home? Ah! poor things! that must be the heart-breaking part of the business to them!"

I hardly expected to be met in this knock-down style. But though compelled to acknowledge in my own mind the truth of every word uttered by my interlocutor, I attempted a defence for the spirit of the Londoners by saying " Well, Sir; I make no doubt that when the eight or ten new theatres now in contemplation, or in progress, shall be completed, that not only will the wanderers be induced to return, but (which in my opinion is of still greater importance) that the present vast superfluity of histrionic talent in London will find both employment and reward."

I was not sorry when a turn was given to the conversation, by Hobbleday's asking me what I thought of the new drop-scene? The landscape, as he called it, that being a view of the Crescent, with its twenty-four houses, with green doors and brass knockers-was the work of the theatrical scene-painter, Mr. Smearwell; the figures-a grenadier standing sentry at each corner-were put in by Mr. Daubson, the celebrated portrait-painter. It appeared to me that Mr. Smearwell was a little out in his perspective; for, whilst the centre house was firmly placed on the ground, the others, right and left, appeared to be curling up into the air. However, as it cannot be an easy matter to draw fourand-twenty houses in the exact form of a crescent, I thought that any remark I should offer upon the point might be cousidered as hypercritical. Upon the whole, therefore, I could not but express my admiration of the painting.

"But, how is it, Mr. Hobbleday," said I, "that the soldiers are made to appear taller than the houses? Their caps o'ertop the chimneypots!"

"In the first place," answered Hobbleday, somewhat tartly, "I suppose our Daubson, who painted the famous grenadier in Yawkins's skittle-ground, knew very well what he was about: he wasn't going to paint hop-o'-my-thumbs that might be mistaken for drummer-boys. They are grenadiers, arn't they? In the next place, Sir, was a man like Daubson to play second fiddle to Smearwell?-though Smearwell is a great man in his way."

"I don't quite understand the bearing of that question," said I.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Hobbleday, wondering at my stupidity; "if Daubson had painted his figures smaller, would not Smearwell have had the best of it? As it is, the grenadiers are the first things that catch our attention. It stands to reason, doesn't it?"

To attempt to argue against a reason (and such a reason!) thought I, would be about as wise a proceeding as running my head against a stone wall; so, all I said in reply was- Unquestionably, Sir."

I had been so closely engaged in the foregoing conversation with Hobbleday that I paid little or no attention to what was going on around

me.

But I was suddenly startled by the tuning of the instruments in the orchestra. The band was-as the play-bills expressed it-" numerous and efficient." Indeed it was (as Hobbleday assured me) the very band usually provided for "balls and assemblies," by the celebrated Mr. Wagglebow, the principal (that is to say, the only) music-seller in the place. Mr. Wagglebow himself played the first violin, and led; the other violin (the first second as it would technically be called in orches

tras still more numerous and efficient than this) was played by Mr. Wagglebow, junior; the harp was by a younger son of Mr. W.'s; and the flageolet by his youngest. There was also a big drum, which was performed upon by an elderly gentleman, an amateur, as Hobbleday informed me. This performer did not servilely follow his leader, as less inspired musicians are wont to do; nor did he play from book. He seemed to trust entirely to his own genius, and the necessity of the case, both for what he should do, and when he should do it; and it was only when he perceived that something was not quite right, or when he fancied there was a deficiency of force in the orchestral effects, that he brought his powerful aid to bear by giving one, two, three, or even halfa-dozen heavy thumps on his drum, according to his own notion of what the particular circumstances required.

While the band was performing the pleasing ceremony of tuning, I looked round the house. There were about thirty persons in the pit; about fifty (including the crowd of orderlies) in the boxes; and (though I could not see the gallery) I should guess from "the dreadful pother o'er our heads," which was kept by "the great gods,” there could not be fewer than twenty in that division of the theatre. The house, taken altogether, might have been about one-third filled; though, when the half-price was in, it was about half-full. This was, what Hobbleday called, a most capital house." It was his opinion, however, (he having come in with an order) that the prices must be lowered. And here I must take occasion to note down that my old acquaintance was invaluable to me; since, but for the information I received from him, I might have remained ignorant upon many important points.

"There!" cried he; you see Miss Cripps, our Sappho, in that little box? Well; the two gentlemen who have just joined her are Mr. Dowlas, the author of the Hatchet of Horror,' and Mr. Fiat of the 'Dictator.' Fiat, by-the-by, great friend of Snoxell's and Tippleton's. Sweet, they say, upon little Laura Dobs-ahem! And, there, in that box opposite, is Miss Jane Scrubbs. She is the celebrated writer of the riddles and conundrums in our Observer.' She signs herself Enaj Sbburcs-the name reversed. Very ingenious, eh? Ah! Rummins, the editor has joined her. He is very intimate with Waddle and Gigs, and is a great friend of Mr. Strut's, the manager."

I paid particular attention to this piece of information. Why I did so I scarcely know.

"Clever at guessing riddles, eh?" inquired Hobbleday; who receiving from me no other answer than a shake of the head, continued: "Miss Scrubbs's last is wonderful; most wonderful! All Little Pedlington been trying at it for a week; yet nobody has guessed it, although Rummins, in his paper, offers a prize to the successful guesser. Have been trying at it myself night and day, but can do nothing with it. It is a puzzler. Only listen.

"It can't be a fish," said Hobbleday, "for any fool could guess that. But, stop; they are striking up music." And the orchestra performed the march in the Battle of Prague with wonderful precision and effect: -the instruments being scarcely half a note out of tune with each other, and all the performers arriving at the last bar nearly at the same moment with the leader-he, of course, as leader, coming in a leetle before the others. The overture was loudly applauded and unanimously encored. The gallery called for it a third time. This call, however, was resisted by the rest of the house. A contest which lasted for some time ensued; and everybody at once crying "Silence!" instead of holding their tongues, a tremendous noise was the consequence. The most uproarious of the gods (a large, fat man) being singled out, several gentlemen in the boxes called, "Turn him out, turn him out," whilst the pit, as with one voice, in the most disinterested manner insisted upon it that he should be thrown over-utterly regardless of the fact that obedience to their command must have been attended with certain uncom

fortable consequences to some amongst themselves. The large, fat, Little-Pedlingtonian (apparently not approving of this mode of visiting the pit at gallery price) was silent, and the rest followed his example.

Miss Julia Wriggles then appeared before the curtain to speak an address written, for the occasion, by the celebrated Miss Cripps. She was received with a loud and general clapping of hands. The address was composed with that elegance for which Miss Cripps is so justly celebrated, and contained many new points: the most remarkable of which were, that it deprecated censure and solicited praise. It concluded with these lines:

"Since British hearts are true to virtue's cause,

Long live the King! and grant us your applause."

Owing either to the smallness of the theatre, or the indistinctness of the fair speaker, I missed many words. The address and Miss Julia Wriggles were, however, vehemently applauded, and the lady made her curtsey and withdrew. The instant she disappeared there was a general call for Miss Julia Wriggles; and, after this call had been repeated some dozens of times, she returned. She looked confused, and grateful, and modest, and-in short, she looked everything that it is possible, under such circumstances, to look; and, amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, and cries of "Brayvo!" a wreath of flowers was thrown upon the stage. It came from an upper side-box. The lady gracefully and gratefully took it up, pressed it to her heart, and again withdrew.

66 Bless my soul! dear me!" said Hobbleday; "I'd almost lay my life I saw that thrown from the manager's box! But, no; I must be mistaken."

Tingle-tingle went the prompter's bell, and the curtain rose.

The piece first performed was (I copy the play-bill) an entirely new, ORIGINAL, domestic melodrame in two acts, never before performed, and now acted for the first time, founded on the affecting, barbarous, and interesting murder of Martha Squigs, and called

THE HATCHET OF HORROR;

OR,

THE MASSACRED MILK-MAID.

GRUMPS, a footpad (in love with Martha
Squigs)

GROWLER, his friend

SQUIGS, a smuggler (in love with La-
vinia Grumps)

MUZZLE, a poacher (also in love with
Martha Squigs)
Lord HARDHEART

Mrs. SQUIGS, Mother of Squigs and
Martha .

Mrs. GRUMPS, wife of Grumps

LAVINIA GRUMPS, her daughter with

a song

NINNYPOCHIA, a dumb gypsey-girl
with a pas seul

MARTHA SQUIGS, the Massacred Milk-
Maid

Mr. SNOXELL.

Mr. WADDLE.

Mr. E. STRUT.

JMr. STRIDE.

Mr. STAGGER.

Mrs. BIGGLESWADE.
Mrs. A. STRUT.

Miss WARBLE.

Mlle. SARA DES ENTRECHATS.

Miss JULIA WRIGGLES.

In addition to these there are some subordinate characters: constables, excisemen, gamekeepers, &c.

The scene lies at, and in the immediate neighbourhood of, Hardheart Hall, the seat of Lord Hardheart, who, being a nobleman, and a magistrate moreover, is naturally represented as a tyrant and an oppressor. At the Hall is Martha Squigs engaged in the humble but innocent duties of a milk-maid. She has been there only nineteen days, and it was (as she tells us) to escape from the persecution of Grumps's addresses (Grumps being a married man, and she having given her heart to Muzzle, a gallant young poacher) that she quitted

'The roof maternal, mother's lowly cot.”

There is, besides this, another reason for her having left her home. Her mother's circumstances being far from affluent, and her lover's profession of rather a precarious nature, she prudently resolved (again I quote her own words)

"To scrape together something of my own,

And so provide against a rainy day."

The piece opens with the discovery of Lord Hardheart (Mr. Stagger) seated at a table in his library, and surrounded by his domestics, amongst whom is Martha (Miss Julia Wriggles). These are assembled to hear the examination of a poacher, who is about to be brought before his Lordship. He comes on in the custody of two gamekeepers. It is young Muzzle! (Stride). Martha Squigs is no common heroine. She neither She utters the half-stifled exclamation, "Oh! Heavens!" clasps her hands, leans forward upon her right toe, heaves, not her bosom only, but, the whole upper part of her body (head, neck, shoulders, and all) as if at each respiration it would come away from the hips. Muzzle stands undaunted. He makes a sign of silence to Martha. Of course, neither this nor Martha's emotion are observed by any of the other characters. Lord Hardheart begins :

faints nor screams.

Lord H.

So, Mr. Muzzle, here thou art again!
Come, tell us what thou'st got to say to this?
Thou know'st I oft have let thee off before,
But now, Sir Poacher!-

Muzzle (with firmness).

I am innocent!

And if I snared those partridges last night,

(Pointing to four partridges which the first gamekeeper has
placed on the table,)

I wish I may not have the luck to take
Another head of game this week to come!

Lord H. Beware, rash youth! retract that dreadful oath,
Nor steep thy soul in perjury so black.

Muzzle. What I have sworn, my Lord, I've sworn; and if
Those four dead witnesses upon the table

Lord H.
Muzzle.

Had tongues within their heads to tell their tales,
They'd cry aloud, Jack Muzzle's innocent!'
They're dead!

How died they?

E'en as I would-game!

1st Keeper. My Lord, I'll take my oath he snared them birds: I caught the fellow in the very act.

Muzzle (to Keeper). Silence, base minion of a tyrant lord!

(to Lord H.) Proud lord! base tyrant! vile oppressor, hear me!
What right hast thou to have me up before thee?

What right hast thou to punish me for poaching?
What right hast thou to, &c. &c."

In a tirade of some sixty lines, Muzzle makes it perfectly clear that being fond of partridge, but not liking to pay for it, he, a free-born Englishman, no lordling's slave," has an unquestionable right to steal it; that no person in the world (himself excepted) has the smallest right to his own property, if any other person in the world should happen to take a fancy to it that to visit any sort of offence with any sort of punishment, is "rank oppression, iron tyranny:" and that in these times, "when mind is mind, and thinking men can think," it were a downright absurdity to contend for the distinctions of rank, or of any other distinctions whatsoever, and for this obvious reason—

"Thou art a lord, but let me tell thee this:

Jack Muzzle, though a poacher—IS A MAN!"

Lord Hardheart, like a tyrant as he is, in reply to all this, says
"Deluded man, I'm not of thy opinion;

This once, however, I will let thee off;
But if thou e'er should'st be caught again
Stealing my birds or anybody's else's,

Thou shalt be prosecuted, take my word for't,

Jack, with the utmost rigour of the law.

Muzzle (aside). Inhuman tyrant! but I'll be reveng'd:

This night your Lordship's hay-stacks I'll set fire to." Martha, who, throughout this scene, had been exclusively occupied in pumping up emotion, at length, on her loyer's liberation, exclaims,

"I breathe again! my Muzzle is set free!"

Up to this moment the applause had been neither general nor enthusiastic. The gallery, indeed, warmly took up all Stride's speeches, or, rather, his sentiments; and other parts of the house expressed their