be poplar. Now, those four you have been to
are spicialists, and that means monomaniucs —
why on airth didn't ye come to me among the
rest? — their buddies exspatiate in West-ind
squares, but their souls dwell in a n'alley ivery
man Jack of 'em : Aberford's in Stomicli Alley,
Chalmers's in Nairve Court, Short's niver stirs
out o' Liver Lane, Paul's is stuck fast in Kidney
Close, Kinyon's in Mukis Membrin Mews, and
Hibbards's in Lung Passage. Look see ! nixt
time y' are out of sorts, stid o' consulting three
bats an a n'owl at a guinea the piece, send direct
to me, and I'll give y' all their opinions, and all
their prescriptions, gratis. And deevilich dear
ye'll find 'em at the price, if ye swallow 'm."

Mrs. Dodd thanked him coldly for the offer,
but said she would be more grateful if he would
show his superiority to persons of known ability,
by just curing her daughter on the spot.

"Well, I will," said he, carelessly; and all his
fire died out of him. "Put out your tongue!
— Now your pulse!"

THE POLISH STRUGGLE FOR LIFE.

THE western corner of the map of Russia is
a small projecting spot, inscribed " Kingdom of
Poland" (because it has no king); and is all
which is apparent, in name, of the goodly
territory known as Poland previous to 1772.
This Russian province resembles the summit
of a hill overtopping the waters of a mighty
inundation. It is the Ararat of the Polish
world. All the rest of the titular country has
been submerged and swamped by the encroaching
waves of a threefold deluge. Posen,
Volhynia, Galicia, and the rest, are no longer
Polish, but respectively Prussian, Russian, and
Austrian. Poland is a victim whose members
have been swallowed by three separate political
boa-constrictors. Are reunion and resuscitation
possible? or, Is she digested and dead? are
the leading questions of the day.

Poland is cut off from Western Europe not
only by geographical distance, but also by the
peculiarities of her language, which is so
complex and difficult that Poles are apt to say that
no foreigner can ever learn it thoroughly. They
vaunt its richness, variety, and power; and it
is still a living language, and a bond of union
amongst those who speak it. It is the most
perfect of the Slavonic dialects, far superior to
Russian. It has great aptitude for inversion,
like Latin and Greek. It is particularly clear
and precise. Its nouns have seven cases, and,
like the Greek, three numbers instead of two.
The adjectives (and even some substantives, as
proper names) are declined by gender and number.
The necessity of employing the article in some
cases, and the power of dispensing with it in
others, are a great advantage. And in the
Polish conjugations, there is no need to employ
the personal pronoun incessantly, because the
terminations of the verb fulfil their office. Those
terminations go so far as to indicate the gender
of the persons speaking or spoken of. Add to
all this an abundance of augmentatives and
diminutives, like the Italian, and you have a
language which in itself constitutes a national
Freemasonry. On the other hand, the Poles are
admirable linguists with regard to languages not
their own.

Old national customs are cherished. The
dances and fêtes are completely national;
nothing is borrowed, all is original. The Swiecone,
or Blessing, is one of their most interesting
customs. It is a repast served after mass
on Easter Sunday, of which the whole family
partakes standing. Most of the dishes,
prepared beforehand, are served cold. It is not
permitted to taste of the feast before the
benediction by the priest; whence the name.
The tables are sometimes laid and garnished
several days beforehand, in rooms carefully
locked to keep out intruders. On Easter Day,
after the blessing, everybody wishes everybody
a happy year. Before the beginning of the
meal, the host offers blessed eggs to his guests,
who are obliged to accept them.

In old times, the Blessing was a weighty
matter. The Palatin Sapieha served to a number
of Lithuanian and Polish lords a lamb prepared
with pistachio nuts. The lamb represented
the Agnus Dei, and was surmounted by a little
flag. On another side were four wild boars
(figuring the four seasons) stuffed with ham and
sausages. Further on, were twelve stags
(typical of the months of the year) roasted
whole, with their horns gilt, and filled with
rabbits, hares, and pheasants. Fifty-two tarts, of
enormous circumference, answered to the
number of weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five
cakes called to mind the days of the year.
Wine was supplied in silver vessels of
corresponding multitude.

The custom of the Blessing still exists. In
Warsaw, and other large towns, the Easter
rejoicings last a fortnight. In the country, the
gentry invite their friends to sojourn with them
the same space of time. The peasants, even, keep
the feast as well as they can, with eggs, sausages,
roast lamb, ham, and cakes made with saffron and
plums. These national observances are not swept
away by the absorption into Russian territory.
The people cling to them more closely than ever.

The partition of Poland is a historical event with
which our readers are familiar; and for nearly one
hundred years the Muscovite government has
been striving to obliterate the landmarks which
divide it from its share of the spoil. All methods
have been tried, except impartial and liberal treatment.
Polish patriots now hold that any
compromise with Russia would be the worst step
that Poland could take; and they give their
reasons. They are obliged to arrive at the
conviction that the object of their oppression is not
to conquer the insurrection, but to crush the
country utterly. One general has been publicly
accused of offering five roubles (about sixteen
shillings) for every insurgent's head brought to
him by the peasants. For him, of course, one
head is as good as another, provided it only be
Polish. Superior officers in the Russian service,