and every washerwoman's drying-ground will be an exhibition, to which the public will be admitted without having to pay a shilling to witness the pictures. A catalogue, in fact, could be drawn up, and might run as follows:— EXHIBITION OF SHIRTS IN THE WASHING ACADEMY OF MRS. TUBBS AND JACK TOWELL, ESQ., BALL'S POND. 1. Portrait of a Fat Cook, in the possession of A 1 and B 2. 2. A Lion's Head, sketched from a celebrated door-knocker in Portland Place, which was taken off on November 15, 1842, by a noble marquis. 3. Cleopatra, a beautiful pug, and Sulky Bob, a lovely terrier, belonging to the Houndsditch Stunner. 4. The Last o' Peel—Sir Robert tendering his resignation to Her Majesty. 5. Leg of mutton and trimmings—the shirt of an alderman. 6. Views of Canterbury and York cathedrals—The two sleeves of a bishop. 7. A Soldier's Beer, and Relieving Guard; the shirt of two Blues—The souvenirs of a housemaid. 8. "'Till so gently stealing;" Jack Sheppard helping himself in Mr. Wood's shop—The shirt of a young gentleman in Field Lane. 9. The Last Man—the property of a life-pill manufacturer. 10. St. George's, Hanover Square—The bosom comforter of a young lady. 11. "When hollow hearts shall wear a mask;" a view of Jullien's Masquerade—A False Front, late the property of a medical student, but now belonging to his cherished Uncle. 12. Distant view of Reading—The shirt of a critic. 13. Polly, a celebrated Hampshire pig, who won the prize for short snouts and curly tails, at the Royal Agricultural Show, 1845—The chemise of Mr. Giblett. A LONDON INTERIOR. If you have ever been to the Casino, you must have seen young Watts O'Clock. He aspired, in his Gentish soul, to be "a Fast Man;" and certainly his ambition was gratified, for he was universally looked upon as the "Fastest of the Fast." He went so fast that eventually he disappeared altogether. I was going home very late, one dark morning, when I heard my name called out. I looked up, and noticed before my door an immense advertising van. The name issued again from one of the little windows at the side, and, lo! I recognised the Roman nose of Watts O'Clock peeping through it. Where there is a nose, I said, there must be a face; and if there is a face, it is highly probable that there is a body somewhere to it. "Come up, my boy," the same voice and nose continued. I needed no further invitation. In another minute I was inside the van. True enough, it was young Watts. The interior was fitted up not very stylishly, but just as good as any lodging-house. The walls were papered with a handsome pattern, at three-halfpence a yard. In one corner of the room was a turn-up bedstead, and in the other a large sofa. A table and two chairs completed the furniture—with a meerschaum and a lucifer-box. "Glad to see you," he said; "make yourself at home."