad, now; he's pale; he's
well-packed, I suppose
With the stuff that your "Standards" require; well, his schooling must
come to a close;
To stuff him, and lots of his like, rate-collectors must put on the
screw.
Well, when you have done with the nipper, the question comes, what can
_he_ do?
Will his bag of books stand him in stead, when he ought to have tools
in his bag?
Are your "Standards" quite up to the mark, if they lead to the Black
or Red Flag?
Oh, bother your 'isms and 'ologies! Excellent things in their way;
But bread-winning wants something else, and the 'isms without it won't
pay.
Yes--"Technical Knowledge" they call it--means practical gumption and
skill,
Or used to when I was a youngster; it may be a sort of a pill,
But if you'll stand aside and let _me_ teach the lad something useful,
my friend,
Old England may yet hold her own, which some think a desirable end!

* * * * *

ROBERT ON LORD MAYOR'S DAY.

DETERMINED to have a good long gaze at what I was told was to be a reglar stunning Lord Mayor's Show, such as they has in sum of the low countrys of Urope on werry high occasions, I got a old friend of mine, who's a reglar tribble Bob Major of a bell ringer at a Citty Church, to git me a ticket for a lovely seat in his boarded Church Yard, oppersite Newgate, and near the Hold Bayley, so there was plenty to cheer us hup afore the Show cum, and plenty to emuse us. Of course the best fun of all was to watch the poore chaps in the crowd below us a being scrowged and shoved and pushed about, while we sat in our bootiful crimson seats just like so many hemenent swells in the theatre, a looking down on the common fellers beneath 'em.

I don't think, upon the hole, if I had my choice, that I woud choose to be a Perliceman on Lord Mare's Day. Ony to think of the diffrence betwixt them and hus! They begins hurly, we begins late; they is, aperiently, on their poor feet all day long, we merely spends a hour or two in the hevening on them useful xtremes; they has to snatch a bit of quite plane food and drink anyhows and anywheres, while we--but no! I draws a whale over the thrilling contrast; there's sum things as is best left to the emadgination, speshally such things as them things. And when at length they seeks their tired homes, what has they to console 'em for their long day's pushing and scrowging? Nothink! What have we, for our day of ministering to the luxyourious wants of the helegant and refined? Sumthink, but how much, depends upon suckemstances over which unfortnitly we haven't not no control. And I thinks that upon the hole, the libberality of mankind is not a increesing helement, more's the pitty!

What a percession it was when at full length it came at last! It begun with the flags and the principle officers of no less than 8 City Washupfool Companies. And which of the Officers was it as first fixt my gaze, and held it firmly? Need I say it was the Beedles in their butiful Clokes of office. There was a quiet dignerty, not to say a degree of subblimmity in their demeener, as quite affected me, and I at once confess, amost arowsed my henvy. Wat a termination to my great career! But keep quiet my throbbing buzzom, and pass on. Of the four bootiful Cars drawn by 6 strong horses, I gives my wote without no hezitation to the Epping Forest one. It was xactly like life, specially the gents a pretending to carry partridges on their fistes, which was all probbubly washed off by the rain.

The late Lord Mare was in werry good time, and passed by amid our shouts, looking jest as good-tempered as he did last year, when he was our Rising Son of power. At last came the Ero of the day in his grand old Coach of State, and then came one of the principle ewents of the journey, for the Carridge and all its six horses was stopt, and about harf-a-dozzen most respectabel looking gents, all of whom I was told was Churchwardens and OWERSEERS of the werry hiest quality, all drest in their werry best close, and wearing butiful reel gold Badgers, went bang up to the State Coach and sed something werry kind to the Lord MARE, and gave him something for hisself, at which he seemed werry much pleased, and said sumthink werry nice in reply, and then we all cheered so artily that the 6 horses got impashent and insisted on going on. So on they went, and I seed 'em no more.

There was a good deal of grumbling about the rain, and it suttenly _did_ rain. I did try to pass it off as a mere passing shower, but that didn't do after about two hours of it. Sum of the wet higneramusses wanted to make out as it was all the Lord MARE's fault. Well, I wasn't a-going for to stand that gross injustice while I was comfortably a setting in my rheumantic churchyard, so I boldly said as how as all the derangements for the weather was always left to the Hed Waiter, and that after giving my whole mind to the subject, I had decided that, of the two, rain and peace and quietness was far more better than sunshine and row, at which they all larfed, but it put a stop to all the grumbling, so I reckoned that was one to me.

Perhaps the most saddest specktacle as was seen by any one pare of eyes on that orful wet day, was the poor gennelmen of the Lord Mare's ousehold a picking their dellicate way through the middle of the muddy road with their butiful wands of office, and striving in wain to keep their lovely pink silk stockings from being soiled by the wulger mud. What their feelings must have been how few can no, specially when they found theirselves the sport of the ribbald jester. I didn't think as the frantic efforts of the hundereds of children to sing "_Rool Britannier_" was werry much helped by the accumpanyment of the passing Band playing werry lowdly, "_All Werry Fine and Large_;" but then, in coarse, tastes differ.

The Bankwet was werry much as usual; that is to say, about the werry grandest thing in the world; but I cannot report the speeches, coz we was all on us all turned out of the All directly as they begun, more's the pitty, but I was priviliged to hear some of the shouting and hollering.

I'm not quite sure whether it's right even of Committee Gentlemen to make fun of one of the werry sacredest of human hinstitootions, wiz., the nessessery refreshment of the xhausted body, and yet I heard one on 'em say to a reel fine tall Cabbinet Minister, who arsked him the werry nateral question, whether they had their dinner afore or after the gestes? "Both, and a little snack after breakfast, and a quite lite supper when it was all over." Praps the xaggeration wasn't werry great, but still there was xaggeration, and xaggeration is the Waiter's cuss!

It rained as I went to my reserwed place in the frendly church-yard, it rained as I went to the Bankwetting All, and it rained as I sort my nupshal couch at about one o'clock, Hay. Hem., and it recalled to fond memory the words of the Royal Hanthem, "Long to rain over us!"

ROBERT.

* * * * *

A Line for Browning.

Who'd write an epic for the age
Would need a title for his page.
For one he'd not have far to look--
"The (Prize) Ring and the (Betting) Book."

* * * * *

A CHANCE FOR THE SOCIALISTS.--Parliament Hill and other lands adjoining Hampstead Heath to be turned into a People's Park for ever. Five hundred acres in which to congregate and speechify. How delightful for Hampstead!

* * * * *

Obviously.

Rascality would break the peace,
Would insolently do and dare;
Its motto is "Square the Police,"
And ours must be "Police the Square."

* * * * *

SWEETS OF OFFICE.--To be appointed one of the British Delegates at the Conference on the Sugar Question.

* * * * *

[A Letter to the _Times_ recommended Instantaneous Photography for the purposes of detection and evidence at proclaimed meetings.]] * * * * *

NEGATIVE RESULTS.

_From the Diary of an Irish Instantaneous Photographic Detective._

_Monday._--Arrived in Dublin. Consider the first thing to do is to get the goodwill of the Authorities. Make for the Castle. Stopped by a Sentinel. Focus him in two positions, and rush past him before he has time to recover himself. Hurry along corridors, and through passages and ante-chambers, knocking over domestics and Equerry, and two Private Secretaries, and finally burst in upon the Viceroy. Find him at breakfast. Instantly focus him. Take him in the act of putting a piece of hot kidney in his mouth, while Lady LONDONDERRY stands in the background pouring out a cup of tea. He shifts his position, puts down his knife and fork, and stares at me in mute surprise. Lady LONDONDERRY also pauses with the teapot, and regards me with astonishment. The pose is graceful. I at once focus them again. A couple of lovely pictures! They seem even more astonished. Explain my mission, and say that I thought it as well to look in at the "Castle," and see that "things were going on all right." They ring the bell, and give me into custody. Manage, however, to convey to the people at the Police Station that, acting on a suggestion made by Mr. W. H. MALLOCK in a letter to the _Times_, I had come over in the interests of the Government, and didn't think there was any harm in introducing myself familiarly at head-quarters. Add that I think BALFOUR knows what I'm up to. This seems to influence them. Am let out with a caution.

* * * * *

_Tuesday._--Determine next to look up the Lord Mayor of Dublin, and see how he is getting on. Make for his official residence, hurry upstairs, and present myself. By way of introduction, say I've already been to the "Castle." Jumps up at this, and shouting out "the divil ye have!" seizes the poker and makes for me. I whip out my camera and focus him. Succeed in taking him in five positions. (1) Yelling at me and jumping over a chair. (2) Throwing an inkstand at my head. (3) Tumbling over a table in pursuit. (4) Bounding out after me on to the landing. (5) Kicking me downstairs. Capital pictures, all of them. Fancy they'll come out well. Escape with my life.

* * * * *

_Wednesday._--Hear there's to be a popular meeting at Ballymoonin. Take the train there at once. Find the place crowded. Platform opposite the Town Hall, with speakers on it. Capital subject. Proceed to take an instantaneous photograph, when somebody cries out, "Begorra! shure he's a spy!" Am assailed with a shower of brickbats. Focus several of them. Hit over the head. Appeal to Mounted Policeman. His only reply is to back his horse on to me. Horse plunges and kicks out at my camera. Manage with a little man[oe]uvring to take a fine picture of his hoofs. Riot begins. Am pelted out of Ballymoonin, and rush to station taking occasional instantaneous photographs of rabid pursuers as I fly.

* * * * *

_Thursday._--Attend a proclaimed meeting of the Land League at Kilhoolish. Manage to get inside room, and focus the Chairman, when somebody asks me what's my "business there at all." Explain that I've just come to take an instantaneous photograph of the proceedings, in a friendly way. Chairman takes off his coat, and jumps on to the table. Focus him again. Shouts out to me, "Is it a frind ye call yerself? Thin, bedad, me boy, it's jist out of the window we'll put ye." A rush is made at me. Seize camera, and hurriedly take pictures of scuffle in seventeen positions. Am ultimately hurled out of window. Camera thrown after me Never mind. Have secured several excellent pictures of legs, arms, flying chairs, and shillelaghs. Limp off as fast as I can, to develop them.

* * * * *

_Friday._--Turn up at Glencreagh to witness an eviction on Lord DOLLIBANNIN'S property. One hundred and fifty Police and two squadrons of Cavalry engaged in supporting Bailiffs. Farm vigorously defended by infuriated natives. Propose to take an instantaneous photograph of interior of premises. Approach window with camera. Am instantly covered with boiling meal, and felled by a crowbar. Endeavour to focus my assailant. Pursues me to garden-gate. Turn on him with camera. Sends me flying over the wall. Pull myself together, and creep off, not altogether disappointed. Find I have succeeded in taking a very fair negative of a pitchfork.

* * * * *

_Saturday._--Make for Tullamore, meaning to finish up with an instantaneous photograph of O'BRIEN. Call on Governor of Gaol and explain that I should like to take his prisoner, "clothes and all, just as he is, having a meal, if possible, so as to satisfy the outside public as to his general condition and appearance." Bids me mind my own business, and endeavours to slam the door in my face. Tell him I shall certainly photograph _his_ attitude in the matter. Focus him. Makes a rush at me, kicks me into the street, and smashes my camera. So can't even take the sole of his boot. Pity. It would have made a pleasing and striking picture. However, on the whole, not a bad week's work. But must rest now for repairs. Am looking forward with confidence to next.

* * * * *

_He (rapturously)._ "AND NOW THAT'S ALL SETTLED, DARLING, WHAT KIND OF ENGAGEMENT RING WOULD YOU LIKE?"

_She._ "OH, GOLD THIS TIME, I HOPE, DEAREST! I'M QUITE SICK OF WEARING IMITATION ENGAGEMENT RINGS!!"

[_Tableau!_]]

* * * * *

THE DUSTMAN AND THE BARGE-OWNER.

(_A River Carroll._)

"Mr. AKERS DOUGLAS assured BARON HENRY de WORMS that a system had arisen of London barges, laden with tin kettles, old iron, pots, crockery, and even iron bedsteads, emptying this refuse into the sea near the Isle of Sheppey, and that the Whitstable oyster-beds were in consequence being ruined."--_Daily Paper._

The Dustman and the Barge-owner
Were very fast allies;
They wept like watering-pots to see
Such rubbish-heaps arise,
Including iron bedsteads, and
Pans of enormous size.

"If any householder in Town
Told me to move this 'ere,
Do you suppose," the Dustman said,
"That I should get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Barge-owner,
"Unless they gave you beer!

"But I've some barges on the Thames;
So here's a jolly spree--
We'll take this lot of tins and pots,
Also the crocker_ee_;
And when we're out of sight of land,
We'll drop 'em in the sea!"

The Dustman and the Barge-owner
They loaded barges four,
And when they got to Whitstable
They anchored near the shore;
The Barge-owner said nothing but
"Why should we voyage more?"

"But, wait a bit!" an Oyster cried,
Turning quite blue with dread;
"You surely would not empty here
Your refuse on my head!
I do not want a bedstead, though
This _is_ an _Oyster_-bed."

"The time has come," the Barge-owner
Remarked unto his mate,
"To talk of Barking outfall, and
Our Vestry's last debate,
And whether pots or liquid slush
The Oysters most do hate."

"It seems a shame," the Dustman said,
"To spoil the Oyster breed,
Considering that, when nice and fat,
They're very good indeed,
Eaten with bread-and-butter, brown,
And flowing bowls of mead."

"I weep for them, I do, I'm sure,"
The Barge-owner replied;
Then sorted out the nastiest things
His rubbish-ship supplied,
And, winking to his dismal friend,
He chucked them o'er the side!

"O Oysters dear!" the Dustman cried,
"Our business we have done.
I hope you'll find the bedsteads fit."
But answer came there none;
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd perished every one!

* * * * *

THE SHRIMP CURE.

(_By Pegwell Bey._)

Sir,--My title is Oriental; but I am a British subject. I address you as an expert. This is the time of Cures--you have the Grape Cure, the Whey Cure, the Water Cure, the Bath Cures, the Cures by German waters--another and a shorter Whey Cure--and the Cure by French watering-places. You have the Homburg Cure, the Wiesbaden Cure, the Royat Cure; indeed, every kind of Cure, except the only Perfect Cure, which I assert to be the "Shrimp Cure!"

I know that the pages of _Punch_ are read by all, and, for the benefit of all mankind, I give these notes from my note-book, which is that of a physician who has had great experience all over the world, and especially in the East End of Europe, in order that rich and poor, prince and peasant, may read, and happily find that true balsam, which will so far purge his complaints, that he may become whole and well, and a comfort to his family circle, and the pride of his country. Yes, Sir, come to PEGWELL BEY for a cure, and P. B. exclaims, "In the name of the Profit! Shrimps!"

A few explanatory words about my installation in the locality. I wanted a Sanatorium. An unfinished row of villas about a mile-and-a-half distant that had long been on the hands of a local speculative builder struck me as the very thing. I took the whole terrace forthwith, speedily instituted a bathing machine fitted up as an ambulance to meet the down-train, and here I am in three months literally turning patients away. I may as well add that to enable me to procure a fresh and constant supply of shrimps for the necessities of my establishment, I have managed to secure the services of a Retired Smuggler, who says he knows the coast, and thinks with a lawn tennis net cut up into pieces, and the assistance of one or two donkey-boys, or even patients, he can undertake to keep me supplied. But to revert to my experiences.

No. 1. I commence with one of my first cases. I wish to be truthful. It was not a successful one at first. A. B., aet. 45, of nervo-bilious temperament, complained that his nights were fearful; no sleep, pains everywhere, an uneasy sensation as of billiard-balls being poured down his back, a horror of society, and distaste for pastry. I had him placed in the establishment, and began by giving him three pints of shrimps every four hours. For the first twenty-four hours he improved wonderfully, he increased in weight and strength, and his appetite was greater--no other food than shrimps is allowed; but on the second day I found him with a temperature of 205 deg. Fahrenheit, a pulse of 270, respirations 76 in the minute, and in fact in a critical state. I remained with the patient, I sent for my electric lamp and other instruments. I made an examination--a careful scientific examination--and I found that he had eaten the _heads_ and _tails_. What was to be done? I called in the Retired Smuggler, and asked his advice. He immediately suggested warm greengage jam. After many anxious hours, this had the effect of completely soothing the system, and my patient breathed again. What relief! Having learnt by experience, I sat with that patient days and days, saw each shrimp carefully peeled and dipped in weak solution of carbolic acid--the result was wonderful. All his hair came off, he looked twenty years older, and completely lost the use of his legs, but he is now able to pursue the laborious occupation of an Art Critic with pleasure to himself and gratification and edification to his numerous readers.

No. 2. The case of a woman in an active stage of consumption is also remarkable. She consumed everything, from a periwinkle to a Perigord pie. In other respects appetite normal. Received her into the establishment--fed her on shrimp-sauce, in quart pots. She came back like the rebound of a watch-spring. She only remained three days--said she was quite well, and suddenly left, unfortunately without giving her address, and so her account remains unpaid. I do not think she will return. The Retired Smuggler is of the same opinion.

No. 3. My next case presents singular features of interest. My patient in this instance was an aged Duke, whose symptoms were unique and peculiar. He had deafening noises in his head, like the explosion of heavy foot artillery, coupled with a continual sensation of descending rapidly, as in a diving-bell out of order, accompanied by sudden and unexpected seizures in the spine, as if he were violently run into in the back by an omnibus-pole. His sight was also affected, magnificent displays of fireworks taking place between him and his morning paper whenever he attempted to look at the leader. I saw at a glance that there was congestion in the case, and at once ordered a massage bath of hot potted shrimps. This was followed at first by the exhibition of some feverish symptoms, but, by a persistent recourse to it uninterruptedly for six consecutive months, they gradually disappeared, and I consider him now in a much improved condition. It is true that his faculties appear to have left him, and that he addresses me as "King of the Coloboo Islands," and, whenever he gets a chance, puts things on the sly across the railway lines to upset the trains, and eats his newspaper; but I fancy the noises in his head have disappeared. I have lately sent him out in charge of the Retired Smuggler, who assures me that, beyond bonneting a middle-aged lady on a donkey with the shrimping-net, beginning a war-dance in a neighbouring public-house, and pushing a shortsighted naturalist who was collecting zoophytes at the end of the pier into the water, there has been nothing at all to distinguish his behaviour from that of any ordinary nobleman making a short stay at the sea-side. I have him now watched, for I think it as well, by six attendants night and day, but I consider him quite my showcase. The more I look at him the more it is brought home to me what wonders the shrimps have done for him.

I could, of course, continue my extracts, but my space is limited, and I must stop here. I think, however, I have revealed enough of the new treatment to induce any waverer to no longer hesitate, but to get it at once, and put himself or herself unreservedly under the careful charge of your highly scientific and circumspect correspondent,

PEGWELL BEY.

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"MI LOR MAIRE."

The new Belgian Lord Mayor of London, Monsieur POLYDORE DE KEYSER, is, it is said, a proficient in several languages. "English as she is spoke," being one of them. Let us rename him "POLYGLOT DE KEYSER." Every dog must have his day, and so must a Lord Mayor, and a precious bad one Poor POLYGLOT had for making a show of himself on the Ninth. It is rather hard on any Lord Mayor, Mi Lor Maire le Brave Belge not excepted, that the ninth should follow so close upon the heels of the fifth of November. But if a British Lord Mayor must take his chance of the weather, even so must the Brave Belgian

Who in spite of all temptation
To belong to his own nation,
Did become an Englishman!
Yes! an English Alderman!

Even as our latest Lord Mayor, he cannot expect to be exempt from the penalties which a British climate enforces from all citizens of London. During the twelve months reign of POLYGLOT it is probable that the tune of _The Roast Beef of Old England_ will not be heard at Civic festivities, but instead, a new Waltz will be performed entitled _Brussels Sprouts_, which, as a matter of course,--third or fourth course,--will be a favourite dish at the Munching House.

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VERY POLITE.--A certain Civic dignitary who enjoyed the Guildhall Feast on the Ninth, felt uncommonly unwell the next day. Out of compliment to the New LORD MAYOR'S nationality, the worthy citizen, in answer to kind inquiries, sent to say that he was only suffering from _Mal de Maire_.

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IN GOOD HANDS.--"Electric lighting," it is said, "is still in its infancy"--for which fact we could not have better authority than its NURSEY,--we mean the Past-President of the Society of Engineers.

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