A TRANSPORTED AUDIENCE.

Two men carrying a banner

A Banner (with a walnut-tree worked in worsted) borne byMr. George Wilson; with the appropriate peaceful motto:

"The oak gives place to the walnut-tree,For more 'tis beat, the better it be!"

"The oak gives place to the walnut-tree,

For more 'tis beat, the better it be!"

At the public meeting, theLord Provostwill—on the part of the City of Edinburgh—decorate certain members of the Congress with medals, bearing the effigies of a Goose—a Calf—a Bee.Anser, Vitulus, Apis regunt mundum: the Goose, the Calf, the Bee do (should) rule the world—Goose-pen, Calf-parchment, Bees'-wax.

At the banquet geese and sweetbreads and wax-candles will, in a savoury and brilliant manner, further illustrate the uses and beauties ofAnser, Vitulus, Apis.

For ourselves, we say, long flourish the olive-tree! But is now the precise season to plant it in the soil of Scotland?

Courteous invitations have been sent to theEmperors of Russia and Austria, to be present either in their Imperial persons or by ambassador. However, up to the time of our going to press, no answer had been received; and we thought it, perhaps, useless to wait for it.

A new Work has been recently published under the quaint title of "The Book of the Axe." We do not know whether it is an illustrated volume, but the "Book of the Axe" would seem to have missed its aim, unless the "cuts on wood" are numerous.

Transportation, as a penalty for crime, has been abolished by law: but transportation, by way of amusement, is still carried on, andMr. Henry Russell—familiarly known as the original "maniac," he having obtained an injunction against a second-hand "maniac" who had infringed a copyright by seeing them "dancing, dancing, dancing, in the hall"—has been causing some of his audience to be literally transported with delight by presenting them with free passages to America. This is all very well, and very liberal, no doubt, but a passage to America may sometimes prove more free than welcome.

We recollect a recent instance of a quiet old gentleman from the country having strolled into a theatre, where he found a "popular vocalist" pumping away at the "Ship on Fire" with all his lungs, and the old gentleman was about to quit the theatre at the end of the performance when he was suddenly seized, dragged on to the stage, exhibited to public view, and loudly cheered as the happy winner of "a free passage to America." To appear ungrateful for a boon which seemed to be thought so enviable was impossible, and the poor old gentleman was obliged to give his name and address on the spot, to enter into arrangements for meeting the ship at Liverpool, and pledge himself to an emigration which would separate him from a capital business, a devoted wife, and an affectionate family. The feelings of that wife and family may be conceived when they found by the next day's paper—received by the early morning mail two hundred miles from London—that the husband and father had so far forgotten the ties of home and kindred as to have become the subject of "a free passage to America." It is true that, after a frightful nightmare, in which he heard a wild chorus of "Cheer, boys, cheer," interrupted by moans of "Ha! 'tis the night watch!" with occasional shrieks of "I am not mad! I am not mad!" he rose with a determination to relinquish his precious prize, and resigned to some more appreciating hands his "free passage to America."

The Pope, according to his frequent custom, has recently caused prayers to be offered in all Continental Catholic churches, for the conversion of England. This is very good of him, though it may be very unnecessary. ThePopedeclares—sorrowingly—that this England, "once the island of the blessed," has been "for a long while past caught in the errors of heresy"—"has fallen from the true belief,"—and is oppressed by "dark, false teaching, which keeps it from the knowledge of the truth." All of which evils His Holiness prays may be put away from us, that we may all see the true light, which is thePope'seye—all salute the true faith, which is thePope'stoe. We repeat, however, that we object not to the prayers of thePope'sChurch; but we do most vehemently object to the bolts and bars with which such supplications are wont to be associated. For instance, we have no objection that theDuke of Tuscanyshould pray for the conversion ofMiss Cunninghame, but we do object—and might feel disposed to urge such objection from an iron mouth—that theGrand Dukeshould turn the lady from her free home to an Italian dungeon. Let theDukepray as much as he will; but only pray—notprey.

The daily papers tell us that—

"The clouds of small black flies which were observed in many places of the island about a fortnight or three weeks ago, again presented themselves on Wednesday morning in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh."

These black flies have—we understand upon good authority—precededMr. Elihu Burrittfrom Russia: and are, indeed, only another evidence of the magical influence of the harmonious blacksmith. These black flies were—only two months ago—wasps, Russian wasps, encountered byElihuin the environs of St. Petersburg. He was on horseback, when his horse's foot sinking into a wasp's nest, brought a cloud of the destructive insects about the head of the traveller. Every wasp had his sting out when—Mr. Burrittdelivered himself of one of those marvellous orations which it had been his mission to deliver to theCzar'sbondmen. In twenty minutes, the eloquent peacemaker had talked every armed wasp into a harmless small black fly. Thus, can there be any doubt that the peace orators of the North will, in like manner, talk the Russian army out of its bayonets?

TheMorning Heraldsays ofMr. Gladstone'sInverness speeches,

"The nail-blue-cholera-collapsed condition of his speeches!"

Is not this ready wit? Wit at the fingers' ends?

THE MOUSTACHE MOVEMENTTHE MOUSTACHE MOVEMENTAugustus."Are you fond of Moustachers, Emily?"Emily."Yes! I think they look very well upon some people."Augustus."Ah! Then that settles the point. Ishall let mine grow."

Augustus."Are you fond of Moustachers, Emily?"

Emily."Yes! I think they look very well upon some people."

Augustus."Ah! Then that settles the point. Ishall let mine grow."

Last week was held a meeting of certain rabbits in a box in the Zoological Gardens. The meeting, it must be confessed, was not very numerous, but extremely respectable.

Mr. Doublesmuttook the chair, and briefly opened the proceedings. He said that they would improve the happy accident of their meeting into an enduring advantage. He thought that the time had arrived for the whole nation of rabbits to raise themselves in the scale of creation; by cultivating a deeper trust and wider confidence with the animal world about them. He must lament, while he confessed, that he had been brought up in the fear and horror of foxes, weasels, stoats, polecats, sparrow-hawks, and so forth. But, for his part, he believed that the time was come when the whole rabbit people might live in love and amity and perfect trust with all around them. It was mean; it was a moral cowardice to distrust either fox or weasel: they, poor things! like illiterate rabbits, had been the victims of ignorance and prejudice; but in these days, everybody might embrace everybody. Yes, he felt his heart expand towards all created things, and—

—And the rest of the speech was cut short; for the boa-constrictor—in whose house the rabbits had met, and over whose coils they had hopped and run—the boa, in the twinkling of an eye, hadMr. Doublesmutin his jaws; and in two minutes deposited body and bones in his throat.

The promotion of talent is always gratifying, even when that talent is employed on the side of opponents.Mr. Lucasdeserves a reward, which we should like to see him get, for having lately distinguished himself. Among the Hibernian intelligence, the other day, it was reported that, at a tenant-right meeting, aDr. M'Knighthaving accused him of an act of treachery to the cause, the honourable gentleman declared the doctor's statement to be an "unmitigated lie."Mr. Lucashas often distinguished himself by the use of similar expressions; and what is remarkable, he has not distinguished himself by anything else, except by a veneration of thePopeand a hatred of his Protestant fellow subjects—if his hatred for Protestantism stops there. But it is precisely the limited nature of the ability which he has displayed which entitles him to preferment: and we are sure we speak the sentiments of all moderate politicians when we say thatDr. Newman's"Catholic" University cannot do less than appoint the Hon. Member Professor of the Vulgar Tongue.

We would also commendMr. Lucas'smerits to the attention ofHer Majesty'sadvisers. We might as well have diplomatic relations with Rome, as with any other of the absurd and semi-barbarous Governments to which we send an envoy. Let those relations then, be established, and our vituperative ex-friend despatched as ambassador to thePope. The only fear is that the salary which, of course, would be attached to the appointment would stop his mouth, or, at least, deprive his eloquence of that only quality which renders it remarkable—that peculiar strength of language without which it would be wholly unadorned. That this would not much signify one way or the other is not quite true. It is of some consequence to the community at large to be presented, from time to time, with an example of the effects of popish bigotry on the human feelings and intellect, as afforded by the unrestrained rhetoric ofMr. Lucas.

One voice from sea to sea,One thought from shore to shore,—"Peace if without disgrace still peace may be,War, if we must have war!"Curs'd be the hand that draweth brand,While swords with honour can be spared:May the hand rot, which draweth not,When honour bids the sword be bared.Peace now for thirty yearsWith Plenty, hand in hand,One olive-crowned, one crowned with harvest ears,Have sat within our land,Twin-sisters dear! To keep them here,What price would England grudge to pay?One price alone! Were Honour gone,How long would Peace and Plenty stay?Bring out Old England's flag,Storm-rent from Waterloo!Fling forth to the four winds the glorious rag,And bear it England through.Through vale, o'er hill, by forge and mill,Past upland village, coastward town,Up Scottish strath, o'er Irishrath,Across Welsh hill and English down.Salute it, young and old,With God-speed on its way!As it ne'er waved but o'er the free and boldPray Heaven it never may.Still let its course to Fraud and ForceStrike terror from the air;Still let its sight to down-trod rightBring hope upon despair.

One voice from sea to sea,

One thought from shore to shore,—

"Peace if without disgrace still peace may be,

War, if we must have war!"

Curs'd be the hand that draweth brand,

While swords with honour can be spared:

May the hand rot, which draweth not,

When honour bids the sword be bared.

Peace now for thirty yearsWith Plenty, hand in hand,One olive-crowned, one crowned with harvest ears,Have sat within our land,Twin-sisters dear! To keep them here,What price would England grudge to pay?One price alone! Were Honour gone,How long would Peace and Plenty stay?

Peace now for thirty years

With Plenty, hand in hand,

One olive-crowned, one crowned with harvest ears,

Have sat within our land,

Twin-sisters dear! To keep them here,

What price would England grudge to pay?

One price alone! Were Honour gone,

How long would Peace and Plenty stay?

Bring out Old England's flag,Storm-rent from Waterloo!Fling forth to the four winds the glorious rag,And bear it England through.Through vale, o'er hill, by forge and mill,Past upland village, coastward town,Up Scottish strath, o'er Irishrath,Across Welsh hill and English down.

Bring out Old England's flag,

Storm-rent from Waterloo!

Fling forth to the four winds the glorious rag,

And bear it England through.

Through vale, o'er hill, by forge and mill,

Past upland village, coastward town,

Up Scottish strath, o'er Irishrath,

Across Welsh hill and English down.

Salute it, young and old,With God-speed on its way!As it ne'er waved but o'er the free and boldPray Heaven it never may.Still let its course to Fraud and ForceStrike terror from the air;Still let its sight to down-trod rightBring hope upon despair.

Salute it, young and old,

With God-speed on its way!

As it ne'er waved but o'er the free and bold

Pray Heaven it never may.

Still let its course to Fraud and Force

Strike terror from the air;

Still let its sight to down-trod right

Bring hope upon despair.

If any one asks us how we are off for soap it is pleasant to be able to answer the question in the most satisfactory manner. We happen to be extremely well off for soap, in consequence of the kindness of some eccentric individuals who are always sending us by post certain penn'orths of specimens of saponaceous matter, with which they invite us to shave ourselves. We have lately received in a letter a bit of something which we are told will cover our face with "a lather like thick white paint, over which the razor will glide;" but as we don't want a razor to glideoverour beard, we hesitate to try the experiment. The gratuitous soap is accompanied by the prospectus of a perfume, which "never becomes faint," and a preparation for the hair, which makes it "soft and glossy for ever." We are quite sure that the individual who sent the announcement to us can have no notion of the disorderly haycock which does duty on the top of our poll for a head of hair, or he would never undertake to render it "permanently," or even for one moment "soft and glossy."

cartoonTHE TWO DROMIOS.

BullyBottomis, in truth, "translated" byMr. Phelps. Translated from matter-of-fact into poetic humour—translated from the commonplace tradition of the playhouse to a thing subtly grotesque—rarely, and heroically whimsical. A bullyBottomof the old, allowed sort, makes up his face—even as the rustic wag of a horse-collar—to goggle and grin; and is as like to the sweet bully ofPhelps—bears the same relation in art to theBottomof Sadler's Wells—as the sign-post portrait on the village green to a head, vital by a few marvellous dots and touches ofRichard Doyle. In these days we know of no such translation! Translate a starveling Welsh curate into a Bishop of London, andPhelps'stranslation ofBottomthe weaver shall still remain a work of finer art, and—certainly to all humanising intents of man-solacing humour—of far richer value. We have had, plentiful as French eggs, translations of facile, delicate French into clumsy, hobbling British; and now, as some amends, we haveBottomtranslated byPhelpsfrom dull tradition into purest airiestShakspere.Mr. Phelpshas not painted, dabbed, we should say, the sweet bully with the old player's old hare's-foot; but has taken the finest pencil, and, with a clean, sharp, fantastic touch, has renderedBottoma living weaver—a weaver whose brain is marvellously woven, knitted up, with self-opinion.

Now this, we take to be the true, breathing notion ofShakspere, and this notion has entered the belief of the actor, and become a living thing.Bottomis of conceit all-compact. Conceit flows in his veins—is ever swelling, more or less, in his heart; covers him from scalp to toes, like his skin. And it is this beautiful, this most profitable quality—this human coin, self-opinion, which, however cracked, and thin, and base, may be put off as the real thing by the unfailing heroism of the utterer—it is this conceit that savesBottomfrom a world of wonderment when he finds himself the leman dear, clipp'd by the Queen of Faery.Bottomtakes the love—the doting ofTitania—as he would take the commanded honey-bag of the red-lipped humble-bee—as something sweet and pleasant, but nought to rave about. He is fortified by his conceit against any surprise of the most bountiful fortune: self-opinion turns fairy treasures into rightful wages. And are there not suchBottoms—not writ upon the paper Athens of the poet; not swaggering in a wood watered of ink-drops—but such sweet bullies in brick and mortar London—Bottomsof Fortune, that for sport's sake playsPuck? The ingenuousBottomof the play has this distinction from theBottomsof the real, human world—he, for the time, wears his ass's head with a difference; that is, he shows the honest length of his ears, and does not, and cannot abate the show of a single hair. His head is outwardly all ass: there is with him no reservation soever.

Mr. Phelpshas the fullest and the deepest sense of the asinine qualities ofBottomfrom the beginning. ForBottomwants not the ass's head to mark him ass: the ass is inBottom'sblood and brain;Puckmerely fixes the outward, vulgar type significant of the inward creature. WhenBottomin the first scene desires to beWall, andMoonshine, andLion, his conceit brays aloud, but brays with undeveloped ears. But herein is the genius of our actor. The traditional bullyBottomis a dull, stupid, mouthing ass, with no force save in his dullness.Bottom, as played byMr. Phelps, is an ass with a vehemence, a will, a vigour in his conceit, but still an ass. An ass that fantastically kicks his heels to the right and left, but still ass. An ass that has the most prolonged variations of his utterance—nevertheless, it is braying, and nothing better. And there is great variety in braying. We never heard two asses bray alike. Listen—it may be the season of blossoming hawthorns—and asses salute asses. In very different tones, with very different cadence, will every ass make known the yearning, the aspiration that is within him. We speak not frivolously, ignorantly, on this theme; for in our time we have heard very many asses. And so return we to theBottomof merry Islington—to the Golden Ass of Sadler's Wells.

That ass has opened the playhouse season of 1853-4 very musically—would we could think hopefully, and with prophetic promise. At present, however,Bottomis the master-spirit: and, in these days of dramaticpardonnez-mois, it is a little comforting—not that we are given to the sanguine mood in things theatrical—to know that folks are found ready to make jocund pilgrimage to Sadler's Wells, where a man with a real vital love for his art has now for many seasons made his theatre a school; and more, has never wanted attentive, reverent, grateful scholars. In this,Mr. Phelpshas been a national school-master; and—far away from the sustaining, fructifying beams of the Court—for hitherto ourElizabethhas not visited ourBurridge—has popularly taught the lessons left to England byShakspere—legacies everlasting as her cliffs.

As yet,Her Majestyhas not journied to the Wells. But who knows, how soon that "great fairy" may travel thither, to do grace to bullyBottom! If so, letMr. Phelps—if he can—still heighten his manner on his awakening from that dream. Let him—if he can—more subtly mingle wonderment with struggling reason, reason wrestling with wonder to get the better of the mystery!

"I have had a dream—past the wit of man to say what dream it truly was!—Man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what! Methought I was, and methought I had.—The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was."

We do not think it in the wit or power ofMr. Phelps—under any newer inspiration, to give a deeper, finer meaning to this than he has done. But, ifHer Majestycommand the play, as a loyal subject, he will doubtless make the essay. In these words,Bottom—as rendered by the actor—is taken away from the ludicrous; he is elevated by the mystery that possesses him, and he affects our more serious sympathies, whilst he forbids our laughter. One of the very, very few precious things of the stage—of this starved time—is an Ass's head, as worn by the manager of merrie Islington.

We hope, at least, theQueenwill command that head to be brought—with due solemnity—to Windsor Castle. LetBottombe made to roar again beforeHer Majesty, thePrince, the heir-apparent, and all the smaller childhood royalties. LetBottombe confronted with the picked of the Cabinet—the elect of Privy Councillors. And—as we have Orders of Eagles and Elephants, why not the ingenuous out-speaking significance, the Order of the Ass? As a timid beginning, we have the Thistle—wherefore not the Ass himself?

In which case, the Order established, theBottomof Sadler's Wells ought rightfully to be the Chancellor thereof.

Romeowould never have asked "What's in a name?" if he had but lived to take a tour in England, and become acquainted with the nomenclature of some of our inns. To us there is hardly a sign in the kingdom which is not thoroughly sign-ificant: and any traveller, we should think, who has his mental eyes about him, may see at a glance outside the way in which he will be taken in. Who, for instance, would expect to enter the jaws, or doors, of aLionwithout being bitten, or to get away from anEaglewithout considerable bleeding? A little matured, theLambbecomes decidedly indicative of fleecing; while everyBear, we know, is naturally prone to squeeze as many as he can lay his paws on. Roguery in theFoxis what everybody looks for, and plucking and roasting are, of course, inseparable from aGoose and Gridiron. Nor is theBlue Boaran exception to the rule, for it most aptly symbolises your complexion when you leave it: and no one, we should think, would enter aGreen Man, when reminded on the threshold of his verdancy in doing so.

Of all our signs, however, perhaps there is none more suggestive than theMagpie and Stump, which any one may see is merely a contraction for the far more significantMagpie and Stump Up.

"Shall we never bury the hatchet?" asksMr. Cobden. AndPunchasks, "How can the hatchet be buried, when the peacemakers themselves so often throw it?"

SSOME attention having been lately called to the increasing magnificence of Paris, it is due to the national taste of this country to point out the improvements that have been lately effected and are now in progress in the British Metropolis.

SOME attention having been lately called to the increasing magnificence of Paris, it is due to the national taste of this country to point out the improvements that have been lately effected and are now in progress in the British Metropolis.

To begin with Buckingham Palace; and indeed we may well say to "begin" with it, for we can scarcely hope to see it finished. Standing in front of the Palace, we look upon the enclosure of the Park, and we feel a national pride in stating that there has been an extensive addition to the valuable collection of aquatic birds which absorb so much of the attention—and the bread-crumbs—of the bystanders. Every one is familiar with the fountain opposite the Palace, and the familiarity of the public had been accompanied by a contempt which was perfectly natural. This fountain, formerly consisting of a stone ginger-beer bottle, standing in a round pie dish, has been removed, the operation having served the double purpose of improving a work of Art, and giving employment to one plumber, a bricklayer, and a bricklayer's labourer for nearly a fortnight. This stroke of policy combined the advancement of national taste with a propitiation of the working-class, or, at least, of those members of it—three in all—who were engaged in the transmogrification of the ginger-beer bottle in a pie dish complete to the present substitute, which, though highly effective, is exceedingly simple, and is, in fact, nothing but a plug-hole.

Turning our back upon this subterranean squirt, which we are happy to do, we walk up to the gates of the Palace, where taste and industry are at work in the form of a stone-mason, who is occupied in chipping the resemblance of a bunch ofPrince of Wales'sfeathers on the stone-work to which the gates are appended. When this magnificent idea is realised on all the gate-posts, the spectator, looking from the north, will have no less than six feathers in his eye—a result that might be looked for in vain in any other capital of Europe. Turning our gaze upwards to the Palace, we are struck by the dazzling effect of several thousand pails of whitewash which have been lavished on the front of the royal residence, while, for the sake of contrast, the sides and back of the building have been left in all their pristine dirtiness.

We will now proceed to the City, by Pall Mall; and, on our way, we will stop at the Ordnance Office where, as it is a public building, we will see what public taste and public money have effected. The architect has, with a boldness amounting to audacity, piled an extra attic on to each of the two wings, thus producing a wondrous novelty of effect by making the sides of the building considerably higher than the centre. Criticism might, perhaps, complain of a rather too free use of the cowl—and, indeed, of a rather startling variety of cowls—in the treatment of the chimney-pots. Passing eastwards, and shutting our eyes—for obvious reasons—as we traverse Trafalgar Square, we turn round when we reach the Strand, and catch a glimpse of the pigtail ofGeorge the Thirdforming a sort of parallax to the Electric Clock, which is the star of the neighbourhood. The first remarkable work of Art that greets us on our way is the wooden figure of a Mandarin, which nods to us from the window of a tea-dealer's; and this curious specimen of sculpture in wood is faced by a remarkable piece of carving in the form of a joint of cold meat in the cook's shop opposite. Finding ourselves eventually in the City, we pass the end of Farringdon Street, pausing for a moment at the Waithman Monument, and thinking that the artist who gave his head to this block ought to have his head given to another.

But we now approach the more ambitious improvements that have been effected in the City at an enormous cost, and we are struck with astonishment at the bold effort that has been made by the architect of the Manchester Warehouse on the right to destroy the effect of St. Paul's, by raising up an ordinary brick structure to a considerable height above the roof of the Cathedral, and thus suggesting the recollection of the frog and the ox in the fable. The architect of the Manchester Warehouse, who is some unknown "bird," has endeavoured to swell himself out to the dimensions of aWren, and the result is, that though he may have damaged the effect of St. Paul's, he has made his own paltry pile ridiculous by its juxtaposition to the great metropolitan monument.

From the sketch we have given it will be seen that we cannot be charged with doing nothing in the way of alteration to the Metropolis, but, on the contrary, we are doing much that will give a lesson to Art by teaching what to avoid, or, at all events, what would be better avoided.

Ephraim Smugwas a trader snug,A Quaker in faith and feeling,Little given to heed distinctions of creedIn matters of worldly dealing,And as sharp a blade in driving a tradeAs lives between Bow and Ealing.He'd a horror of war, but he'd sell theCzarSteel or powder for Turk or Tartar;The slave trade did hate, but would send a freightOf handcuffs for African barter;And though pious himself, would have furnished for pelfThe faggots to roast a martyr.His stock in hand to suit each land,Was various in assortment;In gains and grace he throve apace,Till quite dignified grew his deportment;And he kept a strong box, with three patent locks,And he knew what "taking it short" meant.Till there came bad times, and long columns of crimesFilled the files of the morning papers,How cribs had been cracked, and tills ransacked,And all sorts of burglarious capers,Set forth without stint by all arts of printTo attract thegobemouchesand gapers.ButSmugonly jeered, as these stories appeared,At the nervousness of each neighbour;Said it would be absurd, were cost incurredIn blunderbuss, pistol, and sabre;And when the Police 'twas resolved to increase,He declaimed about waste of labour.But the Vestry still, to guard shop and till,Voted rates, spite of all objectors:Laid in bars and bolts, and revolvers fromColt's,And a pack of canine protectors;WhileEphraim Smugcalled their fears humbug,And snubbed the Police Inspectors!He railed at the cost; counted up what was lostIn alarum, and dog, and detective;At the Vestry he got excessively hot,And descended to invective,—Calling stories of plunder, mere editor's thunderTo make newspaper sales more active.Quoth he: "Why spend our gains, in spring shutters and chains,Instead of in lawful traffic?"Then of danger to peace, from dogs and police,He gave a picture graphic;And on brotherly trust came out with a "bust"Of eloquence quite seraphic."And after all's done, has anything gone?"(Thus ran his peroration),"Where's the highwayman grabbed, or the burglar nabbed,For all your big police-station?Show a dog if you can that has pinned his man!I pause—for a demonstration."Some this eloquence scorned, and wouldn't be warned—But some began to change feature;—"The Policeman we pay three shillings a day,And a dog is a hungry creature."—When thus began a plain-spoken man—Not the least of a popular preacher:"Now, it seems to my mind—though no doubt I'm blindNot to follow friendEphraim'sreason—That we've not thrown away our policeman's pay,If our pillows we take our ease on,Without any dread of a chap 'neath the bed,With a knife to slit one's weason."If our bars and our bolts, and revolvers fromColt'sHave been wasted because not wanted,Had we been without guard—neither bolted nor barred—Though we'd spent less (for that is granted),Shouldn't we have looked glum if a burglar had come,And with our goods levanted?"I appeal to the room, why mayn't we assumeThat the very precautions we've takenAgainstEphraim'sadvice, may have been the priceAt which we have saved our bacon?""Hear, hear!" cried the crowd. Police were allowed;And the faith inEphraimwas shaken.

Ephraim Smugwas a trader snug,

A Quaker in faith and feeling,

Little given to heed distinctions of creed

In matters of worldly dealing,

And as sharp a blade in driving a trade

As lives between Bow and Ealing.

He'd a horror of war, but he'd sell theCzarSteel or powder for Turk or Tartar;The slave trade did hate, but would send a freightOf handcuffs for African barter;And though pious himself, would have furnished for pelfThe faggots to roast a martyr.

He'd a horror of war, but he'd sell theCzar

Steel or powder for Turk or Tartar;

The slave trade did hate, but would send a freight

Of handcuffs for African barter;

And though pious himself, would have furnished for pelf

The faggots to roast a martyr.

His stock in hand to suit each land,Was various in assortment;In gains and grace he throve apace,Till quite dignified grew his deportment;And he kept a strong box, with three patent locks,And he knew what "taking it short" meant.

His stock in hand to suit each land,

Was various in assortment;

In gains and grace he throve apace,

Till quite dignified grew his deportment;

And he kept a strong box, with three patent locks,

And he knew what "taking it short" meant.

Till there came bad times, and long columns of crimesFilled the files of the morning papers,How cribs had been cracked, and tills ransacked,And all sorts of burglarious capers,Set forth without stint by all arts of printTo attract thegobemouchesand gapers.

Till there came bad times, and long columns of crimes

Filled the files of the morning papers,

How cribs had been cracked, and tills ransacked,

And all sorts of burglarious capers,

Set forth without stint by all arts of print

To attract thegobemouchesand gapers.

ButSmugonly jeered, as these stories appeared,At the nervousness of each neighbour;Said it would be absurd, were cost incurredIn blunderbuss, pistol, and sabre;And when the Police 'twas resolved to increase,He declaimed about waste of labour.

ButSmugonly jeered, as these stories appeared,

At the nervousness of each neighbour;

Said it would be absurd, were cost incurred

In blunderbuss, pistol, and sabre;

And when the Police 'twas resolved to increase,

He declaimed about waste of labour.

But the Vestry still, to guard shop and till,Voted rates, spite of all objectors:Laid in bars and bolts, and revolvers fromColt's,And a pack of canine protectors;WhileEphraim Smugcalled their fears humbug,And snubbed the Police Inspectors!

But the Vestry still, to guard shop and till,

Voted rates, spite of all objectors:

Laid in bars and bolts, and revolvers fromColt's,

And a pack of canine protectors;

WhileEphraim Smugcalled their fears humbug,

And snubbed the Police Inspectors!

He railed at the cost; counted up what was lostIn alarum, and dog, and detective;At the Vestry he got excessively hot,And descended to invective,—Calling stories of plunder, mere editor's thunderTo make newspaper sales more active.

He railed at the cost; counted up what was lost

In alarum, and dog, and detective;

At the Vestry he got excessively hot,

And descended to invective,—

Calling stories of plunder, mere editor's thunder

To make newspaper sales more active.

Quoth he: "Why spend our gains, in spring shutters and chains,Instead of in lawful traffic?"Then of danger to peace, from dogs and police,He gave a picture graphic;And on brotherly trust came out with a "bust"Of eloquence quite seraphic.

Quoth he: "Why spend our gains, in spring shutters and chains,

Instead of in lawful traffic?"

Then of danger to peace, from dogs and police,

He gave a picture graphic;

And on brotherly trust came out with a "bust"

Of eloquence quite seraphic.

"And after all's done, has anything gone?"(Thus ran his peroration),"Where's the highwayman grabbed, or the burglar nabbed,For all your big police-station?Show a dog if you can that has pinned his man!I pause—for a demonstration."

"And after all's done, has anything gone?"

(Thus ran his peroration),

"Where's the highwayman grabbed, or the burglar nabbed,

For all your big police-station?

Show a dog if you can that has pinned his man!

I pause—for a demonstration."

Some this eloquence scorned, and wouldn't be warned—But some began to change feature;—"The Policeman we pay three shillings a day,And a dog is a hungry creature."—When thus began a plain-spoken man—Not the least of a popular preacher:

Some this eloquence scorned, and wouldn't be warned—

But some began to change feature;—

"The Policeman we pay three shillings a day,

And a dog is a hungry creature."—

When thus began a plain-spoken man—

Not the least of a popular preacher:

"Now, it seems to my mind—though no doubt I'm blindNot to follow friendEphraim'sreason—That we've not thrown away our policeman's pay,If our pillows we take our ease on,Without any dread of a chap 'neath the bed,With a knife to slit one's weason.

"Now, it seems to my mind—though no doubt I'm blind

Not to follow friendEphraim'sreason—

That we've not thrown away our policeman's pay,

If our pillows we take our ease on,

Without any dread of a chap 'neath the bed,

With a knife to slit one's weason.

"If our bars and our bolts, and revolvers fromColt'sHave been wasted because not wanted,Had we been without guard—neither bolted nor barred—Though we'd spent less (for that is granted),Shouldn't we have looked glum if a burglar had come,And with our goods levanted?

"If our bars and our bolts, and revolvers fromColt's

Have been wasted because not wanted,

Had we been without guard—neither bolted nor barred—

Though we'd spent less (for that is granted),

Shouldn't we have looked glum if a burglar had come,

And with our goods levanted?

"I appeal to the room, why mayn't we assumeThat the very precautions we've takenAgainstEphraim'sadvice, may have been the priceAt which we have saved our bacon?""Hear, hear!" cried the crowd. Police were allowed;And the faith inEphraimwas shaken.

"I appeal to the room, why mayn't we assume

That the very precautions we've taken

AgainstEphraim'sadvice, may have been the price

At which we have saved our bacon?"

"Hear, hear!" cried the crowd. Police were allowed;

And the faith inEphraimwas shaken.

Frenchmen are accustomed to boast, and with reason, that Paris is the best stranger's city in the world. If you were dropped from the skies into the Place de la Bourse with nothing, as people say, but what you stand upright in, in five minutes you might have the advantages of a complete establishment. Under that archway you find a Brougham, which is at your service for two francs an hour, and a trifle to the man. The turn-out is not of course dazzling, and the coachman drives with a rein in each hand and his whip over his shoulder; but equipages in general are not very stylish here, and the whole thing is decent, clean, and comfortable. Your Tourist would not undervalue the London Hansom; it is an incomparable carriage of its kind, and has become a necessity for young men of fashion like himself. Bowling down Piccadilly to St. James's Street at fifteen miles an hour under the whip of one of the tremendously swell cabmen who ply in those parts, is a perfectly unique pleasure. But you can't take your wife or your sister with you in such a rampant vehicle; and if you have no carriage of your own, you will feel the advantage of having a decentcoupéwithin call at cab fare.

Then, without the trouble of carrying a wonderful lamp about with you—which would be excessively inconvenient, not to say ungentlemanlike, to our notions—you can instantaneously command the services of a slave at the moderate price of a franc per errand. In London, unless a man has an establishment of servants, or is staying at an hotel, he must go his errands himself, or trust the questionable fidelity of a crossing sweeper.

Having hired your carriage and servants, you can at once find a lodging of any degree of pretension (ornamented with five-and-forty clocks, if you like, and as many looking glasses), where you take up your abode without being bored for references. Here you can live as in chambers in the Temple, only very much more comfortably, with domestics always at hand yet never intruding, and free from that intolerable surveillance that a London lodging-house keeper thinks it her duty to keep on her patrons. As long as you pay your rent you may keep your own hours and select your own company. (Mrs. P—rk—nsI fear never reads your paper, Sir, or she could not fail to be of a sweeter temper than she is; but, on the chance of her seeing this number, allow me to tell her that she is like a toad, both ugly and also venomous, likewise a dragon, and in other respects objectionable, while the curtains of her first-floor are a standing miracle, containing as they do, in successive strata, vermin that flourished in the beginning of the present century. Moreover, I did not purchase that case of curious old Champagne brandy with any view to encourage her in intemperance, which is disgusting in all, and especially in females.)

As you walk in the streets far from home you can satisfy any want, however minute or unexpected, down to having your clothes brushed, your boots cleaned (by the way, Parisian boot-cleaning is an utter and total failure), or even having your nails cut. This last does not strike an Englishman as much of a luxury; but we must remember that here a paternal government has, in its tender care for home cutlery, decreed that no Frenchman shall be able to purchase a decent knife, razor, or pair of scissors, under about twice its value.

Your Correspondent, whose meditative mind leads him to trace causes in their effects, attributes to this policy the length of beard and fingernails which distinguishes, if it does not adorn, all ranks here (he flatters himself that the connexion between cutlery and cleanliness has not been remarked upon before). You can also have your corns chopped about, if you have any fancy for permanent lameness, at a very moderate figure. In short, every operation of the toilet may be gone through by means of a short series of visits without opening your dressing-case.

You have the gayest promenades in the world, and if it rains, abundance of cover with rather more opportunity of amusing yourself than there is in the Burlington Arcade, for there is always a bustle, and everything you see is pretty, except the women. A few sous for a cup of coffee or a glass of liqueur entitle you to spend your whole afternoon in acafé, ventilated and lighted to perfection, where you may read all the journals, and amuse your leisure with the manly game of dominoes. Compare this with the dingy, dirty, beer and tobacco-scented coffee-rooms of London, where they think you a "sweep" (that is the expression I believe) if you don't make yourself nearly drunk on their poisonous fluids, and where the inside sheet of theTimesis always "in hand." It is a constant wonder to me what unfortunate foreigners do to fill up their afternoons in our smoky Babylon.

You dine as you like, economically or splendidly, without the terrors of indigestion before you; and after a cup of coffee (almost an unattainable luxury in London), you have your choice of Grand or Comic Opera, Classical Drama, or Vaudeville, the only objection to which is, that after once seeing careful and refined acting, you will rather lose your taste for the "genuine effects" of the British stage, and may possibly, on your return home, set down the favourite performers as awkward sticks or impudent buffoons. As you go to bed, without the fever that arises from a heavy dinner with beer, Port, and Sherry, you may reflect that you have not been bored for a single instant of the day, and contrast with your own case the unutterable misery of the stranger without friends or a club, who is condemned to pass his time in London.

Charles Martingale, Esq., having read the above, says it's all humbug. He lodges in Piccadilly (very cheap, only £120 a year, including a servant's room,) goes to the Bag for breakfast, where he meets his friends; reads theMorning Post, has a game at Pyramid pool, some Sherry and Seltzer water, and goes back to dress for the Park, where he sees his friends again. Then there is sure to be a dinner party, and a ball or two afterwards, which he tops off with Vauxhall, and perhaps a look in at the Haymarket as he goes home. Or else he does the domestic, and takes a friend in a Brougham to Richmond or Greenwich for dinner. What more can a fellow want to amuse himself? Let him go to Races, or the Horticultural, or the Opera, or the Play, if he likes; and one thing he wants to say is, thathethinksCurliwigno end of fun in a farce; and, as to buffoonery, fellows may just as easily do that on paper.

Martingale, what do you mean, Sir? Well, it's very unfair to run down native talent. And—one other thing—he'd a doosid dead sooner have a tankard of club beer than the miserable thin stuff they call Claret here. So he wishes this put in, though he doesn't know about literature and all that, just to show the public that it's not everybody that is so easily taken in by foreigners as a fellow he won't mention.

AAT the City Court of Sewers—according to theTimes—certain gentlemen carrying on a nasty business in St. Mary Axe,

AT the City Court of Sewers—according to theTimes—certain gentlemen carrying on a nasty business in St. Mary Axe,

"Were summoned upon the certificate of the Medical Officer of Health, stating that there is upon these premises a large store of hides and horns of cattle in an offensive state, and the same is likely to be prejudicial to the health of persons whose habitations are in the neighbourhood of the same."

The cattle were dead—but the hides and horns were alive. We shall be excused further details. But

"One of the defendants said, he had been on the spot many years in constant attendance on the business, and he had not, during the whole period, a moment's illness. He believed that, so far from being prejudicial, the ammonia, which had been represented as so offensive, had operated as a preventive of the cholera in the vicinity of the place in which the hides were deposited."

According to this gentleman, if putrefaction generates the bane, it also develops the antidote; but, unfortunately, when both are taken together it usually happens that the former is a great deal too strong for the latter. We must note one more exquisite morsel of physiology.

"ACommissionersaid, he really believed that it was the wish of some people to make a private parlour of the City of London. (Laughter and cries of 'Oh!'). He had lived many years, and his father before him, in the midst of the matters complained of, and a healthier family never existed than that which they had successively brought up in the City. He wished that the gentlemen who were so nice were obliged to go without meat for 12 months."

The family to which this individual belongs must be a curious one. A naturalist would like to see it. What class of creatures can it be that lives and thrives "in the midst of the matters complained of?" Have they got any legs?—if so, how many, or is the structure of their bodies annular? Do they change into anything, lie torpid, and then change again into something else, with wings? In that case do they fly away, and where do they go to? In any case, where do they expect to go to?

Excessive Extravagance.—The ladies' bonnets are all "running to waist."

A CAPITAL IDEA FOR THE "EUGENIESA CAPITAL IDEA FOR THE "EUGENIES."Frederick."Good Gracious, Angelica, you don't mean to go out with your hair in that style?"Angelica."Indeed, Sir, I do. It's extremely Classical, and taken from the 'Ionic.'"

Frederick."Good Gracious, Angelica, you don't mean to go out with your hair in that style?"

Angelica."Indeed, Sir, I do. It's extremely Classical, and taken from the 'Ionic.'"

Nobody expects to hear of a Literary Millionaire in England, unless it be the author of a Million of Facts, or a Million Nuts to Crack for Christmas. In France, however, authors are more fortunate, forScribe, the celebrated dramatist, has just purchased an estate, for which he has given upwards of ten thousand pounds sterling. Fancy an English dramatist purchasing, or even succeeding to any estate whatever, except, perhaps, man's estate, though even this he scarcely ever seems to reach, for he seldom appears to arrive at years of discretion.

We wonder that poorScribecan feel secure in the enjoyment of his purchase, without being under the apprehension that some English translator or adapter will attempt to translate the property and adapt it to his own use in some way or other. The French author has been accustomed to have all his plots mercilessly seized, and why should not his ground plots be subjected to the same piratical process?Scribeis the author of his own fortune, and we shall not be astonished to find some of our British dramatists—from mere habit—attempting to appropriate the proceeds of his authorship, by claiming a portion of the fortune he has realised. If some of our playwrights should ever purchase estates, we may be sure they would be "copy"-hold, inasmuch as nothing original—not even an original lease—could be expected at their hands.

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