papers. Dr. Bruton and his friend walked
down the chief ward until they came to a bed
before which the curtains were carefully drawn.
Bruton looked surprised, but not discomfited.
He drew the curtains. There lay the man,
dead. "You see," he said, baring the chest of
the corpse, "it is a perfect cure; no trace of
skin-disease left; but the man's poor constitution
sank under the remedies."

And now I come down a little later— soon
after the Reform Bill. When mechanics'
institutes were first started, under Lord Brougham's
auspices, many of the lectures occasioned much
excitement. Were the masses to be educated,
or not?—was it safe, or was it not? Violent
theoretical men began to read papers on
abstruse and sometimes dangerous subjects. People
had not got accustomed to their liberty. The
first lecture delivered at Salisbury was by Mr.
Bigod, the chemist; and the subject was
Electricity. Soon after this, Mr. Mellor, a medical
man at Fisherton, delivered a lecture on Man,
in which, to the astonishment and horror of
his auditors, he laid before the meeting the wild
theory of Lord Monboddo about men having
once had tails—being really only a sort of
developed monkeys. The meeting effervesced into
fury. Half a dozen people sprang to their legs,
and appealed violently to the chairman to stop
such dangerous nonsense. Foremost among
the opposition was Mr. Braithwaite, a watch-maker,
a little pugnacious man, who seemed
greatly scandalised and personally hurt, for he
came to the front of the platform and shook his
fist at the lecturer, denouncing him as
"blasphemous."

Mr. Mellor at last lost his temper.

"Sir," he replied, " I have put more ideas
in your head in the last ten minutes, than it
ever held before in all your life; and, by the
Lord, sir, if that is not enough, I'll put a
bullet through it, sir—I'll put a bullet through
it!"

The little watchmaker fell back as if a
pistol had been clapped to his eyes, and was
seen no more that day.

Talking of pugnacity, I must give an anecdote
of Mr. Loder, the banker before
mentioned. One day, during his mayoralty, an
opposing member of the corporation addressed
language to his party which he considered
slanderous and offensive. Upon this, Mr. Loder
instantly rose, and said that if any one dared
to address such language to him personally,
or to declare that he meant such expressions to
apply to him, he should be happy to give him
the satisfaction expected by gentlemen on such
occasions. The moment he sat down, old
Alderman Jones, a little decrepid man of seventy,
rose and cried: " And I'll be Mr. Loder's
second"—a chivalrous declaration that excited
much amusement.

Salisbury theatre in old times was quite a
nursery for the London stage. Every person
who could afford it went to the play, and criticism
on actors formed the staple of conversation.
Among the low comedians, Munden, with
his queer face and spitting way of acting Crack,
in The Turnpike Gate, was the great model.
Old persons still living remember Miss Brown,
a clergyman's daughter, as a clever useful actress,
a kind and respectable woman, who supported
her family by her exertions. There is a droll
tradition current in Salisbury about that
high-spirited, drunken "rip," George Frederick
Cooke. His friend Mr. Davis, the barber, an
eccentric character, whose daily promenade in
his flowered morning-gown was as regular as
cathedral service, had promised the London
agents to see that the great tragedian started
for London by a certain day and certain hour.
He reasoned, he argued, he entreated. Cooke
swore a grand and chivalrous oath that the
sun should not rise if he did not start by the
morrow's coach. The morning came; Mr. Davis
was at the inn; Cooke was not there. Mr.
Davis went into every room—no tragedian;
into the neighbouring taverns and lodging-houses,
still no actor. In despair, he strolled
into the inn-yard to divert his disgust and
melancholy by seeing the horses put to. All at once,
a great black-browed face was thrust out of the
coach-window. It was a big truculent-looking
man in a huge nightcap. It was no less a person
than the renegade George Frederick Cooke in
persona. " Hurrah! Davis," he cried. "Here I
am! I said I would keep my promise, and I
thought the best way to do it would be to sleep
in the coach!"

The old election times in Salisbury were
stormy enough. People's minds were so excited
about the Reform Bill, that the poorer
non-electors were ready for any desperate enterprise.
At one election, Mr. Hacker, the sweep, was very
unwilling to vote, as he had customers on both
sides; so, on polling-day, by the advice of a
shrewd neighbour, he feigned ill. The Tory
doctor came, felt his pulse, and pronounced it
safe for him to go and vote. Here was an.
emergency, but the neighbour was equal to it.
He then advised Hacker to have a fit, so he had
one. The doctor came again, and at sight of the
doctor he gnashed his teeth, groaned, and rolled
his eyes, until the doctor, not knowing what to
make of the sudden and unexpected attack,
insisted on it that he should not leave the house,
come what might—contrary to the spirit of
Hogarth's election agents, who forced dying
men and idiots to the poll, and even struck
them on the back to force out a sound that
might be interpreted as " Yes."

At the great election, when many thousands
were lavished by Messrs. Bouverie and
Wyndham, the Liberals were in the minority:
more so than they had expected. They decided
to petition, and were anxious, on that account, to
reduce the minority as much as possible. In
the heat of the agitation, Mr. Bigod, the
chemist, a violent and energetic radical,
discovering that Mr. Brampton, a coachman, a safe
man, was in London, proposed to the Liberal
committee to go up and fetch him. "Can't be
done. Pooh! sir. Consider the enormous
expense," said the chairman. But he was