I am now about to add the few complimentary notices which have been taken at different times, of my humble endeavours to mitigate the sum of human suffering-, and relieve the afflictions of my fellow creatures. The only gratification I can have in adding these additional pages, is that which is called forth by the unbiassed testimony afforded of the success of my practice. I hope that I may have been successful in conveying my meaning in plain and unvarnished language; and it will be an additional source of pleasure to me, if the publication Of these pages may be instrumental in alleviating the condition of any one of my fellow-beings, who may be suffering under disease within the reach of my endeavours to relieve.

I have nearly concluded these sheets, which I trust will be received with all due lenity toward the imperfections which I fear they contain. Here I take leave of my readers, my patrons, and my friends, having nothing further to offer beyond the few following scraps and extracts which may not perhaps, prove unworthy of the time devoted to their perusal.

Sake Deen Mahomed.

Brighton, 1st Feb. 1823.

Lines To Mr. Mahomed

Written By Mrs. Kent, Of Wimpole-Street, London.

Worn out by anguish and excess of pain,

Hope seem'd delusive and assistance vain :

Oppress'd by sorrow, languid by disease,

Depriv'd of health, all pleasure ceas'd to please;

The Bath, whose influence o'er the shatter'd frame,

Like the mild soothing of a parent came Bade her now hope, who felt affliction's rod,

And blest with health, now breathes her thanks to God.

To thee, Mahomed, let a grateful heart,

Its warmest thanks in gratitude impart,

By thy great skill and unremitting care,

One has been sav'd that might have perish'd here,

Who, while she feels a pulse within her veins,

Will bless thy name if memory remains.

The following Ode has appeared in The Brighton Gazette, The New Times, and several other publications.

Ode, In Praise Of Steam, Addressed To Mr. Mahomed, Brighton.

Begin, my Muse! the grateful theme, And sing the wond'rous power of Steam:

See how o'er yonder foaming deep The crowded Steam-Boats proudly sweep: Steam's magic power oft crowds the board Of many a high and sumptuous lord; And in the palace too 'tis said Steam doth its potent influence shed. * Bolton! how oft we hear thy name Resounded loud with proud acclaim:

Thy engine's pond'rous thund'ring power O'er Britain still doth plenty shower; While copper, bright from Cornish mines, In current coin resplendent shines, And urged by steam's resistless force, Thro' England takes its wonted course. But stay - my silly Muse, forbear, Steam's brightest glory is not there;

What use are honours, plenty, wealth, Without that best of treasures, health? Tho' rich Golconda's glittering mine With all its sparkling gems were thine, Would it avail to give the joy, If sickness were the sad alloy? Ah no, alas! - then turn thee here, See Mahomed's high dome is near! There, there, behold the power of steam, Of Milton' s pen a worthy theme, What clouds of vapour sweet pervade That circum-ambient flannel shade, Clouds that with health and pleasure glow And with unequalled fragrance flow:

That vapour, like the morning dew, Bids faded roses blush anew;

The sparkling eye and glowing cheek Its salutary power bespeak;

Those agile limbs which freely move O'er hill and dale, and flowery grove, Declare, O Mahomed! the power Of steam in thy enflannell'd bower!

* Mr. Bolton first employed steam-engines in coining.

Bolton! give place - the Indian sage Doth all my Muse's powers engage;

Thou giv'st the uncertain treasure, wealth, But He Heavens richest blessing, Health. October 8,1822. M. W.

The following Ode appeared in The New London Magazine, I believe, in July 1822.

Ode To Mahomed, The Brighton Shampooing Surgeon.

Nunc opus est succis; per quos, renovata senectus In florem redeat, primosque recolligat annos. - Ovid.

O thou dark sage, whose vapour bath Makes muscular as his of Gath,

Limbs erst relax'd and limber:

Whose herbs, like those of Jason's mate, The wither'd leg of seventy-eight

Convert to stout knee timber:

Sprung, doubtless, from Abdallah's son, Thy miracles thy sire's outrun,

Thy cures his deaths outnumber:

His coffin soars 'twixt heav'n and earth, But thou, within that narrow birth,

Immortal, ne'er shalt slumber. Go, bid that turban'd Mussulman Give up his Mosch, his Ramadam,

And choak his well of Zemzem Thy bath, whose magic steam can fling On winter's cheek the rose of Spring,

To Lethe's Gulf condemns 'em.

While thus beneath thy flannel shades, Fat dowagers and wrinkled maids

Re-bloom in adolescence, I marvel not that friends tell friends, And Brighton every day extends

Its circuses and crescents. From either cliff, the East, the West, The startled sea-gull quits her nest,

The spade her haunts unearthing, For speculation plants his hod On every foot of freehold sod

From Rottingdean to Worthing. Wash'd by the Esculapian stream, Dark sage, the fair, "propell'd by steam,"

Renew the joys of kissing In cheeks, or lank or over-ripe, Where time has, in relentless type,

Placarded up "Youth Missing." To woo thee on thy western cliff, What pilgrims strong, in gig, in skiff,

Fly, donkey-cart, and pillion:

While Turkish dome and minaret In compliment to Mahomed,

O'ertop the King's Pavilion. Thy fame let worthless wags invade, Let punsters under-rate thy trade,

For me, I'd perish sooner:

Him who, thy opening scene to damn, Derived shampoo from phoo! and sham!

I dub a base lampooner. Propell'd by steam to shake from squeak, Mara, in Lent, shall twice a week

Again in song be glorious, While Kelly, laughing Time to scorn, Once more shall chaunt "O thou wert born,"

And Incledon "Rude Boreas."

Godwin, avaunt! thy tale thrice told, Of endless youth and countless gold,

Unbought "repostum manet." St. Leon's secret here we view, Without the toil of wading through

Three heavy tomes to gain it. Yet oh, while thus thy waves reveal Past virtues in the dancer's heel,

And brace the singer's weazon:

Tell, sable wizard, tell the cause Why limp poor I, from yonder vase,

Whence others jump like Eson? The cause is plain - though slips of yew With vervain mingle, sage meets rue,

And myrrh with wolfesbane tosses:

Still shrieks, unquell'd, the water-wraith:

That mustard-seed ingredient, faith,

Is wanting to the process. Dip then within thy bubbling wave, Sage Mahomed, the votive stave

Thy poet now rehearses:

The steam, whose virtues Won't befriend The sceptic bard, perhaps may mend

The lameness of his verses!