though he could not call to mind that he had
ever seen cement recommended by a clergyman,
as it was here. The testimonial ran
thus:

"The chairman of the Polytechnic Institution
had a valuable vase repaired and perfectly
restored by the cement, and strongly recommended
it as a most effective cement, which a
child, or domestic servant, might use successfully,
and hide the misfortune of a fracture
before the bane and antidote met the owner's
eye, to mitigate his wrath and almost annihilate
his annoyance"—which was a moral suggestion
to Mr. Whelks, that if he ever broke any of
his master's china goods, there was no occasion,
while he possessed a bottle of this wonderful
cement, to say anything about the matter.
He had only to mend the fracture, and the
owner would never know that the article had
been broken; or, if he should discover it, his
wrath would be mitigated, and his annoyance
almost annihilated, by the wonderful restoration
effected through the agency of Mr. Davis's
cement.

From the contemplation of some mended
sugar-basins and a halfpenny adhering to a
piece of broken plate, Mr. Whelks was
summoned to attend an optical lecture in the
theatre, "introducing some further and
wonderful discoveries of Sir David Brewster," &c.
The theatre was a sombre, solemn-looking
place, with the lights down. While the audience
were taking their places, a band of three
musicians smothered some tunes behind a red-
baize curtain. The first part of the entertainment
consisted of the adjustment of a magic
lantern by three scientific brothers of the stage
footman who comes on to place chairs, or lay
the carpet, at the theatre. Then a stout—
perhaps in this connexion we should say obese—
lecturer came on, and blandly began to teach
an imaginary infant school. He said that Sir
David Brewster was a great man, had attained
to the age of eighty-four years, was in the full
possession of all his faculties, and had
invented the stereoscope [which was invented
by Wheatstone], and improved the kaleidoscope.
He explained the principle of the kaleidoscope,
and showed us some wonderful effects; first, by
putting bits of coloured glass into the kaleidoscope;
secondly, by using buttons and bits of
sponge; thirdly, by employing hooks and eyes;
the whole of this experiment concluding with
a grand exhibition of pins and needles. When
these effects were first shown to some boys, the
lecturer informed us, they were greatly
delighted, and, in telling their papa about them,
said that the most beautiful figures were
produced by all sorts of irregular forms thrown
together in disorder. "Nay," said the boys'
papa, "you must be wrong in your description;
for without order there cannot be beauty,"
which showed that the sagacious parent divined
the principle of the kaleidoscope. This portion
of the entertainment concluded with a startling
and wonderful optical illusion, entitled
"Shakespeare and his Creations, Hamlet, Launce, and
Macbeth." With regard to Shakespeare, the
lecturer ventured to say, by way of introduction,
that he was "the glass of fashion and the
mould of form," "the observed of all
observers," and that, "take him for all in all, we
ne'er should look upon his like again." Further,
he declared that "to take him inventorially
would be to dizzy the brain" with the
overwhelming details of his greatness; so we were
invited to take him with an optical illusion, a
few recitations from his works, and a little
smothered music.

The curtain drew up, and discovered the
immortal bard himself, in his habit as he lived,
that is to say, in an Elizabethan suit of black;
grown somewhat rusty with the wear and tear
of nearly three centuries. There was no
mistaking the forehead, the lay-down collar, and
the fine-frenzied eye. The Immortal was
illustrating another confirmed habit of his, by
leaning on a pedestal and pointing to a scroll;
and his apartment was adorned by a bust of
himself, and another of Admiral Lord Nelson,
as showing that he was not for an age, but for
all time. Taking him thus inventorially, the
brain of Mr. Whelks was indeed somewhat
dizzied, for that gentleman was for a time in
doubt whether the figure before him was a
reality of flesh and blood, or the baseless fabric
of a vision. It turned out to be a reality—a
counterfeit presentment in the flesh, evidently
selected from the great mass of mankind on
account of a very high forehead, or perhaps we
might say, a very bald head. Presently a head
with a red velvet bust appeared among some
glass, only requiring the accompaniment of a
dish of shaving-paste, a few cakes of soap, and
a tray of tooth-brushes, to realise the window of
a Bond-street barber. Says the Immortal, with
a start and a roll of his fine-frenzied eye, quoting
his own works in a most egotistical manner,
"Can such things be?" To which the head
replies that there are more things in heaven and
earth, including the Polytechnic Institution,
than are dreamt of in the philosophy of the
public in general. "Is this," says the Immortal,
still staggered by the marvels of the barber's
window, "is this the very coinage of the
brain?" The head, unwilling, perhaps, to reveal
the secret of the optical illusion, does not
give a direct reply, but babbles something about
"sleep," which sets the Immortal off quoting
his own works at a fearful rate, but not always
aptly: as when in reference to the head he says,
there is a divinity that shapes our ends, &c.,
there being no end visible, either rough-hewn or
shaped. The blind of the barber's shop window
is now drawn down, to be raised after a
few minutes on a new tableau. The window
has been dressed with another bust. The face
is bedaubed with red paint to represent Launce,
who is weeping. Says William, the Immortal,
"Why weepest thou, Launce?" "Boo-oo-oo,"
returns Launce, blubbering according to
approved British drama principles; "I've lost my
dog." The Immortal proceeds to console him
with a quotation from his own works. "There