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vestry of Marylebone parish, meeting on the following Saturday, had the honour to be addressed by Sir Peter Laurie, a gentleman of infallible authority, of great innate modesty, and of a most sweet humanity. This remarkable alderman, as I am informed by The Observer newspaper, then and there delivered himself (I quote the passage without any correction) as follows:
    “Having touched upon the point of saving to the poor, he begged to illustrate it by reading for them the particulars of a survey that had been made in a locality called—‘Jacob’s Island’—(a laugh)—where, according to the surveyor, 1300 houses were erected on forty acres of ground. The surveyor asserted and laid down that each house could be supplied with a constant supply of pure water—secondly, that each house could be supplied with a sink—thirdly, a water-closet—fourthly, a drain—fifthly, a foundation drain—and, sixthly, the accommodation of a dust-bin (laughter), and all at the average rate of 13s. 4d. per week (oh, oh, and laughter).
    “Mr. G. Bird: Can Sir Peter Laurie tell the vestry where ‘Jacob’s Island’ is? (laughter).
    “Sir P Laurie: That was just what he was about to tell them. The Bishop of London, poor soul, in his simplicity, thought there really was such a place, which he had been describing so minutely, whereas it turned out that it ONLY existed in a work of fiction, written by Mr. Charles Dickens ten years ago (roars of laughter). The fact was admitted by Mr. Charles Dickens himself at the meeting, and he (Sir P. Laurie) had extracted his words from the same paper, the Morning Herald. Mr. Dickens said, ‘Now the first of these classes proceeded generally on the supposition that the compulsory improvement of these dwellings, when exceedingly defective, would be very expensive. But that was a great mistake, for nothing was cheaper than good sanitary improvements, as they knew in this case of “Jacob’s Island” (laughter), which he had described in a work of fiction some ten or eleven years ago.’ ”
    When I came to read this I was so much struck by the honesty, by the truth, and by the wisdom of this logic, as well as by the fact of the sagacious vestry, including members of parliament, magistrates, officers, chemists, and I know not who else listening to it meekly (as became them), that I resolved to record the fact here as a certain means of making it known to, and causing it to be reverenced by, many thousands of people. Reflecting upon this logic and its universal application; remembering that when Fielding described Newgate, the prison immediately ceased to exist; that when Smollett took Roderick Random to Bath, that city instantly sank into the earth; that when Scott exercised his genius on Whitefriars, it incontinently glided into the Thames; that an ancient place called Windsor was entirely destroyed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth by two Merry Wives of that town, acting under the direction of a person of the name of Shakespeare; and that Mr. Pope, after having at a great expense completed his grotto at Twickenham, incautiously reduced it to ashes by writing a poem upon it—I say, when I came to consider these things, I was inclined to make this preface the vehicle of my humble tribute of admiration to Sir Peter Laurie. But I am restrained by a very painful consideration—by no less a consideration than the impossibility of his existence. For Sir Peter Laurie having been himself described in a book (as I understand he was, one Christmas time, for his conduct on the seat of justice), it is but too clear that there CAN be no such man! g
    Otherwise, I should have been quite sure of his concurrence in the following passage, written thirty years ago by my late lamented friend, the Reverend Sydney Smith, that great master of wit, and terror of noodles, but singularly applicable to the present occasion.
    We have been thus particular in stating the case that we may make an answer to those profligate persons