Even alchemy is not without its devotees, although the alchemist has forsaken the more picturesque apparatus of his stock-in-trade. He now owns a small shop, the darker the better, and fills the windows with a curious assortment of dried herbs, each with a notice affixed to it describing its virtues. You may go in and buy two pennyworth of some dried plant with a high-sounding Latin name, the herbalist assuring you that, mixed with boiling water and drunk as tea, it will cure the most obscure disease. If you have sufficient faith, it probably will.

But this is the least of the herbalist’s abilities. It is, in fact, merely the outward sign of an inward and spiritual wisdom. You can consult him, in the little back parlour behind the shop, upon all manner of subjects which you do not care to mention to your friends. And, for a consideration, he will give you advice which you may or may not follow. At all events, if the herbalist knows his business, he will contrive to command respect, and, at the same time, earn a surprising number of shillings.