MRS. BROWN MAKES HERSELF AGREEABLE.

Ir was the last night of the year a twelvemonth ago as we spent with the RIGHTONS, and I says to myself the moment I got in the house as there was a somethin' come over me, for who should I see a-settin' agin the winder but that fellow SADLING, as I did not expect for to meet, through a-thinkin' as they wasn't on terms, though, perhaps, it's as well to make things up at Christmas time when every one did ought to be jolly.

But he's a double-dyed, black-hearted fellow, as I've know'd from a youth, when he was called serious and used to expound, as made me sick; a chit of a boy a-talkin' to you about where you was goin' to, and all that, as I've cut short scores of times, and pretty sharp too. As soon as I see him in MRS. RIGHTON's parlor, I know'd as things wouldn't work square through SADLING havin' married MRS. RIGHTON'S niece, a poor, pale-faced thing, as spoke very like a mouse in a cheese, as the sayin' is, and got six, though not a thrivin' lot, as is never free from colds, a bad sign in my opinion through a-showin' weakness, and I've know'd myself to turn to water in the head.

I never heard that poor MRS. SADLING complain, though I've often gone to set with her when up-stairs, as had her hands full with three on them almost in arms at once, and that fellow a mean beast, as locked up the tea and sugar, so always took a bit in my pocket, as cannot drink cat-lap, as the sayin' is.

We got through tea at MRS. RIGHTON's pretty well through me atalkin' friendly between MRS. RIGHTON and MRS. SADLING, BROWN he didn't come in till about seven, and RIGHTON, as is a commercial traveller, wasn't expected home till supper, as would be half-past nine. It nearly made me sick for to hear that SADLING a-talkin' to his eldest boy, as is his father all over, as it is one person's work for to look to that poor child's cold, and didn't ought to have been out at all, and his father a-makin' of him repeat serious rhymes.

So I says, "Rubbish," quite loud. He ups and says to me, "I'd thank you, MRS. BROWN, not to contaminate my child." I says, "I'm not a-goin' to, MR. SADLING, through not bein' of his father," as shut him up pretty quick. I says, "Prayers and hymns is very proper in their places; but," I says, "not for to be made a show on," as makes MRS. RIGHTON say, "Hear, hear." The colour as that SADLING turned was the kite's foot for yallerness.

So MRS. RIGHTON she says, givin' of me a wink, "MRS. BROWN, mum, would you like a hand of cards?" I says, "I'm agreeable to anythin', as I considers all fours' a noble game."

Says SADLING, "If there's cards I leaves the 'ouse, as does my family." "Oh, indeed!" says I; "then no cards for me, as should be sorry to part families; not as we was goin' to play for money, MR. SADLING, as I knows you object to." Well he might, for he was found out cheatin' at "my bird sings" in his first wife's time, a-drinkin' tea with my own aunt. He kep' a-growin' more livid like every moment did that SADLING, till BROWN come in, and they got a-talkin' about them niggers over there, as I know'd would end bad.

So I says, "Bother the blacks! let 'em alone," just for to stop it. We was only seven without the children, as the two young SADLINGS was sent home and the rest went to bed afore nine.

I did think as that evenin' would never come to a end, but when RIGHTON come in about ten it seemed more cheerful, and then we had supper, as was good cut and come again style, a lovely bit of roast beef with plum puddin', and everythin' else homely but good, as was RIGHTON's dinner.

That chap SADLING he would say grace when the meat was uncovered, as put MRS. RIGHTON out, for he kep' on a-talkin' at me through it, a-mentionin' flesh-pots quite pointed. I didn't take no notice, of course, and we got on with supper very comfortable, and poor MRS. SADLING seemed to enjoy the bit as she did take, as likewise after a glass of hot, as I mixed for her myself pretty stiff when he wasn't a-lookin', through knowin' as she required it. We really was a-gettin' somethin' like cheerful when SADLING begins a-sayin' we was perishin' clay. So I says, "Don't you bother about clay now except it is to moisten your own." He says, "MRS. BROWN, you're a lump of profaneness.' Well, I didn't mind the profaneness, but to be called a lump is more than I could stand. So I says, "Per'aps I may be, through not a-carin' to be a cantin' 'umbug, and wouldn't stoop for to take advantage of my chapel for to take in a poor old woman, and then to neglect her shameful on her dyin' bed."

Well, the words wasn't out of my mouth afore I see BROWN give me a look as showed I'd been and put my foot in it, and so I had, for MRS. SADLING turns round and says, "Are you a-darin' for to illude to my 'usband?" Well," I says, through feelin' a little warm, "truth is truth, and I was.' So he groans out, "Let her alone, ANNA MARIA, whatever you do. She's a burnin' brand. Go and look to your babe," and she leaves the room.

I says, "A burnin' brand, indeed! Who are you a-talkin' to ?" for I know'd as it was a cut at my sperrits and water as he was a-givin' on the sly. I says, "Didn't you marry that old MRS. TOWSELL, as was

seventy and you only four-and-twenty, and didn't you encourage her in rum and water till she fell for'ards on the bars with a doublebordered nightcap, and carried the marks to her gravé through the black a-burnin' in, and could be traced all down her face. No, I will not hold my tongue, BROWN; I'll tell him what he's a-darin' for to call me a brand indeed." Well, MRS. RIGHTON she can't a-bear SADLING, and kep' a-urgin' me on. So I says, "You're a man, you are, as makes that poor thing your wife all of a tremble, as well she may be, for I've seen the bruises on her myself." So BROWN he gets up and says, "Now I tell you what it is, MARTHA, if you don't hold your tongue I'll put you out of the room myself." "No," I says, BROWN, that you never will, for," I says, "I've got legs as can carry me, and I'll go myself." Up jumps MRS. RIGHTON and give BROWN a proper settin' down, for she says, "MR. BROWN, please for to remember as this is my room." So BROWN he was down in a moment, through bein' quite the gentleman, and says, "I asks pardon."

RIGHTON he's a jolly fellow, and says, "Oh! bother rows, let's all be friends, and I'll make a bowl of punch," and so he did, and never did I taste better, and then he sung a song as made me nearly die of laughture, and begun for to think as we was goin' to be happy after all. Whether it was the punch or the song, as was about " Coalblack Rose," I don't know, but somethin' or another brought up them beastly blacks agin.

SADLING wasn't spoke to, and why need he come a-shoving of his nose into other parties' conversations, as come through me a sayin' as rum was made out of pine-apples, and RIGHTON a-replyin' as it growed in Jamaica, where they've been a pepperin' them niggers. "Serve 'em right," says I, "the black butchers," throwed off my guard, as the sayin' is. "Sufferin' righteous," says SADLING, "as the carnal mind persecutes." I bust out a-laughin' and was pretty nigh choked through the punch going the wrong way, and SADLING says it was a judgment on me. I couldn't stand that from him, so I says, "Don't you be too handy with your judgments, young man, as may come home to you afore you dies." BROWN, he says, "MARTHA, stash it." I says, "Never."

MRS. RIGHTON, she says, "Let her speak, and if that thing's a man let him answer," for she wanted to have it out with him, through his wife bein' kep' up stairs along with the infant as was a-cryin'. SADLING says, "I pities you."

I says, "Well you may, in havin' such a fellow as you in the family," for my tongue was set free, as the children was gone, and his wife not there. Now," I says, "SAMUEL SADLING, let me tell you that if ever you lifts your hand agin that poor wife of yours as you knows you did inthat situation not six weeks back, that day as I come in sudden, I'll turn you inside out. You know as I could do it and I will." I says, "You black-hearted, tallow-faced sneak. Now," I says, "I come out to make myself agreeable, and I means to do it; but," I says, 66 you take warning." I really was a bilin' over to see how he treated that poor woman. Bless you, he dropped into his boots, as the sayin' is. I says, "Don't speak not another word-I don't want to part man and wife, but I'll stand up for her."

I knowed I got the fellow on the hip, as was afraid of RIGHTON through his being trustee to MRS. SADLING's bit of money, as her husband has tried to get hold on over and over again, and would have done it but for me a-givin' MRS. RIGHTON the office, 'cos you see that SADLING's first wife were the widder of a uncle of mine through marriage with his first wife. So SADLING he looks round and says as he didn't know why I attackted him. I says, "Shall I tell you?" Well that settled him, so he says, "I forgive you; let us shake hands."

I says, "Never will I be double-faced. I'm not a-goin' to shake hands with you till I sees how you behaves, and we'll talk more about that next Christmas, as is a time for family meetings as general produces good feelin's." Just then MRS. SADLING she come in a-sayin' as she was anxious about the baby, and would like for to go home. If you'd seen that SADLING how ready he was, though in general being that contradictory. Off they went, and I says, "Good-night" to him, though I didn't give him my hand, but only remarks, "Remember what I've said as I'll certainly stick to."

When they was gone BROWN give me a bit of a talking to, as he says he didn't want no words when we got home. So I says, "I 'umbly asks pardon, MRS. RIGHTON, if I've been and said anything as would cause unpleasantness as is not my 'abits." She says, “MRS. BROWN, I'd give the world if I could tackle anybody like as you do, for I never see such a woman for putting anyone down."

I says, "Them as deserves it I'll always give it to for if there is anything as I hates in this world its 'umbug; but," I says, "it's a-striking twelve, and here's a happy New Year to us all, and my only hope is as we shall act as well by the year as it will by us, for all years is much the same, and a great deal depends upon how you takes things in this life, and may the present moment be the wust of our lives," as makes RIGHTON say, "Brayvo," and MRS. RIGHTON She give me a kiss, and we had a kiss all round; and BROWN, he says, "MARTHA, you're a old"- but I wouldn't let him say no more, and home we goes.

Half in hope and half in fear
Waiting for the present year.
Let it all be Hope to-night;
Fear will come to-morrow, maybe,
Let, at least, my heart be light
For the sake of little baby,
Coming to a world of pain
In the darkness and the rain.

Baby brings upon the earth

Certain presents, from the fairies;
Talismans of which the worth
Utterly beyond compare is,
Presents, be it understood,
Both for evil and for good.

So it might be worth my while
To prepare a kindly greeting,
And to welcome with a smile
Little baby at our meeting.
Seeing that I quite intend
Baby for my bosom-friend.

FROM OUR STALL.

Watching out a dim December;

It is now some years since L'Orphée aux Enfers, the music by OFFENBACH, the words by CREMIEUX, made a stir in Paris. It is, therefore, in accordance with the tortoise habits of London directors of theatres, that the opera should be about seven years coming over to London, by the quick train that leaves one capital at 8 p.m. to arrive in the other capital by 7 a.m. Had it not been for the good taste and enterprise of a music-hall director-music-halls set the fashion now-the London public-and it deserves well of managers does the London public, for is it not patient and obedient?-would never have heard the delicious crisp aërial melodies of this most charming of opéras bouffes. However, at last Orpheus, has found a home in the Haymarket, where he has been rendered into English by MR. PLANCHE in his most polished and elegant style. One question: Where is JOHN STYX ?

Apropos of the Haymarket, MR. SOTHERN has returned, and blazes as Brother Sam nightly.

A very funny little personal Extravaganza, called, Please to remember

the Grotto; or, the Manageress in a Fix, has been produced at the St. James's. It is full of Christmas hits and Christmas fun, and is entirely successful.

Another burlesque author has made his debut at the New Royalty, in the person of MR. R. REECE, who has written a mythological extravaganza, called, Prometheus; or, the Man on the Rock, which is also a

SCOTT's lovely story of The Bride of Lammermoor has been dramatised and converted into an interesting play and a beautiful spectacle at the Lyceum, and the management of that theatre may be congratulated. If in the drama the dramatist and the actors have not Scotch'd the story they have not killed it. MISS CARLOTTA LECLERQ's rendering of Lucy fairly took the house by storm; and MRS. TERNAN returned to the stage to make us regret that she had ever been absent from it. MR. FECHTER's performance was tender and impassioned, but he was more like Edgardo di Selva-di-Corvo than Edgar of Ravenswood.

At the end of the play the stage-manager made a very humorous speech, in which he told the audience that the author, MR. PALGRAVE SIMPSON, had been adapted from SIR WALTER SCOTT, and that he, the stage-manager and not SIR WALTER, was at the same time glad and sorry to say that, owing to the kind enthusiasm of the house, the time was a quarter to twelve, in fact Sunday morning.

OUR LIBRARY TABLE.

Ir is a singular feature of the Temperance press, that its members presumedly sober, always write as unregenerate press-men do when drunk. There is the same haziness in the matter of stops, the same confusion of metaphor, the same reckless and wholly indiscriminate use of epithets. These compositions are not merely the outpourings of uneducated duffers, they are the outpourings of uneducated duffers under the influence of a species of confusing enthusiasm, which seems to overwhelm all ideas of logical sequence. We are informed that many of these temperance orators are respectable men in their way, small tradesmen, schoolmasters, and so forth, who conduct the ordinary business details of everyday life with average shrewdness, and that it is only when they turn from their counters and flogging-stools to take up the total abstinence question that they exhibit anything like incoherence in their speech and general imbecility in their actions. What is there in the doctrine of absolute temperance to make its votaries drunk? Do they fly to it as the cheapest (but not the least degrading) form of intoxication ? At their dinner-tables do they

66

drink each others healths in a volume of fine old-crusted Father Mathew? Does the most rollicking bon-vivant among them ever suggest, One more tract before we part?" Does MR. WILLIAM TWEEDIE, their stock publisher, give tasting-orders to the faithful, and do they leave his shop as we sinners do after a visit to the docks? Really these questions deserve a little attention.

We have before us two publications issued by the Ipswich Temperance Tract Society. One is called She is Saved! She is Saved!a life sketch, and the other, The Sunday School Teacher, a Wreck, and both are from the pen of a MR. JOHN H. ESTERBROOKE, who is represented in the former tract, in the act of picking up a very drunken lady, amid the jeers of four or five evil-minded spectators. She is Saved opens in the proper tract style with an allegory bearing moreor less-directly upon the moral to be enforced.

"At a gallery of art I observed among a collection of exquisite paintings one production so distinctive in outline, life-like in colouring, and graphic in detail, as to spellbind my deepest sympathies. It was a representation of a British sailor, suspended over the colossal side of a majestic ship in full sail, with a cable (!) entwined round his arm and grasped in his hand, while with the other (query cable ?) he was supporting an insensible mother with an infant clinging to her breast, just emerged from the deep waters, within sight of approaching sharks. The deck appeared crowded with passengers and seamen. At this dread moment a burst of she is saved! She is saved!'" grateful joy is supposed to rise from the horror-stricken voyagers, 'Thank God,

whose brush had worked so strongly on MR. ESTERBROOKE's imaginaIt would have been only fair to have given the name of the artist tion. We trust that the picture had an existence and that it was not invented in order to admit of the author's introducing the following beery reflection:

"I have often thought since that if a pictorial subject can bestir our benevolent nature, how much more should we be roused into action to rescue immortal women from the dark billows of intemperance and vice."

So far the preamble. In the succeeding paragraph we learn how ingeniously the author contrives to spin out the fact that he

was once out on a wet night:

"One dreary, stormy night, when the nocturnal luminary-(he means the moon)was shrouded in gloom, and the twinkling stars had withdrawn their resplendent lustre, the streets were deserted and solemnly silent as the deep vaults of the dead, and all rational nature seemed hushed in the arms of balmy repose, save when

broken by the measured footfalls (tramp) of the watchful policeman or the ravings of a drunken maniac."

Well? What then? Why pull up at this point, if you are sober MR. JOHN H. ESTERBROOKE? This is not a complete sentence, you know. But we must not be too hard upon you. You are on a temperance subject, and so, for the moment, not accountable.

Well, the gifted author on this bad night, finds a young woman very drunk, "dressed in the gay habiliments of immoral nature, whose melancholy and refined countenance gave evidence of her having irradiated a more hallowed circle." MR. SAMUEL WARREN was, we believe, the first to discover that this melancholy refinement invariably characterizes the countenances of Pye-street outcasts. MR. ESTERBROOKE gives her a letter of recommendation to a temperance club. She immediately signs the pledge, and becomes a shining character on the spot. Eventually the benevolent author meets her in Trafalgar-square (it always is Trafalgar-square) and finds that she is married to the best of men, and spending her time on deeds of mercy, temperance, and devotion.

The plot of The Sunday School Teacher, a Wreck, is soon told. MR. ESTERBROOKE's attention is directed to an obscure passage near a crowded thoroughfare, from which loud screams proceed. He hastens up the passage, and observes

"A human being huddled up in a corner, leaning against a shattered wall, the remnant of an old house in ruins. She was clad in a ragged gown, besmeared with filth and blood, exposed to the northern blast and drizzling rain; her knotted hair hung wildly over her head, which was partially enveloped in her lap. I discovered, however, a frightful bruise on the left cheek, which had closed the eye above, and a wide gash was under the other, from which the blood was trickling down."

A little girl, the daughter of this beauty, endeavours to shield her from observation by exclaiming, "Oh, don't look at my mother!" But this ingenious attempt to divert MR. ESTERBROOKE's attention is unsuccessful.

It would perhaps be going too far to assert that this served the candid little girl right, but the "imbruted parent" certainly acted under great provocation. Our good author remonstrates with the lady, who, in return swears at him, and, we are sorry to say that his subsequent behaviour was open to misconstruction.

"With some difficulty I dragged her to her desolated tenement; during the journey I was taunted and jeered at by stony-hearted publicans and their brutalminded victims, saying, 'There goes Esterbrooke with his sweetheart.''

Bearing in mind his description of the lady, this must have been hard for ESTERBROOKE te bear. But ESTERBROOKE was not to be diverted from his humane purpose by ribald publicans (who, by the bye, appeared to know him), and he dragged his protégée home. She died in three days (it always is three days), but whether death was the result of the drinking or the dragging, does not appear. Finally the writer derives a moral from the fact that this woman (who was once a Sunday-school teacher) so died:

"Christian mothers and daughters of England, can you, after this melancholy narrative continue to drink liquor which can thus transform your sex into the very personification of vice and woe, and cause an orphan child to blush at its mother's iniquity and shame?"

Answers to Correspondents.

V. McC.-Do you want a reply? Because, if so, your jokes won't

answer.

ALBERTO ALPHONSO.-You draw very nicely, but unfortunately your joke has not as much point as your pen.

S. M., Mincing-lane. Your pencil, unlike ALPHONSO's, wants point --you had better cut it. Your joke ditto, so we have cut it. H. J. B.-"The Young Gossoon" is unsuitable-and then that venerable joke about felo de se! Fellow, discede!

P. V. L., Pimlico.-The pun about "mad-moselle" is very good, but we too have been at the Prince of Wales's.

R. G., Liverpool.-Contributions should be addressed to the cditor. They should also be good.

JOLLY FACE.-Why not BONIFACE, for your suggested cartoon was about inns?

R. B., "residing within one hundred miles of Gray's Inn."-Your legal account of the "tenants" of your heart who hold it "per tout et non per mie" is unsuitable. Judging from the verse, we should say they had a fee simple.

INSANUS, who assumes the initials R. M. in his letter, sends us some verses which seemed mad before they were read, and were, when Red, Madder. AGNES.-Will you kindly explain what you mean about people "appropriating ideas?" We don't understand the charge, but your contribution is safe-there is no chance of any one appropriating an idea from that.

SPOONEY PHILOSOPHY.

FOR losing my sensitive heart,

Sweet LILY, I'm daily reproved; 'Tis folly to say we should part,

When you know you were made to be loved.
They prate of pounds, shillings, and pence
That I'm foolish all seem to agree;
But, LILY, pray who would boast sense,
If madness is worshipping thee?

I am sick of their preaching and prose;
I will close up my ears from the sound.
Love, dearest, resembles the rose

As its petals will fall to the ground.
Let them chaff me, and call me a spoon,
Love's blossom we'll gather in play;
The morrow may come but too soon,
Let us make, then, the most of to-day.

It is the Cows! It is the Cows!

TO THE EDITOR OF FUN.

without a male friend to advise me in cases of difficulty. As you are SIR,-I am a middle-aged spinster, a tender, delicate creature the champion of the sex, I appeal to you for counsel under the following shire, and I have a tortoiseshell tom cat, a remarkably fine but somepeculiar circumstances. I am a native of Hilton, in Huntingdonwhat erratic animal, and the following announcement has just appeared in the local paper. What am I to do?

THE CATTLE PLAGUE.

NOTICE.

WHEREAS the Cattle Plague has reached villages adjacent to Hilton, and Whercas Dogs and Cats are known to be agents in communicating the Plague from place to place, We, the undersigned, inhabitants of Hilton, have agreed at a public vestry meeting held on Monday, December 18th, 1865, to destroy all Dogs and Cats found at large (without their owners) after Six o'clock in the evening, from Saturday, December 23rd, 1865, to Lady Day the 25th of March, 1866. Witness our hands this 18th day of Dec., 1865,

Am I to walk about with my tortoiseshell tom at those hours after six at which he elects to ramble, say about twelve o'clock at night, an

hour which I fix on because I have had on several occasions to descend

with my flannel jupe round my shoulders to let him in. Now I want to know whether the vestry can destroy my cat supposing he wanders out without me (which is very likely) after six o'clock in the evening. Please tell me and relieve the anxiety of

Yours nervously,

TABITHA.

We are sorry to add to our correspondent's alarm, but we fear the Vestry which put forth the notice she quotes would be capable of anything except common sense.

FROM OUR STALL.

WITH Little Don Giovanni, the burlesque, at the Prince of Wales', our diagnosis of the funny fever prevalent in theatres at Christmas time concludes. For the extravaganza itself, it is the best MR. BYRON has written, indeed, the dialogue is so markedly superior that it might almost be supposed the author had intended it for a tour de force-as who should say, "Now here is a piece in which the interest and situations are purposely and intentionally kept subordinate to the writing." That the stage should be light during the scene in which Donna Anna mistakes Leporello for his master, is an absurdity so glaring as to make us suspect that its commission is wilful. The famous statue scene, which is a proof of MR. BYRON's strength, when he chooses to exercise it, contains as good, terse, solid, burlesque writing, as has been heard since the famous Masaniello of the late ROBERT BROUGH. The selection of music is especially good: the duet sung by MISS HUGHES and MISS FANNY JOSEPHS is the most important effect. There is also the mock magnificent, "les rois remplis de vaillance," of our charming OFFENBACH, as well as the real magnificent "morceau d' unison," from L' Africaine, and a singular ditty with "a tootletum, tootle-tum" chorus that is irresistibly absurd. The acting of the extravaganza sends the stalls, boxes, pit, and galleries into raptures. MISS MARIE WILTON, as the Little Don, looks like a bull-fighter on a bonbon-box. MR. CLARKE is Leporello; MR. MONTGOMERY a policeman (introduced, and not indigenous to the story); MISS HUGHES, Donna Anna; and MR. HARE, Zerlina. The scenery is very beautiful. The costumes of the ladies-particularly that of MISS FANNY JOSEPHS, who plays Masetto-we will not attempt to describe-that is the province of the poet. Possibly Fux's staff of versifiers, with the supernumerary aid of MESSRS. TENNYSON, BROWNING, and SWINBURNE, might make something of it.

Another burlesque has been produced at the Strand under the title of Nellie's Trials. One or two of the critics have actually been taken in by this clever parody on the Richardsonian drama. Not so our

"Enough is as Good as a Feast!"

Query, IS IT?

WHENEVER the goddess of pleasure
Enriches our life from her store,
If we seek for too brimming a measure
And are greedy enough to wish more,
We are told that our judgment is blinded,
When our bliss we would fain have increased,

And by prudence are gently reminded

That "Enough is as good as a feast!"

It is no novel saying, for ages

Have put it full oft to the test-
'Tis admitted by fools and by sages
That "Populi vox Deus est;"
Yet still-it may be my affliction-
From delusion I am not released,
And I cannot accept the conviction
That "Enough is as good as a feast!"

Of the goods that we need for existence
I may possibly have just enough-
Can live without asking assistance

Of friends-have, in fact quantum suff.
Pay my bills, though it needs some exertion-
And am not in debt in the least;

Still I do not believe the assertion

That "Enough is as good as a feast!"

I am fond of my port after dinner,

That is when I've the luck to dine out;
But, alas! a poor, frail, feeble sinner,
The demon that haunts me is gout!
My youth and my nerves, and digestion,
Are things that have long since deceased-
Just answer me plainly the question-
Is "Enough then as good as a feast ?"
"Enough!" 'tis a dubious expression!
Can we get it? ah, that is the rub!
"Enough," if we trust his confession,
DIOGENES found in a tub!

It was doubtless an adequate mansion
For a sneering and cynical beast;
For mankind 'twould have needed expansion
Before 'twas "as good as a feast."

selves; we saw through the joke directly MR. PARSELLE made an appointment with MR. BELFORD for "to-morrow, at sunrise in yonder copse," which neither of them kept. When the said MR. BELFORD seriously asked MISS ADA SWANBOROUGH Whether she would like him "to bring his guitar and serenade her presently," we were more than ever convinced that a new star of surprising brilliancy had arisen in the firmament of burlesque, under the humble name of JOHN BROUGHAM. Since the days of BELLINGHAM and BEST, nothing more truly refined and humourous than Nellie's Trials has been put upon the boards. Our only objection to the title is that Nellie has very few trials worth speaking of. The absurd way in which that young lady spells her name is a matter of less importance. The hero of the play is a young sailor who gets killed in a duel and comes to life again in a most natural and unaffected manner. The heroine is not Nellie, but another lady, who comes to life again without getting killed- also in a most natural and unaffected manner. This is all we remember of the plot, except the noble conduct of a cavalier, who is continually on the point of killing the heavy ruffian, but continually allows him to go on living, and justifies his forbearance by muttering "Villain, thine hour is not yet come!" The piece was received with much laughter, and may be considered a success.

At the Olympic the farce of the Windmill has been revived. The principal characters are played-and played well-by MR. F. YOUNGE and MISS LYDIA FOOTE. The gentleman is a valuable acquisition to this theatre; and the lady for some inscrutable reasons, has played about a dozen times in the course of as many months.

A CLEAN SWEEP.

"IN anticipation of the opening of Parliament," says a cotemporary, "the House of Lords is undergoing a thorough cleansing." Why don't they wait till the Lords assemble, when a little cleansing might be effected to some purpose; indeed, a clean sweep of the whole affair, according to MR. BRIGHT, might prove advantageous.