* * * * * THE END OF QUACKERY. Among the many novel systems of medicine for which the present day is remarkable, there is one distinguished by a name that, at least, seems very appropriate. It is called Coffinism. This is candid. The term, however, is so comprehensive, that it might, with great correctness, be applied to all manner of therapeutical schemes which deviate from true medical science. There is one right method of treating diseases, and there are many wrong ones; to all whereof the denomination of Coffinism is justly applicable; since it indicates, with exactness, the tendency of each of them; every improper way of attempting to cure people being a path which leads to the "bourne from which no traveller returns:" in short, which terminates in the elm box. * * * * * A WHISPER IN THE EAR OF NICHOLAS. We hope we have heard the last of the EMPEROR OF RUSSIA'S Ultimatums, or Ultimata, just as you like to call it. We trust the EMPEROR will bear in mind the old Latin injunction of "_Ne sutor ultra crepidam_", which, for his own particular Imperial use, we beg to alter into "_Ne sutor ultra Ultimatum_." * * * * * CURE FOR A CUT.--Buy a new suit of clothes. * * * * * SONGS OF THE MENDICANTS. No. 2.--THE SONG OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVER. Wearily spins the web of life; Dismally London's streets I tread: I've got at home a consumptive wife, And two small children lying dead. (_Aside._) I must indulge a quiet grin-- I shall feel better when I've laughed; My wife's at home consuming gin, While the children sleep with an opium draught. If my wife and children you could see, I'm sure you'd help me, good Christians all; Believe my wretched tale, and on me In halfpence let your compassion fall. (_Aside._) If my wife and children you wish to meet As soon as she's sober, you'll mayhap Find her in the adjoining street, With the well-drugg'd infants on her lap. A Weaver I've always been by trade, From the time when I was eight years old; But I've been unfit for labour made, By hunger, over-work, and cold. (_Aside._) Yes, I am a Weaver, I'll stick to that; And my skill will often myself surprise, When I think what precious yarns I spin, And what wondrous webs I weave--of lies. To beg I'm forbidden by the Act; But Providence will your charity bless, If you'll purchase a small religious tract From a pious Weaver in distress. (_Aside._) Hallo! how's this? I'm fairly caught; A religious tract, I think I said; I've left them at home, and by Jove, I've brought My stock of flash song-books out instead. * * * * * MR. PETERLOO BROWN'S EXAMINATION OF THE OXFORD STATUTES. LETTER II. "DEAR MR. PUNCH,