us. The beef was coarse and without flavour.
the peas were tasteless, the potatoes waxy, and
the bread suggestive of sawdust. So uniformly
bad was everything, that we could not resist the
idea that there must be, somewhere, a regular
organised system for rearing coarse and inferior
articles for the consumption of Mr. Whelks.
Nevertheless, Mr. Whelks had to pay one and
threepence for his meal, and it was not his
dinner nor his supper. It was one of those
snacks between whiles, which Mr. Whelks,
living amid dirt, and squalor, and wretchedness,
is nevertheless able to afford. Mr. Whelks
declined the proffer of beer with his snack, not
that he is a teetotaller, but he likes to take his
beer at the bar of the public-house. So when
he had cleared off his "biled beef," &c., he
adjourned to the nearest tavern, and indulged in a
pint of porter, a black frothy mixture, consisting
chiefly of liquorice and water. For this he paid
twopence, which was at least a penny farthing
more than it was worth. He then lighted his
pipe, and placing his back against the wall of
the public-house, lounged there for some time,
smoking and contemplating the sluggish stream
of human mud that flowed past him. There he
stands, a slouching, dirt-begrimed, beer-soddened,
miserable wretch, living in a pigsty, and spending
his evenings in sloppy beer-shops, or in some
wretched dusthole of a "gaff." And yet that
man earns money enough to live cleanly and
wholesomely, if he only had a decent home
and decent opportunities of passing his leisure
hours.

We may be told that it is no part of the
duty of the Imperial Commission to build homes
for the poor. Very well, admit that, and so far
let us trust to Mr. Peabody and all who may be
stimulated to good deeds by his munificent
example. But though the Imperial Commission
repudiates any responsibility with regard to the
places in which the poor live when they are at
home, it does assume responsibility with regard
to those places of public resort in which they
find entertainment when they go abroad. Let
us see how Court and Commission do their duty
in this respect in the New Cut.

Mr. Whelks has smoked his pipe out, and is
tired of watching the eddying of the muddy
waters of humanity. He wants some amusement.
Whither shall he go for relaxation and
pleasant diversion? His choice lies among
innumerable public-houses and beershops, a
waxwork show, two "gaffs," and a single theatre.
The last is a large commodious building, is duly
licensed by the Lord Chamberlain, and for the
small charge of threepence (to the gallery)
affords Mr. Whelks the elevating delights of
the drama. On the occasion of our visit the
programme offered two dramas, and the first of
these was entitled "Woman's Trials." Mr.
Whelks was in the front row of the gallery, and
a policeman stood in the stalls with a cane to
indicate him to another policeman at the gallery
door, if he should interrupt the performance by
whistling. It strikes us at once as being very
odd that Mr. Whelks, who pays his money to
enjoy a play, should be so constantly disposed
to make a disturbance and interrupt the
progress of that play. But when we have
witnessed "Woman's Trials," and reflected upon
the trial which the play must have been to Mr.
Whelks's patience, we no longer think it odd
that he should whistle. And here, again, it is to
be observed, that Mr. Whelks is pushed away
in pit and gallery at the greatest distance from
the stage, while the stalls and boxes are given
over to comparative emptiness.

It would not be easy to describe clearly the
plot of "Woman's Trials," but its leading
incidents will suffice to give an idea of its quality
as a means of entertainment.

Pauline Rosier, a flower-girl, is beloved by
Eugene, a young man of humble station; but she
rejects his suit in favour of that of a military
gentlemen, who, judging by his cocked-hat
and the size of his epaulettes, must be a field-
marshal at least. The field-marshal, whose
Christian name seems to be Hongree (in
English it would be Enery), is no sooner united to
Pauline than he is ordered off to the wars,
whither he goes, valiantly, with his sword drawn,
at the head of an army of six men and a
trumpeter. Pauline finds herself deserted. It was
to be expected that Hongree would turn out
badly, for his first entrance was over a bridge.
(Attentive students of the British drama must
have observed that the villains enter over bridges
or down steps, while the virtuous characters
come in modestly at the sides.) With her
desertion by Hongree, Pauline's trials begin. At
the end of five years, Mr. Whelks encounters
her wandering about the country, accompanied
by her little child, the son of Hongree. They
have passed through many cities begging their
bread, but there are no travel-stains on their
clothes, their shoes are in remarkably good
order, and the little boy (who says he is very
hungry) has on a clean collar and a pink necktie,
and his hair is carefully brushed and curled. In
this neat and natty plight of wretchedness, the
mother and child arrive at the Lamb, a roadside
inn, kept by the comic man, Paul Lamborreau,
and his wife, Madeline, an old friend of Pauline.
The humours of this pair turn upon certain
delicate matrimonial matters. Madeline had
been courted by a gay trumpeter in the service
of Hongree, but preferred Paul, with whom,
however, she is always quarrelling because they
have no children. When Paul displeases her,
she taunts him with this, and says that no doubt
if she had married the trumpeter there would
have been plenty of children by this time. * * *
These stars stand for a piece of dialogue on
this subject, which probably escaped the notice
of the licenser of plays. Mr. Whelks, however,
was highly delighted with it. Paul and Madeline
take compassion upon Pauline and her son,
and give them food and shelter; and when the
little boy has eaten a cake, he innocently asks
Paul if he may play with his little boy. Hoarse
laugh again, and more stars. * * * * *

It is wonderful how the personages of a
drama, however widely they may be separated