The boors, or bores, of the Black Forest communicated the Polka to some Parisians, who always take quickly any malady of the kind, and it very soon spread among the people of the French capital. It was introduced into England a short time after, by a coryphèe coming over to fulfil an engagement at Her Majesty's Theatre. The poor fellow was, indeed, very bad with it, and it was thought that it would have died a natural death, for it did not seem to be very taking until Monsieur Jullien happened to catch it, and infected several places of public amusement with the severe calamity. The malady now spread with fearful rapidity, and even Mr. Baron Nathan fell a victim to it in its fiercest shape, while others of less exalted rank in the Terpsichorean world had it in a much milder form than the Baron. The symptoms of the disease are too well known to need a lengthy description. It causes a contraction of the leg, and a drawing up the heel to a considerable height, accompanied by a violent twisting of the head from side to side, and numerous contortions of the body. It gives a strange sort of motion to the arms, occasions a repeated stamping of the feet, and induces altogether a singularity of action which is not to be found in other cases of mania. It is to be expected that the malady will soon wear itself out, like other previous visitations of a somewhat similar character. [Illustration: BOXING-NIGHT—A picture in the National Gallery. ] THE NATIONAL GALLERY. A DIALOGUE. TOM. Hallo! Bill Brown; how's you, and how's your Sister Jane, and your blessed old mother? When you loses that maternal parent, Bill, You'll never get such another. BILL. Why, we're all tollolish, and to-night, as I'm a Gentleman-at-large, owing to the depression in baked taturs, We've all on us made up our mind to go to The gallery of one of the National The-aturs. TOM. Let's see, there's Common Garden, that's a Well wentilated the-atur just at present; But then the doors open at _no_ time During the evening—and that's unpleasant. BILL. Then there's Drury Lane—a sort of Italian Opera, werry much diluted— Where there's ballets in which ladies In werry short dresses dance—who might be better suited. TOM. Ah! time was, a National Gallery was worth A shilling of any man's money; When Mister Edmund Kean used to do the Violent pathetic, and Old Joe the excruciating funny. BILL. Then you couldn't get a front row without a fight, And a row with the police no ways, And the lady you took with you having All her bones broken—I mean the bones in her stays. TOM.