is a tide in the affairs of man," he says, "which,
taken at the flood, leads on to fortune"—in
allusion, possibly, to Launce's flood of tears, and
the fortune likely to accrue to the Polytechnic
Institution from the exhibition of the optical
illusion. Hark! 'tis heavenly music! The
smothered musicians behind the baize curtain
strike up, "Where the bee sucks," causing
Mr. Whelks to remark that he shouldn't mind
a sup o' summat himself. Then follows: A
voice singing woollenly, "Where the bee sucks."
The Immortal with his eyes on the ceiling,
listening with admiration to his own verses.
Blind down.

Blind up again. Poor Tom a-cold in the
window, shivering more quotations. Tableau of
the Immortal in his habit as he lived, leaning on
pedestal, contemplating Admiral Lord Nelson
sorrowfully, as if in regret that he, the
Immortal, was not in a condition to write a
nautical drama about him in competition for Mr.
T. P. Cooke's prize of a hundred pounds.
Blind down, and all over.

Shakespeare having retired, the lecturer
ventures to come on again, and tells us how Sir
Joshua Reynolds, than whom, &c., once painted
a picture of a child in four aspects, as a cherub
with wings; he (Sir Joshua) being too artistic to
paint bodies. This, we are informed, will now
be reproduced by a wonderful optical illusion.
"I will see," says the lecturer, "if the cherubs
are ready; and I promise to return as soon as
possible." Faithless man! why did you break
your promise, and never come back? It was
Mr. Whelks who said that you might have left
him a lock of your hair in case he should never
have the happiness of seeing you again, which
he thought was probable. But presently we
saw the cherubs suspended—not floating in the
air, for they never moved from their position,
and heard them sing a chorus by no means
heavenly. Here the smothering musicians,
unable to stand it any longer, popped their hands
out from under the blankets, and refreshed
themselves with what little drain of oxygen
there was left in the theatre.

In this portion of the entertainment, amusement
and instruction were so thoroughly blended
that it was difficult to recognise either the one
or the other in its own individual character.
It is possible, we think, that a few of the
spectators had at some early period of their lives
been the happy possessors of sixpenny kaleidoscopes;
nay, may even have constructed one of
those wonderful optical instruments with an
old pen-case, the covering of a marmalade pot,
and three slips of smoked glass. As to Mr.
Whelks, if he were not already acquainted with
the instrument, he would scarcely be rendered
a better citizen, or better fitted for the seven-
pound franchise, by witnessing the formation of
patterns on a sheet by the agency of a magic
lantern. With regard to the optical illusion,
the barber's shop-window heads, and the floating
cherubs, it struck us that a royal scientific
institution had condescended to borrow a mere
mechanical trick from Colonel Stodare, whom
science in its dignified moments would probably
stigmatise as a "common conjuror."

The audience now, after a long struggle
(alarmingly suggestive of what might occur in
the case of fire), disgorged itself from the
theatre, and returned to the grand hall to
witness the descent of the diving-bell, and view
again, according to the invitation of the
programme, the terrestrial globe—why not the
celestial this time, by way of variety?—and the
drawing-room fireworks. While passing along
to the diving-bell, Mr. Whelks had a few
minutes' leisure to inspect such treasures of art
and industry as door-plates and handles, cups
and saucers, black-lead pencils, cough lozenges,
bottles of scent, and lucifer matches: the last
asserting themselves scientifically by a warranty
not to ignite except upon the box. Reviewing
the globe from Indus to the Pole at a
glance, Mr. Whelks is in presence of the
diving-bell. He is eager to make a sub-aqueous
voyage to the bottom of the tank; but finding
that there is an extra charge of one shilling for
this scientific experience, denies himself the
pleasure. There is a decided backwardness in
coming forward to take seats in the bell: which
is not astonishing, seeing that the bell has been
a leading feature of the entertainments at the
Royal Polytechnic Institution for at least a
quarter of a century. At length, however, five
persons are induced to pay their money and
take their seats. The crank is worked, the bell
is swung from its perch. It descends and
disappears amid air-bubbles: female portion of
the spectators giggle; bell reappears, and
is swung back to its place; divers come out
with flushed faces, and on being questioned as
to what it was like, give brief unsatisfactory
replies and hurry away, evidently to evade cross-
questioning. Ten minutes having been allowed
for the terrestrial globe, the diving-bell, &c.,
Mr. Whelks is summoned to another theatre,
to be amused with "A new Vocal, Instrumental,
Descriptive, and Dioramic Entertainment,
founded upon Sir Walter Scott's beautiful poem
of the Lady of the Lake;" and, as he is passing
along, the cement-man, seductively exhibiting
his restored sugar basins and adhesive halfpenny,
invites him to buy a packet of that which
"hides the misfortune of a fracture before the
bane and the antidote meet the owner's eye, to
mitigate his wrath and almost annihilate his
annoyance."

Again a solemn sombre-looking place, with
the lights down: not a little suggestive of awful
preparations for making free and accepted
masons, according to the popular notions of the
ceremony. The magic lantern, once more the
leading star of the performance. Sir Walter
Scott, and the clever artist who is engaged to
read and illustrate his work, both being
condemned to wait upon and feed the magic lantern.
The recital of the poem must keep time with
the manipulation of the slides, compelling James
Fitzjames, lyrically, to go through the whole of
his adventures at a gallop, and in the dark, the
whole concluding with "two spectral or ghost