Balm is always good.
Corresponding—Lads—Remember Judas:—And the year 80! Last Monday morning at Seven o’clock, Doctor Merryman, of Queen Street, Mayfair, presented Elizabeth, the wife of Martin van Butchell with her Fifth fine Boy, at his House in Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, and—they—all—are—well. Post Masters General for Ten Thousand Pounds (—We mean Gentlemen’s—Not a Penny less—) I will soon construct—Such Mail-Coach—Perch Bolts, as shall never break!
Tender—hearted—Man—User of the Knife,—Would’st thou cut thy Wife? (—Unless two2 were by?—Fearing she might die?—) Is—not—Blood—the Life? If the Empress of Russia—the Emperor of Germany—the King of Prussia—an Immaculate,—or the Pope of Rome—were sorely smitten—with bad Fistulæ and tormenting Piles—visited Martin to be made quite whole:—Without Confinement—Fomentation—Risk—Infection—Poultice—Caustic—or Cutting:—bringing two per Cent. of Five Years Profit.—☞ Less is not his fee. Nor would he suffer a third person to be in the room. Not wanting help,—he won’t be hinder’d; by half-willed spies; slavish informers: nor sad alarmists. All his patients live: and—Jehovah—praise.