uncleaned condition with his back against
a wall, listless, purposeless, and sodden. Mr.
Whelks of Whitechapel smartens himself up so
that you would scarcely know him, and, with a
pin in his stock, and occasionally a ring on
his finger, goes forth gaily to enjoy himself.
It can scarcely be said that there is anything
in the atmosphere of the East-end, or in any
superior condition of the dwellings there, to
account for this more wholesome spirit. We
ascribe it mainly to the example and influence of
the Jewish population. It is well known that
the Jews are fond of gaiety and display, that they
have a great taste for music and the entertainments
of the theatre, and that they love to
wear fine dresses and ornaments. What
more natural than that a different people, with
whom they work shoulder to shoulder, should
take example by them and learn their ways?
The moral influence of dress, even if it do not
include a clean shirt, is wonderful. There is
always hope for a poor man when he takes
some pains to make himself smart after the
labours of the day.

A remarkable instance of that stimulating
influence which we ascribe to the example of
the Jewish people is presented to all
Whitechapel at the door of one of its temples of the
drama. The place was formerly a saloon, or
singing-room; it is now a theatre duly licensed
by the Lord Chamberlain. It is attached to a
large public-house, and may be approached
through the bar. Entering, the other evening,
and advancing to the pay-place, we found that
receipt of custom occupied by the lessee and
responsible proprietor. There he was, in a working-
day suit of clothes, taking money and giving
checks, and there he remained until the place
was full. By-and-by, when Mr. Whelks came
out to the bar for a whiff of air and a drop of
drink, after the first stifling and dry piece, he
saw behind the bar the money grub of the pay-
box transformed into a butterfly of the gayest
variety—a perfect Solomon, in all the glory of
a white coat, a white hat, patent leather boots,
an anchor-cable gold chain, and rings and studs
blazing with diamonds. Solomon in all this glory
is not above serving Mr. Whelks with a pint of
porter, and saying a civil word to him as he tosses
his twopence into the till. Mr. Whelks has a
great respect for a man of this sort. Those fine
clothes and brilliant gems, got as he knows by
labour, fire him with emulation.

The prices of admission to this theatre are
very low, ranging from a shilling down to
threepence; but the threepenny people here were
better dressed, tidier, and more orderly and
attentive, than the sixpenny people in the New
Cut. There was no whistling in the gallery, for
the reason that there was no gallery in the usual
sense of the word. Mr. Whelks and his family
for their threepences had the best places in the
house, in a large amphitheatre formed in that
part of the building usually devoted to a beggarly
account of empty dress and upper boxes. The
rest was pit and stalls. There was not a single
box in the place. This is the only theatre of the
class where we have found the stalls well filled.
There were gloves in those stalls, elegant striped
dresses, and dandy bonnets of the latest fashion
worn by honest women. As to Mr. Whelks, he
behaved remarkably well, except that he would
smoke, contrary to strict prohibition.

In its internal construction this theatre is
well adapted to its purpose, but it is sadly
deficient in light, and the pieces presented
on the stage, the acting and the scenery,
by no means calculated to inspire Mr.
Whelks with cheerfulness. Here, as
elsewhere, the Thespian cart jolts and sticks in
the old wheel-worn deeply-sunk ruts. The
bill, on the occasion of our visit, promised two
dramas—Britomarte the Man-Hater, and Life
As It Is, or the False Friend and the Felon
Brother. Still harping on the old, jangling,
discordant bass string! Why, oh why, will
managers persist in thinking that Mr. Whelks,
who every day of his life partakes of the sad and
serious things of life, should always be anxious
to finish with a supper of horrors? It is true
that Mr. Whelks is fond of realities, but there
are other realities than robbery and murder.
Life is not all crime and violence, even to Mr.
Whelks. He has, as we all know, a keen
appreciation of humour (is he not, in his own way, a
master of chaff and badinage?), he takes great
delight in music (does he not catch up every new
tune as it comes out?), and yet those who cater
for his amusement persistently deny him any
opportunity of gratifying those simple and natural
tastes. He must be dosed with the extravagant
horrors of a state of society altogether
beyond nature and human ken. We are
persuaded that Mr. Whelks is quite equal to the
enjoyment of the highest class of entertainment
that can be offered to him, provided
it be natural. Only give him a chance of
hearing Norma well acted and well sung, and
see with what rapt attention he will listen, and
how gaily he will tumble down the gallery
stairs humming the tunes. Show him the School
for Scandal, and note how keenly he will
appreciate the scandal scenes; how he will warm
towards Charles Surface when he refuses to sell
his uncle's picture; with what virtuously indignant
glee he will anticipate the downfall of the
screen and the exposure of the hypocritical
Joseph!

Judging from the opening scene that
Britomarte the Man Hater was likely to hold
the mirror up to life as it is not, we decided to
spend an hour elsewhere, and return in time to
see the reflexion of Life As It Is. We
adjourned to a penny gaff in the immediate
neighbourhood. On our way, we had some talk with
an officer of police with regard to this
establishment. Were plays performed in it? Yes;
last night they had played Dick Turpin. Was
it licensed by the Lord Chamberlain? No.
By the magistrates? No. Was it under the
supervision of the police? No. How was
that? The police never attended a place of
entertainment unless they were paid by the
proprietor. Then, the police don't look after the