Outside again. BOSCH shows me a house. "Lokeer. In dot house leef an oldt lady all mit herself and ade sairvans. She com from Friesland, yassir." Really, I think BOSCH is going to be interesting--at last. There is a sly twinkle in his eye, denoting some story of a scandalous but infinitely humorous nature. "Well, BOSCH, go on--what about the old lady?" I ask, eagerly, as _Merton_. "Wol, Sir," says BOSCH, "she nefer go noveres." ... That's _all_! "A devilish interesting story, _Sumph_, indeed!" to quote _Mr. Wagg_. But, as BOSCH frequently reminds me, "It vas pedder, you see, as a schendlemans like you go apout mit me; I dell you tings dot vas nod in de guide-books." Which I am not in a position to deny. * * * * * BY ONE OF THE UNEMPLOYED.--"It is a curious fact," wrote the Recording Angel, a very superior sort of person to "the Printer's Devil," on the _Daily Telegraph_, "that in Greater London last week the births registered were just one more than twice the number of deaths. Thus grows the population in this great Babylon." Very appropriate, in this instance, is the title of "Great Baby-lon." If you put it down an "e," my Lord, and spell it "berths," then these are by no means in proportion to the unemployed youth in search of them. * * * * * [Illustration: DISSOLUTION--(AS THE ENEMY OF THE LONDON SEASON).] There was a sound of revelry by day, And England's Capital had gathered then, Her Beauty and her Masherdom, and gay Spring's sun shone o'er smart women and swell men; A thousand shops shone showily; and when MAY came to Mayfair, FLORA to Pall-Mall, Shrewd eyes winked hope to eyes which winked again, And maids heard sounds as of the marriage-bell. But hush! hark! a harsh sound strikes like a sudden knell! Did ye not hear it? Is it howling wind? The tram-car rattling o'er the stony street? The groans of M.P.'s wearily confined To the dull House when night and morning meet, Dragged to Divisions drear with dawdling feet? No, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, The street, the hall its echoes now repeat, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the Elections' opening roar! 'Tis in our midst--that figure draped and dim, Whose mocking music makes us all afraid. "Death as the Foe!" Can it indeed be _Him_? Duller, more dirge-like tune was never played On strings more spirit-chilling. Feet are stayed Though in mid-waltz, and laughter, though at height, Hushes, and maidens modishly arrayed For matrimonial conquest, shrink with fright; And Fashion palsied sits, and Shopdom takes to flight.