pirates. The gloomy lad minutely described
all the circumstances of the crimes with which
the figures were associated, always sinking his
voice to a solemn key when he came to say that
the "un'appy man expated his crime on the
scuffle," and carefully giving all names and dates.
A dirtier place, or a more wretched, ragged, and
in the last degree mean and miserable exhibition,
it is impossible to conceive. It ministered
solely to the morbid taste for horrors. The
heads bore no resemblance to the persons
represented, and most of them were broken. The
Italian pirates had scarcely a finger among them,
and Lord Palmerston had evidently at some
time or other had his throat cut. (Possibly, in
a former state of waxwork existence, he had
been Lord William Russell.) We recognised
several old friends from the windows of the
barbers' shops, and at least two from the shop
doors of the cheap clothiers. Ernest Southey,
otherwise Forwood, "the unnatural 'usband and
father," if he were not the identical person,
must have been own brother to the waxen
gentleman who many years ago demonstrated
the elasticity of a black satin patent stock in
High Holborn. He wore the same black stock
now, while in the act of murdering his wife, in
the same room where his three children (all of
the same age) lay side by side in bed, poisoned.
This dreary show concluded in a sort of
hayloft above stairs, or rather above ladder, with
the exhibition of a Scotch giant and his infant
daughter, a prodigy of fatness and idiocy—a
lamentable sight. The Scotch giant had not
been looked at half a minute before he came
down from his platform with a tin box and
begged for bawbees. When there were no more
bawbees to be gathered, he returned to his
platform, contemptuously shrouded himself
behind a ragged curtain, and called to us to
"hook it." And so the audience tumbled down
some rickety steps, and streamed out into the
Cut, running a thicker tide of human mud than
ever.

We next followed Mr. Whelks to a gaff, also
"giving" upon the main thoroughfare of the
Cut, and almost within sight of the august
towers. When we come to this place of
entertainment we feel that we have already been too
prodigal of epithets expressive of our horror
and disgust. We have left ourselves no words
strong enough to characterise the filthiness of
the den we now entered, nor the unmitigated
brutality of the performance we witnessed. The
gaff was formed, as in the case of the waxwork
show, out of a tumble-down house, and was
approached through a foul-smelling passage
littered with manure, and (literally) over a cinder-heap.
The prices of admission were a penny
to the body of the hall, and twopence to the
gallery. We paid twopence, and reached the
gallery by a few steps. We despair of being
able to give any idea of the dreadful place. The
floor of the area was composed of black mud;
the ceiling, formed of a sooty sheet of canvas,
had fallen in and had a large hole in the centre
as if it had been used as a shoot for coals.
There was a raised stage without foot-lights,
backed by a rudely-painted scene; a fiddle and
a jangling piano, boxed up in a corner, formed
the orchestra, and the place was lighted dimly
by about a dozen gas jets. The black pit below
was nearly filled with boys, and the rickety
gallery was thinly occupied by costermongers
and girls. The performances consisted of singing
and dancing. When we entered, the stage
was occupied by a ruffianly-looking fellow
attired in the traditional stage-costume of an
Irishman. He was singing an indecent song
about a certain Paddy Carey, and the boys
below were interrupting him with coarse jokes
and taunts about the state of the ceiling. The
fellow took no pains to amuse them, and danced
and sang just when it suited him. Suddenly
he stopped, and, pointing to a spot on the rough
scene behind, said, "There's the mark, now, fire
away." Presently one of the boys threw him a
copper, which he picked up, declaring that it
was "half a ton" (a halfpenny, as we came to
understand); then another was thrown, which
he said was a "ton" (a penny). Then the
contributions fell to farthings, which he called
"fadges." "Now," he said, when he had
picked up about a dozen fadges—"now I'll
wallop myself about the stage a little." He
signalled to the orchestra, and began to " wallop
himself about." A boy threw a crust of
bread at him with an expression of contempt.
He stopped, and, pointing his finger at the boy,
said, with a terrible oath, "I see you, you
young 'epithet,' and if you do that again, I'll
come down and split your 'oath' jaw."

The foul and unsafe building was visibly
tumbling down, and there was no policeman
present either in the place itself or at the door.
If such dens are licensed, then the Commission
is a mockery; if such performances can be
presented in the heart of a decent city, then the
courtly authority of the Lord Chamberlain is a
sham.

In our article entitled "Mr. Whelks Revived,"
which appeared in No. 373 of this journal, we
chose the fictitious name of "Mr. Harry Clifton"
for a performer at a music-hall, who was
described as singing somewhat vulgar songs. We
regret to find that this is the real name of a
gentleman who never sings at music-halls, and
enjoys a high reputation both as a concert-singer
  and a writer of comic songs of the better,
class.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY.

THERE are some individuals and most readers
can probably lay their fingers on a specimen or
two among their acquaintance who are for
ever accusing themselves of faults. "I am
the idlest fellow in the world," some member of
this class will say; or, "I am as proud as any
Lucifer;" "I want patience;" "I have a very
hot temper;" "I am sadly impetuous," and the
like. Self-accusations are generally of this sort,
not entirely ruinous to the character of the
person confessing, and rare indeed are the cases
in which we find a man who will say: "I am a