Jemima Brown is an example of ingratitude.
Her young man took her out and treated her to
cakes and wine, but, notwithstanding all his
kindness, naughty Jemima jilted him. The
Barber's Wife is a faithless woman, who, being
struck with remorse, puts an end to her existence
with the weapon most convenient for the
rhythm and the rhyme, which happens to be a
carving-knife. This is much applauded. But
the prime favourite is Matilda, who, having a
chorus, can be taken up by the whole audience.
When Mr. Joe Barnes stamps his foot and says,
"Now then, all together," stalls, body of the
hall, and balconies, break forth in unison:

Matilda! Matilda!
Fickle, false Matilda!
She's broke my heart and ruined me,
That faithless bonnet build-ah.

She was a very greedy, gormandising, young
woman was Matilda, ate pounds of pork sausages,
drank gin-and- water, and went on in such
an outrageous way, that we quite sympathised
with the young man when he confesses that "he
thought he should have killed-ah."

Paddy Fannagan's song of the Irish wake is
highly characteristic. Paddy Fannagan comes on
in a bob-tailed frieze coat, and a hat without a
brim or a crown—the national costume of Ireland
—and puts his shillelagh on the floor, saying
that it represents the body of the deceased
Patrick O'Whack. Mr. Fannagan then puts a
red handkerchief round his head, and at once
becomes Shelah, weeping and wailing over the
lifeless form of Patrick. He takes off the red
handkerchief, and becomes Murdoch O'Grady,
roundly abusing the prostrate Patrick as a big
blackguard, and after subjecting the corpse to
every indignity, concludes, amid thunders of
applause, by spitting in Patrick's eye. If you
have anything in the characteristic way that
will match this in the neighbourhood of Russell-
square, perhaps you will just say so.

The performances of Mademoiselle Pettitoe,
the charming ballerina and transformation dancer,
are described in the bills as "pleasing," which,
however, is a weak expression. They may be
said to be highly sensational. Mademoiselle
Pettitoe comes on first of all as a Scotch fish-girl,
dances in a manner characteristic of Scotia,
and runs off to return the next minute as an
Irish colleen, with a jig; then a dusky daughter
of Egypt; and, in rapid and breathless succession,
as a female representative of Spain, Italy,
Poland, and other picturesque countries, until
she reduces her costume to that scant condition
which leaves nothing beyond the assumption
of the God of Love. When Mademoiselle
Pettitoe dances violently in this character, with
nothing on to speak of but a bow and arrow,
there is always a feverish expectation mingled
with some apprehension that she will incontinently
appear next, without going off, as the
God of Love's mother.

Have we got anything in Twopenny Town
like the Pantheon, or the Burlington Arcade?
Have we not? Just look at Main-street in the
evening, when the naphtha lamps are lighted.
Why, there is a mile of Pantheon on one side,
and a mile of Burlington Arcade on the other—a
moving panorama of life and merchandise in all
its branches. What d'ye lack? What may
you be pleased to require? Name the article.
Rings, pins, brooches, chains, combs, garters,
embroidered strips for petticoats, onions, oysters,
fried fish, tinted note-paper, umbrellas, all the
popular music of the day, cucumbers, illustrated
works of fiction, boot-laces, roots, artificial
flowers, net caps, crinolines, plates and dishes,
teacups, saucepans, bear's grease, herb pills—
they are all here, and a thousand choice articles
de Londres besides. Why, Main-street is the
Palais Royale al fresco. Look at our baked
potato machine! Is there another like it in
London—in the world? In other quarters it is
a mere can; here it is a vast machine with a
furnace beneath, and no end of drawers above
with bushels of potatoes in every stage of readiness.
And here, I may remark, that I don't
know any place except Twopenny Town where
you can get baked potatoes and fried fish
all the year round. In heat and in cold, in joy
and in sorrow, baked potatoes and fried fish are
constant to us still.

Is it amusement combined with instruction
you require? There is the Bacon Institute in
Fryer-street, alternating lectures on the causes
of pauperism and crime, with recitals from the
dramatic poets, an address to the inhabitants on
the abuses prevalent in the vestry, and an "Olla
Podrida of Fun, Fact, Fancy, and Ventriloquy,
by Mr. Inigo Inwards." N.B. An infant's
school on the ground floor, and the hall let on
Sundays to preachers of any denomination, who
are prepared to pay the exceedingly moderate
rent in advance. Then there is the People's
Forum in Canal-bridge-road, where we have the
rights of man on Monday, the wrongs of the
working classes on Tuesday, demonstrations
against the highway rate on Wednesday, tea
meetings with prayer on Thursday, rifle band on
Friday, and the trial of John Barleycorn on
Saturday; judge, jury, counsel, and witnesses,
all being local converts from habits of the most
frightful intemperance to the principles of total
abstinence, the counsel for the prosecution
affording a most edifying example as one who,
through intemperance, was the death of his aged
grandmother.

If you ask where we, the inhabitants of Twopenny
Town, are in the habit of going on Sunday?
I answer you that we are in the habit of going
to church on Sunday. And we have a choice of
churches in Twopenny Town—a very wide
choice of churches. I don't think there is a
denomination that you could mention, from the
Church of England in all its varieties of high,
low, and broad, down to the Latter-day Saints
and the Shakers, that does not boast a temple
within our district. And we are well supplied
with out-door religious exercises besides. There
is a clergyman of the Church of England who
preaches every Sunday, weather permitting, in
gown and bands, from a Windsor chair in front