CHUB. 61 



ing a cigarette at the mouth of an equally attractive 

 masher ? Our dead walls are now alive with the fine 

 arts ; the ends of houses are picture galleries ; our 

 omnibuses are covered with alluring announcements. 

 We seemingly enjoy and applaud all these things, 

 whilst Beecham occupying a quiet nook in the country, 

 and brightening the green landscape with a dash of 

 vermilion, excites us to taurine frenzy. Surely now 

 Beecham is a benefactor to his race and his country 

 does he not sell for a shilling what is worth a guinea ? 

 And if it costs him only a penny he does not himself 

 pocket the profit ; he bestows a large portion of it on 

 an ungrateful public. Does he not spend ,50,000, or 

 perhaps ^"100,000, a year in advertising? See the 

 profit that accrues to the farmers who expose his pills, 

 and the innumerable newspapers, magazines, and 

 periodicals that grow rich on his expenditure, to say 

 nothing of the benefit which his invaluable pills afford 

 to weak humanity. Happy the farmer, in these de- 

 plorable times, whose fields encompass a railway 

 Beecham *s Pills will go a long way to help him pay 

 his rent ; Carter's Little Liver Pills will add to his 

 impoverished income if they do not present so attrac- 

 tive an object in the landscape ; to an unbiassed mind 

 a little patch of red in a green field, a red-roofed 

 cottage or a sand-red cow, for example, has a 

 picturesque effect, and Beecham's board is red. I am 

 not aware that Pears' Soap, or Sapolio, or Keen's 

 Mustard have yet invaded the green fields, but I 

 fancy I have seen them here and there (if not every- 

 where) at railway stations, in railway carriages, and 

 all along the line soap and pills, Keen's Mustard, 



