would at first seem necessary, and for ever on
the swing; but the utility of which is speedily
demonstrated to me by the simultaneous ejection
of three "obstropelous" Irish labourers,
by three of the stalwart barmen.

The trucks and barrows, the fried fish and
artificial flowers, are not quite so abundant
when we have passed a thoroughfare called
Somerset Street. They get even more scarce
when we see, on the other side of the road, two
stone posts, or obelisks on a small scale,
marking at once the boundaries of the City,
and the commencement of that renowned
thoroughfare, politely called Middlesex Street,
but known to Europe in general, and the
nobility and gentry connected with the trade
in old clothes in particular, as Petticoat Lane.
It is no use going down there this Saturday,
for the Hebrew community, who form its chief
delight and ornament, are all enjoying their
"shobbhouse," and we shall meet with them
elsewhere. We will, if you please, cross over,
leaving the curbstone market (which only
exists on one side), and, allured by the notes
of an execrably played fiddle, enter one of
those dazzling halls of delight, called a "penny
gaff."

The "gaff" throws out no plausible puffs,
no mendacious placards, respecting the entertainment
to be found therein. The public
take the genuineness of the "gaff" for granted,
and enter by dozens. The "gaff" has been a
shop—a simple shop—with a back parlour to
it, and has been converted into a hall of
delight, by the very simple process of knocking
out the shop front, and knocking down
the partition between the shop and parlour.
The gas-fittings yet remain, and even the
original counters, which are converted into
"reserved seats," on which, for the outlay of
twopence, as many costers, thieves, Jew-boys,
and young ladies, as can fight for a place,
are sitting, standing, or lounging. For the
common herd—the ?? ??????—the conditio
vivendi is simply the payment of one penny,
for which they get standing rooms in what
are somewhat vaguely termed the "stalls,"
—plainly speaking, the body of the shop. The
proscenium is marked by two gas "battens"
or pipes, perforated with holes for burners,
traversing the room horizontally, above and
below. There are some monstrous engravings,
in vile frames, suspended from the walls, some
vilely coloured plaster casts, and a stuffed
monstrosity or two in glass cases. The place
is abominably dirty, and the odour of the company
generally, and of the shag tobacco they
are smoking, is powerful.

A capital house though, to-night: a bumper,
indeed. Such a bumper, in fact, that they have
been obliged to place benches on the stage
(two planks on tressels), on which some of
the candidates for the reserved seats are accommodated.
As I enter, a gentleman in a
fustian suit deliberately walks across the stage
and lights his pipe at the footlights; while a
neighbour of mine, of the Jewish persuasion,
who smells fearfully of fried fish, dexterously
throws a cotton handkerchief, containing some
savoury condiment from the stalls to the
reserved seats, where it is caught by a lady
whom he addresses by the title of "Bermondsey
Bet." Bet is, perhaps, a stranger in these parts,
and my Hebrew friend wishes to show her
that Whitechapel can assert its character for
hospitality.

Silence for the manager, if you please!—who
comes forward with an elaborate bow, and a
white hat in his hand, to address the audience.
A slight disturbance has occurred, it appears,
in the course of the evening; the Impresario
complains bitterly of the "mackinnations"
of certain parties "next door," who
seek to injure him by creating an uproar, after
he lias gone to the expense of engaging "four
good actors" for the express amusement of the
British public. The "next door" parties are,
it would seem, the proprietors of an adjacent
public-house, who have sought to seduce away
the supporters of the "gaff," by vaunting the
superior qualities of their cream gin, a cuckoo
clock, and the "largest cheroots in the world
for a penny."

Order is restored, and the performances
commence. "Mr. and Mrs. Stitcher," a buffo
duet of exquisite comicality, is announced.
Mr. Stitcher is a tailor, attired in the recognised
costume of a tailor on the stage, though, I
must confess, I never saw it off. He has
nankeen pantaloons, a red nightcap—a redder
nose, and a cravat with enormous bows. Mrs.
Stitcher is "made up" to represent a slatternly
shrew, and she looks it all over. They sing a
verse apiece; they sing a verse together;
they quarrel, fight, and make it up again.
The audience are delighted. Mr. S. reproaches
Mrs. S. with the possession of a private gin-bottle;
Mrs. S. inveighs against the hideous
turpitude of Mr. S. for pawning three pillow-cases
to purchase beer. The audience are in
ecstacies. A sturdy coalheaver in the "stalls"
slaps his thigh with delight. It is so real.
Ugh! terribly real; let us come away, even
though murmurs run through the stalls that
"The Baker's Shop" is to be sung. I see, as
we edge away to the door, a young lady in a
cotton velvet spencer, bare arms, and a short
white calico skirt, advance to the footlights.
I suppose she is the Fornarina, who is to
enchant the dilettanti with the flowery song
in question.

We are still in Whitechapel High Street;
but in a wider part. The curbstone market
has ceased; and the head quarters of commerce
are in the shops. Wonderful shops,
these! Grocers, who dazzle their customers
with marvellous Chinese paintings, and surmount
the elaborate vessels (Properties for
a Pantomime) containing their teas and
sugars with startling acrostics—pungent
conundrums. Is it in imagination only, or
in reality, that I see, perched above these
groceries, an imp—a fantastic imp, whose
head-dress is shaped like a retort, who has