the New-cut, Lambeth, was susceptible of very
great improvement; but that the agency in
question was very inadequate to the purpose.
That Mr. Whelks's tastes took their tone and
colour from what they fed on, and that the tone
was extremely harsh, the colour exceedingly
dingy.

Sixteen eventful years have passed since those
articles were written, and it is reasonable to
suppose that, in the course of so long a time,
the world, carrying Joe Whelks round with it
in all its revolutions, moral as well as physical,
has grown wiser and better. Has Joe, as
regards his theatrical tastes, shared in the
improvement?

In the course of those sixteen years we have
twice reviewed the progress of art and industry
in great Exhibitions, and taken stock of our
advance in those departments. Let us now,
in these pages, hold, as it were, a second
exhibition of the amusements of the people, and
particularly of those which are designed for the
entertainment of Mr. Joe Whelks.

Undoubtedly, a great improvement has taken
place in Mr. Whelks's material condition. He
is better fed, better clothed, than he was sixteen
years ago. The great swarming-out of his
tribe on Whit-Monday was quite a magnificent
testimony to his increased prosperity in this
respect. The oldest inhabitant and other observant
authorities were, at the close of that bright
but windy holiday, unanimous in declaring that
never, on any previous Whit-Monday within
their memory, had so many people been seen
streaming along the highways of the town
towards the green fields; never had been
witnessed so many glossy new suits of clothes, so
many gay dresses, so many good pairs of boots
and shoes, so much cheerfulness and apparent
prosperity.

But the fact which was most patent on this
great summer holiday, and which forced itself
upon the attention of the observer at every
turn, was the inadequacy of every means and
convenience for the entertainment of so vast a
multitude of people. The great highways leading
to the green fields were thronged with
pedestrians all day long. The people walked from
necessity, not from choice. The demand for
omnibus accommodation was greatly in excess
of the supply. Every suburban pleasure-
ground was crowded to excess. Hampstead
Heath was a mass of human beings. For
every "three sticks a penny " there were a
dozen candidates, eager and anxious to have a
shy; for every donkey, broken-kneed horse,
and goat-cart, there were as many riders
waiting as would have broken the back of
an elephant. Every skittle-ground was in a
state of siege, every bowling-green was a field
of action, the contest being for the possession
of the bowls and the game. In swarming out
of the town, the holiday-makers passed over the
cake and ginger-beer shops like a cloud of
locusts, devouring every scrap of food, and
consuming every drain of drink that came in their
way. Even the usually boundless resources
of public-houses succumbed to the insatiable
demand, and, long before the day was spent,
overtaxed beer-engines responded with a
gurgling in the throat, the death-rattle of exhausted
butts.

This great flood of population returning to
the town with increased throb and motion,
derived from active circulation in the open air,
found no proper scope for its quickened pulse.
The consequence was, that the town had a fit of
apoplexy. Every place of entertainment was
crammed to suffocation within a few minutes of
the opening of the doors. In all the theatres
and music-halls of London there was not
accommodation for one-third of the people who
were seeking amusement on the evening of that
holiday. The disappointed thousands had but
one last resource, the public-houses. The gaiety
and cheerfulness of the morning were sadly
changed at night. It was anything but a proud
spectacle which the holiday-making thousands
presented now. It was a spectacle of besottedness.

Leaving the streets, inexpressibly pained
by the sight of even young girls staggering
along with crushed bonnets, dishevelled hair,
and torn finery, we made our way to one of the
humblest of the music-halls; and on the payment
of ninepence were admitted to nearly the
last vacant seat in the stalls. Sixteen years
ago, music-halls of this class had no existence,
Mr. Whelks had no choice between the sixpenny
gallery of the blood-and-murder theatre,
and the sloppy bar of the unmitigated public-
house. To-night, at this advanced period of
time, we find him provided with the medium
enjoyment of a threepenny concert, at which
he is at liberty, but under no compulsion, to
drink his pint of beer and smoke his pipe.

Let us see what kind of entertainment, and
what kind of accommodation, are provided for
him. The hall is a tolerably large room, attached
to a public-house in the north-west district of
London. The entrance is separate from the
public-house, and the prices of admission are,
stalls ninepence, galleries sixpence, body of
hall threepence. The hall in its arrangements
is suggestive of having been at some time
or other, a chapel. The gallery runs round three
sides, and has a clock in its centre; the seats in
the area are faced by rows of narrow desks,
which seem to have been designed for hymn-
books, but which are now used for the support
of pewter pots; and these seats are divided by
aisles. Here the resemblance to a church ends,
for, at one extremity of the hall there is a stage,
and at the other a drinking-bar. There is not
much distinction between the stalls and the
body of the hall. Both are carpeted with sawdust,
but in the former the audience is accommodated
with stuffed benches and mahogany tables.
Decorative art has not been lavished on the
stage. It is merely a wooden platform, backed
by a papered wall, on which are represented, in
distemper, Ceres, carrying a sheaf of corn, and
Flora, apparently scratching her head. The
orchestra consists of a fiddle, a cornet-à-piston,