gentleman who gave an exhibition of rope-tying
on Epsom Downs on the Derby Day, but who
declined to begin until we had "chucked in
another fourpence to make up two bob." I am
bound to say, however, that the performance
was worth the money. The fellow tied and
untied himself with as much security, ease,
and celerity, as I ever saw exhibited by the
Davenports. And he did it all in the sight of
his audience, without hiding himself in a cabinet,
or going behind a screen.

The readers of this journal have heard a good
deal about the spirits in their over-proof
condition at the Hanover-square and other select
rooms. Let me now give them a taste of the
spirits, under-proof and very much reduced, in
dirty little parlours in Holloway, and dingy back
shops in the neighbourhood of Holborn.

I received an invitation to visit two celebrated
mediums, who stood towards each other in the
earthly relation of man and wife. I set out about
two o'clock on a bright summer's afternoon, in
company of a distinguished friend, for a certain
rendezvous in the Kentish-town-road. We had
not far to go, but the elaborate simplification of
the numbers of the Kentish-town-road by the
Board of Works (that body being then engaged in
ranging the even numbers on one side of the way
and the odd numbers on the other), rendered the
finding of the rendezvous a matter of considerable
difficulty. The lady at the stay-shop assured us
that Mr. Ferguson did not lodge there; but she
would be most happy to guide us to where he
did lodge, if in her power. "What was Mr.
Ferguson?" How were we to answer? How
were we to describe the gentleman? As a
medium, or as a dealer in spirits? Medium
conveyed nothing to the staymaking mind, and
the mention of spirits suggested the public-house.
How many unlicensed houses in the
Kentish-town-road we called at, inquiring for
spirits, I don't know; but before we
discovered the lodgement of Mr. Ferguson (at
a chemist's), we had become objects of much
wonder and some suspicion to the road
generally.

At last Mr. Ferguson did lodge here. We
found him in the chemist's back parlour,
surrounded by the implements of amateur
photography, and an odour of collodion. He was
not the medium himself; but the medium was
a friend of his, and he would be happy to take
us to his house, which was in Holloway. Before
leading the way, Mr. Ferguson took us in hand
like so many photographic plates, and prepared
us for receiving impressions. He and his friend
the medium had once been materialists; but
circumstances had occurred at a table one evening,
which had served to convince them that
there was more in heaven and earth than was
dreamt of in their philosophy. Since then,
Mr. Ferguson had seen wonderful manifestations
from the spirit-world, and he had no
doubt that we would see wonderful things that
day, if we approached the subject in a candid
spirit. With this exhortation we started for
Holloway.

We had trusted implicitly to the topographical
knowledge of our guide, the amateur
photographer, but we found, at Holloway, that we
had been leaning upon a broken reed. All he
could do was to point to a dead wall, and say:
"My belief is, that if we could go through
this wall we should come upon the house
directly." This was so obviously the
weak-minded excuse of a fatuously foolish person,
that it drew forth from us a muttered trio of
maledictions upon our guide's head. In case
this should meet his eye, I will not say what
names we called him; but they were not
complimentary.

There was nothing for it but to make
inquiries, which, as our guide did not even know
the name of the street in which the medium
lived, was like taking an observation at sea in a
pitch-dark night. As the medium and his wife
are in the habit of advertising themselves every
week in the Spiritual Times, I shall not betray
any confidence if I mention that their name is
Wallace. We asked for Wallace, spiritualists, at
the police station. They were, to their honour
be it said, not known to the police. We asked
at public-houses, and, equally to their credit, they
were not known there. At length we were
informed that Mr. Wallace lived at number fourteen
in a certain street. We called there, and, in
answer to our summons, there came to the door a
gentleman in high-lows and corduroys, with a
wisp of bird's-eye round his neck: no coat
or waistcoat, and jury braces rigged with twine.
He was wiping his mouth with the back of his
hand, which indicated that we had disturbed him
at dinner. Was he Mr. Wallace? He was.
Was he in the spiritual line? But it was needless
to ask.  Mr. Wallace, of number fourteen,
was obviously a philosopher of the peripatetic
order, devoting himself to fish or vegetables,
according to the season. I fancy that when Mr.
Wallace, of number fourteen, saw four individuals
standing on his door-step, he was seized with a
qualm of conscience about beating his donkey,
and had a terrible thought of the Society for
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. We
were almost in despair, when, on turning into
the next street, we espied the postman. Here
was a chance at length—our last and only
chance.

"Did he know a Mr. Wallace living
thereabouts?"

"Wallace—Wallace." This in a thoughtful
and recollecting manner.

We assisted the postman's mental process
by mentioning Mr. Wallace's profession—
spiritualism. The word brought the scattered
rays of the postal intelligence into focus.

"Oh yes; there was a Mr. Wallace living in
the next street, at number forty-seven; to be
sure, he was connected with religion, and
received a great many letters."

I made a small bet that this was not the
Wallace we were in search of—and lost.

The house was semi-detached, and the walls,
which had been last plastered probably about
forty years ago, were dirt-begrimed and cracked.