to dismiss himself—by urging him to request
himself to take himself off. Inscribe in letters of gold
on the cornice of your chamber, "Gout is the only
cure for Gout." You may turn yourself inside
out, like a glove, with purgatives; you may
deaden your nerves with quack narcotics,
without advancing a step in the right direction.
You are only an ostrich hiding your head in a
hole to prevent your seeing a certain ugly
unwelcome horseman. When you take your head
out of the hole, after a week or two's time, the
horseman is there all the same, ready to lay his
fingers on you. With Gout, coaxing answers
better than scratching; he is much more easily
led than driven.

The wisest form of diplomacy is this: " My
dear Gout, we are ancient allies, and I trust we
shall remain so for many years to come; but
there is a time for all things. There is a time
for Gout, and there is a time to be rid—I mean,
there is a time to deny ourselves the indulgences
of Gout. Though I value you highly as my
guest, still I am obliged to receive other friends
in their turn. Just now, you are lodged
(comfortably, I hope) in my hip; but that apartment
is much too high and garret-like for you to
occupy. Suppose you move a story lower, and
come down, to my knee. You will be much
better there; as it will be so much easier to
supply you with the flannel and the hot water
which you love so well." Gout is persuaded,
and allows his carpet-bag to be brought down to
the knee, where he takes up his quarters for a
day or two.

You then observe, "My very dear Gout, variety
is pleasing. Suppose you now try my foot for a
change." To which Gout replies, politely, " So
I will. I have no objection at all to sleep on
the ground floor. I have already tried it, and
had no reason to complain of the accommodation.
When you wake to-morrow morning you will
find me installed in my new abode."

Gout is as good as his word; he makes
himself at home in your foot; he does just as he
pleases with ankle, instep, heel, and toe-joints.
One day, when he has completely retreated into
your great toe, as to a sort of outlying garden
balcony, to look out of the window and enjoy
the air, you insidiously suggest, " What a fine
May morning! What beautiful weather for
travelling! If I had any excuse for taking a
jaunt, and were not detained at home by my
respect for you, I should certainly be off for a
week or two's trip."

"Oh!" says Gout, good-naturedly, " don't
let me detain you. There are some friends of
mine who will be expecting me. It seems a
long while since I have seen them; they will
think it unkind if I do not pay them a visit."

"Really!"

"That is, I feel a great inclination to take a
short Italian tour. To tell the truth, I can
hardly keep my fingers off the Austrian
legislators who have published their rules and
regulations for the whipping of Lombard ladies. I
am tempted to give a good Cornish hug to
certain peninsular dungeon-keepers of high rank
and many years' standing; and I long to bestow
a fond embrace on sundry cardinals, who will
not allow pestilential marshes to be drained, nor
railroads to be made, nor agriculture to thrive,
nor manufactures and commerce to develop
themselves, because the result of such innovation
would be the sure subversion of ecclesiastical
tyranny. You'll excuse me, therefore, if
I leave you somewhat abruptly. Good-by!"
" Good-by, then," you say, " till next time."

And you bow out Gout with every well-bred
mark of regret at parting.

THE ROYAL ACADEMY IN BED.

THE opening of The Royal Academy Exhibition
of eighteen hundred and fifty-nine is the
first opening that I have missed for something
like a score of years past. Illness, which
confines me to my bed, has been the sole cause of
my absence when the rooms in Trafalgar-square
were thrown open to an immense shilling public,
for the present season. My admiration for
modern Art almost amounts to fanaticism; and
my disappointment at missing the first week of
the Exhibition is not to be described in words or
depicted on canvas.

My doctor informs me that I may hope to get
out again before the doors of the elegant and
commodious Palace of Art, which occupies the
north side of Trafalgar-square, are closed at the
end of July. While I am waiting for the happy
period of my emancipation, I have been finding
consolation and occupying the weary hours by a
careful perusal of the Royal Academy Catalogue
for the present year. Thanks to this invaluable
document, I have found myself in a condition to
plan out my future visit to the Exhibition, in its
minutest details, beforehand, I have decided
what pictures I shall see and what pictures I
shall miss; I know where I shall want to look
up and where I shall want to look down; I have
even settled in my own mind when I shall tread
on the toes of other people, and when other
people will return the compliment by treading
on mine—in short, I have excited my imagination
to such a pitch of preternatural lucidity,
that I have all but got the whole picture-show
at my fingers' ends already, though I have not
the slightest chance of paying a visit to it for at
least six weeks to come.

Allow me to present my Private View of The
Royal Academy Exhibition, taken from my
bedroom at Peckham Rye, by the telescopic help of
the Catalogue for the present year.

To begin (as the critics do) with general
characteristics. I find the Exhibition to be, in two
respects, negatively unlike its predecessors. The
Vicar of Wakefield is, unless I mistake, at last
used up; and there is no statue of Musidora
("at the doubtful breeze alarmed") in the
Sculpture Room. In regard to positive changes,
I observe a remarkable tendency in the artists,
this year, to take each others' likenesses; and
(judging by certain quotations) to plunge into
abstruse classical reading, through the medium
of some highly unintelligible English translation.