WAIFE (insinuatingly interrupting).--“Their calculations of intellectual progress and their tables of pecuniary return. Few of these societies, I am told, are really self-supporting: I suppose Professor Long is!--and if he resides in Gatesboro’, and writes on limpets, he is probably a man of independent fortune.” SHOPMAN.--“Why, sir, the professor was engaged from London,--five guineas and his travelling expenses. The funds of the society could ill afford such outlay; but we have a most worthy mayor, who, assisted by his foreman, Mr. Williams, our treasurer, is, I may say, the life and soul of the institute.” “A literary man himself, your mayor?” The shopman smiled. “Not much in that way, sir; but anything to enlighten the working classes. This is Professor Long’s great work upon limpets, two vols. post octavo. The Mayor has just presented it to the library of the institute. I was cutting the leaves when you came in.” “Very prudent in you, sir. If limpets were but able to read printed character in the English tongue, this work would have more interest for them than the ablest investigations upon the political and social history of man. But,” added the Comedian, shaking his head mournfully, “the human species is not testaceous; and what the history of man might be to a limpet, the history of limpets is to a man.” So saying, Mr. Waife bought a sheet of cardboard and some gilt foil, relifted his hat, and walked out. The shopman scratched his head thoughtfully; he glanced from his window at the form of the receding stranger, and mechanically resumed the task of cutting those leaves, which, had the volumes reached the shelves of the library uncut, would have so remained to the crack of doom. Mike Callaghan now came in sight, striding fast; “Mr. Mayor sends his love--bother-o’-me--his respex; and will be happy to see your honour.”