But who would think of the water-lily as a
cure for corpulence? It is not recommended
so confidently as some of the others. It will
not effect a cure in less than ten days; there is
not even a positive assertion that a man's stomach
will dwindle even in that time. "In case a man
be overwaxen in stomach take seed of this
wort, pound it with wine, and give it to drink.
Again for the same, of the root, give it to the
sick to eat for ten days." Imagine a fat man
living on water-lilies for ten days. This
prescription is at once poetical and practical.
Falstaff, on such a diet, might be expected to
become an innocent water-baby. This is the last
prescription for " overwaxen stomach" we have
been able to discover in Mr. Cockagne's Saxon
Leechdoms, and it certainly looks like an
ultimatum. If a water-lily diet will not cure a man,
there is nothing left but Mr. Banting's " cordial,"
whatever that mysterious preparation may be.
As modern constitutions seem to require the
combination of a great number of drugs, it
might be worth while to ascertain whether a
decoction of waybread, horsetail, woodroffe, and
water-lilies, mixed with amontillado, port
(Sandemann's shipping), champagne (Veuve Cliquot),
and claret (not Gladstone), would not prove the
sovereign elixir in cases of obesity. The
mixture would not be alkaline, certainly, but it
might prove serviceable to constitutions differing
from Mr. Banting's in all respects, save the
tendency to accumulate fat. It cannot be
supposed that Roman doctors handed down for
generations prescriptions which were
inefficacious or injurious. The science of medicine
prides itself much on its antiquity, and to doubt
the efficacy of ancient modes of treatment
would be to detract from the science as it exists
in the nineteenth century. The basis on which
medicine rests is the experience of the past;
to cut away whole centuries of that experience
would be treason. Gentlemen, therefore, and
ladies (if there be any) in search of tenuity, may
possibly find relief from the remedies of the
Saxon Leech-book, should they fail to find
relief from Mr. Banting's system. Soon may their
stomachs begin to dwindle!

     FROM THE PEN OF A POLE.

IN the spring of last year a Polish expedition,
on its way to Lithuania, was wrecked on the
coast of Sweden, and reluctantly compelled to
remain there some time. I was attached as
secretary to that expedition.

Shortly before leaving Sweden, where we
experienced all sympathy and kindness, I learned
by chance that three young Swedes in the
Polish service had been betrayed into Russian
captivity. When, therefore, I found that, at
the command of the National Government, it was
necessary for me to make a journey to Warsaw,
I determined to avail myself of the opportunity,
and, while serving my country, to obtain, if
possible, the liberation of those three unfortunate
young men.

For my own security, I possessed myself
of a Swedish passport, and set out on my
journey by way of Vienna and Cracow for
the interior of Poland. I was thus enabled
to spend ten days unknown in Warsaw, and,
although the great object of my endeavour, the
liberation of the three young Swedes, was
frustrated by their having already been sent off to
Siberia, yet I had the satisfaction of knowing
that I had left no means untried for the
accomplishment of this purpose. I succeeded, also, in
maintaining my character as a foreigner; in
delivering my report to the National Government,
and receiving their further commission. I
reached Copenhagen in good spirits, and Vienna
on the 25th of August; stayed there three
days, then proceeded by the Austrian railway
to Cracow. Soldiers under arms awaited the
train at every station. When we arrived in
the morning at Cracow, the passengers were
detained in the carriages till the police had
taken their passports, and not till then were
they allowed to enter the city.

I took up my quarters at the Hôtel de Saxe.
Although it did not appear to harbour any one
belonging to the national organisation, yet it
was subjected almost every evening to a strict
police examination. As early as five o'clock in the
morning there was a loud knocking at the door.
The street was full of soldiers, a commission
entered, and all guests were subjected to the
most rigid inquisition. This may be official
zeal, but the police gives itself waste trouble.
For example, nobody suspected me.

As for me, I shall escape the bullets of
Mouravieff, whom we Poles call "the
executioner." When quite young, that worthy showed
what he was made of. He was brought up at a
public school in Paris, and one day wrote to a
lady whose son was his schoolfellow, telling her
that her son was just dead, and describing his
last moments, when, in fact, he was perfectly
well. This practical joke upon a mother is
matched by his present conduct.

The women in Cracow, as elsewhere in Poland,
wear simple inexpensive mourning, and the
men the insurgent dress, which is, in fact, the
national costume; trousers tucked into tall
boots, close-fitting coats, or French blouses with
a girdle, a square-edged cap with the peak set
at right angles. As in Warsaw, there are but
few, if any, public amusements; but you will
never see a Pole at any of them. While I was
there a garden concert was given, but immediately
afterwards a strong article came out in a
Polish paper on the unseemliness of such
amusements, and there were no more.

My mission to Cracow was accomplished, and
I had to wait the commands of the National
Government. As the time when I might receive
them was uncertain, I obtained a national
passport and permission to visit some friends in the
corps of Major F., which was operating in the
Radom government.

Making my arrangements, I found that I was
to be accompanied by an old Polish captain, a
combatant in the first war of independence, who