a Boxing night. By
daylight you would scarce know London. A new race seems to have invaded
the streets, filled the omnibuses, swarmed in the bazaars and the Arcade,
choked up the eating-houses and the beer-shops. Smith with his Balmoral
boots, Brown with his all-round collar, Jones with his Noah's Ark coat,
Robinson with the straight tile, which young England deems the cheese,
delight us no more with their snobby appearance and gentish airs; to-day
this is the poor man's holiday. You can tell him by the awkwardness with
which he wears his Sunday clothes, by the startling colour of his ties,
by the audacious appearance of his waistcoat. If he would only dress as
a gentleman dresses, he would look as well, but he must be fine. Well,
it matters little so long as he be happy, whether he is so or not; and
let him pass with his wife and children, all full of wonder and delight
as they stare in at the shop windows and think everything--how happy are
they in the delusion!--that all that glitter is gold. Let us wish them a
merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

And now the dull, dark day, by the magic power of gas, has been
transformed into gay and brilliant night. The thousands who have spent
the day sight-seeing are not satiated, and are flocking round the
entrances of the various theatres. Let us stand on the stage of the
Victoria, and see them to the number of fifteen hundred mounted upon the
gallery benches. Through the small door near the ceiling they come down
like a Niagara, and you expect to see them hurled by hundreds into the
pit. What a Babel of sounds! It is in vain one cries "Horder!" "'Ats
off!" "Down in front!" "Silence!" Boys in the gallery are throwing
orange peel all over the pit; Smith halloos to Brown, and Brown to Smith;
a sailor in a private box recognises some comrades beneath, and
immediately a conversation ensues; rivals meet and quarrel; women treat
each other to the contents of their baskets--full of undigestible
articles, you may be sure, with a bottle of gin in the corner. The
play--it is that refreshing drama, the "Battersea Brigand"--proceeds in
dumb-show; but the pantomime, the subject of which is, "Wine, War, and
Love, and Queen Virtue in the Vistas of Light or Glitter,"--with what a
breathless calm, that is ushered in. It is an old silly affair.
Harlequin, clown, and pantaloon, are they not all very dreary in their
mirth? Yet the audience is in a roar of laughter, and little b