JOHN BULL IN "LITTLE FRANCE." SOME time since we gave a picture of "Mossoo" in Little France, now it is JOHN BULL'S turn to be marked down in the same locality. The café which he most frequents in this neighbourhood is named after a French victory in Italy, let us say Magenta, and it imports into the centre of London an air of the Boulevards, which makes JONES, who has been twice to Paris for three days, say that it reminds him of that delightful city. But it has a charm for people who know more about Paris than even JONES-people who lift their hats easily to Madame, at the comptoir, and who can manage more lingo than JONES. JONES is noble in his first sentence to the garçon, but if that worthy makes a reply that requires a further remark in answer, JONES returns to his native tongue, which at all events he does not speak quite so imperfectly as French.

To the placid philosopher who pens these lines, the S- the Magenta (the P. P. begs pardon) is a source of endless and calm delight. He has seen Podger, Bodger, and Snodger, City clerks, come in and order plain chops and plain potatoes, things which are simply raw material in the eyes of a French cook, and grumble at the beer, which is about the best in London, for the plain reason that the adulteration of British beer is a science yet unlearnt by the foreign proprietary of the Magenta. However, as P. B. and S. don't know beer when they get it pure, the Placid Philosopher can only pity their ignorance, and pray for the continuance of that of the foreign proprietor. He also sees a gentleman who is much addicted to athletic sports come in with a friend, who is going to dine. Athletic party "has dined," but will "take a snack" for company's sake. Athletic party takes about a dozen dishes, winding up with plum pudding and sweet omelette, and is horrified to find the bill exceeds five shillings.

The Placid Philosopher not being athletic, enjoys a cosy little dinner, say half-a-dozen courses, and drains his modest bottle of Macon, and then takes his cigar and his one luxury, a glass-say a glass-of Chartreuse Jaune, and he reflects that he might have dined for double the amount, on half the choice of dishes, with one-tenth of the comfort, and he begins to agree with JONES that it is "Tray jolly de deenay issee."

Of the varieties of people who frequent the café no catalogue can be given on a smaller scale than that of the British Museum. Besides JOHN BULL, travelled and untravelled (who is more especially the

The

subject of the Placid Philosopher's essay), there are foreigners from every quarter, Spaniards, Italians, Germans, French, and Russians; and the things they eat, and the way in which they eat them strike wonder and sometimes alarm into the breast of JONES. How such a polyglot custom is met is a mystery only to be unravelled by the polyglottest garçon that ever totted up l'addition and carried twenty dishes and three bottles of different wines in his head at once. Placid Philosopher verily believes that if CHANG walked into the Magenta to-morrow and asked for puppy pie, that garçon would without an instant's hesitation, inform him in the best Pekinese that it was not on the carte. And how polite he is to the ladies! For ladies do come there; quiet little Frenchwomen who dine all alone, quite at ease and unmolested, and Monsieur who keeps the boot shop not far off (and is unconscious of the terrific meaning of the inscription over his door, "Percussion Screwed Boots,") brings Madame and his daughter, and they dine very comfortably, and very cheaply.

Of course the Briton Rampageous who doesn't like these "confounded French messes," and the Briton Snobbish, who puts up an eyeglass he can't see through, when a lady enters the café, occasionally stray into the precincts, or people intrude whom one would not ask into one's drawing-room; but on the whole this café in Little France is quiet, and pleasant, and respectable, and a man who doesn't care to have a mountainous joint bleeding under his nose, and who is not eaten up with the desire to pay half-a-crown for a bottle of wine which MR. GLADSTONE has arranged to let him have at eighteenpence, may enjoy a good and cheap dinner there, and-oh, rare privilege and most valuable!-may smoke his cigar afterwards without stirring and without incommoding his neighbour. And that neighbour! Why such is the influence of the place he will allow you to ask him if he objects to smoking while he is eating, and drop into a chat, just as if you were not both Englishmen.

"Pst! Charles; encore de Chartreuse!"

FROM OUR STALL.

THE astonishment of the good folks who crowded to every available seat in both pit and gallery, at the charming little Prince of Wales' Theatre, last Saturday evening, was too good a sight to be lost. What could it all mean? Everybody seemed to be shaking hands with everybody else. "Ah, how are you, old fellow?" "Delighted to see you!" "Of course you would never miss such a night as this!" These were the salutations which began in the refreshment room at the top of the staircase, travelled round the dress-circle, descended into the stalls, and were nodded from nearly all the private boxes. The audience seemed a large happy family. Its members in their wild, or public state, no doubt can scratch as well as coo, and put up their backs or purr; they can love, and hate, and snarl, and soothe, but their claws are very often drawn in, and then all shake hands and are friends. The happy family was anxious to see what MR. ROBERTSON -well-known as the author of David Garrick-had got to say about Society, and to settle whether the Liverpool critics were correct in describing his latest dramatic production as a very admirable comedy, and one which was likely to make some stir in town. A careful study of the demeanour of the audience at a very early period of the evening, proved the truth of the provincial criticisms. When the curtain drew up, all fell back in their seats as usual, and seemed prepared for something good, perhaps, but still something of the old sort. But MR. ROBERTSON's bright, sparkling dialogue, his home truths, his kindly affectation of cynicism, his similes, and his keen appreciation of the little weaknesses of the world we live in, soon woke up the audience from its conventional apathy, and then all appeared to bend forward in their seats, and after one look all round to see if the impulse was general, their faces seemed to say, "We have got some good stuff here!" The boldness of the title of MR. ROBERTSON'S mart little comedy naturally provokes criticism, but he is such a charming story-teller, he shows his audience so thoroughly how he

VOL. II.

From diabolic imps.
They took a thousand funny shapes,
They trooped like rats, they mowed like apes,

They jumped like agile shrimps.

They played-upon their noses-tunes,
They danced-in flagons-rigadoons,

His notice to engage.

They frisked as bat, or mouse, or midge
Still striving vainly to abridge

The studies of the sage.

Yet never from the learned tome Did he allow his eyes to roam,

Despite their antics quaint.

Till woman, lovely woman, came, Whose rosy lips and eyes of flame

Completely floored the saint.

Like ANTHONY, I once was bent On study;-seriously intent

On reading for the Bar.

Until one night-alas for law! Alas for me!-by chance I saw

MISS JONES!-And here we are!

Three times a week I'm calling there,
It's rather far from Gray's Inn Square-

My cab is two-and-six.

I spend my coin in flowers and fruits; In primrose gloves and patent boots

I'm running awful ticks!

I waste my time from morn till night;
For though i courtship I delight

I never sit in Court.

My "leader"
"'s CUPID, naughty thief,
And though I haven't got a brief,

I find my money short.

You'll own, then, when these cares I paint,

SAINT ANTHONY my patron saint

Most clearly ought to be :

A demon tempted him, 'tis true,—

But then Miss JONES ('twixt me and you)

Has played the deuce with me!

enjoys what he is telling them; it is so evident he feels what he writes, and that he prefers to set before them a rough lump of silver to when the curtain first falls are forgotten, and the errors to which they ever so much glittering electro, that the discussions which wax warm allude forgiven long before the plot is worked out. Thus it is that the inevitable suggestions about the enclosure scene in the first act, the gambling and ball-room business in the second, and the election business in the last are extinguished by the brilliancy of the style of the author, who is complimented on all sides as the play proceeds, and publicly applauded when the curtain falls. It has been unanimously conceded that a play has rarely been better acted. FUN's compliments are late in the day, but they are as real and sincere as those of his contemporaries. He has fallen in love, he is afraid to say how many times, with the fair proprietress of the little theatre:-so frequent indeed and so bold have been his avowals, that on the present occasion the fear of being fulsome almost closes his mouth. How he has longed ever since Saturday week to find himself on the bench in the enclosure pleading instead of MR. SYDNEY BANCROFT, his devotion of many years standing, he need not say; and how he has been haunted by a jimp little figure in such a white and mauve dress, a figure that sheds tears, and looks, oh, so mournful, and says, "SYDNEY," in a voice as soft as sealskin, he will not trust himself to relate. Bravo MESSRS. CLARKE and RAY, proprietors of the Morning Earthquake; bravo MR. SYDNEY BANCROFT, Tory candidate and lover; bravo MR. DEWAR, talented translator of Horace, leader-writer and good fellow par excellence; and brav-issimo-issimo MR. HARE, primmest of aristocrats, and most finished of actors. If ever Lord Ptarmigant on any future evening hears a very loud guffaw when he is emboldened to say, "Lady Ptarmigant, it is not often I speak, goodness knows," let him remember that it is his faithful FUN who intends to make London ring with his praises. But you are all good children to give the old gentleman such

a treat.

MOTTO FOR A SMOKING PHILOSOPHER.-A short pipe and a merry one.

TOWN TALK.

BY THE SAUNTERER IN SOCIETY.

ND what will Exeter Hall think of its favourite nigger after the spectacle presented

in Jamaica? The black has much of the wild beast in him it would seem, and neither slavery nor liberty can root it out of him. The Emancipation party in America will do well to pause in their career of mistaken humanity. They must educate SAMBO, and well too, before they turn him loose on the defenceless South, or they will be answerable for a recurrence of the same atrocities which make our blood curdle in the news from Jamaica.

POOR TOM SAYERS is dead, and has been buried amid the tears and uproar of an immense crowd of admirers. We must not be horrified because the mourners on the occasion did not behave with what refined people call decorum. I have no doubt the sorrow was genuine enough, and there were some bright instances of disinterested friendship and affection revealed in connection with his death. It is recorded of him that with all his science and strength he was no bully, and even when struck by some one who lost temper with him did not return the blow. That is a fine trait and an argument in favour of fisticuffs. Let any one go and live a little while among the Cornish miners, and see how they-after having slapt one another's faces and pulled one another's hair-have recourse to the knife: and then he will probably agree with me, that it will be a bad time for England when the use of the "mauleys" is no longer cultivated. Toм SAYERS was a hero, with not more faults than most heroes, and perhaps with more generosity.

So the great University swindle is exploded! I have often wondered that it hasn't been done before. Parents and guardiansespecially the latter-must have been strangely short-sighted on this point. They send a lad up to Oxford with an allowance that soon proves insufficient, but they don't think of finding out why, or they would discover that it is not only the tradesman who robs the undergraduate, but the Don also. Nothing but a sympathetic love of plunder can account for the way in which college authorities leave the lad unprotected against the attacks of harpy tradesmen. But the harpy tradesman lays out his wares for sale, and that is all. When they are bought he sends them in, and often has to wait an unreasonable time for his money-sometimes doesn't get it. But the college authorities pretend to stand in loco parentis, and they compel the lad to take what they have to sell, and to pay an exorbitant price for it. The complaint, as it stands in the papers, is that bread and butter of an inferior quality are forced on the undergraduates at very high prices. But there are other grievances that aim more nearly at the principle of the university, and that might be discussed with advantage. There are tutor's fees-and who ever got any good out of his college tutor? There are library fees-and how few libraries possess books really of use to the student? And there are college dues-and who ever yet discovered,-when everything a man has, or has not, of his college is strictly charged for,-what those dues could be?

GOVERNMENT offices are as extravagant in the general as they are mean in the particular. That wasteful establishment the War-office discharged some of its clerks last year under circumstances of more than meanness-of downright dishonesty. A somewhat similar injustice inflicted by the India Office on a retired officer, the MARQUIS ST. MAURICE, who served in the old Company's forces, is a further instance of official obstinacy. On a mere quibble, which has not even the merit of being founded on fact, this gentleman is being defrauded of a portion of that small pittance which is held sufficient reward for a man who has spent the best years of his life in the service. Can any one devise a scheme to prevent injustice from being first perpetrated and then perpetuated by an ingenious system of disconnected and irresponsible Boards? We want an officer like the old Roman tribune-not connected with the House-to examine into all torts and grievances. Don't I pity the poor Marquis! He has been wasting his time in trying to knock something into SIR CHARLES WOOD's head. Why, only the other day he was thrown out hunting,

My love, you've been and bound my heart
In tresses of your golden hair,
Your ev'ry look was like a dart

That reached its mark and settled there.
I know you hardly waste a thought
Upon the anguish that I feel;
But something strikes me that you ought-
And so I try a last appeal.

It seems to me a little queer,

And very far from comme il faut,
That you should send me packing, dear,
In favour of some later beau.

I might have drained that bitter cup,
But I've a certain claim on you;
So, now I'll take the matter up

In quite a business point of view.

I beg to say that if I lend

A certain sum in "money down" To any impecunious friend

(Say JONES, or ROBINSON, or BROWN), always do so on the chance Of getting back the £ s. d., That I may happen to advance To MESSRS. J. and R. and B.

If I were in the legal walk

Of life-you'll give me leave to stateI'd never waste a minute's talk

Without a fee of six and eight. If "Time is money"-and I see No great objection to the ruleThe lawyer that would give it free Is little better than a fool.

Now, lately I've been laying out

A lot of heart and soul on you;
Just think it over, and no doubt

You'll see the proper thing to do.
For, since another claims the love
That I so fondly hoped to win;
I beg to say I ain't above
A trifle in the shape of tin!

It's very well for you to say

That I was never asked to throw My young affections in your way; That's very true. You took 'em, though! Farewell! Be happy! We must part! But, false one, fail not to devete One passing thought to this torn heartAnd send us off a ten pun' note!

THE INCORRECT KE-ARD.

FANCY SHAKSPEARE'S Falconbridge pronouncing calf-skin "ke-alfskin." This is what is positively done by an actor at Drury-lane Theatre, in the course of a singularly unintelligent reading of the part. We remember to have once heard a ke-ountryman speak of a "ke-art-load of ke-arrots;" but, apart from his having a natural imperfection of speech, his accent did not exactly strike us as a model worthy imitation by anybody pretending to play the more important of SHAKSPEARE'S characters. By the bye, how would MR. ANDERSON pronounce the words "cave canem," if he had to say them? Perhaps he would tell us he ke-ouldn't.

MR. VINING did not reply to the indignant gentleman in the stalls, and no such a conversation took place.-See FUN. But, on the exact contrary, in addressing the public, MR. VINING stated he could not reply individually.

MR. VINING, it is said, plumes himself on realism-See FUN.

Let others then follow his example, and when they deal in facts stick to truth. But these remarks are in "FUN" and, dear boy, do not forget IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.-PRINCESS'S THEATRE.

With the sole exception of the paragraph that refers to MR. VINING'S realistic tendencies, nothing that in the remotest degree resembled any of these extracts ever appeared in our columns. If we were converts to MR. CHARLES READE'S outspoken style of expression, we should not hesitate to apply to the statement that "these remarks are in 'FUN,'" the only epithet in the English language that effectually characterises it. But, in fairness to MR. VINING, we ought to place the public in possession of a fact that they will fail to gather from the advertisement itself, namely, that when he penned it he was probably labouring under some blundering notion, that in crediting us with a favourable criticism which we did not write, he was amply avenging himself on us for an unfavourable criticism which we did. In other words, he seems to have thought that the greatest blow he could deal to our reputation as dramatic critics was to make us speak in terms of high eulogy of his behaviour on the occasion of the first performance of MR. CHARLES READE's drama. It is difficult to understand what he means when he says that "he did not reply to the indignant gentleman in the stalls, but that on the exact contrary, in addressing the public he stated that he could not reply individually," for the statement flatly contradicts itself. Moreover, an actor who, in addressing the public states that he cannot reply individually, appears to be in the equivocal position of a dumb man who tells you that he cannot speak.

Before MR. VINING indulges in another piece of Itisnevertoolatetomend-acity he had better learn that it is impossible for a man to deal' in facts unless he does stick to truth, for "untrue facts" is a contradiction in terms. MR. VINING is a good actor, but a bad satirist, and in taking up the cudgels in the latter capacity, he has made himself as ridiculous as we should ourselves appear if we attempted to play the part of the repentant convict in MR. READE's remarkable drama. MR. VINING is all our fancy painted him, he's lovely, he's divine, but calculated he is not in epigram to shine.

THE NEXT OLYMPIC BURLESQUE. PERHAPS there is no event in the theatrical world which is so anxiously looked for as the production of the next Olympic burlesque. We are in a position to lay before our readers a portion of a scene from that work, and we lose no time in doing so. The burlesque is the production of MESSRS. B-T and B-LLINGH-M, the talented authors of C-m-r-lz-m-n. These gentlemen, in pursuance of their determination to pitch upon another subject that has never been used for dramatic purposes, have selected the obscure story of Aladdin for burlesque

treatment.

SCENE IV.-Interior of the Emperor's palace. Enter ALADDIN and PRINCESS BADROULBADOUR.

So it does appear.(1)

This is not Voxholl.(®) ALAD.-I love your daughter, and her my wife would call. EMP.-But are you rich?

ALAD.

Ain't I neither!
I should rather think I was-reether!!

(Slaps himself and puts out his tongue.)
Here is a jewel that will buy more meat than you chew'll.
EMP.-Take her!
VIZ.-
Back isn't that a pull! (10)
Concerted Piece-"Slap Bang."
ALAD.-Oh, it is very jolly, and I am extremely pappee
EMP.-She'll be farther from her father when married she be !
BAD.-I love you so, Aladdin, I swear I do.
VIZ.-I shouldn't at all wonder if I wos looking blue!
ALL (to Vizier).—Ain't he most melancholy, OP
-lancholy, O?
-lancholy, O?

VIZ.ALL.

Ain't he most melancholy, O? I should rather think I wos!

"Stayed," ""staid."

Pun.

"Princess," " (im)prints his." Pun.
"Emprer," "Him pray." Pun.

"Caddot" is "cannot" pronounced with a cold.

"Voxhall" and "Vot'shall" is an ingenious pun.

(9) "Than you chew'll," than you will chew, than you can possibly eat. (10) "Back isn't that a pull," euphuism for " Isn't that a pull back," the refrain of a clever comic song.

Answers to Correspondents.

QUEER-EYE must have closed that organ, or he would have seen that the quotation does not profess to be taken from any where in particular. Hadn't our correspondent better substitute "Donk" for "Queer" in

future?

E. T. L., Tachbrook-street.-Declined with thanks, not as a question of time, but of rhyme.

ALADDIN.

Yes, isn't it odd ?

I saw you first going to the bath, long since,

F. W., Stockwell.-Many thanks for the information. The en

AN ANXIOUS WIDDER.-We have laid your offer of a home before NICHOLAS, but the ungrateful old man says you only want a second for the ring. Shouldn't you have spelt "widder" with an "e" instead of an "i"?

AN UNCERTAIN CARD.-Yes, possibly; although on second thoughts we should say not, but there is a great deal to be said on both sides. QUIVIS. See last answer, which will meet the requirements of many of our correspondents who will obligingly adopt it.

[The canny editor of an obscure north country print hopes by turning on us a mild stream of invective about Sabbatarianism, to induce us to notice him in our columns. Not exactly! Our charge for advertisements is half-a-crown a line.]