may be, they go. They dissolve, or
evaporate, or in some other way cease to exist,
and, to our great relief, we see them no more.
One of the last phases of all under which
matter that has lost all distinctness and identity,
appears, is that most mysterious substance
which we call flue. What a strange institution
is that, requiring for its development nothing
but neglect! Passing a decorator's shop the
other day, I noticed, on a coat of arms with
which he had embellished his wire blind, the
motto, "Nil sine labore"—"Nothing without
labour." It struck me at the time as much
too sweeping a statement; and now, pausing
for a moment to reflect on flue, I find a means
of confuting this reckless assertion. Flue is to be
had without labour. Let things alone, and flue
is the result. Let your bedstead alone, and
see how the flue accumulates underneath it. Let
your chest of drawers alone, and observe how
the flue gathers behind that piece of furniture.
Let your pockets alone, and note what a curious
little pellet, composed of flue, forms in the
corners of each of those receptacles. I have
just extracted such a pellet from one of the
pockets of an old waistcoat. I wonder of what
it may be the remains—Julius Caesar's toga—
the stuffing of the great Alexander's saddle?
Both existed once—and what became of them?

PRIZE BABIES.

RISING early one morning in July, bent
on visiting Wimbledon and seeing the prize
shooting, I was somewhat surprised to find
myself, later in the day, sailing down the river
to Woolwich to see the prize babies. Chance
had caused this change in my plans, and had
also given me, as a travelling companion, a
poet who pledged himself to beguile the
journey (if required) by reciting his own verses
and abusing Tennyson's. At Westminster we
embarked upon the good steamer Heron,
Captain Wattles, and found the boat crowded with
people, also bound for the Baby Show. After an
interval that seemed long enough for a voyage
to New York, the steamer approached the North
Woolwich Gardens, at which the Baby Show
was held. We saw the flags flying; we heard
the drums beating; but, in accordance with a
peculiarly English institution, we were not yet
allowed to go on shore. There is a ferry
between North Woolwich on one side of the
river, and South Woolwich on the other side
of the river, and it is necessary that this ferry
shall be made to pay. Consequently, the
steamer crept past North Woolwich, made
fast to the pier at South Woolwich, and
left us to be reconveyed across the river, at
an additional charge, by the ferry-boat. Two
tall and handsome soldiers, indignant at what
they considered an imposition, refused to go
on board the ferry-boat, and hired a skiff in
which to row across. As no two tall and
handsome soldiers were afterwards to be seen
in Woolwich Gardens, it is to be presumed
that these rebels paid with their lives the
penalty of their rashness in opposing the
authorities. At least, this is the poet's theory,
and he intends to work it out in a song which
shall quite eclipse Kingsley's story of the three
fishers who went sailing out into the west,
out into the west when the sun went down.

The gardens at Woolwich are very prettily
laid out. There is a miniature lake, backed
by scenery; there are two orchestras and two
dancing-floors; there is a fine esplanade along
the river; there are all sorts of games, from
Aunt Sally to rifle galleries; and there are
trees and flowers in plenty. Altogether,
an excellent place at which "to spend a
happy day," and one would say as favourite
a resort for the people of the east end of
London, as Cremorne for the people of the west
end.

Obviously, the thousands of spectators at
the Baby Show came mostly from the lower
part of the city. Servants out for a holiday,
mechanics with their wives and children,
young people who had come to join in the
dancing after nightfall, composed the majority
of the visitors. Everybody rushed off at once
to see the babies, who were exhibited in a
small hall and in a tent adjoining. The sight
was by no means pleasant. A single baby is
not only endurable, but is often absolutely
attractive; but a miscellaneous collection of babies
is the reverse of either. About one hundred
and twenty children, of ages ranging from
seven weeks to eighteen months, were on view.
Railings had been erected up and down the
hall, and, behind these, looking disagreeably
like pigs in their pens, sat the mothers holding
their infants. The weather was very warm,
and the odour of boiled milk and pap mingled
with the steaming perspiration of the crowd.
Many of the children were asleep, and were
laid out on the benches or on the nurses'
knees, in attitudes horribly suggestive of their
being dead. There was but one pretty baby
in the show. This was a little girl, about a
year and a half old, with bright black eyes, and
enough hair to serve a dozen grown-up women
in this age of chignons. This pretty little girl
was greatly petted. All sorts of sweets were
offered for her acceptance, and pennies and
halfpennies were pushed into her hands. The
other children suffered by comparison. Indeed,
when the poet casually remarked that he had
never thought that babies could be so ugly,
the sentiment was cordially endorsed by several
matrons, who had overheard it, and it was
approvingly repeated throughout the hall as a
very original and accurate bit of criticism.

But although there were no beautiful babies,
there were numbers of fat babies, and large
babies, and healthy babies. A gipsy woman
carried in her arms a perfect little Hercules,
as brown and rosy as herself, and with eyes
almost as keen and quick as hers. Half-a-
dozen stupid little monsters sprawled in a row,
the flesh lying in rolls upon their arms and
legs, and their cheeks bulging with fatness. As
a contrast to these, there were the " Triplets,"
only seven weeks old—poor, puny creatures with