The sort of man we read about,
       But very seldom see.

In her next song, Miss Emmeline Stanley
appeared to have been some time united to the
"sort of man," &c., for she complained on behalf
of all married ladies that husbands

       Are not so kind as they used to be.

These young ladies generally come on,
prepared to conclude what is professionally called
their "turn" with a break-down dance or a
hornpipe, indications of which are revealed in
coloured kid boots of supernatural beauty. And,
as a rule, the dancing is better than the singing.
It may, we think, be truly observed of all
mankind, that the talent with which it is endowed
belongs in a greater degree to the heels than to
the head.

The next performer who had the honour to
appear was Mr. Harry Clifton. He was a tall,
rather handsome young man, made up to
represent a swell of the jolly-dog order. He wore
a very short coat, carried a very short cane,
cocked a white hat on the side of his head, and
was continually stroking his long whiskers,
popularly known as "Piccadilly weepers." He
sang about the mishaps of courtship—the
invariable theme of music-hall comic songs—and
how he was jilted by his faithless lady-love. In
the first song, the fickle female, after leading
him on in a shameful manner,

       She bolted with a bar-i-net,
       A bar-i-net, a bar-i-net,
       She bolted with a bar-i-net,
       And left no trace be-ind.

(Sometimes this song is made the vehicle for
conveying a compliment—rather a doubtful one,
by the way—to the chairman, and it is said
that

       She bolted with our chairman,
       Our very handsome chairman, &c.

On these occasions the chairman pretends to
be taken aback, looks round at the singer,
laughs, and then dips his face in his glass, as if
to hide his blushes. This is regarded as a very
clever piece of improvisation, and is applauded
accordingly.)

Mr. Harry Clifton appeared again, made up
to represent a seller of duckweed, dressed
in a mouldy smock-frock and a battered hat.
In this character, he turned the natural
disposition of one of his eyes to squint, to
uproarious account. His make-up did not create
a great sensation; but when he squinted until
he nearly turned his eyeballs round in their
sockets, he met with the cordial reception which
is never withheld from true genius. Love was
again the theme. And shall we complain of that?
Homer sang the ire of Achilles for the loss of
Briseis. Why should not the Homer of the
music-hall, sing the ire of the chickweed-man
for the loss of his lovely Sal? After promising
to be his, the lovely but faithless Sal went
and got

           Married to a mem-ber,
           Married to a mem-ber,
           Married to a mem-ber,
           Of the happy fam-i-lee.

And the last he heard of her was, that she had

           Brought another mem-ber
           To the happy fam-i-lee.

Mr. Harry Clifton appeared a third time in a
shabby suit of black, with a wisp of comforter
round his neck, and sang of the loves of himself
and Lucy Gray, whom he chanced to meet
one day, "in a pleasant valley at the foot of
Saffron-hill." Once more he was unfortunate;
for

        Lucy Gray she cut away,
        And nearly broke my heart;
        She left me for a chap who drives
        An ugly donkey-cart.
        Doodle-de, um-ti-um-ti-tum, &c.

At this frequently-recurring part of the song
Mr. Harry Clifton simulated the driving of an
ugly donkey-cart, and trotted round the stage,
while the audience with one voice and one pair
of feet drove imaginary donkey-carts of their
own.

Mr. Harry Clifton was followed by the Levanti
family, consisting of a fat father and three little
boys in well-darned cotton fleshings. The fat
father lay on his back, with a sort of porter's
knot under his loins, and tossed his youthful
family about with his feet in a truly astonishing
manner. This performance was perfect of its
kind, and gave great satisfaction, though it was
not so vociferously applauded as the Happy
Fam-i-lee with the squint accompaniment and
the driving of the donkey-cart. To the Levanti
family succeeded a negro melodist, the distinguishing
feature of whose make-up was a huge
pair of shoes, which he declared to be "good for
hinsecks," suggestively bringing the wooden
soles down on the stage with the noise of
falling planks. It was not very clear what this
performer's song was about; but when he came
to the chorus, he said, "Now then, don't get
your tongues in a knot, but sing, thunder and
lightning, gin-sling and brandy-smash, flip-flap
and boot-jacks, cocktail and ginger, never see a
nigger boy like Dandy Joe!" And the audience
did not get their tongues in knots, but repeated
every word of the difficult chorus quite as
glibly as Dandy Joe himself. One of the special
attractions of the music-hall is, undoubtedly, the
liberty afforded to the audience of taking part
in the performance. A middle-aged respectable
man, who looked like a father of a family and a
rate and tax payer, sang thunder and lightning,
jin-sling and brandy-smash, flip-flap and boot-
jacks, cocktail and ginger, at the end of every
verse as religiously as if it had been a hymn.

The chairman now announced, amid great
applause, that Mr. and Mrs. Mark Robinson
would appear next. Mrs. Mark Robinson came
on first—a somewhat stout lady, dressed as a
lad, in a short coat and a deer-stalker's hat.
Mrs. Mark represented a junior clerk, employed
in the office of a City merchant. He let the