it. There was nothing wanted in and about the churchyard to make it a fair, except a few stalls and suchlike. It made me sick, Sam, to look upon this murder’s holiday. I wish you’d have seen the Yorkshire Grey public-house! No sooner did they open the doors than there was as much scrambling as at any playhouse on boxing-night. Well, the landlord didn’t make a little by his gin that day! Murder proved a good customer to him! And then to see the hundreds and hundreds struggling and pushing to get to the bar--to hear ’em laughing and shouting--and seeing ’em tossing off their liquor,--upon my life, Sam, there was a mob of well-dressed, well-to-do Englishmen, that, considering what had brought them there, wasn’t half so decent as a crowd of Zealand savages. Cricketing’s an English sport--so is single-stick--so are bowls--and so are nine-pins--and after what I’ve seen to-day, so, I’m sure of it, is murder. For my part, it does seem a little hard to hang the murderer himself, when it appears that he gives by his wickedness so much enjoyment to his fellow-subjects. Well, Sam, I’m now come to the marrow of my letter, and it’s this. I do think, if you will only take pains, and have all the murders of the year nicely got up, you may make a capital penn’orth of the lot with your show at Christmas. Well, lords and ladies make a scrimmage for it at police-courts; and respectable, pious people take in newspapers for the very best likenesses of prisoners and cut-throats. I’m sure you’d get custom--if the thing was well done--ay, “of the nobility, gentry, and public in general.” Now do, Sam, take my advice. Depend upon it, the pop’lar taste sets in for blood; and so, instead on winter’s nights a-going about with your old-fashioned cry of “Gallantee Show!” sing out “Mur-der!” and your fortune’s made. And so no more from your cousin and wellwisher, JUNIPER HEDGEHOG. LETTER XI.--_To Chickweed, Widow, Penzance._