"Blackie's right," cried our old acquaintance, Mr. Cavil, who now jumped in. Not quite (thought we); for we could not find it in our hearts to complain very seriously of the pretty dresses of the present day. Perhaps the train may be just a thought too long. But we left Mr. Cavil full room to denounce the pinafores turned hind part before, in which young gentlemen between sixteen and thirty-five perambulate on Sundays; the best pinafore is but a poor apology for the "Sunday coat," though they do try to carry it off with a grand air, and a cigar.

The subject of

PLAYBILLS AND PLAYGOING

now took the lead; for at this moment stepped into the vehicle, for the first time, a passenger, whose name it will be unnecessary to mention, if we introduce him under the designation of the Playgoer. Not old in years, he is not young in memory, and still less so in observation. By hearsay, or by optical note, he will tell you the colour of the small-clothes in which Munden took his farewell of the stage, and describe the exact pattern of Woodward's shoe-buckles. He hits off Keeley to the life, and gives you a very lively imitation of Stephens's pathetic execution of "Auld Robin Gray." Garrick he seems to have known from a boy, and he enlarges upon the grateful duty of subscribing to the fund now being raised for erecting a monument to Siddons, as though he had seen that incomparable actress (so every great authority proclaims her) make her first and last appearance. We ought to have been born earlier; we ought to have seen Mrs. Siddons. "You go to the theatre, I suppose, Mr. Cavil?" inquired the Playgoer of our old acquaintance beside him.

"No I don't," was the response of Mr. Cavil, "but I read the playbills. The playbill is the veluti in speculum for me. There I see human nature as in a mirror. There I read of envy, jealousy, and hatred—personal pique, private friendship—self-interest, sycophancy, adulation—in the varying forms of announcement, in the varying periods of omission—in the different sizes of type, in the significant conjunction of names—that may happen to compose the playbill. I see why this actor is to be run down now, and why the other is to be cried up then. I detect a reason for the implied insult, a motive for the palpable puff. Your playbill is a wonderfully accurate expositor of the mysteries of your human being. I don't want to go into the theatre, while I can read what I find at the doors. The bill's better than the play. If you want an example, look at that placard there (pointing as we passed to one that bore her Majesty's name at the head of it), I should like to see a comedy coming up to that! There you read of a piece—

"'Which, from its strongly affecting scenes, and powerfully harrowing situations, has nightly drawn tears of pity and commiseration from the sterner heart of man, from all who have one spark of the milk of human kindness, whilst woman's softer nature has swollen with bitterest indignation at the unmerited suffering and patient endurance of the hapless foundling.'

"Such a bill as that is payable at sight. I can't read it without tears. Its bold metaphorical originality is unequalled in our literature. We have heard of the 'fountain of our daily bread,' and of the 'fire of patriotism flowing into other channels;' but who ever before heard of a 'spark of the milk of human kindness!' Shakspeare never ventured to make the daring combination."

"Mr. Cavil," said the Playgoer, "I admire your literary acumen. As you have shown how the theatre furnishes amusement to those who never go into it, let me show in turn that, within, the field of amusement is not exclusively the stage. We need not travel just now 'behind the scenes;' there we may find ourselves another time; for the present we are satisfied with

"A ROMANCE OF THE ORCHESTRA."

I once witnessed a scene (say six or seven years ago) in the orchestra of Covent Garden, which for ludicrousness of effect, and the mysterious manner in which it arose, surpassed anything that ever came under my notice. A friend, considerably my senior, and a playgoer of the time of the Kembles, was one of my companions; the other was his wife, to accommodate whom, being shortsighted, we had established ourselves in the front row of the pit, on the prompter's side. At the commencement of the overture, we found that the scroll-end of one of the large double basses intercepted the lady's view of the stage, and a request was preferred by my friend to the performer (a most eccentric-looking genius, with only one eye, and that apparently turning on what mechanics call 'an universal centre'), to alter his position, but he very uncourteously refused to move; and still worse, on the rising of the curtain, he left the instrument secured in a perpendicular position, so as to completely obstruct our lady's view. Thus he left it, in spite of all our remonstrances. I, with the desperate indignation of youth, was for cutting the string and letting it fall down, but was restrained by my elder and more wily friend, who whispered me 'Never mind, I'll serve him out.'

He then changed places with his lady, and all went on quietly till the fall of the curtain, when I suddenly missed him. He returned, however, in a few minutes, with a large piece of—yes, of candle; and he gave me a look which indicated that I was not to see anything. Yet I did see, that while the rest of the audience were looking round the house, he leant over, and, unobserved by any one else, applied the grease with dexterity and effect to the strings of the offending instrument. He then took his seat, apparently as unconcerned as any spectator in the pit.

In due time the bell rang for the music to the afterpiece, and we saw our musical adversary enter, release his instrument, and seat himself. He then tried the strings at his ear, and finding all right indulged himself with a pinch of snuff, and quietly awaited his time. The second bell rang-the leader gave the preliminary tap-tap, and off they went in the overture to Tancredi. After a few bars, it was our enemy's turn to chime in: he sawed away with right good will, but, to his utter amazement, without producing the desired effect. He looked down inquisitively with his single optic, but without comprehending the mystery. Again he tried, and of course with the same result; another downward look, and the truth seemed to flash across him. His one eye glared most horribly; but not on us did his anger fall. In front of him, perched on a high stool, with a step half way up for his feet, sat a little wee homo, working most industriously at a violoncello, as big as himself, and in a sweet unconsciousness of the storm gathering in his rear. On this unoffending victim did he of the double bass vent his rage—for after the second brief look at his useless instrument he darted one piercing glance at the violoncello player, deliberately deposited his bow on the desk before him, and dealt the little man so sound a cuff on the head, that musician, stool, violoncello, and desk, went down 'in one astounding ruin,' damaging the shins and toes of immediate neighbours, literally putting their pipes out, and producing discord dire throughout the realm of harmony.

In vain did the leader rap his desk and try to keep his flock together. On looking round he found his first flute and fourth violin busily rubbing their legs; the second trombone gentleman dreadfully irate at having a favourite corn hurt by the stool falling on it; the small violoncello player awfully pugnacious; while the grand cause of all was looking on, with a diabolical smile on what passed for his face, and muttering sotto voce, 'I'll teach you to play me tricks again.'

We looked quietly on, and my friend gave it as his opinion, that it was a great pity that the gentlemen could not settle their quarrels in private, instead of bringing them before the public in such a disgraceful way. How it ended I know not, for the curtain rose before it could be adjusted, and the 'harmonists' retired; but we subsequently learnt, that our hero of the double bass was, from a boorish temper, much disliked in the orchestra, and that to his great annoyance tricks had been frequently played off upon him; hence his sudden and violent retaliation on his supposed tormentor.

Our friend the Playgoer having thus introduced us to one of the curiosities of music—a practiser of sweet sounds, who was anything but the harmonist he seemed—his story suggested the image of an equally contradictory humorist, whom we had recently encountered; and we therefore without ceremony presented

ONE OF THE CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

Here we stopped to take up another passenger, "his first appearance in our stage," though evidently an experienced literary traveller. We all welcomed the new arrival; and Mr. Quickly (for this was his name) pretty soon began to convince us of his qualifications for a pleasant companionship along the road of life. We pass by what he said of ourselves, with the bare remark, that like Falstaff's story, "it was worth the listening;" but still worthier of it was this, which he recounted to us under the title of

AN INCIDENT OF TRAVEL.

"Will you put that window down, Sir?"

"Certainly not, Sir, I have a bad cold!"

Such was the request addressed to his vis-À-vis in the Royal Mail by a small gentleman in a suit of black and a profuse perspiration; and such was the answer returned thereto by the person addressed, a highly nervous individual rejoicing apparently in about fifteen stone, certainly in a blue coat with gilt buttons, a sealskin cap, a red face, and nose to correspond.—

"Will you put down the window, Sir?" again demanded, after a few minutes, our friend of the sable garments, in a tone half angry, half speculative.—

"Really, Sir," was the answer, "I am sorry, Sir—but must decline to do so."

"Do you intend to open the window?" a third time exclaimed the pertinacious votary of freedom—in accents wherein scorn and wrath were blended, with a quivering lip and pallid cheek. The lusty man shrunk back in his place—An assault with violence seemed impending. But though a large—he was a brave man, and he said "No!" * * *

Again there was a pause—a decidedly unpleasant and embarrassing silence. The little querist turned pale, and gave a deep sigh—At last, in a voice of thunder, he roared out. "Will you, Sir, or will you not put down that window?" and at the same moment his hand with nervous rapidity sought his coat pocket.

The red faced man trembled—he turned pale, and cast a supplicating glance at the other two inmates of the carriage, as who should say—"Pray help me—I may be murdered—I really think the wretched imp must have a stiletto or loaded pistol in his pocket." The glance seemed satisfactory—for the great gentleman after a short pause mildly said—"I will not, Sir!"

In a second—a large silk pocket handkerchief was suddenly jerked from its place of repose by the diminutive tormentor of his gigantic victim. With a face of ashy hue he held out the Indian kerchief with one hand—the other reclined gracefully on the region of his heart. Anger had passed away from his brow—slowly and deliberately he cast an unearthly look on his trembling victim, and said—

"Then—Sir—you—must—take the consequences, (here he gave symptoms of spasmodic affection,) for—I am—going to be—sick!" * * *

When the Royal Mail entered the town of S——, it was observed by the loiterers round the King's Head yard, where it changed horses, that, though a chilly day—both windows were down. A tall fat man too was observed reclining in the extreme corner of the vehicle, with a handkerchief tied round his face—evidently suffering from cold. His opposite neighbour—a little man in black—had his head out of the window—and there was a smile on his countenance.

Sympathy for our fat friend, writhing and shivering in the corner of the mail, at the mercy of that little black imp with a smiling countenance, naturally enough suggested "FATNESS" as a topic of conversation; everybody, as everybody does in these cases, giving his opinion upon the moral and physical tendencies of obesity; some regarding that condition as rather civic than courtly, and others speculating as to its effects upon the temper and disposition; this person holding a proper degree of it to be indispensable to a fine woman; and that asserting a plentiful supply to be essential to the weight of every person in authority. One contended that nobody could have good humour or generous wit without fat, and another, that genius and fat have from the very beginning of the world been divided. It was easy to gather, however, that fat, in the social code, was associated with a certain amount of respectability, and had always the invaluable property of redeeming its possessor from insignificance. We could observe too that those who had it were neither proud of it nor pleased with it, while those who had it not would give the world for a good slice of the blessing. We also noticed that every speaker in turn, apparently unconscious that his neighbour had just done the same thing, quoted the line—"Who drives fat oxen must himself be fat."

At this instant all heads were attracted to the windows by a spectacle presented at the back of a carriage just then passing; behind it, in all the pride and pomp of white silk hose, appeared a splendid pair of calves, accompanied by a livery-coat, cocked hat, and cane. A little boy had presumptuously mounted the "step behind," and the proprietor of the calves, instead of ordering him off, thrust him brutally down by an application of his foot to the face of the unfortunate urchin. Boys are little men, especially in their passions; and resentment of injury is a sharp and subtle suggester. The youthful proselyte of vengeance, after an instant's consideration, darted forwards, caught hold of the rail of the carriage, ran behind it a few feet, and then thrust a pin into one of the broad, round, shaking calves of the footman. With uplifted leg he stood, while the carriage rapidly bore him away from his retreating tormentor. He had a stick, but he could not use it; he was in a free country, yet he dared not stop the carriage. He was hopelessly, ridiculously helpless. How he envied all those of his fraternity who wore padded calves. A cork leg would have been a real blessing!