No. 26— NEW S. ERIES.] PUBLISHED WEE K L Y. [ PRICE ONE PENNY. PAUL " IT IS A VIRTUOUS ACTION TO EXPOSE VICIOUS MEN:'— DHYDEN. CHAPTER V. THE FIRST MURDER. IT was on tlie 12th of May, in tlieyear 1810, when I was in my fifteenth year that my first murder was committed. I • was at this period at a highly respectable boarding- school, situated close to the romantic winding of the Colne in the county of Kent. I had been there for about five years, dur- ing which time no event had happened to which I could attach any particular importance, save that I was alone in the world. My mother was dead, I was an orphan, but I was rich, very rich. My father's property had grown, and accu- mulated itself in so extraordinary a manner that I was the envy of all who had heard but a whisper of my wealth. I was under severe but liberal guardianship until of age, and there- fore one would say that I had nothing to do but to live on, in the anticipation of those enjoyments which my all powerful gold should shower round my feet when I should arrive at the age of one- and- twenty. A magical age that, when the pas- sions arc in full play, and the animal spirits are delirious and hounding, and the limbs are strong. Young, handsome, and rich, at one- and- twenty a man need not envy Jupiter his fabled heaven. It was now, that those peculiar passions to whose work- ings I have for so many years been subjected, began to take form and shape. The outline at first so vague and shadowy, grew more tangible and vivid, and that which at first ex- ceedingly puzzled me, became as plain as a broad and open fact could well be. I have found myself with my gun in my hand, for I was allowed such privileges, I have found myself I repeat, stealing with as stealthy a footstep as the Indian upon the enemy, he first kills, and then scalps, stealing by the brook side, gliding by the hollows, concealed as the adder, and more deadly and dangerous, where I could have killed some of my schoolfellows when bathing, or playing in the woods. It was a study which I eagerly pursued, to follow them— any of them for long distances, unseen, and at times as some covert more leafy and hidden than others have shrouded my light form, I have lifted my gun to • my shoulders, taken aim, sure, safe, and fatal, and in that delirious moment, when contemplating tho effect of this shot, have I felt both anguish and enjoyment which I must despair of endeavouring to describe, but my finger was stop- ped by a sentiment quite as predominant, cunning, caution, secrecy. The shot would lead to discovery, discovery to punishment, and what is more, would stop my career. The enjoyments proposed would be curtailed. " No, no," thought, I, " what I do, shall be done in a manner so silent- deadly, that neither stone, hush, or tree— nor the bird of the air shall whisper who the murderer is." Between myself and my schoolfellows, there was neither like nor dislike of any marked quality. Though I used to remark that I was the only one who was not upon the most cordial terms with them, but I never let them know that I thought so. Sometimes in the frank jovility of boyish play I made myself particularly agreeable, and was for the time upon the best possible terms with them. One day however, one boy about my own age and size, earned and received the full weight of my unforgiving, my unsparing hatred. As I am making a frank confession, I must admit that his spirit, boldness and courage awed me. I had been guilty of something, that he considered so mean that to shew his disapprobation of it, and contempt of me, he spat m my face, He was one of the most beautiful hoys, I ever beheld in my life. His eyes were large, liquid and sparkling, his teeth small and white, his forehead as if carved of marble, and both his cheeks were like twin blush roses. Thick cur- ling hair clustered around his noble, well- set neck, and as he stood then before me, ( while our companions surrounded us) with liis cheeks glowing, his eyes flashing, his form dilated, his foot boldly advanced, and his chest thrown back, he was like a young Achilles, I admired him while I hated him, The very contrast between us humiliated me, for though I was a good- looking lad enough, my dark face and fierce, dangerous eye, suffered in the comparison. " A fight 1 a fight!" exclaimed several of the eager ones, who were very willing to get up a row, " here's Peter's and black Walter," ( meaning me) going to settle a dispute." I knew that if I struck him, the battle would prove a most desperate one. I should strangle him I felt assured, and he would have been hacked to pieces rather than give in. Without incurring the imputation of cowardice, I explained very quietly the whole mistake. He suddenly admitted his error, but made no apology for spitting into my face. The bell ringing for school however, broke up the meeting. A week passed over, and all this seemed to have passed • way, every thing went on as usual, and all traces of ill- feeling was vanished. The youg boy was as frank and as glad- hearted as ever, little dreaming of the black gulph of boiling, bitter hate which seethed like a cauldron within my breast. I was biding my time. There was at a certain bend in the river, a beautiful bank of turf sloping gentlyj to the water's edge at one place, and was hidden by tall trees and thick willows from view. The waters were deep, silent, and almost still, save that there was a gently flowing under current which turned the huge wheel of a mill about a hundred yards distant. I had been on the watch all the afternoon, hut cool and cautious, no one could suppose under the smiles I wore, what act I was meditating. The evening came, serene and lovely, the moon shone whitely downward, and the stars were hy myriads in the sky, the breeze seemed to moan sadly over the water, and played in the willows with a melancholy sound. I observed my young enemy go forth, and my blood grow hot and danced rejoicingly as X followed him by stealth. He walked musingly across the fields, by the river si^ e, and I followed under cover of the bushes, at some distance behind. What it was that brought him oflt I neither knew nor cared, it was sufficient for me that he was there. I watched him till he sat down upon a spot overhanging the deepest water in that silent nook. He took from his breast some lines and began to cast them into the water, and fasten them by small sticks in the ground. He was casting in night- lines for fish. I quietly advanced and stood over him like one secure of his prey, and toying with it. He looked up, and saw me. The moon lighted up his pale handsome face, and his beauty was more conspicuous than ever. He started as he saw me, with a sudden and visible uneasiness. He could not have had any inkling of my purposes, but to throw him off his guard, I said, " What Peter's you mean to have two or three twenty pound salmon, do you. I saw you go, let me assist you," and I stooped down. " That's right," returned he smiling, " take this, that's a good fellow," handing me a small stake, " and just thrust it in the ground. I want to fasten two or three under the bank, out of sight," and kneeling down he leaned right over the water, a single touch would have sent him in. How I enjoyed that moment! If I restrained myself, it was only for a moment or two, in order that my delight might be the more lasting, in order that by deferring my intent, I should, like an epicure toying with his last morsel, relish it the more keenly. My heart beat, my pulses were feverish, my eyes seemed filled with blood. He made a sudden movement, it overbalanced him, he could not draw back, with one hand grasping at a tuft of treacherous grass, he kept himself from falling in. " Walter! Walter!" he call out hastily, as in an alarmed tone, " make haste and pull me back, I can hold no longer." THE MURDERER FOUND. THE MYSTERIOUS ASSASSINATION. / PAUL PRY : THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. " What's tho matter?" I asked very quietly without mov- ing a single step. " For God's sake!" he cried in a voice of agony, " save me, I shall be drowned." " Drowned!" I echoed the words with a laugh, " nonsense how can you be drowned, yfhile you are out of the water." " But I am slipping in, the grass is giving way, save me ! for mercy's sake, I can't support myself." I stooped down, and caught hold of him ; with a single pull, I could have drawn him away, but I did not. He was still suspended over the treacherous pool. The ghastly white- ness of his face was reflected below. " Why do yoa not draw me away?" cried the lad, not comprehending why I paused. '• You spat upon me the other day, you remember it, eh," asked I, " well I have not wiped it off, but presently, I shall wash it all away," and I laughed. " Do you mean to let me drown," Tie cried, in a voice of terror and dismay, " you are jesting," and he struggled vainly to draw back from the water." " Yes I do," I answered, pressing him down, so that his body was hanging completely over the bank. " You will commit a murder," he returned, " you will not be so cruel to me, save me, Walter." " I shall be revenged! do you understand that, my pretty boy," said I tauntingly, and then he uttered a piercing shriek for help, which I instantly stifled. " Ah ! you may cry, but none will aid you, you will never spit in my face again— eh! eh!" " You will hang for this !" said he fiercely. " You will drown," returned I, " drown with a lie upon your lips, and no « • you are going," so saying, I pushed him from me into the body of the stream, and his unavailing struggles only insured his death. For a moment lie was beneath the waters, and I thought that I should not have seen him again, but the glassy surface was again broken, and the head of the boy emerged, wearing upon the fair features such an expression of despair and horror that for a single moment I was touched, but only for a moment. " Mother! mother!" were the last sounds I heard him utter, ere he was borne by the slow but certain current, out of sight for ever!* ( to be continued) The magistrate told her if she was not satisfied with what he offered her, she should have sued him in the Court of Bequests for a more reasonable remuneration; and not have battered his door to pieces. ' Wouldn't I have a row for my money? cried. Mrs. Murphy —' Och, fait, but I would though, and I'd row him again when I get out of this!" Mr. Bogsby assured his worship that he never before paid more than three pence for the same journey ! He therefore thought he had offered very handsomely ; aud he declared lie should consider his life in danger if Mrs. Murphy - was suffered to go at large. His worship would willingly have persuaded the indignant Mrs. Murphy to compromise the matter in some way; but she presisted in declaring she would have her row for her money; and therefore she was ordered into custody until she should pay for the broken door, and find sureties for her more peaceable behaviour in future, both which she did without delay; and she was then permitted to return to her labour in the Garden—' Did yer honour want a basket woman this blessed morning?'— if you did, you could not employ one more able and willing than Mrs. Kathleen Murphy. DISSIPATION ; OE, COURTIEKS AND COURTESANS. A TALE OP FASHIONABLE LIFE. LABOUR AND LIBERALITY. Och! fait, never mind the weight of it; yer honour; — I'll step along under it, beautiful! Milesian Matron. Mrs. Kathleen Murphy, a short porter- ess of long standing in Covent Garden Market, and as civil a one as ever bobb'd curt'sy to the tune of ' Did yer honour want a basket woman this blessed morning ?' was charged, by one Mr. Bogsby,. with mobbing his house, disparaging liis character, and batter- ing in on of the pannels of his front door. Mr. Bogsby is a gentleman who has only, one leg left,, and that is the right; the office of the left ( which, in fact, was not left, but taken away) being at this time performed by an oaken deputy, Independently of this dissimilarity of leg, Mr, Bogsby is au elderly gentleman of prepossessing appear- ance, and pretty considerable munificence— as the sequel will abundantly show. He had engaged Mrs. Murphy to carry certain vegetables, which he had purchased in Coveut Garden, to his house at Battle Bridge, for which trifling service, when completed, he tendered her no less a sum tluui fourpence of good and lawful money;— that being one penny more than he had been used to pay; but Mrs. Murphy, being a woman of uncon- scionable greed, tossed the fourpence in his face, raised a mob about his house, and finally battered his door until she had completely battered in one of the pannels. The magistrate said he thought the payment tendered was by no means commensurate with the service performed; but it did not follow that his property was therefore to be des- troyed; and he asked Mrs. Murphy what she had to say in reply to this charge of mobbing, disparaging, and battering, preferred against her by Mr. Bogsby. ' Och faith! he is'na worthy talking about,' said Mrs. Murphy, folding her arms across her apron strings, and turning her back upon tall Mr. Bogsby—' Divel burn him! he is'na worth talking about at all.' ' But we must talk about him Mrs. Murphy,' said his worship, ' and therefore I advise you to make the best de- fence you can.' ' Well, then,' said Mrs. Murphy, " Are you a basket wo- man?" says lie to me. " Yes," says I, " sure I am, an here's my basket to the proof of that," says I. " You know Gray's Inn Lane?" says he. " Ay, fait do I, well enough," says I. " Then come along with me," says he. So he put praturs into my basket, and he put turnups into it, and carrits, and divel knows what he put into it; but it was heavy enough to crush the ould divel himself chin deep into the ground it was; and he went stumping afore me with his wooden leg till we coined all the way to Battle Bridge— two miles and a half, myself. like to drop with the load, cracking my neck and flattening my head like a halfpenny muffin; and when we comcd there—" Here's fourpence for ye!" said he. Och! by th' powers! but I could ha' put the fourpence into the guts of him for me;— and three childer at home to be fed and fended for!' ( Continued f rom our last.) Our TURBOT POND, then, his affections placed On the Signora, with true priestly taste; And, as we said, the lady willing heard A mouth so holy breathing passion's word. Sir JULIUS, though of course not quite aware Of all the little jobs that POND did there, Liked much to meet him; for the parson knew A smutty story and a song or two, Which did divert the baronet's ennui, And tickled much his somewhat brutal glee. Of course Lord ALFRED, as her keeper's friend, Paid visits to the lady without end. Sir JULIUS often took him there to sup, When POND was asked to share the social cup; Those suppers were a bacchanalian scene Of reckless mirth, deliciously obscene! And those four formed as thorough- paced a sec Of debauchees as ever you have met. Nor in our gallery must we omit, ' Mid those who kindly for their portraits sit, The lady's mother, with her - wrinkled face, Who's certainly deserving of a place. The old Italian hag to England came To trade, of course, upon her daughter's fame. Whoever kept the damsel had to keep The mother too, but she was much more cheap. She had no particle of foolish pride, No vain conceited thoughts to lay aside; But always with her daughter's keepers took The high— though somewhat greasy— place of cook, Nor merely to the culinary art Of roast and boiled, fish, pudding, game and tart Did she confine her venerable skill, But in another branch she practised still, She knew the properties of various flowers, For good or evil, plucked at certain hours, Whether at midnight, or the dawn of day— She was a small LOCUSTA, in her way. But more than all, the godless crone professed! To make love philtres better than the best; Draughts that would spur the stagnant blood of age To frisk in amourous antics like a page; Shoot the most wild and aphrodisiac glow Through veins clogged up with half a century's snow; And make decrepitude, though near its grave, Rival ALCIDES in his exploits brave, Who taught, one night, nine hundred maids and more, Some pleasant things they did not know before. She liked her daughter as the tool by which She hoped in time, grown tolerably rich, To seek her native land, and close her eyes Beneath the splendours of Italian skies. And she was pious, too— you need not stare, Old Nick himself can sputter out a prayer— Pious, I mean, with superstitious zeal, Just like your canting Puseyites, who kneel— She told her beads, would cross herself, at times, And mutter certain holy Latin rhymes Of which the sense she knew not in the least, But she'd been taught to say them by a priest. She liked religion, yet she winked at sin— But, more than all, she liked the English gin! The worthy matron filled lier usual post At FATHEAD'S lodgings— that is ruled the roast; And well, alas! for her it would have been Had she not meddled, save with the cuisine, In putting rich and savoury stewpans on, Nor thought of philtres— but of this anon. I must return to LUCY, and find out What she and RODOMONT have been about. » NOTE « Y THE ANNOTATOR.— The most casual reader will have observed, during the course of his life, that a great number of assas- sinations are to this day shrouded in a complete mystery. It be- comes, therefore, an important point to elucidate such a mystery. When crimes are thus hidden from the pubfic eye— when an impe- netrable darkness covers the criminal's turpitude, and his victim re- mains for years unavenged— it is necessary that we should turn our thoughts to such matters, and if possible, by any discovery, thus check the progress of these appalling crimes. This loads us for a moment to the results of Rush's trial. Every one is of opinion that he is the murderer ; and Rush with his dying breath asserted his innocence— said that " the murderer was yet to be found— in two years' time." Here, then, is a profouud and un- solved mystery. We do not pretend to unravel it. We are not near the end of our relations, as a matter of course, seeing they are but just commenced; but who knows what may yet turn up ? If, therefore, Rush was not guilty, who, then, could the criminal be ? If this man could, with his dying breath, utter so appalling a truth, or untruth, what are we to think ? Such is one of those won- derful problems which are offered, at one time or other, for an erring judgment to solve, and before which it quails in its utter inability to grapple with the question. Time, however, which unravels the most complicated questions, must be given for this last important point to be decisively settled. We offer no opinion upon the matter; aud having 110 desire to trifle with the credulity or the incredulity of any, so have we made up our mind to wait patiently for the proper hour to arrive, for arrive it most assuredly will. There are, however, two things in Rush's trial, which remain to throw whatever doubts there are in favour of the accused man. We mean the conflicting evidence regarding the cloak, and the absenco of the weapon. It has been stated in a public journal, that Rush purchased a revolving pistol from a gunsmith in Charing- cross. Why, then, has this gunsmith not been named ? and why has he not continued the rumour ? Neither of these has been ( tone; and we must content ourselves by supposing this to be a merely ingenious conjecture, though the motive for so doing is strongly to be ques- tioned. No journal that demands implicit credit to be placed in its veracity, has a right to offer such unfounded supposition.-, and we as strongly reprehend it. I Alas! it is a sad and fearful thing That woman still, unconsciously, should fling The gems of her affcction at the feet Of some base knave whose passion is deceit;. Since Eve, the snake has been the sex's foe— She sinned from wanting something more to know, While modern wives who knew it all before, Sin just as much— perhaps a little more. LUCY loved ALFRED and despised her spouse, Yet thought not to transgress her marriage vows. She had a kind of orthodox belief That wives should bear, but not revenge, their grief. Her mind preserved, ' mid Fashion's moral fog, IF A wholesome reverence for the Decalogue. She had no wish to lose her chance of heaven By breaking through commandment " number seven," And she had always heard throughout her life Old Nick was sure to grill a faithless wife; Thus though her love for RODOMONT was strong; She had determined never to do wrong. And yet there was a struggle in her breast, Which made her cheek grow pale and break her rest. Warm thoughts would spring, voluptuous fancies rise And glow before her fascinated eyes. Nature would whisper in her shrinking ear, While she undressed—'" These charms that dazzle here Were ne'er intended for neglect or slight, Or for a brutal husband's coarse delight!" That very knowledge which the bridal bed Imparted to her senses when she wed, Made her more restless when she thought of him, Beside whose eyes all other eyes were dim; Beside whose form all other forms were mean, Whose presence lent enchantment to each scene, Whose absence shed a dullness and a gloom Where all— while he was there— was light and bloom; Beside whose tones all other tones were rough, Whose voice was never listened to enough; Who seemed some " son of God " from realms above Like those who fell of old for woman's love She thought what rapture it would be to own No other lord but him— and love— alone; To feel his lip, which had but spoken yet, Joined lo her lip, both trembling as they met; To feel his arm flung round her, while it pressed Her panting bosotn to his beating breast; To feel that thrill of all- absorbing bliss, Which half consoles one on an earth like this; That blessed union, passionately warm, Which links the heart, the senses, and the form; Bond of delight, when love two hearts hath chained, But, oh! how sacrilegiously profaned When ' tis a nauseous husband's sensual whim— But then how sweet, if it were shared with him! 0 Such were the reveries of LUCY'S mind One day as on the sofa she reclined; She had no gay engagements to pursue, Her thoughts were somewhat of a mournful hue. She had grown weary of " the season's glare, The crowded ball- room, and the fopling's stare, She felt a need, a longing for repose— For rest and peace— a lgnging such as knows The dove, which o'er the sea its flight hath sped, With drooping- pinions and with weary head. There is an hour, the crisis of her fate, When woman's heart imperiously must mate; When all the phantoms hitherto enjoyed Take to their wings, and leave an aching void. Religion's voice, predominant of yore, Unheeded now, is listened to no more. Honour maj' call, fear make the cheek grow pale, Religion, Honour, Fear, alike will fail! There comes a lassitude of all around, Save him whose glance can make the bosom bound; A feeling powerful— perhaps unjust— That's half satiety and half disgust— A soul— recoiling from the things of life, Its petty cares and miserable strife ; When the mind springs. Jrom this world's paltry toys, To dream of Passion in its fearful joys. Then there's Old Nick, who's ever on the watch, Incautious souls with baited hook to catch; Old Nick, that endless fosterer of ill, Whose apple proved to EVE a bitter pill, Bringing on her all parturition's fuss, And every kind of labour upon— us I He's sure to have a finger in the pie When ladies languish, think of love, and sigh. The creed of '• hearts with mutual feelings fired," By his infernal malice is inspired; He leads the lover safely to the bower Just at the critical and dangerous hour; Wards off all dangers that might interfere, Makes lackeys sfeep* and maids to disappear, While, that poor Virtue may not ' scape her doom, He leaves a downy sofa in the room.' LUCY was just in such a dangerous mood, Of roving fancies, and of heated blood— Of meditations whose unlicensed flights Winged to the verge of Passion's mad delights ; Of dreamy visions, whose enchanting hue Nature's free pencil in their brightness drew. Her thoughts were burning ; yet she still would think. She stood, half trembling, on the dizzy brink, Oazing adown the flowery steep of sin— When, lo, Lord ALFRED RODOMONT walked in! God! what a flood of crimson to her face His presence sent! how flushed her pallid grace! God! what a thrill of feelings shook her frame— Sorrow; and fear, and bliss, in mingled flame! God! how her eyes flashed brightly, and then drooped, As though to hide their brilliancy they stooped! God! how her snowy bosom heaved and fell, As though to breathe a fond and last farewell To all the peace and purity which shed Their angel glory once around her head! And well marked ALFRED, with his rapid eye, Tlie war that raged as he was drawing nigh ; And sweetly fell his accents on her ear, Like the soft whispers of a heavenly sphere ; And gently ALFRED pressed her little hand, That had not force the pressure to withstand And wildly to the wretched girl he flung The honeyed venom of his artful tongue. He told his love, the maddening flame he felt; How every night in solitude he knelt, And prayed that GOD would either make to cease His hopeless passion, and restore his peace, Or let him find within an early tomb The quiet resting from his fearful doom ; Or that some fiend— he cared not by what bond— Would rise from hell, and with his magic wand, Give him one day of love and bliss with her, Bliss such as her bright beauty cpuld confer, Then take his soul and body to be vexed With all eternal torments on the next! He spoke of all the scenes where they had met— That each was fixed upon his memory yet ; Not from its own intrinsic joy or worth, But because she, the fairy of the earth, Had lighted up the banquet with her glance, Lent fresh intoxication to the dance, And thrown a halo of resplendent gold On all that, but for her, were dull and cold. ( To be Continued) THE SEA SERPENT.— The sea- serpent seen in the Bay of Gloucester, U. S., is described as having a head something like a rattle- snake's, but as large as the head of a horse, and it was carried about two feet above the water. The so- called folds were described as bunches, or protuberances, on the back. It was Mr. Nash who took the depositions, who considered these protuberances to be caused by the animal's vertical motion. CATCHING A TARTAR.—" I have caught a Tartar!" ex- claimed the vain- glorious and mistaken soldier to his com- manding officer. " Then bring him along with you," replied the Captain. " But he won't let me," cried the deluded sub- altern. " Then let him alone, and come along without him." " He won't let me do that either. He's taking me away with him! Help! Rescue!" J 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. ADDRESS. DEARREADERS,— Six months have elapsed since our return to England;— six dull, dreary months for our home artizans have passed away— let us hope to usher in brighter prospects for our over- burthened fellow- countrymcn. Since our re- appearance much good has been effected, if we may believe the immense pile of letters now lying before us, the contents of which are so highly flattering, that when we read, the blush of honest pride mounts to our cheek. As we hai e begun so shall we continue; but it shall be with such renewed exertions, that cannot fail but meet their just reward. The dishonest trader we have fearlessly exposed, and an- nihilated ( almost) the unfair SELLERS of spirituous liquors, whose puny efforts to crush us have only rebounded on themselves leaving them in such a Slough of Despond, that they will find it difficult to extricate themselves from. We have fairly laid before our readers some of the most notorious dens in this metropolis;— much more remains to be done, which we intend to execute in such a mauner as to render us a terror to the evil- doer. Another important feature we intend to carry out, viz., the Exposure of Infamous Houses; which will compel the various parishes in which they are located to prosecute, and completely close them up. The West End teems with them, supported mostly by the titled and wealthy of the land. Let them look out— we have such a mass of information touching their connexions and general management, that will startle the reader more than the rambling of an earthquake beneath his feet. In fact, we shall so continue in our course of seeking vice, hidden in corners as it is, and bringing it into the sun- shine of society, that mer. may turn away and loath it as they would a poisonous thing. To do which, we feel compelled to announce that our Journal must be made much larger; and as times are hard, and our purpose not being personal ag- grandizement, we have determined to issue PAUL PRY PERMANENTLY DOUBLE ITS ORIGINAL SIZE, WITHOUT ANY ADDITIONAL CHARGE!!! PAUL PRY will, therefore, be EIGHT FOLIO PAGES, instead of Pour!! Our literary department will be strengthened; so that, while vice shall he whipped, the minds of our readers may be instructed and improved. PAUL PRY. PAUL AMONG THE PUBLICANS. " Bungs, have at ye all!" THE GALLOWS AND ITS ADVOCATES. THE SUN TAVERN, GRAY'S- INN- LANE. IF among our recollections of ancient associations we ponder, enquiring what is positively right and what is wrong, as cas- tigators of those wretched panderers to vice who flourish in this great town, we ( possessing liberal opinions) have an in- disputable right of speaking openly, on what is injurious to the morals of the young, the ignorant, and the unwary. Hence we boldly affirm there is not one house in all London, that has harboured, or sent forth, more real men of the world than Champion's, the Old Sun Tavern, Gray's- inn- lane. For many years has this den been the notorious rendezvous of wits, actors, authors, and schemers. Here full many a time have been perpetrated funniments, which can never be done again. Those times arc past, and those men are gone " to that bourne from whence no traveller returns," who a few years since formed tho notorious " Tin- pot Club," and the " Know- nothing'Codgers." Where now are the once celebrated actors who were wont to waste their time and substance in that pestiferous back room? Gone— gone! Where too are the Bob Cruikshanks, the Harry Bouners, the Doctor Nichols, the pretty but frail Marias, the Jem Browns? They are all non est, though the SUN still shines brilliantly at midnight. The vile, gin- drinking, virtue- destroying SUN still stands, and still pos • sesses all its original bad properties: time has not purged it of its impurities. Champion, the landlord, is a grey- headed sinner— there is no honesty in disguising a fact. Although, advisedly speaking, not a culprit himself, he keeps a house, which in a moral view is one of the worst cribs in the world. It is not a brothel— because he has a wife and children, and really wishes to assume something like the appearance of a decent man in the eyes of soeiety: yet it is not a home for virtue— because he cares not one rush what becomes of the virtuous. What then shall we consider the Sun Tavern ? Allow PAUL to inform the unsophisticated what the place really is. It is a direct and near road to debauchery and idleness. Of the characters who frequent here, there does not exist a more dissipated, depraved, or talented fellow, than Ned Gardner ( or Gardinez), the piano- forte player. There is not a greater drunkard, nor is there a better bass singer than Harry Smith ( all to fits superior to him of the same name, who dares to imitate Russell) ; nor, to do justice, is there on any of our minor boards, a man who has a chance to stand against Freer, the comic singer of this establishment: while Young Gannon, a boy about fourteen years of age, reads and acts Hamlet, Macbeth, and other Shakspcrian parts, in a style that must alarm the professionals of our small legitimate houses. This is justly due to the talent displayed; but the proceedings at the bar, and the familiar association of men and women of a very light character, must bring destruction on the uninitiated, who will not listen to the warning voice of P. P., and seek a place of entertainment of a far more moral description. NORWICH. TnE hangman has found a fitting champion in the Times, whose sapient editor is so little troubled with scruples, as gravely to tell his readers, by insinuation, that all arguments against capital punishment resolve themselves into a desire to give to murderers " present impunity, and a chance of again washing their hands in innocent blood,"— and boldly repeats, in the teeth of notorious facts, his assertion that " the French republicans did, last year, abolish the punish- ment of death for all political offences, without excepting those cases in which sedition and treason were accompanied with murder." There is but one satisfactory mode of dealing with so unscrupulous a disputant, and that is— contemptuous silence. There arc many objections to capital punishment, but one or two are all- sufficient. It not only does not repress crimes of violence, but is a direct incentive to such crimes, by brutalizing the people. Few criminals come to the gal- lows without having witnessed its operation upon others. The valet Conrvoisier, one of the most cold- blooded and atrocious ruffians that ever lived, wus in the constant habit of attending executions; and it is notorious that when pocket- picking was punished with hanging, pickpockets were in the habit of plying their vocation, diligently, under the very foot of the gallows. So much for the example of others. With respect to the criminal convict himself, the gallows in perspective has evidently been inoperative. He knows the many loop- holes of escape, the law affords,— he is quite aware of the unwillingness of juries to convict, except upon the clearest evidence, when human life is dependant upon their verdict; he is perfectly aware that if there be any doubt whatever, judge and jury will combine in giving him the benefit of it; and he lays his plans accordingly. All this was done by the convict Rush; and it is highly probable that had his stolid self- conceit permitted him to employ an able barrister to conduct his defence, his bones would not at this moment be rotting in ignominious oblivion. In him the hope of escape outweighed the fear of death. But had he known that the penalty of his crime, on conviction, would be life- long imprisonment, and constant labour— and con- scious also that the jury, knowing that error would not be irreparable, would be satisfied with strong probabilities as the foundation of their verdict, instead of requiring some- thing like absolute certainty,— the chances are that the black pages of our history, so recently occupied by the Stanfield- hall murders, would have been a blank, and the unfortunate Messrs. Jermy living men. Again; a man of brutal and desperate passions— forced by feelings of hatred and revenge — may commit murder, either speculating on t) e chances of escape, or reckless at the consequences, thinking that, at the worst, his punisitment will be but momentary. What im- pediment is the gallows to the revenge of such a ruffian now? But if he knew that, for the remainder of his life, he was to be a bond- slave, compelled to labour for the support of those dependant upon his victim, it requires no deep in- sight into human nature to be perfectly certain that such a knowledge v ould be far more influential in pre venting crime than all the terrors of the gallows. There is also this insu- perable objection to the hangman and his office. Human tes- timony is fallible. The criminal records of our own and other " countries present numerous instances in which persons, condemned on apparently the clearest evidence, have proved to be perfectly innocent of the offences for which they suf- fered. With capital punishment there is no remedy for such practical murders. Devise a punishment which shall be durable, as well as most efficacious in the way of example; and in all cases of discovered error, society may make some reparation for the injury which has been inflicted; whilst persons charged with atrocious crimes will not, as they now often do, escape with impunity. Judges, instead of " telling juries, as they now invariably do, to give the prisoner the benefit of any doubt that may exist in their own minds, will tell them to record a just verdict, according to the evidence, and to give society, instead of the accused, the benefit ofany doubt as to his innocence, knowing that the consequences of a mistake would not be irreparable to cither. MARQUIS or GBANBY, ST. JAMES'S STREET. WHILST sauntering down St. James's - street the other even- ing, and hearing something like a noisy discussion in the above house, we determined to enter, in order if possible to learn the cause of dispute, and mollify the belligerents. We entered the principal room, and called for a glass of ale, which was not to be had,— glass being scarce in this empo- rium,— so we refreshed our parched tongue from the cooling pewter, Glancing round, we are sorry to say we. saw several respectable tradesmen's daughters sitting on the soldiers' knees ( the house, gentle reader, is opposite the Horse Bar- racks) and two or three females of the lowest class fighting for their men. At one end of the room a respectably- con- nected female, catching her lover with some other fair, burst into tears and laying hold of the false swain's arms, looked imploringly in his face, and cntreatingly said, " You won't do so again, will you, William dear. What will you have to drink? " We were surprised to see Miss II— n, Miss W— s, Miss P— d, and two or three others in such a vile place. " Evil communications, & c" is an old proverb they would do well to remember. Sundry fights now and then take place, and while these scenes are going forward, the Landlord never takes the least notice. One female taking us for a greenhorn, perched herself upon our knee, and asked for something to drink ( a nice postion, truly, for the eyesight of Mrs. P.) which, we, not to make ourselves, conspicuous, complied with, but when asked to take a walk with the nymph, our hair stood on end, we buttoned our coat, and rushed franticly from the house. We cast our eyes behind us as we were turning the comer of the door, and perceived two soldiers make their way towards the fair creature, lead her to the bar, and treat her to something to drink. We blessed our lucky star to think we had escaped from the place unsoiled and undefiled. We shall visit one or two other houses, in the good city of Norwich, and report progress. THE WHOLE ART OE BEAUTY. BY A PRETTY WOMAN. I HAVE often wondered why thero are no professed beauties now- a- days, while every past age can boast its Helens ; one generation may number many pretty faces, but it is the only one among the thousands already counted that produces no beauties whose names shall desccnd imperisliably to the gene- rations yet to come. A friend of mine ( a gentleman, of course) suggests that the universal likeness of the ladies of this age accounts for a falling- off in other respects ; but here we differ; for, al- though it is a rare thing for a pretty woman to be clever, or for a clever woman to be pretty, too many of such rare instances do occur to allow any rule to be established contain- ing such a solution of the difficulty. But I think tho problem may be solved: it is the difference of dress,— costume does it all ; revive the robings of by- gone ages, and you will revive all the beauty and the ugliness of those days. For there must have been a good ( leal of ugliness, otherwise beauty would not have been so forcibly appreciated. What I mean to say is this,— in ancient times people dressed so unbecomingly, that unless their features were perfect they were literally nothing ; all the minor graces which set off a mediocre person now, were totally unavailable under ( Wsys- costume. For instance, Helen must have worn a loose robe, a broad girdle, bare arms, sandals on her feet, r. nd her hair bound back in those rich, magnificent braids, termed to this day " Grecian Plaits." But imagine for a moment all your acquaintance dressed in this way ! Would not the majority be frightful ? How few- faces, how few complexions, could stand that handing back of the thick hair ! how few locks are thick enough so to band back ! how few forms would show well beneath the simple robe, without stays or stiff petticoats ! how few feet would be endurable in sandals ! how few arms would bear the noon- day sun and the sharp winds, which would soon reduce them to the pattern and form of a washerwoman's ! Perhaps the Jewish costume of Rebecca and Rachel may have been a shade better ; but here was the same exposure of neck and arms with the additional disadvantage of a robo that showed a leg encased in hideous boots and hose, and that refused to sweep with Grecian amplitude round the limbs of the fair wearers. Cleopatra— who is represented as both dark and stout— could wear only the robes of white or purple, the heavy diadem, the strings of pearls, that were the allotted garb of Egyptian princes. How dark and how uucomely must have been the majority of her country women may be judged from the sensation she made. The Roman ladies were famed for their stately carriage and somewhat large though noble features ; and when to these charms were added those of regularity and delicacy and beautiful colouring, no doubt their simple and peu coquette style of dress was especially becoming to them ; but without these latter qualifications how gaunt and coarse they must have appeared. What can be more lovely than the figure of Agrippina— bending that stately head above the ashes of Germanicus ?— the robe falls in long sweeping folds ; the bare arm, naked to the shoulders, supports the urn; the hair, braided back, shows the perfect profile, the pure oval cheSk, the smooth brow, the magnificent eye, in its large and lofty chamber— not a ringlet, not a ribbon, not the gleaming of a jewel breaks the calm outline or disturbs the severe unity. Agrippina could bear that style ; I'austina and Messalina were less and looked even better. Perhaps among the circle of our acquaintance there are two or three women who could appear to advantage so attired ;— but oil ! how well for the dumpy and the scraggy, the " nez retroussi" and the " nez snub,' 1 that they fall upon better days. As we descend the stream of time the number of celebra- ted beauties decreases: this we may attribute to the increa- sing knowledge of the art of dress: indifferent complexions, bad figures, irregular features, began to have something like fair play shown them: exigencies of person met with some assistance from costume; and in the same degree as the plain women were made appear less plain, were the beauties rendered less prominent and the distance between the par- ties lessened. Still wo hear of some, so strikingly lovely as to be known to all the world by the fame of their eyes alone; of these we may name Edith of the Swan- neck, so called from the brilli- ant whiteness of a skin capable of resisting the exposure to sun and wind, which tanned and freckled into frightfulness the queens and lofty ladies of those rude days; Rosamond the Fair— so fair that it was said of her, " None but a jealous and exasperated woman could have harmed her;" Beatrice Cenci, whose beauty makes one shudder, so mysterious seems the light in those large untroubled eyes, soon about to close beneath the pressure of so awful a fate; Lucrezia Borgia, an angel in face, a demon in heart; Mary of Scot- land, whom " no man ever beheld without love," and some few others, until we reach that famous trio recorded in the letters of Horace. Walpole, as the loftiest women of their time, the three Miss Gunnings. One of these— the Duchess of Hamilton— was so renowned for her charms, that her fame spread far and near, inasmuch that when travelling once from the North to town, the mob in the places where she rested at nights assembled round the hotels, nor would they depart until she had appeared on the balconies to display to them her world- famed face. And there is something strangely sad in the account of the death of another of the sisters— Lady Coventry— who perished of consumption while in the highest pride of youth and beauty. She is recorded as patiently awaiting the approach of death— her looking- glass her constant com- panion— as scarcely ever removing her eyes from the reflec- tion of her own face, and as bewailing only the too earthly extinction of a beauty worthy of immortality. At the time in which these fair sisters lived, the style of dress, although magnificent and graceful, was eminently trying to plain people, and as eminently propitious to those more favoured; hence the exceeding value of beauty— hence the extraordinary renown of those ranking as beauties— licnco the apparent rarity of that renown. The hair was then completely lifted off the face, leaving- exposed every feature; unless those features were regular to perfection, unless the complexion was smooth as marble and as pure as snow, who could look well? And how very well those must have looked who did possess such advantages. At a later time, when the names of some favourite beau- ties are again recorded, the costume, totally different, was so hideous, that 110 one could wear it with impunity; hence the high reputation for beauty of Pauline Bonaparte and of Madame Recamier. The former is described as appearing at a party given by lier mighty brother, in a tunic of white muslin, reaching little below the knee and commencing far below the shoulders, the waist exceedingly short, and bound with a narrow girdle; sandals clothed the small feet, while a mantle of leopard skin hung loosely round the perfect form of Canova's fairest model. And there arc many who can yet remember the appearance of Madame Recamier in the parks of London, clad in a robe as scanty and as simple— her dark hair wreathed around her head and fastened with a bodkin to the summit, and a scarlet mantle wrapped around lier. Now- a- days, the toilette of a lady is exactly conducted upon the principles most becoming to all; few figures look ill ill the sweeping robes and lengthened corsage— amplo and stately without stiffness ; ancles, however thick, are con- cealed by the long dresses, now the mode. Features, how- ever coarse, can be softened and shaded into something like symmetry, by the judicious arrangement of locks permitted to be worn in bands, or braids, or ringlets, j. ist us best suits the face they surround. And while no arbitrary fashion forces the exposure of a frightful profile, a clumsy arm, a ponderous nnele, no rule exists to prevent the reverse of these being shown. Every lady is at liberty to bring out her own " good points" as she thinks best, and it is easy to do so, as well as to conccal her weak ones, without departing from the fashions that pre- vail. Under these circumstances, it must certainly be a consola- tion to our fair friends to feel, that althongh it is difficult now to earn the reputation of pre- eminent beauty, it is equally difficult to appear remarkably plain ; and it is surely better to possess only moderate charms, and to know that there are few of the sisterhood without some redeeming at- traction, than to have been a very goddess of loveliness, and have felt that your own divinity was created by the sacrifice of whole hecatombs ot' less fortunate frees. 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. PAUL ADVISES Mr. S. B. P— g ( we had nearly said HOG again), the shoe- maker of Eyre- street Hill, to keep continually going on with his " early rising" movement. There is an astounding im- provement since our last advice. We actually saw him open- ing his shop at a quarter before eleven the other morning. Now heaven knows, if he should keep going on at this pace, what may not be effected! This is only May, and we arc al- most sanguine enough to expect that when the days get longer and wanner, we may see Mr. S. B. P— g out of bed by half- past ten in the morning. Mr. II— n, landlord of the Barley Mow Tavern, Salisbury- square, Fleet- Street, to pay more attention to, business, and his amiable wife; to spend less of his time and money with the fat Mrs. W— e, late of the Boar's Head, Fleet- Street; and to be seen less frequently going into a certain trunk maker's in Chancery Lane. Mr. J. F— s, the landlord of the Duke of Argyle, Lay- stall- street, Clerkenwell, not to injure his fellow knights of tbe bung. His own is a queer house, and we caution him to be wary. W. J— n, of a certain farm, not many miles from Little Britain, not to go out every night to dances. It does not look well for an apprentice. How many more poor girls are you going to deceive? Be careful, Billy. We know more about you, and if you do not reform, you shall hear from us again. Mrs. F— h, the pawnbroker's wife, of St. Albans- place, Edgware- road, not to allowance her servants. Old D— y, the milkman, of Old- street, St. Luke's, not to insult young females, and not to attempt to kiss a respectable lady in George- yard again. Next time, Paul will give him a poke that he will not like. E. L— d, of Upper Baker- street, Regent's- park, not to be so vain of his great red face, nor fancy every girl he meets is in love with him. Paul would advise E. L— d to be more refined in his manners, and not to fancy he knows every thing. His ignorance surpasses all ever met with. Mr. E— s, groom, at Mr. B— n's, painter, & c., Pimlico, not to make such a fool of himself, by hugging Miss S— r before the public, when at the Temperance Hall, New- road, Chelsea. S—, the religious drunken barber, of Bond- street, Chelsea, to leave off lushing gin, and not insult his customers by telling them they spend their money at the beer- shop, and run credit with him; and that he will fight any man for a crown. Mr. T— r, of Biley- street, Chelsea, not to be so conceited, nor think himself so much of a gentleman, when sitting in the parlours of certain public houses; we know what gar- deners' wages are. Mr. J— n W— s, of Chatham- place, Walworth road, not to flirt with Miss C— a F— t, of Charlotte- row, Walworth- road, if he continues that vile practice, his wife shall certainly be acquainted with it. Mr. J— n H—- d, the bummerer, of Billingsgate- market, to look after his poor little wife, and leave Miss M. J—, of Kent- street. H— y M— e, one of the clerks at Messrs. S— s and Co., silk weavers, of Spital- square, Bishopsgate Without, not to talk so much about the girls, nor stare every female that he passes out of countenance, when he struts up and down the Hackney- road. Mrs. W— s, the gossip of Fetter- lane, to pay more atten- tion to her domestic affairs, and not to be so fond of prying into other people's. We hope in ( uture she will take our advice. The sleek- liaired youth, of Providence- place, Kennington, to have less conceit of his exterior, and leave off adorning his person with that gilt watch- chain. Mrs. E— s, at a dairy, near Ivennington- ehurch, not to be seen going to have her fortune told, or perhaps Paul may whisper a word to Mrs. F— r. Mr. 0— n, of Broadyard, Islington, to stick to his business a little more, and not stand at the street door, talking non- sense to Miss J. C— r. Does he remember the walking stick? Mr. W— d, of Snow's- fields, Bermondsey- street, to attend more to his death- hunting business. Mr. H— d, the landlord of the King's Arms, Canal- bridge, Camberwell, not to go to church in the morning, and keep his public- house open for the rest of the day. Look out you old hypocrite for our chastisement. The butcher's boys of Gray's- place, Brompton, to look • after their master's business more, and not so much at the girls. Mr. T. C— tt, publican of East- lane, Bermondsey, to leave Miss E. E— y, of Corrugated- row, Bermondsey, at 10 o'clock at night, instead of remaining after the family have retired to rest. Young Mr. E— y, the little tailor, in Queen- street, Cheap- • side, not to think quite so much of himself C. P— e, of Crown- court, King- street, St. James's, not to think so much of herself. C— s P— r, not to loiter about Camden- town so much after the bakers, and not to be seen always looking after a certain party on Saturday nights; because he is not wanted. Mrs. W— n, the landlady of the Lord Nelson, City- road, to look more after her barmaid, Miss L— e. E— n E— e, of Warren- street, Totte ham- court- road, not to be seen going to concerts so often with different young men; also not to stand at the door till 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning. Charley B— n, of Francis- street, Tottenham- court- road, not to mention anything about his amours with the ballet- girls of the Queen's Theatre. Mr. A. V. S— a, coffee- house keeper, not far from Liver- pool- terrace, Islington, to behave like a man to his wife be- fore his customers. B— n S— t the conceited carpenter, of High- street, Cam- den- town, not to be so fast in putting innocent people in the papers, and not to fancy that every little doll he meets is in love with him. Be cautious, young man, or Paul will open his mouth a little wider. Mr. Thomas II— s, waterman and lighterman, Church- stairs, Eotherhithe- street, to take more pride of himself than ] he lias done lately, and dress like a gentleman as he formerly i did, as it would be more to his credit, and to visit less fre- 1 quently Eose and Bummer- lane and Gout- Alley; but, we suppose, he will soon have to rock the cradle there, if the " kinchin is not his own. Likewise if we do not see an altera- < tion we must shortly revisit him again, also not to look so ' sullen and treat people respectfully, and not let people say that he never sees the moon. < Mr. T. B— h, of Botherhithe- wall, not to frequent the i widow's so much in Seven- steps- alley; but to attend to his I poor wife and family. Likewise not to be seen so often in company with costermonger girls down at the stables. 1 Mrs. B— r, of Paradise- row, Eotherhithe, late of the Ad- i miral Tyrrel, to mind her own business. She has plenty to : amuse herself with her own children. J. E—, the little butcher, in Edward- street, Barnsbury- : road, Islington, not to think the girls are all in love with him. T. B—, alias Long Tom, of Great Hermitage- street, Wapping, no to drink so much brandy and water at the Sugar Loaf. George, the barman at the Priory Arms, South Lambeth, not to be so fond of touching the girls under the chin, par- ticularly Jenny Lind. A certain party is jealous of him. Miss K—- e L— d, the natty little dress maker, of Park- street, Walworth, not to fret so much, for Thomas may return yet. P. E—, the shirt maker, of Bond- court, Walbrook, City, not to frequent the billiard rooms so much. It would be more to his credit to go home to his wife a little sooner. Walter L—, the straight haired youth of Holywell- street Westminster, not to be marching about the streets with an empty violin case, to make persons imagine he is a professional. F. K— t, at S— n's, the chocolate makers, Kennington, not to look so black at the poor boys employed in that firm. Miss C— k, the collar maker, of St. John's- square, ( and who works for a respectable firm in Cheapside), not to daub her phiz so much with that red stuff. You must have a poor opinion of yourself, to paint and dress in such a foolish man- ner, you silly little thing. T. J— r, of Union- road, Clapham- road, not to think so much of his nobby head of hair. That old lady of Eedman's- row, ( up stairs in the front room), not to be seen going into the Greenland Fishery so often. Mr. T— s, of Kingsland, who has been a barber's clerk; but now calls himself a piano- forte tuner and regulator ( nothing more than a piano forte spoiler), to leave off flashing the keys of a certain piano forte maker's in Hackney- road to every girl who passes by. T— s D— s, not to get drunk after leaving a chapel, in the Mile End- road. Mrs. B— d, of New- street, Blackfriars ( well known as the dirty fat woman), not to frequent the house at the bottom quite so often. It would look much better of her to keep her home and her children clean. Mrs. W— d, of Felix- street, Liverpool- road, to look at those who belong to her before other persons. Mr. M— n, on the pit check at Sadler's Wells Theatre not to make himself so officious, as he must bear in mind, that he is not the manager of that Theatre, but only a super., Mr. M. W. W— s, of Kennington- street, Beresford- strcet, Walworth, to pay more attention to his wife, and not to be seen so often with those girls at the white- fronted house, Beresford- terrace. A. M—, not to visit Blandford- place, Kentish- town, quite so often, on the pretence of courting the daughter. Mr, M— n, ex- secretary to the Derby sweep, held at the Artichoke, Lower- marsh, Lambeth, not to exhibit so much under the gateway of the above house, nor boast of his re- spectable position in life, or we shall expose some of the ras- calities practised by this Derby sweep gentleman. The brandy- faced, pot- bellied booking- office keeper, of tbe Old- change Cheapside, to stop at home and look after his business a little more, and not spend so much of his time with H— h P— r, the notorious lady of easy virtue. It would be also becoming to your grey hairs to leave off all your bad habits, too numerous to mention, you would- be- juvenile. Miss E. B— s, and M. L— d, not to be seen walking up and down Lambeth- walk every evening. It looks very much like a bait. S. P— s, of Dalston- lane, to be a little more circumspect, and not call people insignificant apes, because she was in Paul Pry a week or two back. Beware Sarah of the tall boy of Well- street, and not make too free. Bob, the cornchandler's shopman, of Beckford- row, Wal- worth, to study his health. You will kill yourself with love; you are not over fat now. Leave off Bobby, aud attend to your business. T— s D— 11, the shop foreman of Hans- street, Chelsea, not to be so often walking round the square to look after that little dressed up doll of a housemaid.' He must take care or we will tell more. Mr. J. G— n, lighterman, of Limehouse, not to think ? o much of himself; because he has got Miss E. L— e to strut with. H— y H— d, the conceited butcher, of Fox and Knot- court, Snow- hill, not to be running about after the girl with the red ribband on her bonnet, but look more at home to his wife. Mr. G. D. W. C— ter, of Old Ford, not to go to so many- balls and plays, but to pay the three half- crowns a week, and not keep the poor girls waiting. How about the dressmaker in Coburn- road? Mr. G— h, of the Bricklayer's Arms, Charles- street, Hackney- road, not to stop so late of a night with Eliza, alias the gin- drinker. We think it would better for him to go home to his wife and child. Have you seen Eliza? S— h T— y, of Felix- street, Liverpool- road, Islington, to _ mind her own business and look at home. When does she intend to get married? for that tall man must soon be tired of waiting. W. M— s. of Matilda- street, Islington, not to go down to Shenley so often after that girl, as it does not look well while he has got one in town. The two eldest Misses W— te's, of East Smithfield, not to bow to strange gentlemen on omnibusses, nor express a wish to each other loud enough to be heard by the said gentlemen. Miss A. F— ly, of Albion- street, Eotherhithe, not to be seen at such late hours ol a night with young men. Mr. H— 1, cheesemonger, of Parker's- row, Bermondsey, to be more discreet in his conduct, and not harbour so many boys in his shop of an evening. We understand he has several new acquaintances, in the persons of H— y S— n, J— s D— y, and one or two more. Eichard , the fair youth of Cambridge- road, Bethnal- green, not to be seen out with so many young girls; espe- cially Miss C— 11, of the above Road. J— s G— d, T— s N— y, and J— n P— n, when they make an appointment to meet the two Misses H— ds, and Julia their cousin ( residing in Church- street, Islington) , to keep it, and not make the young ladies and themselves appear so ridiculous. Mrs. J— tt, alias the fat cook, of Leman- street, station house, to pay a little more attention to the mens' dinner, and not to use quite so much low slang, as it does not look well for a married woman. Mr. K— n, the flash milkman, of Buckingham- street, Marylebone, to be at home with his wife and family, instead of being seen kissing Mrs. T— e, the fishmonger's wife of Norfolk- street. Mr. W— n, the druggist, in Wilton- place, not to lose his temper towards his customers, and to be more civil to his assistants, many of whom have been much better brought up than himself. C— s H— m, of Potter's- fields, Horselydown, to stick closely to liis studies, and leave off his affectation. We are watch ing his connection with the Misses S— s, ot Back- street, and shall report his progress in that quarter. Mrs. S— 1, of Globe- road, Mile- end, not to come into Fore- street, bragging so much, as all the neighbours know her well. Miss M. T— n, of the Bell, Wapping, not to be so ill- tern- pered with everybody. You must break yourself of it before you get married to Mr. H— t, or you will lead a horrid life. W. L— s, the snob, of Little Windmill- street, Golden- square, not to keep such late hours. T— s H— s, of Gainsford- strect, Horselydown, not to fancy every girl is in love with him; and to be careful, when he requires a lodging again, to pay in advance, and not allow the man to stop him on the stairs for money. T. T— s, the chemist's assistant, of Gibson- street, Lambeth, to pay more attention to the governor's business, instead of standing at the door winking at the charming creatures as they pass. Mr. A. C— e, of Lyndburst- grove, Peckham, not to be so very cosey with Lucy, a certain young lady at Exeter Hall, for fear some other young ladies at Camberwell might hear of it. Miss M— y B— y, of Mr. J— e's, Hangers- lane, Tottenham, not to be seen out so late every opportunity of an evening with Mr. J— e's groom, for we know he runs after every girl he can meet with. E. S. N—, of Walworth, not to think that he is a favorite with the girls of Camberwell, as they all, without exception, think him a little impertinent puppy. I say young fellow, take care you don't get your ears lugged. What business had you walking up Love- lane with that young girl? Mrs. G. B— r, of Little Carter- lane, City, the seven- pence- half, penny, umbrella- maker, not to treat lier friends with such disdain. Beware of the man in Fore- street. That straight- liaired, turn- em- under, overgrown, Frenchi- fied, psalm- singing looking dummy, of Brighton- place, New Kent- road, whose cognomen is something like T— s W s, not to be savage because he was shown up in Paul Pry. Do you know what s- n- e- a- k spells ? D— k F— d, the would be foreman of a certain factory in Weston- strcet, Somer's- towo, not to go round to a public- house and brag that he could get all the men in the factory the sack. Mrs. K— 11, of Albion- street, Rotherhithe, to attend more to her own business, and not trouble herself with other people's affairs, and when in chapel not to make herself so conspicuous a character in the vestry. B— 11 M— n, the flash and bouncing carman, at Messrs. King's, Wells- row, Islington, not to go so much among the nymphs of the pave, at Balls- pond, but stop more at home with his wife, and spend what little spare cash he has in clothing and food for liis children. Mrs. J. S. of Little Titchfield- street, not to be running after the half- penny barber of Union- street, but to attend more to her domestic affairs. Mr. C. M— n, butcher, near the rail ivay- areh, Wandsworth- road, not to boast so much of his wealth, and not to run his neighbours down. Mrs. N— n, the baker's wife of Finsbury- market, not to allow her servant to set working in a cold kitchen till 12 at night without any fire; and not to let her clean the windows but make one of the men do it. J— E— 1, the pugnaceous painter, of Kent- street, to per- form his contracts in daubing in a more tradesmanlike manner. How do you like that county crop? The carpenter and slop- seller, of Little Bell- alley, Moor- gate- street, to keep himself a Jittle more clean, and not to watch his oppoite neighbour at the " Hope" so much. How about the information he laid? Miss S— e W— 1, at the noted a- la- mode establishment Hoxton, not to think quite so much of herself, and to treat people with a little more civility. Is it true that good- look- ing Charlie has given you turnips? E— W— y, alias Bruiser, of St. John- street Eoad, not to spend so much of his time at Sadler's Wells, for we are po- sitive that Miss E— H— e thinks nothing of him; especially as he wears such an outrageous white coat and a black velvet cap. T. W. F—, of Wellclose- square, not to boast so much about liis doings with the young ladies of the Queen's- road, or his gin and water before breakfast. We don't believe' him. C. C. Iv—, of Kennington, not to be seen at so many balls with Emma C. D—, who fancies herself the belle of Ber- mondsey. Mr. T— r, at the little tobacconist's shop, in Pratt- street, Camdcn- town, to attend more to his shop, and not let his wife be in it quite so much. S. P—, of Fish street Hill, not to have dealings with her master, as he is a married man. Beform, Sally, oi else you will repent it. W— m N— g, the upstart little warehouse boy, of Little Britain, City, not to be so very conceited, because he has a girl and smokes the weed. W— mW— d, of Tooke's- place, Mill Wall, Poplar, to wear cloth trowsers on Sundays, and not to strut about so much with Miss B— 1, as it does not become a boy like him. Mrs. E. Y—, of the Eoyal Pevillion Theatre, Whitechaple- road, to pay her poople, and not flirt about in extravagance. Mr. J. H—, engineer, at S— e and B— ll's. Mill Wall, Pop- lar, to beware, or he will have to pay 2s. 6d. per week. How about the furnished room? Several of the men at Messrs. Combe and Co.' s, Castle- street, Long Acre, to be a little more respectful to persons, or Paul will walk into the affections of some of the natives, much to their astonishment. That would- be sort of a man, Thos. H— d, engineer, at Messrs. Combe's Brewery, Castle- street, Long Acre, not to flash about so much. He may be a great man in his way, but we think him a natural fool. Mrs. W— n, at the orange- shop, corner of Philpot- lane, Eastcheap. City, never again to be forced by her sister, Mrs. T—, to go to the Sheriff's Court to take a false oath. Miss A— n Wh— e, the fat cook at Mr. John C— r's, the whiting merchant, of Eupell- street, Bermondsey, to be more circumspect in her behaviour, and not keep company with so many young men, or something might occur to ruin her character. Miss J—, of Chelsea, to give up looking for bady- jumper work, and get married, or she will soon be put upon the shelf as an old maid. 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. H— n T— t, of Chelsea, to look after E— h, to calm the self- willed C— a, and to soft- soap the pretty J— a; as these young ladies are getting jealous of R— e, alias the belle of B— y. Look out for rows. How about Polly of C— 11. S— h T— t, of Chapel- street, Somers- town, not to frequent ihe Temperance Hall so much, as she never can expect to get a young man there. J— n H— s, Union- street, Boro, Publican, to try and spare money to have his shop front washed; and not to lose so much in betting on horseracing. • G— e S— e, Coppersmith, at S— r's, Bankside, not to get so drunk every day, and to think more of his work than troubling himself so much about Race- horses. S— 1 C— e, the conceited puppy and Snob of Smith's- place, St. George's East, to behave better to his wife and child, and let them have a little more of his company, instead of fre- quenting Mr. B—' s the Osborn Arms so much. Mr. T. E— s, Butcher, near Walworth- road, to recollect lie has got a wife, and not to be running after a certain Servant Girl at Camberwell. Mr. W— m M— n, of Duncan- street, Whitechapel, to go to Greenwich on Sunday and see his young lady, rather than . pass his time at Duncan- street. Miss A. L— h, of Duncan- street, Whitechapel, to get a beau of her own; not invite an engaged young man so much at her house, when she knows he ought to be at Greenwich. E— k H— t, the anti- fashionable Boot Maker, of Goswell- street, to conduct his business on more upright principles; viz., promise and perform— meet his creditors and workmen himself, instead of sending the hoy to say he is not at home. Miss P— ge, of Landsdowne- road, to remember the old adage of " those who live in glass houses." How about the meetings in South Lambeth, last Summer. H. K—, of Old Shades' Pier, to be more civil to the custo- mers, not to demand the penny before they go on the pier, and not to abuse the females. The Landlady of the Crown, Bayswater, to be more civil in future, as her house is not over respectable. J. M— s, of St. George- in- the- Iiast, and Shadwell, not to be seen so much at the Crooked Billet. He had better go and deliver up the key of his lodgings, and pay the poor woman Tvhat he owes her. C. G— n, of Market- street, Jermyn- street, not to go after the girls so much as he docs. W. W— t, of King- street, Boro- road, Scavenger, to drink less and pay more attention to his horses, not let their bones protrude through their skins, for want of food, and to get the poor brutes a little straw for their beds. Mr. J— n M— s, of Rawstone- street, Clerkenwell, not to visit the lady at Kennington, on Sundays, while he persists in walking out every other night in the week with a female employed at a bonnet- shop in Islington. Paul detests pluralists. Mr. C. S— r, of a large printing office in Whitefriars, not to bully the boys so much; also not to he jealous of other people making overtime. He has got his fair share. Mr. B— d, and Mr. F— d, of High- street, Camden- town, not to walk about at night talking to all the girls as they pass. A, J— n, at the corner of the Arch in Arundle street, Strand, to attend more to her mistress and less to the errand boy at Mr. W— s, How about the long publican? It was no go there— was it? J. C— x, of No. 7 Commercial Sale- rooms Mincing- lane, City, not to boast so much of his fighting, and not to think lie will frighten every- body by his swearing. B— n, the flash Greengrocer, of Shaftesbury Terrace, Pimlico. not to brag so much aoout his large cargoes of po- tatoes that came up, as we well know they are not his— he only sells them on commission. By- the- Bye, we think he had better leave off playing at Quoits, Tom C— t, the Pressman, not to boast so much of his size; for if he could see himself by the side of his wife he would conclude he was a diminutive fellow. Mr. P— 1, of Cross- street, Hatton- gardcn. to let the married women go home after leaving work; and not walk them out, telling them he is sure to be foreman. Billy T— e, the Greengrocer, of Gilbert's Passage, Clare- market, to beware how he defames respectable mens' char- acters. F. H— n, the Bagnigge Wells apprentice boy, not to boast so much about drinking Brandy and Water every night; as we are sure he is not able to do it with his 12s. per week. E. R— n, the dancing Taylor, of Tower- street, City, not to fancy himself so much, and also not to be seen in the public- house so late at night. We would advise that swell smoker P-- k, not many miles from Elm- street, Grays- inn- lane, to keep his door chained on a Sunday so as to keep out the police, also not to allow music and dancing in his tap- room every evening. Jn. J~- n, of Bull and Mouth- street, St. Martin, s- le- Grand, not to visit the Tap so much. It does not become such a boy. Mr. J. L— r, of Finsbury- pavement, to confine himself at home more frequently, and treat his wife, a trifle better; also to discontinue having the company of doubtful females to supper on the sly. Jn. H— r, of Warner's- place, Bethnal- green- road, to look look more after his lady- love, and not allow her to meet H— y. C— r, of Labour- in- vain yard, at a certain house quite so often. W. II. S— d, the Lawyer's Flunky, in an office near Old Broad- street, City, to wear better clothes, before he talks so much about the gentility of his family; and not to annoy every body by continually talking about his cousins at Peekham. T— s. F— n, otherwise " Young Ireland," of Carey- street, Lincoln's- inn- fields, ( that smart young fellow) to be less partial to the frail sisterhood, or perchance the pretty house- maid of Bedford- street may hear of his conduct, which, rake ns he is, he would not much relish. Reform sir, and perhaps we may allow her to remain in a state of blissful ignorance. Mr. XV— r D. R— gg, of Clement's- lane, City, to walk quietly through the Streets and behave like a gentleman; also not to call all the old applewomen mothers, nor try to borrow halfpence of tliem. Mrs. 0— tt, of Putteney- street, the bounceable double- Widow to mind how she takes another Spouse. He may he too much for her. Miss C— M— n, better known by the name of Strolling Poll, of Hungerford- market, to keep more to the orange- selling, an 1 not he seen so often walking about the Strand at all hours of the night with mere boys, viz., the Albert Smith gent; and to mind for the future, when she puts on a shawl for a bustle, not to let the fringe hang below her dress, and boast in saying she can show a fine pair of hips. H. B— d, of Belgrave- street, Stepney, not to be always waiting in White Horse- lane for a certain young lady, for she is. already engaged. J— n S—, at Mr. S— n's, tobacconist, Lambeth- walk, not to he so proud of his nobby head of hair. He has certainly got a most delightful head, but it would look all the better if he did not put lard to it twice a day. Mrs. B— d, who lives not a hundred miles from Newington Causeway, to keep her daughter at home, and not let her be seen so much after a young man who lives in the Kent Road. • Long Kitty, of Fleet- lane, not to be seen out so late every night, hut to attend a little more to her business of dress- making. T. C— r, of Hercules Brewery, King- street, Borough- road, not to think so much of himself in his Sunday clothes, which were bought at Petticoat- lane. F— r It— t, of Charles- street, Westminster, to be careful how he conducts himself when in company with E— d J— e. Miss T— y, daughter of a shaver in the Cannon- street Road, St. George's East, not to think that the young men at the outfitter's warehouse, close by, are in love with her; if she does, she is mistaken, for they only laugh at, and make a ridicule of her. Mr. W— s, and the woman passing by that name, of White Hart- street, Drury- lanc, to give over tattling. We cannot conceive how it can benefit them to make mischief, and slander all with whom they come in contact. Misses B— s, the Bakers, Nine Elms, Yauxhall, to he a little more decent in washing and dressing themselves in the morning. Misses C—, of Hemlock- court, Carey- street, not to think so much of themselves when they go to church. Mr. M— r, a publican, near Soho, to attend more to the bar, and not trust to the bar- maids. W. V— s, Nelson- terrace, City- road, dustman, to settle accounts before going to bagatelle- rooms, or coming home drvfak at 1 or 2 o'clock in the morning. S. E— d, of Eagle- place, Piccadilly, not to think so much of himself, and not to be seen walking round St. James's- square with his girl every evening. Mrs. A— n D— s, of Sydney- street, Marlborough- road, Chelsea, not to be seen letting out a certain gent so late at night, to the annoyance of her friends. H— y G— s, the well- known SHADOW of Royal- street, Lambeth, to keep from other people's bed- rooms, before he gets the dirty kick out. J. W— n, the pig- jobber, of Old Ford, to attend more to his pigs, and not be so fond of telling lies, as he is always sure to get found out. Mr. W— t, of the Noah's Ark, Narrow- street, Limehouse, not to let his wife go to the Opera with single young men. The clerks in Mr. Ray's office, Narrow- street, not to kick up such a row in the office, any one passing would think it was a lunatic asylum. Miss J— e W— s, of New Church- court, Strand, to clean her teeth, as the noxious odour arising from her breath must be very disagreeable to the straight- haired pastrycook whom she is trying to captivate. Miss S— h W— s, of New Church- court, Strand, not to think that every young man is in love with you, as your face is enough to make them keep their distance. Miss M— g W— s, of New Church- court, Strand, to keep to one young man, and not to walk with so many. Mind what you are about, or it may come to the ears of the lamp- maker's errand boy. Miss A— e II— 1, of Stanhope- street, Clare- market, not to boast any more of her friends in the country being so well off, and that she is not obliged to go to service unless she likes. , Miss H— t, of the Ship public- house, High- street, Stepneyt not to set that ill- looking man ( calling himself a portrai painter) to take her likeness; or else he may say the same about her which he did of poor Jane, the parlour waiteress. Miss S— h E— h, of Huish- court, Water- lane, Blackfriars, bookfolder, not to frequent Hungerford- market so much, especially on Sunday evenings. Miss C— e S— g, of York- road, Lambeth, not to allow her little brother A— d to fall down the steps of Waterloo- bridge while she is engaged in kissing Master P— y S— h, of Can- terbury- street, in the same place. She had much better stay at home to prevent her other brother, H— y, stealing his father's drugs. II— y S— s, the waggon and street number taker, of the Brick- lane goods shed, Eastern Counties Railway, not to boast so much of dancing at tho various Casinos in London with females of easy virtue, but to pay more attention to Miss S— y, who is deserving of better treatment. Mr. J— h N— s, butcher, of the Old- road, Stepney, to attend to his business himself of an evening, and not allow his country wife to be so saucy to the customers. Is it brandy that makes her face so red? E— a H— s, the servant of all work, of Little Tower- street, City, to take walks in the Tower, and look after a soldier, as she is getting on the old maids' list. • Mr. G— r, landlord of the white- fronted gin shop, Little St. Andrew- street, Seven- dials, to look after his poor starving mother. J— n C—, alias the wonderful Crocodile, of Leman- street, Goodman's- fields, not to sport his money so much on a cer- tain lady in that street. A certain young lady, living at a draper's shop, in St. Martin's- lane, not to be seen so often talking to a young man at the cloth warehouse. Omnibus Drivers and Conductors. Bill P— s, of Hammersmith, to leave off carrying that " lady" outside so often: it does not look well in business. Also to get measured for a new set of teeth. I say, Bill, are you thirty yet? Bill B— tt, who drives the Barnes, to go home a little ear- lier from old J-^- to's, and leave off drinking his " Perkin." We shall visit the Sun shortly. Bill V— r, the conductor of the Barnes, to leave off star- ing at a certain young lady in Castlenau villas. Don't as- pire so high; you only get laughed at for your folly. Jem W— n, of Brompton, to drive steadier, and be less conceited. We " could a tale unfold," Jem; and we will, if this advice is neglected. Bill M— m, alias King John, to take less snuff, and avoid attempting to use language he ean neither pronounce nor un- derstand. How about the gin bottle— is it as large as when you were at B— ll's. Bill W— s, of Chelsea, to endeavour to behave himself something like a human being, and less like a bear. J. B— ch, at Pimlico, to study his behaviour more, and his coat and shawl less. How about the girl at Clapton? Bob D— m, Wandsworth, to steer clear of the company he was seen in the other night, at the Elephant and Castle. Stick to the pretty team you drive, and your position will command respect. H. K— ys, of the same firm, to leave off making signs to a certain young lady in the Wandsworth- road, while her parent is getting into the omnibus. It's no go, 11 arry. Dick W— t, of Camberwell, not to take so many thrce- ha'porths. His face is now like a railway signal- light. Bob F— t, of ditto, not to be so conceited: all is not gold that glitters. H. M— s, of the threepenny Wellingtons to Shoreditch, not to forget himself, because he has had the luck to marry. Tommy K— t, alias Tommy Roundhead, to leave off fol- lowing Polly B— t about. She don't want you; therefore, leave her alone, Jem K— n, of Clapton, to leave off drinking so many half- pints, and smoking so many cigars. Flash P— r, of Hackney, to be more civil to his passen- gers, and keep better hours, so that he may be able to get up in the morning. Toby, at W— n's Kingsland, not to tell people he regrets getting married. Bill 11— y, Birmingham Railway ' buss, to alter, or Paul will tell a tale about a certain female at the Bolt in Tun, i'leet- street." H— y D— n, head ostler at the Euston Hotel stables, not to behave so rude to the barmaids at the George, Drummond- street. E— n, the housekeeper at the George, not to tell tales to A. C—, about her fellow- servants, Take care of yourself,, Ellen. Jack- in- the- Green, the railway cabman, to be less trouble- some at the above house, and not threaten people he will show them up in Paul Pry. G— e 0— d, of the same place, to be very careful where he takes Marguerite to, of a Sunday. Naughty George! MIDDLESEX. The Misses S— s, Richmond Road, Twickenham, not to keep an open house, nor he seen to let so many young men out of a morning. Ducky Foster, of Bridge Foot, Hampton Wick, not to attempt appearing quite so large, out of his 10s. per week. Duckey, my boy, you cannot afford to smoke cigars. Mrs. V— the Landlady at the George- inn, Hayes, to mind her own business, and be a little more obliging to her customers. KENT. Sam B— d, the would be fishmonger, of High- street, Chat- ham, not to be so fast in slapping the rotten herrings in people's faces. I say, old boy, how about the five stone bottles of gin and the girl behind the pump. Paul has his eye upon you, and will keep it there. Mr. J— s, the drunken landlord of the George inn, Lewi- sham, not to encourage those indecent and lazy fellows, Ned S— s, Tom P— e, and Bill F— r, to insult his more worthy customers in the manner they do. Mrs. L- MI, the lodging- house keeper, of Upper Woodland- terrace, Charlton, to pay more attention to her tallymen, and not villify her neighbours so much. How about the oakum picking? The long, slim, jobbing tailor, opposite the Barnacles, Maidstone, not to expose himself so much at his door, un- less he can make a little more respectable appearance by washing his face and combing his hair. C. F— d, of Marsham- street, Maidstone, to get his hair cut, as it is quite a disgrace to him. If he cannot raise the cop- pers, Paul will do the benevolent, and give him twopence for the purpose. J— n S— d, when he walks in High- street, Croydon, not to stick up his shoulders and think so much of himself. Has he been to see the girl at the little butcher's shop at Brixton lately; or does he intend serving her as he did the one in the Kent- road? DEPTFORD.— W. W— d, butcher, of High- street, Deptford, to take his wife to church instead of that wicked sister- in- law. M— a T— g, of Church- street, Deptford, as she is getting into years, to keep at making slop shirts instead of running after J— s S— s's eoal truck. Mr. J— h M— n, carpenter, Broomfield's- place, Deptford, to keep away from Greenwich, and not to be seen with the nymphs of the pave so much. Miss E— a T— s, the carman's daughter, of Church- street, Deptford, not to be seen with those two bandy- legged boys at all hours of the night. J— s C— tt, the stone- mason, of New- town, not to be out so late at night with other men's wives at the Railway tavern; but to i; ttend more to his own— she is deserving of it, and far before either Mrs. II— s, Mrs. D— n, or Mrs. B— 1. You are a sad dog Jemmy. J— n C— t, of Clarence- place, Broadway, Deptford, to leave off quarrelling and disturbing the whole neighbour- hood so late at night, and to discontinue setting the dog at people when they offend him. Also to give better weight, and have true scales. Take our advice, Jack, or we shall a tale unfold. That conceited metliodist, W— m F— e, alias the Blue- coat boy, at D— s's, grocers, Broadway, Deptford, to behave in a more becoming manner. Master R. F. M— ell, of the Admiral Hardy, when talking to a young lady in Churcli- strect, not to sniff up his pug nose so much, nor make such a disgusting noise. GREENWICH.— Mrs. C— bb not to go skitting about with T. P. now she is living with the scavenger. Miss R. F— g, of Church- street, Greenwich, to pay more attention to the parson when she is at church than to that curly- headed black- eyed young man. The vulgar- looking wife of Mr. B— 1, at the little cigar shop, in Blue- stile, Greenwich, not to fancy it to be impos- sible to put her in P. P., and not to have the young man opposite in the parlour. Has she paid the washing score yet? G— e M— s, carman, at Mr. Mumford's steam- mills, Green- wich, not to look after the greasy old cook. Does he go for a sop in the pan? E— d B— d, the pawnbroker's shop- boy, to discontinue paying his visits to Miss T— e, of B— d- street Greenwich, or stand clear of the painter. li— d II— r, of the Wood- wharf, Greenwich, to keep better company, and not to be seen with those swells whom he calls his friends, at a certain public- house in King- street so often. Miss H. P— n, the nieee of Mr. P— n, corn- dealer and fly master, ltoyal- hill, Greenwich, not to think: so much of the china- man that she had to tea the other night. WOOLWICH..— J— n H— n, of Edward- street, Woolwich, not to be seen hanging about the dressmaker's in Wellington- street so much, as Miss M— e is engaged to one far more honourable than J. H. has ever shewn himself to be. How about the poor girl on Blackheath ( M. A. P—,) that you talk about so much. C— s B— n, a private in the Royal Horse Artillery, to pay more attention to his own business. Mr. V— t, linendraper, of High- street, to keep his son J— s in the shop, and not to let him stand at the door, to show his elegant figure off to the ladies as they pass by. Miss W— h, the pretty little milliner of Richard- street, not to look after the tailor's boys so very often when she comes out of Queen- street chapel, GRAVESEND.— Miss E. H—, of Peppercroft- street, to dis- continue the use of pearl- powder. It spoils the gentleman's coat at the hop. E— d W— s, of the Coach and Horses, Parrock- street, Gravesend, not to call after the girls he may meet in the street. J— n B— n, Troy Town, Rochester, to pay more attention to his newly- married wife, than his visits to Mrs. C— y, of Queen- street. J— s D— n, draper, of Troy Town, Rochester, to stop at home, and clean the paint off her cheeks. 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. ESSEX. I— n C— c, errand boy at the commercial travellers' school, Wanstead, not to fancy the girls are all In love - with him. W— m S— r, the knacker of Woodford, to deprive himself of two cigars a month. The money would enable him to have his hair cut, which would much improve his present wild appearance, You are a dear boy, Billy; but certainly a swaggering puppy. Mr. R. W. B., of Hornchurch brewery, not to keep Miss A— r waiting so long for her yeast. W— 111 M— r, baker, of Hornchurch, not to quarrel with other mens' wives, nor raise false reports respecting them; or he may get into a net that he will not easily crawl out of. T— s S— s, the would- be foreman of the brewery, Horn- church, not to tell his master every little fault the men com- mit, trying to get them turned out of their situations, or he will get well thrashed for his pains. Mr. H. M— y, of the Abbey Arms, Plaistow, not to boast ifi the public parlour how many girls he is paying attention to at once. SURREY. Mr. and Mrs. T— r, of Clarence- street, Kingston, tt> mind their own business, instead of keeping young men in the shop to gain what news they can about their neighbours. H— y W— e, the chanting painter, of Croydon common, to pay more attention to tlie black- eyed housemaid at Tooting, and less to the sweatmeat man. Is it his daughter, or what does he want? Mr. P— s, of Darfeing, not to look so much at his shins as he comes down ButterlhiU. The flirting barma; a 0f the New Ship, Richmond, not to trouble her head wi% her neighbours affairs. The old house- keeper, opposite tho great Brewhouse- gate, Kingston on ThameSj - to mind her own business, and not try to get the poor men out 0f their places. Unhappy woman 1 She is miserable about her children, which were put— God knows where!_ How about the half- crown nightcap? Do you still wear it when you sleep alone? Mrs. C— n, tile great gnn on Surbiton- liill, near Kingston on Thames, not to go so much to tho dancing rooms in the same town, with her daughter, for we do not think that any of the young men wish to run off with her. She had better Stop at home and attend to that silly son of hers. . J— s P— n, the flash porter at the Star and Garter, Rich- mond, to pay a little more attention to business; instead of strutting about with his plated watch- chain. L. B— n, the conceited little schoolmaster, working at the Candle factory, Wandsworth- road, not to be so fond of telling tales to the master about other men. C. D—, the shoe- binder, of Forty Acres, Kingston, to stay at home, and not go to public houses to ring the hand bells with G. W. We know all about it. W— m M— n, of Croydon, not to think so much of himself; hut to remember he was, a short time ago, only a counter- jumper, and is now but the son of the gambling knight of the thimble on the Common. Likewise, not to speculate too largely on races— the tin may run short. Miss A—, of Mitcham, to stay at home and mend her frock and other things, and not run after the police men so much. Mr. W— e, the station- master, of Barnes, to get to his business earlier of a morning; not to expect the porter to do everything. Mr. B— r, of Wandsworth, not to dross so much like a snob or tinker, and to be more civil to his passengers, his dress is disreputable to the company. « j The Miss E— s, of Putney, not to fancy all the young men that pass their house daily arc in love with them. They are much too wise. J. B—, at Mr. E. Y— s\ Godalming, to look more after his own business, and not trouble his head with other people's quite so much. Let him beware, or something may turn up not much to his advantage. Miss. J— n, at the Cooksliop, Market- street, Maidenhead, not to be seen so often with Mr. L— e, of Taplow Mills. Mr. L— e says he does not intend marrying her. Mr. F. M— n, theWheelwright, at W—' s, in the IJigh- street, Maidenhead, to pay more attention to the blue ink from the Isle of Ely, and not to walk about with that dark- eyed girl. Tommy T— t, of Bcdford- place, Bedford- street, Reading, not to interfere with his neighbours, in the same street any more, or it may be made unpleasant for him. S. W—, the Sporting Tailor, of High- street, Eton, not to appear so conceited a pupy in flashing about five pound notes. He had better go and settle with the Landlady at the Two Brewers. Is that the reason he has ieft the pretty Barmaid of the same house. C— n, the Doctor's Son of Thames- street, aud H— d, the Doctor's Son of Eton not to frequent Taylor's so much, and to discontinue their Dirty Shirt and Pot of Beer Club. Master P— r, of Bullock's Hatch, to attend more to the Law, than to be seen running after every common woman in the town. Mr. C. B— s, Shoemaker of Bray, to correct his wife, and not let her swear at him about the Christening of J. S—. Mr. A. S— h, Baker, of Bray, not to run after the young girls so much. You have a wife at Reading recollect. J— s W— 11, of High- street, Maidenhead, to pay a little more attention to the young lady in black. The Tailor at Eton, not to stop so late at night at Bruns- wick- terrace, and E— n Iv— t not to boast of his having pro- mised to give her 50 pounds. She is to old for II— s to marry; and Paul advises her to look sharp after) the pretty girl " at Eton. NORFOLK. _ NORWICH.— Mr. E— t M— 11, near the Silk Factory, St. Swithin's, to look more after his young woman. Paul saw her go into a certain Public house, with a Livery Servant, during the Fair, after coming out of one of the Shows. Keep your eye open, Robert. Miss B— s, of Canon Abbey, not to go down to the Bar. racks so much. Paul is surprised to see a respectable female visit such a place. Miss E— n H— s, near St. Paul's Church, not to run after u certain married man. Do you know anything about a lit- tle Bookbinder ? Mr. C. M— y, to be more civil to his customers, and to pay the poor London Singer the money he was engaged for. YORKSHIRE. WHITBY.— Miss J— e S— w, of Skinner- street, not to flirt so much and not to be seen in such queer places with long R— n. How about Mr. A—' s bedroom? Mr. S— y, the music master, not to get upon the wrong piano, as he did a short time since at the grocer's. What is the reason of Miss B— n growing so stout? Mrs. S— w, of Skinner- street, to state what kind of a lodger she is in want of. If it is a person who would make a good husband, write Paul a line, and he will send you one. PAUL WISHES TO KNOW Whether Mr. W. II— n, Tailor, who works for Mr. H— s, of Lamb's Conduit- street, Red Lion- square, sends his wife to the Parish for relief ? Whether the Boy Caudle, of the Hackney- road, is still hanging his hat up at the Governesses? Paul saw him last Tuesday when he was out travelling. How it is that Mr. N— s, Plumber, & c., Coles'- terrace, Barnsbury- rcad, Islington, can manage 6 months after his bankruptcy to turn three houses into one for his business premises, and keep his country house at Newington? Whether J— h C— y, late of King- street, Hackney- road, but now of William- street, Shorditch, has got married yet? Because if he has not, he had better do so at once, for fear he might have half a- crown a we6k to pay, which in that case would greatly decrease his salary. If Mr. G— e O— m, of Hattori- garden, Strap Manufacturer, has Emigrateil to California? We ' hink he must have good reason for leaving his Friends, without the pass- word Good- bye. If J. P— k, Egg Merchant, of Soho, thinks he is King of Berwick- street, when he has' that padded jacket on? If Miss N— h, called the " beautiful," from the sign of the two- to- onc. London- street, Greenwhich, has got a sweetheart yet at the Lecture Hall? We. think she would do so much sooner if she kept her mouth closed. Why Mrs. R. E—, of Dunford' s- passage, Greenwich, drops into so many Public houses in the course of the day? It is anything but respectable. When Miss G— e, the stuck- up doll of Blaekheath- hill, in- tends getting married to that nice looking young man of Greenwich? Or whether she is only making a walking- stick of him? Whether- Pasty N— e, of South- street, Greenwich, con- tinues gallanting with every Tradesman's daughter in that town, only to deceive them. If J. H— r, Brickiyer, of Lewisham, has given up the little Dress- maker of George- place? If not, why look so smiling at that fair young lady, the Butcher's daughter? Why J. Y. the silver- laeed guard of the Blackwall Railway does, with a bad intent go clandestinly to the superintendent behind the backs of his fellow- servants, and report them and then speak fair to their faces? Look well out when the locamotives are running. Whether J. W— y, of Broad- street, City, was out for a pelter because he was shewn up the other week? Whether Mr. J. B~< 1, of Fore- street, Limehouse, ( known as the Fore- street bully) intends to behave honourably to the pew- opener of Limehouse church? If Mr. R. Q— n, has made an ass of himself lately by mas- querading down High- street, Camden Town, with spurs on? If Mary, the Irish servant at the Phoenix Coffee shop, near Compton- street is a lady of fashion ? Why G. S— s, the Crown- street Printer, does not look after work, instead of living upon his mother and father. They cannot live for over, and when they are de^ d you must work. SOUTHAMPTON. J. T. T— r, and G. G— ge, not to promenade the High- street all day on Sundays, quizzing the girls. E. H— y to go less to New York. J. L— r not to clothe his poor ideas in such grand language. The Rev. S. B— y, to be seen less at Lock's Beer- shop, and to send for his wife. J. H— r, the Tailor, not to think an old fellow like himself fit to be president of a Youths' Mutual Improvement Society. SHEFFIELD. THINGS PAUL NEVER SAID. That Mdlle. R— n, dressmaker, of Fitzwilliam- street, was ever in Paris. That P. A— y, Watson- walk, wrote the epithalemic epi- grams in our last week's number, though we know his capabi- lities that way. That F— s C— y's ( of Market- place) gutta- percha soles stick to the pavement, and drag the boots from off the feet of the wearer. That Mr. S. W— n, of George- street, is in the habit of puttying his whiskers to his face, or that he uses Rowland's Macassar to make an imperial sprout. BRIGHTON. Mr. J— n B— s, alias Dr. Syntax, not to promenade the Old Steyne, as soon as it is dark every evening, with the young lady called Eish. His friends often see him, though he may not he aware of it. A certain gent at Messrs. R— y and Sons, the auctioneers, of North- street, not to be quite so vain of his exterior adorn- ments. L. A— s, the Levitical clothier of North- street, near the hank, not to imagine the people of Lewes or Brighton; suppose him the most artistical tailor in Sussex. Quite more contrary rather, old fellow. Mr. R— n, " the Solicitor of Queen's Road, to inform those who feel disposed to speculate, whether there is any trade attached to the tobacconist's shop in M- irlborough- street. Mr. E— g, the Plumber, of Prince Albert- street to keep his two hundred pounds, if he has got it(?) and not advance it on freehold property. " A bird in hand " old fellow may be a somewhat musty joke, but nevertheless tis a true one, and no possible mistake thereof. The fast man, of Ship- street, to be very cautious for a time. The pump- room will open on the 7th instant; when, if you are not civil, you may get swamped. Take care, you we'll deserve a ducking. One of the menials at the Dispensary, Old Steiue, to con- duct himself at all times respectfully to the patients, or he may receive Paul's further advice. Mr. G— 1, of Castle- square, never to expose indecent prints in his shop window. Mr. 0— k, of the Baths, to stop the hole. If he does not; we shall shortly stop him. Billy T— n, of Hampton- place to feed regularly on Allen's Homoepathic cocoa. It may be the means of restoring his lost flesh, and that is a thing " devoutly to be wished," Messrs. R— s and Son, ot the Marine Parade, not to imagine that the quality of a pale ale consists in wearing a diirk'appearance. The last they sent Paul was awful— very. 1 Mr. W— d, the dentist, of German Place, not to boast so much about the innumerable cases in which he has ad- ministered chloroform and ether. They will not do in all instances, and " rhubarb is rhubarb, call it what you will." j, M— n, of the London Dining Rooms, Market- street, Castlc- square, to cleanse his beds, and look more after the comforts of his customers, instead of playing billiards all night, to the disturbance of the lodgers; he then might stand a chance of doing as well as the Unicorn, which is a well- conducted establishment. PORTSMOUTH. S— tt, the Taylor of Hanover- street, to pay his Creditors ; in full for the future, or Paul will unfold the secrets between . himself and his brother opposite as to the disposal of certain I goods. Young B— n, the Blockmaker, of Bath- square, to pay his Bilks, and not to feed his Pigs upon rope- yarn Pretty Tommy D— s, the Boatswain ( now he has married ! a woman with a trifle) to mend his ways and pay his debts, j Mrs. C— 11, at H—' s Factory ( now she is spliced) not to allow . a certain married man, to visit her and to be more civil to the Shirt- makers. Mr. T— 1, of Queen street, not to pawn his rolls of cloth, so often, or we must tell his Father. P. M— n, of Union- street, to give up his consequential strut, and all thoughts of being Master Shipwright. A. P— e, at Antills', Portsmouth, to many the poor girl he so cruelly seduced. PLYMOUTH. Miss S. M— n, of the Dolphin, Barbican, when she goes to the theatre to pay more attention to the performance, and not wink at the gentlemen so much. How about a certain little Frenchman ? BRISTOL. Miss M— n, ( of Narrow Wine- street, Bristol), the Dairy- man's daughter, not to wear such a great bustle, long curls in front, and ragged head behind. BERKSHIRE. The Red- Haired Tailor of the High- street, Maidenhead, not to stand at the door shanking of hands with every fool that passess. Pay more attention to the shojihoard, as the farmer can't live for ever. Miss H— t C— x, of Bear- lane. Windsor, not to think that she will get a young man to walk with her. She is running after too many every night. . SUNDERLAND. His north- country friends to patronize the following:— To our Sunderland Readers. In the Press and shortly will be published, Reminiscences of- School- days; A love story. By J— n Har— on of Bridge- street, alias the Hyflier, Giving an authentic account of North and South Shields. GLASGOW. Messrs. R— n and Company, the furnishing warehousemen, of Candleriggs, to inform the world how many houses they monopolize in one street. We can reckon Nos. 33, 35, 37, and 39, hut doubt much if they include the whole. Some people can do business enough in one shop— others effect nothing in twenty. Messrs. G— r and M— e, of Argyll- street, to enliglien us on a question of much interest, which we confess our inability to answer. We have been asked if the packets of their " California jackets " are capable of carrying much gold? All the answer we could return was— we wish the wearers may get it. A certain gent in the house of T— n and M>— II, Jamaica, not to assume such an air of consequence. There are greater men in Glasgow. The lively widow of Buchanan- street, to get married as early as convenient— such a proceeding might do away with strange existing notions. FOUND OUT. Hymen ( they say) is a wag, A conjuring rogue who prevaricates; Who will change a poor man to a stag, And a couple of doves to a pair o' cats! Mr. Peter Cooksey was charged with having gricvously maltreated his wife, in return for the trouble she had taken to ' find him out.' She had long suspected that he was no better than he should be amongst the ladies; and, because she succeeded in finding him out, he ' turned to and gave her a black eye, as purple as a mulberry!' Now, Peter Cooksey was by no means a likely- looking subject either for dispensing black eyes, or doing any thing faux pas- ish in the way of gallantry. On the contrary, he seemed to be remarkably cool, peaceable, and subdued:— his age, some fifty or thereabout; his garments, apparently much more elderly; his person, much too small for his gar- ments; his voice, a mere murmur; his head, bald and shin- ing, except a mere valance of thin brown hairs on the hinder part; his eyes, mild and unlustrous as a pair of bottled- gooscberries; his cheeks, lank and inclining inward; and the two pippin- shaped orifices which projected over his mouth were well stored with brown rappee. But, notwith- standing all these exceedingly unpromising personal qualifi- cations for any thing extraordinary, he hatl been found out. His wife, a little, dumpy, pains- taking sort of woman, assured the magistrate that Peter was not so pious as he appeared to be. He had long been in the habit, she said, of absenting himself from home for days together, and for a long time she could not think what in the world he was after. But at length she and her neighbours agreed to watch him; and so they watched him and watched him, up one street and down another, until at last they watched him into a house, somewhere near Sloane Street, and there they pounced upon him, just as he was sitting down to tea with a damsel, young enough to be his daughter, and very dirty withal; and Peter was so angry at finding himself found out, and getting his ears well boxed to boot, that he gathered up his time- wasted hand into a clenched fist, with which he struck his liege lady full on her left eye, and kicked her gossips out of doors. In reply to this charge, Peter had little or nothing to say — or if he had, he did not take the trouble of saving it; for these were the only words he uttered:—' Your worship cannot imagine how much I was provoked.' Then the magistrate ordered that he should find bail; but, being unable to do so, he was locked up; and, in the even- ing, his wife sent him a clean shirt, in order that he might take his imprisonment comfortably. PROOF POSITIVE.—" Ma" ( said an innocent girl), " that nice young man, Mr. George Frederick Albert Augustus Simkins. is very fond of kissing." " Mind your work, Amelia, like a good girl:— who told you such nonsense?" " Why. ma. I had it from his own lips." 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. LOVE'S VAGARIES. ME. MARMADUKE MOUNTJOY was a single gentleman of a " certain age;" not a certain age in the figurative and com- mon acceptation of the term, which is the most uncertain of all, but literally and truly fifty- two years and three months old, by the parish register, as every one in the parish knew; for thus it fell out. Thirty years before we introduce him to the reader, he had, in a moment of unsuspecting con- fidence, mentioned the year in which he was born, fixing— branding— it on the memory of a gossip who was present, by observing it was the year of some remarkable event— either the flying visit of a great comet, or thelfleetingjglory of a^ great victory— I am sure I forget which: but, whatever it was, it proved a landmark from which to measure; or " data," I be- lieve is the favourite word with practical people, who deal only with facts. Fifty- two, and single! though rich enough to lavish every luxury on a beloved object; and more— far more than this— generous, kind, affectionate, endowed with every quality that forms that noblest work of God—" an honest man." To be sure he was a little bit crotchetty and eccentric, but " E'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side." At thirty years of age he had adopted an infant nephew, as a sort of compensation for the injur}- he had inflicted on him, by happening to be his father's elder brother, and heir to the family estate. And having loved in his youth " wisely and well," but wept over the early grave of the true mate his heart had found, he had resolved never to profane her me- mory by making a second choice; and we see how well his reolution had been kept. But Mr. Marmaduke Mountjoy was not an unhappy man; for however crushing at the time such a misfortune, as that of his youth, it is one which leaves no sting behind. The discontented old maid and querulous bachelor, repining at their lot, be sure are those who have never heen— perhaps have never deserved to be— truly loved. His greatest weakness was to believe himself very learned as a botanist and entomologist; and I am afraid he had the vanity, in his own heart, to add two or three other ists to the list of his acquirements. Only a week since he had read the advertisement of an intended sale in London of a private col- lection of curiosities, and Mr. Marmaduke Mountjoy immedi- ately determined on visiting the metropolis, with the hope of enriching one particular shelf in his cabinet of butterflies. Arrived in London, he was disappointed in his object,'" and two days after, he found himself behind the hissing, groaning, mighty engine some days before he had intended to return. On, on sped the train through hill and through dale; now beside the pleasant meadow, and now raised aloft, it dashes past a manufacturing district, peeping in upon the busy artisan in his high and narrow dwelling. It was a balmy August evening when Marmaduke Mountjoy alighted at the station, and being but a mile and- a- half from his home, he left his carpet- bag to be sent for next morning, and set off to walk across the fields. Scarcely, however, had he proceeded a hundred yards, when he encountered two ladies, intimate friends, and what, in the country, are called neighbours. These were Miss Campbell, a spinster lady of an imcertain age, and her adopted child and relative, Helen Campbell, a beautiful girl of about eighteen. Miss Campbell was'as well preserved and interesting a " specimen" of an old maid as Marmaduke Mountjoy was of an old bachelor. She had loved in early life; but then she was portionless, and her cousin Hector, to whom she was betrothed, parted with her, to join his regiment in a foreign land, with vows of con- stancy it is true; but— in one little year he wedded another. Soon after this event, the wronged and forsaken Helen ( Hcctor's daughter had been named after his forsaken love — such are the inconsistencies of man's nature) inherited an independence of a few hundreds a year, and then, when her early lover sank beneath the burning skies of India, and his volatile widow married again, Helen offered to educate and provide for his child; an office which the slenderly dowered lady most gladly accepted, observing to her intimate friends that it was a much more natural thing for Miss Campbell to do than to pet spaniels and canarics. The young lady's heart however ( for she was young then), was sufficiently ca- pacious for all these purposes, as the tenants of the cottage ornee in which she resided fully testified. Mr. Mountjoy had also a penchant for pets, as in some degree almost all kind- hearted peo] jle have; and here was another bond of union between the bachelor and spinster. In fact, they were the best friends in the world, and living, as they both did, far away from the busy idleness of gaiety, they had time enough, and sympathies to spare, for entering with interest into the engrossing pnrsuits of each other, whatever, for the time being, these might be. " Oh! my dear friends," exclaimed Mr. Mountjoy, shaking the ladies cordially by the hand, I have such a treasure to show you; to be sure, I did not mean to introduce the precious dears till they were neatly arranged on the shelf, which I think you, Miss Campbell, first called nonpareil. But I am afraid, with the case in my pocket, I can never be your escort for ten minutes without drawing it forth." " I propose," said the lady, " that you return home with us to tea, instead of going direct to the Lodge, where I dare say they do not cxpect you, and then we can examine the butterflies at leisure.' " There are some beetles, also," interposed Mr. Mountjoy. " Do come," said the voice of Helen the younger, " they would blow about in the open air. Besides, I have quite learned ' Auld Robin Gray' while you have been in London, and I want to sing it to you." With such a double inducement, there is no wonder he ac- ceded ; and, perhaps in the whole county, there was not that evening a happier man than Mr. Marmaduke Mountjoy, for affection— that like an atmosphere pervaded the spinster's establishment, always went home to the heart of Mr. Mount- joy; evincing its presence by raising his spirits, brightening his intellect, and elevating his feelings. As he entered the gate, the dogs bounded forward to meet them, greeting their mistresses and the visitor by turns, with the peculiar and most eloquent bark, or cry of joy; as they neared the house, a feathered favourite, confined only by a long chain, cried " pretty Polly," and stooped her head till it touched her perch, as she sought attention and caresses from the party; and, as he entered the hall, with what a silent welcome, and sweet smile, did the neat " parlour- maid" take his stick and hat, and usher in Mr. Marmaduke Mountjoy. The hissing urn, too, and sociable tea- table, which two at least of our truest poets have deigned to honour in their verse; tlu^ n the treasure" displayed, with all the interest his fair hostess evinced in his entomological pursuits, an interest which he returned in kind by judiciously admiring Miss Campbell's old china, a love of which was that lady's reigning " vanity." Indeed, I think it was on that memorable evening that he promised to add to her store, by presenting her with a certain antique dish, which usually rested on the cabinet of curiosi- ties, regretting there was a slight flaw, but I believe the fair collector thought it rather more valuable on that account. Then came the old ballads, rich in their intrinsic merits— perhaps richer still in their associations to two of the party; and in such singing Helen was not ashamed toexcel; as, from some acknowledged reason, it would appear almost all young amateurs are, seeing that they so seldom accomplish the feat, and usually express some contempt for those who do. The supper- tray— almost, if not quite as sociable as the tea equpage — broke in upon the music; and then Helen, who had accom- panied some friends to the theatre at R the previous evening, begged to retire to rest, as she was quite fatigued with such unusual dissipation. The bachelor and spinster grew more than commonly confidential: somehow or other, the young people became the subject of their conversation; and while Mr. Mountjoy marvelled at the docility of the youthful Helen,' and was fain to ask some hints which might be useful in the management of Frederic, he candidly confessed the boy ( he was now six- and- twenty) was really at times beyond his controul. Now filling the house with his noisy sporting companions; then, perhaps, the next month, Shak- speare mad, flying about the country, more like a courier than anything else, to follow some provincial theatrical star. Thus emboldened, M'ssCampbell confided a secret, she " feared dear Helen would be very angry with her for mentioning it,, but she felt it was only the act of afriend. to do so— would he pro- mise to pardon his nephew this time? " " Dear madam!" exclaimed Mr. Mountjoy, " what is it he has done? Pray, pray let me know the worst. Nothing, I hope, to tarnish our name— imprudence, extravagance, I can forgive anything but dishonour." " Nothing very dreadful," returned Miss Campbell, " only — that is— Helen is almost sure that he acted one of the prin- cipal characters at R- last night, under an assumed name, of course." " Good gracious! Miss Campbell, my nephew an actor!— without my knowledge, or even a suspicion of such a thing! I do not deserve this from him." Frederic was not there to sooth with promises of obedience for the future, or expressions of regret for the past; so Miss Campbell used all her eloquence to make Mr. Mountjoy view the affair as a youthful error, a repetition of which would surely be prevented by a firm, but effectionate remonstrance with the offender. The result of all this was to raise Miss Campbell, if possible, yet higher in the old bachelor's estima- tion, although he had long regarded her as a miracle of good sense, and female excellence. Strange it is, that with all his admiration of the lady, never till that night had the thought flashed across his mind, that it might not have proved an unwise thing, a dozen years before, to have consulted Miss Campbell more intimately on the " management" of his nephew; for with that simplicity which, as regarded worldly matters, was the idiosyncrasy of his mind, he did not perceive . the different sort of " management" a high- spirited young man— restless from mere want of legitimate occupation— required, from one of that gentle sex, whom the discreet, we must hope, always find most manageable. In such conversation, however, time passed swiftly away, and it was nearly midnight when the friends separated. Being a very dark night, Mr. Mountjoy was provided with a lantern, by the aid of which he could more easily find his way down the short lane, and across the one field, by which the cottage was separated from his residence. The outer gate of the Lodge yielded to the latch- key its master always carried; and this put it into his mind to try a similar expe- riment on a certain side- door, which would lead him near his own private apartments. As this also offered neither bolt nor bar to impede Ms entrance, his first impression was that his nephew and the servants were still up, but the total silence which prevailed induced him after a few moments to judge the contrary ; a hasty murmur at their carelessness escaped him, but his good nature prevented his rousing the establishment; so, making all fast himself, he hastened to his chamber. Mr. Mountjoy was soon asleep, for though annoyed at the account he had heard of his nephew, he was thoroughly fa- tigued, and the mind succumbed to the tired body. Whether he dreamed of Frederic in Hamlet's " inky cloak;" the Victoria butterfly; Miss Campbell's pattern protegee; or the surprise his own appearance would occasion the next morn- ing, his biographical memoirs declare not; but they positively affirm that he was startled from a deep slumber, just at daybreak, by a combination of sounds to which he was quite unaccustomed. His first idea was— probably the remnant of a dream weaving itself with his first waking thought— that all the articles of glass in the house, startled from their pro- priety, had assembled to dance Highland reels in the chamber beneath him— that room made sacrcd by the presence of The Cabinet! His next belief was that The Cabinet itself, with open doors, had embraced the round table, and was whirling with it in the giddy waltz, the embroidered table- cover sweeping round after the fashion of a lady's robe, to the utter discomfiture of their brittle companions! Then he fancied there was a loud accompaniment of human voices ( the orchestra for the dancers); and by the time he was thoroughly convinced of this fact, our Old Bachelor was wide awake! If the party were thieves, they were such merry ones, that he was sure they would not molest him; but he did not think they were theives, neither did Puck and Tray, who— faithful creatures!— had found out their master's return, and planted themselves at his door; and to their opinion lie gave due weight. Following, therefore, his canine pioneers, who seemed to assure him, by their manner, that he had nothing to fear, and would certainly have the best of the joke, whatever it might be, he descended the stairs and found himself at the door of his sanctum. It was not even fastened, for Puck thrust it open, and so little did the four- footed intruders disturb the revellers, that Mr. Mount- joy had time, before making his presence known, to look upon a scene which is not easy to describe. The truth was, that Frederic Mountjoy had taken the op- portunity of his uncle's absence to convert so large a portion of the house into a private theatre, that really there was no other room than the sanctum left for the necessary refresh- ment of himself and a select few, after the audience had departed. Had Mr. Mountjoy gone round to the principal entrance, he might probably have been allowed the gratifi- cation of witnessing some of his nephew's histrionic exer- tions; for it afterwards appeared that he must have entered the house during the last scene but one, in which a great deal of mystery and apprehension were expressed by very eloquent dumb show, which of course rivetted the attention of the audience; and most probably the master of the man- sion was fast asleep when, at the fall of the curtain, " thun- ders of applause " proclaimed the success of the young actor. The select few who met, with " champagne and " a chicken at last," consisted of the manager of the theatre of R , who had lent several of his properties for the occasion; and his daughter, the star of the company; they having; with Frede- ric, sustained the principal characters. We rather think, from pure love of the art, they were rehearsing a favourite scene at the moment they were so unceremoniously broken in upon by Mr. Marmaduke Mountjoy. With the consternation or lecture which followed we have nothing to do; we shall but observe that the event gave birth to a desperate resolution in the mind of the Old Bachelor, towards the realization of which his first step was a visit to Miss Campbell before mid- day. That morning he offered his hand to the spinsteri Miss Campbell asked three days, before making her decision— and yet she had not been so very much surprised at the offer; at the end of which time, it was arranged that the marriage should take place in the course of the winter. ***** It was a clear frosty morning, when the earth's winter aspect was spread, and the leafless branches were garlanded with snow- wreaths. B it the sun shone cheerfully, and the bells rung merrily, as the bridal party left the old church of R . It was a gala day in the neighbourhood, and among the poor there was loud talk of huge oxen, and gigantic spits, and Brobdignag plum- puddings, such as the youthful part of the community had never before witnessed. And many were the grateful beings— grateful for more solid ser- vices than one good meal— who lined the avenue, as Mr. and Mrs. Marmaduke Mountjoy departed on their wedding ex- cursion. Frederic was to remain at the Lodge during their absence, as he had brought some lieadache- giving- looking law books from London, to study in this chosen retirement, preparatory to his formally entering himself as a student for the bar. Helen still lingered at the cottage, which was ad- vertised to be let, under the protection of an intimate friend, a widow lady, who had come to pass the time with her. We may just observe that Helen also professed ( to be very busy, as she had undertaken to pack the rare china for removal with her own fair fingers, and had arrangements to make before her cousin's return home, far too numerous to par- ticularize. We cannot tell how it was that such very busy people found time for anything besides their several occupations. Perhaps, however, on Helen's part, packing china— and se- lecting books instead of reading them, proved but dull work, and she required the relaxation of a little agreeable society in the evening; while we know Frederic could not be study- ing law all day. However this might be, he soon formed the habit of dropping in at the cottage, sometimes of a morning, sometimes of an evening; and though at first the dogs barked, and the parrot screamed on his arrival, long before he had heard half Helen Campbell's songs old and new, they had become quite used to him. Thus emboldened, he occa- sionally offered himself as an escort to the ladies in their walks and rides; so that before three weeks had elapsed, it would have seemed wonderful not to meet at least once in. the day; and, in truth, now that they were relations, as Frederic said they were, the greater part of their time was spent together. But want of spacc warns us to avoid detail. We shall only hint that Frederic Mountjoy discovered that the law was: not his vocation, and that to have applied himself to it with any reasonable hopes of becoming Lord Chancellor, he should have done so at least ten years earlier. Upon second thoughts, too, he began to think he should find occupation for his mind even in the country, without studying Black- stone, or murdering Macbeth; more especially after a certain event had taken place, of which his uncle must approve, as it would be but following that uncle's good example. Helen loved Shakespere as much as himself; so at least they could read together, if they did not act. She proved an amateur composer, for she arranged some words he had written ( to her) after a morning's walk; she was a painter too, as we have heard — so was he; for, though in the likeness he painted of her, her bright eyes certainly did not look exactly the same way, a child might have known for whom it was intended; and though the complexion was rather cadaverous, the arm- chair in which she sat was wonderfully like. After all, the dilet- tanti have many resources against ennui. It was a bright May morning, when the church- bells of R again rung merrily; but now the young flowers swayed by a gentle breeze, shook their delicate bells in unison, as they sent forth their odorous greeting to the youthful pair. May! bright May!— the typ, e of their years, with the summer of life be- fore them. As the cavalcade passed the cottage, it might have been observed that the place was full of workpeople, who even on that day could not rest, so much had they to prepare in the next few weeks— for that was to be the resi- dence of Frederic and his wife. Only one word more— and it is whispered as a secret. They do say that the young people quite manage " dear uncle and aunt." SWEEPINGS FROM OUR OFFICE. FOREIGN AIRS.—" A great sensation," was created behind the scenes at Covent Garden a few nights ago. Madame Grisi, was pleased to play the Queen before the Directors of the Operatic establishment, very authoritative behind the cur- tain, before she would condescend to enact the Babylonian sovereign before it. In fact, it is said that the spoiled lyrical child of the public got up a complete revolution, as unex- pected as it'was successful; and that the casus belli resolves itself into the " currency question." Grisi, with all the Ita- lian fire for which she is dramatically celebrated, resolutely demanded £ 500 on account before going on the stage. Great was the consternation of the officials, and the operatic corps—• it was getting late— little time was to be wasted, and the re- sult was that Grisi's modest demand was complied with. This certainly was a very graceful act on the part of Mde. Grisi, who has pocketed so many thousands of John Bull's money; but she probably thinks that as this is her last season in Eng- land, she can act as she pleases, and only sing when she likes. SIBTHORI", the eccentric Colonel, on the occasion of Prince Albert's recent visit to Lincoln, presented the wives of the parliamentary electors, with half'- a- pour- d of tea each. It is presumed that by the next election, the tea will have drawn well. THE CASINOS.— The very liberal view taken by the assis- tant- Judge at the Middlesex sessions, when the indictments against the proprietors of the Casinos was brought on, has been a subject of congratulation in many circles during the past week. Indictments or actions, when brought against such persons, are too frequently got up for the purpose of extortion; although, in this instance, the informer was put forward by a cabal of, no doubt, very respectable people, whose sole object was to keep up a monopoly which they happen to enjoy. The law, as it now stands, against music and dancing, has become almost inoperative, and incompatible with the present circumstances of society. LOVE OF THE BEAUTIFUL. On! call it not romance that some should love To gaze upon the deep- blue sky above, And dream of happy hours long gone by, When life was clear and cloudless as that sky; For though the voice of hope is mute, yet still The golden chord of memory will thrill, And bring us back again to happy hours, When life seemed laughing out from flowers. Nor this alone; but when we fondly gaze On things so beautiful, a note of praise Will often sound upon the coldest car, And sing its antliem of a higher sphere. Then call it not romance to love the bright, The beautiful of earth— its golden light, For nobler thonghts will light the poet's dream Than ever shone upon the worldling's theme. 2 PAUL PRY ; THE REFORMER OF THE AGE. rom motives of kindness, aud the hope of his amendment under your correction, that I call your attention to liim." Be careful, old boy, and take your friend's advice, or you'll certainly " Bust your biler" some of these odd times. I remain, L. M * * * *. PAUL IN THE PLAYHOUSE. HAYMARKET. Morton's comedy of " Town and Country," still continues to attract; the Reuben Glenroy of James Wallack being a first - rate performance, indeed every character this gentleman undertakes is always sure to be very creditably executed. Mr. Keeley's Hawbuck is anything but what it ought to be; there's none of the Yorkshire cunning about his performance, he is too stupid by half. The other characters deserve no particular mention, with the exception of Wigan's Plastic, which is indeed a clever personation. " The Sphinx" still retains its deserved popularity. LETTER- BAG. *" DEAR PAUL,— By finding room in your valuable Journal for the following true but simple letter, you will confer an everlasting favour on a large portion of the ill- paid, hard- working, and suffering tailors. I am a tailor by trade, and for ten months was out of work; during which time, how I, my wife, and five children existed, heaven only knows. At last I heard work was to be obtained at Skinners', clothiers, Aldgate. I immediately applied, and was informed that if I placed two or three pounds in Mr. Skinner's lian d as security, I might have as much work as I could do. X begged hard for employment without the security, giving Mr. S. respectable references as to honesty and competency, stating at the same time it was next to an impossibility for me to get two pounds. He answered me thus:—•" Ah! there's where it is, you see; you work- people are all such a poor miserable lot that we cannot trust you; for you're sure to sell or pawn the materials we give you, and then patch up some heart- rending tale of a childbirth, bed- ridden wife, or distraint for rent, to excite sympathy in the employer's heart, so that he shall not prose- cute you; and even if he did, it would only be putting the nation to a cost— which, God knows, is in debt enough already— to keep you in prison, without doing me any benefit; for, of course, I should lose my goods, you being worthless." Now, Paul, is not this too bad? Is it not cruel and shameful behaviour on the part of the master- man, thus to insult an honest though poor journeyman, and call him thief? Oh! ye great lords and gentlemen that in parliament assemble, instead of passing a Gagging Act, suspending the Habeas Corpus Act, and wasting the public time on some narrow or broad railway guage, or Jewish Disabilities Bill, why not investigate and seek to remove the cause that brings about so much crime and demoralization amongst a Chris- tian people whom you represent, yet leave to be treated worse than slaves. ' Tis thus, dear Paul, I think, and so do many thousands more, although their want of knowledge at present keeps them dumb; but this evil, thanks to cheap reading, and journals like yours, in exposing existing abuses, is every day growing less and less, and, as the goaded, starving multitude are led to think, they next will act. Excuse me for thus digressing. Now to the point. After hearing these remarks, which poverty forbade me to resent, I left the shop, and sought amongst my companions to raise the money; which, after a fortnight's hard and heart- sickening endeavours, and by pawning my bed, and every little article I could, I managed to raise the sum of two pounds. Cold, hungry, and spirit- crushed, I once more went to the great man in Aldgate, produced my money, and asked for work. " This proves the hypocrisy of you work- people," he said; " who, while continually crying out about your wretched condition, to gain pity, can at last, when they see no chance is left them to excite it, obtain the sum required. I'm only sorry I didn't say five pounds." " Ah! Sir," I replied, " you know not what trials I've had to raise it: and will you now he kind enough to give me work?" He then measured off enough stuff for a dozen waistcoats. I asked what was the price he paid? " Oh, that is accord- ing to the workmanship." Well, Sir, I made the waistcoats and took them home, an- ticipating the pleasure I should feel in once more buying bread I had earned; When, Sir, after examining the work, he said:—" Ah, for this sort of work we pay fivepence each waistcoat; and you have made twelve : that's 4s. 7d. Well, here's Is. 7d., and you must call again for the rest, when you shall have more work." Astonished at the low price, and disgusted with his con- duct, I left the shop completely heart- broken, wondering why such wretches were allowed to live and fatten on the blood of their fellow- men. At last, after lingering on with this man for some time, averaging from six to seven shillings a week, he becomes bankrupt, £ 2 17s. 9d. in my debt, besides the .£ 2 left in his charge as a security for my honesty. He, Sir, is now at liberty, enjoying liis ill- gotten gains, and protected by law; whilst I and my fellow- workmen are left to suffer— ay, or to die, for what he cares, or the law either— because we are poor, and thus count for nothing. Oh, Paul, is itjnot high time that men should think and act for themselves; and, if no law be given them for protection against the tyranny of the rich, why, then, as one man, they must arise and protect themselves. I remain, Sir, Your obedient servant, G. L * * * *. SADLERS' WELLS Bulwer's " Money" has been resuscitated at this popular place of amusement, and bids fair to bring coin to the trea- sury. The Evelyn of Phelps was a good hit— though we must confess we miss the original personifier of the charac- ter. There was more finish or polish about Macready's Evelyn, than in that of Phelps'. The Benjamin Stout of George Bennett, needs no comment— it was masterly execu- ted. The part of Captain Dudley Smooth, Wrench's charac- ter, was fearfully behind that gentleman's conception, Mr. Marston's being heavy as lead. Miss Cooper's Clara Douglass was the gem of the piece, and drew down immense applause, whilst Miss Huddart's Georgina Vesey was respectable and lady- like in the extreme. The other characters call for no particular comment. SURREY. " Macbeth" was performed on Monday evening to a crowded house, introducing Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Warner to a Surrey audience. If we may judge of the performance by the applause bestowed, wc should say it was played as it was never played before. Mr. Anderson has improved since he left us for America, and he now stands in the first walk of his profession. His Macbeth, we think, is not his best part. There is a something wanting in it, to make it a perfect performance. Mrs. Warner's Lady Macbeth has been so often before a London public, and is known so well by every playgoer, that we shall merely add it was performed in her usual artistic style. Mr. Shepherd's Macduff was wretched in the extreme. Some people imagine because they have a little money to start manager with, they have an un doubted right to murder Shakespeare. We should advise Mr. Richard Shepherd to give up the legitimate in acting, and look after the illegitimate actions of his box- keepers, in the front, who before they'll put you in a seat after paying your money, without an extra fee, will smile and say very blandly, " there is no room," when you can see plenty. Such proceedings should not be tolerated in any theatre. Gen e- rally speaking, the other characters were creditably sustained, and the piece put upon the stage on a liberal scale. STANDARD. Mr. Douglass, the spirited lessee, still continues to enjoy a large share of public patronage. " Sarah, the Jewess," a very popular piece during Mrs. Honnor's management at Sadlers' Wells, and performed there for many successive nights. It is one of the best class melo- dramas, and would pay any one for the trouble of a visit. Mr. E. Edwards seems to be a great favorite at this end of the town, and with Mr. N. T. Hicks, combined with the chaste acting of Mrs. R. Ilonnor, and a really good company, nightly fill this the- atre to overflowing. PAUL'S SPECIMENS OP A NEW FASHIONABLE DICTIONARY. WE have received the following communication, and think wc cannot do better than print it entire:— ( To Paul Pry, Esq.) SIR,— There is a certain very funny individual, who resides near Guildford- street. He is in the habit of confidently as- serting that he possesses great fascinating powers for the fair sex; which he really, dear Paul, has not. He rejoices in the name of V- i- g- n- e. This deluded individual has actually hegur. to cultivate an " imperial," and some time ago he really allowed his upper lip to go unshaven, until warned of it by the respectable firm for which he labours. The moustacliios disappeared, but he seems determined to allow a few straggling hairs to rusticate upon his chin. He boasts * awfully of his musical talents since he has belonged to an amateur club at Islington, at the musical soirees of which he does the trumpet; and so fearfully does he blow that instru- ment, that his friends are sadly afraid he'll do himself a mischief. When these soirees take place, the neighbourhood are in a complete state of alarm, for the sounds of the trumpet alone are sufficient " to fright the isle from its pro- priety." However, with this exception, an inordinate vanity, he is a well- disposed animal: and it is, dear Paul, merely ACCOMMODATING.— To be accommodating. To see every- thing right that is wrong; to swear a thing is black if your friend says it, though you know it to be white. To be deaf and blind when necessary. ADAPT.— To adapt your opinion to that of the rising power, is a sure and certain mode of getting up in the world, and is followed by many. BAIT.— An enticement set to allure fish, animals, and men; and very frequently seized with greediness by all. BANKRUPTCY.— A capital way of enriching yourself. BUDGET.— A bag which has cost many a minister a sleep- less night before lie has been able to screw up his courage to open it. CEREMONIOUS.— A genteel way of keeping people at a proper distance. CHILDHOOD.— A state in which some continue throughout their lives. CRITIC.— An unmerciful searcher of faults. Very little wit, and a large share of ill- nature, is all that is necessary to form a good critic. DEVIL ( poor).— A man whose appetite far exceeds his means of satisfying it; on whom all liberally bestow their pity, but they consider not where he is to get a dinner. DISSEMBLER.— A man more to be dreaded than the most inveterate, open enemy you can have. DOCILE.— What a man wishes his dog, his horse, and his wife to be. DOG.— A term of reproach unjustly applied to a contempt- ible man, as a dog is the most faithful domestic animal that lives. DUN.— A " horrible monster" never welcomed anywhere. ELECTIONS.— One of the great privileges of a free people, but where intrigue and corruption generally play the prin- cipal game; and we for ever see the honest, upright man compelled to recede, by the dirty transactions and chicanery of an intriguer. FACTOTUM.— A useful scrub no one should be without. GENEALOGIST.— A most accommodating gentleman, who for a little money will prove that you descended from Noah. HISTORY.— A word so often abused, that it is become sy- nonymous with fable. IMITATION.— An art which brings a man nearly on a par with an ape. IMPOSITION.— Statesmen and ministers understand this art better than any other sort of people. JUSTICE.— All the world have a profound love of justice; the greater part from a lively apprehension of suffering from injustice. KNAVE.— A dishonest cheat, who will go any length short of what may bring him to the gallows. Yet most men would rather be thought knaves than fools. " LOOK.— Cast of the countenance, by no means to be de- pended upon. MASTER.— A part a man is very fond of playiDg, and is very jealous - of not being thought to succeed in" MYSELF.— A person of whom we have always the highest possible opinion. NEWSPAPER.— A daily history of the stupidity, folly, and vices of human nature. OPPRESSION.— The amusement of despots. CORRESPONDENCE. \* No letter whatever ( town or country), containing more than one advice, can possibly be attended to. TAFFY.— What a goose! Sliakspere a Welshman! Look again. We cannot see why the Welsh should lay claim to the " immortal" William. As far as our poor thoughts go, the Americans have the greatest claim upon him, fos- tering, as they do, his devoted sons and daughters. ' Tis true, he was born in England; but the neglect of the titled and the rich, which of course is followed by the apeing " middling classes," has almost banished him from his na- tive land,— a stain upon our national character, that can- not, by ages of repentance, be blotted out. INQUIRER.— Mr. Webster, of the Haymarket Theatre, has a wife and family living. We know not if it be true con- cerning the other party, but will make inquiry. VIPER.— Send us the names of the parties frequenting the house, and we will pay a visit some evening in the course of the week. TARR.— The " costermonger of Clare- market" has added the business of a butcher to his multifarious callings, and bids fair to ruin half the market of CLARE, his prices varying, for first- rate joints, from 3id. per lb. to 5d. The meat is warranted fresh in the market, and all hones are allowed for in the weight. A. Z. ( Bromley.)—- Very acceptable, bearing in mind that not more than one at the time can possibly be attended to. F. N., Jun.— We believe, in Fetter- lane. NOAKES ( Chatham).— We have no recollection of the note mentioned; but if we have received it, you may depend upon seeing it inserted in an early number. TOUCHSTONE.— We thank you, and shall be glad to hear from you as often as convenient, you young whip. Quiz.— No doubt. The Memoirs of the Bill- discounting Bum- bailiff, aud Scenes behind the Scenes, would be ac- ceptable. We have some very spicey anecdotes touching the Israelitisli ex- Manager, which are really gems in their way. POLICEMAN.— No: Inspector Bilkins is not a fiction; such an individual is sometimes on duty in the neighbourhood of Bow- street. BETSY.— We are aware of it, you sly puss. Our immense enlargement must of course increase the number of our subscribers. PATIENCE.— Every letter sent to us requiring an answer, is always attended to, save and except when the answer merely relates to the receipt thereof, which we find would be an utter impossibility to comply with. INQUISITIVE.— We are not, nor have we been, in any way or manner connected with the publication named; nor has any party been authorized to mix us up with that periodi- cal. We stand alone. HAPPY DICK.— You never called at our office, as promised. Had you kept your appointment, you would have found us waiting to receive you. PHIL. ( Sheffield.)— All communications received at our offlou are held sacred, and, when copied for the printer, arc consigned to the flames. SARAH JANE.— You may consider it right to treat the police- man on your beat to something nice for his supper, at your master's expense; but we think otherwise. Whilst en- gaged in his ( to you) delightful tete- a- tete, we have not- the slightest doubt but some other fair one is anxiously waiting for his company likewise; and perhaps, too, he has a wife. Now only consider, Sarah Jane, what wrong you do. You first pilfer from your master; next keep in a state of awful suspense the less fortunate one; and then, the irreparable wrong you do the wife, by robbing her of her undoubted rights. Reflect; and to a well- informed mind like yours appears to be, we are convinced the " peeler's " whistle will be in vain. COME- IT- STRONG.— With regard to the Johanna Soutlicott affair, every word penned down is correct. Any person is admitted to their meetings, which take place, we be- lieve, every Sunday morning and evening. A. B. C. ( New Kingston.)— Although it certainly must liave escaped your observation, we have so repeatedly and expli- citly stated that no charge ( direct or indirect) has ever- been made, or fee accepted, for advice given in PAUL PRY", that really we are weary of answering the enquiry. Our columns are at all times open to the benefit of the op- pressed and injured; and we require nothing in the shape of remuneration, further than the satisfaction of our pa- trons. A good action was never done for the paltry con- sideration of lucre,— bad ones, for that purpose, are ef- fected every hour. Send us your manuscript; and if of service to the world, we promise to insert it,— if other- wise, we shall commit it ( as we are compelled to do thou- sands of pages weekly) quietly to the flames— the world growing nothing wiser, while the confidence you repose in P. P. is held inviolate. PAUL started on this principle, and is determined to uphold it. The following are our appointed Agents:— London: W. COLE, Bedford- street, Oxford- street, Mile End.— Deptford: F. L. LYONS, 8, Broadway.— Greenwich: H. Hn, r., 9, Market- place.— Bristol: COOK, Sims- place.— Manchester: HEY- WOOD, Oldliain- street.— Leeds: A. MANN. - Glasgow: W. LOVE, Nelson- street.— Derby: BROOKES, St. Alkmund's- churchyard.— Leicester: BILI. SON, Bellgrave- gate.— Beverley : WARD, Butcher- row.— Banbury: BUNTON, Clierwell- street.— Sheffield: ROGERS, Fruit- market.— Brighton: TOURLE, 57, Edward- street. [ Advertisement.'] TO THE THEATRICAL WORLD! Published every Wednesday, beautifully Illustrated, price only One Penny, Eight Quarto Pages ! rpHE STAGE- MANAGER- A Weekly Journal of Dramatic Literature and Criticism. This periodical is acknowledged to be the cheapest and best work of the kind issued from the press. Its contents are varied: consisting of Essays on Theatrical matters; Memoirs of Eminent Living Actors and Actresses; occasionally glancing at some of the brightest ornaments of the Stage in past times; Criticisms on the Performances at our London and Provincial Theatres; Anecdotes; all the Green- room Gossip of the Week; Poetry; & c. The only correct Memoir of EDMUND KEAN is now in course of publication in the STAGE- MANAGER. OFFICE:— 12, RUSSELL- COURT, BRYDGES - STREET, STRAND. Printed and Published for the Proprietors, by G. EDWARDS, at the Office, 12, Russell- court, Brydges- street, Strand, where all commu- nications to the Editor are to he addressed.