of known respectability being all the reference that is required) in the immediate neighbourhood of the Bow-street Police-office. Where Mr. Muff is--it is impossible to form the least idea; he may probably speak for himself. The reader will now please to shift the time and place to two o'clock P.M. in the dissecting-room, which is full of students, comprising three we have just spoken of, except Mr. Simpson. A message has been received that the anatomical teacher is unavoidably detained at an important case in private practice, and cannot meet his class to day. Hereupon there is much rejoicing amongst the pupils, who gather in a large semicircle round the fireplace, and devise various amusing methods of passing the time. Some are for subscribing to buy a set of four-corners, to be played in the museum when the teachers are not there, and kept out of sight in an old coffin when they are not wanted. Others vote for getting up sixpenny sweepstakes, and raffling for them with dice--the winner of each to stand a pot out of his gains, and add to the goodly array of empty pewters which already grace the mantelpiece in bright order, with the exception of two irregulars, one of which Mr. Rapp has squeezed flat to show the power of his hand; and in the bottom of the other Mr. Manhug has bored a foramen with a red-hot poker in a laudable attempt to warm the heavy that it contained. Two or three think they had better adjourn to the nearest slate table and play a grand pool; and some more vote for tapping the preparations in the museum, and making the porter of the dissecting-room intoxicated with the grog manufactured from the proof spirit. The various arguments are, however, cut short by the entrance of Mr. Muff, who rushes into the room, followed by Mr. Simpson, and throwing off his macintosh cape, pitches a large fluttering mass of feathers into the middle of the circle. "Halloo, Muff! how are you, my bean--what's up?" is the general exclamation. "Oh, here's a lark!" is all Mr. Muff's reply. "Lark!" cries Mr. Rapp; "you're drunk, Muff--you don't mean to call that a lark!" "It's a beautiful patriarchal old hen," returns Mr. Muff, "that I bottled as she was meandering down the mews; and now I vote we have her for lunch. Who's game to kill her?" Various plans are immediately suggested, including cutting her head off, poisoning her with morphia, or shooting her with a little cannon Mr Rapp has got in his locker; but at last the majority decide upon hanging her. A gibbet is speedily prepared, simply consisting of a thigh-bone laid across two high stools; a piece of whip cord is then noosed round the victim's neck; and she is launched into eternity, as the newspapers say--Mr. Manhug attending to pull her legs. "Depend upon it that's a humane death," remarks Mr. Jones. "I never tried to strangle a fowl but once, and then I twisted its neck bang off. I know a capital plan to finish cats though."