The second act is occupied in clearing up the mistakes which the audience know all about already; but those among them who had, up to about the middle of it, been waiting with exemplary patience for the jokes, began to get tired of having nothing to laugh at, and hissed.  Despite these noisy drawbacks, however, we were able to find out that Beausex loses his cousin Alice and her fortune (a regular farce fortune—­some five or six hundred thousand pounds or so); for she falls in love with Beechwood, and vice versa. Tack and Patty Smart are rendered happy; but what really becomes of Beausex and his aunt the sibilants forbad our knowing.  We suppose, by Mr. Bartley’s pantomime, that Sir Bryan puts up with his hoax and his lady-loss with a good grace; for he flourished about his never-absent pocket-handkerchief with one hand, shook hands with Miss Fringe with the other, stepped forward, did some more dumb show to the dissentients, and, with the rest of the actors, bowed down the curtain.

We perceive by the Times that the author of the “Wrong Man” is not so very culpable after all.  He is guiltless of the plot; that being taken from a French piece called “Le Tapissier.”

* * * * *

THE MASONS AND THE STONE JUG.

Mr. Wakley feelingly remarked at the late meeting of the union masons that the “man who would lock up a pump was unfit to hold any situation of trust.”  On the strength of this opinion the Earl of Waklegrave and Captain Duff intend to proceed against the Marshal of the Queen’s Bench for having locked them up for these last six months.

* * * * *

“THE FORCE OF FANCY COULD NO FURTHER GO.”

The Times gives an extract from the Norwich Aurora, an American paper, descriptive of a newly discovered cavern.  The writer, with a power of imagination almost marvellous, remarks, “The air in the cavern had a peculiar smell, resembling—­NOTHING.”  We believe that is the identical flavour of “Leg of Nothing and no turnips.”

* * * * *

CONUNDRUM BY THE LORD MAYOR.

Why does a drunken milkmaid resemble a celebrated French diplomatist?—­Because she is like to tally-wrong—­(Talleyrand.)

* * * * *

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

VOL. 1.

FOR THE WEEK ENDING NOVEMBER 20, 1841.

* * * * *

MYSELF, PUNCH, AND THE KEELEYS.

I dined with my old friend and schoolfellow, Jack Withers, one day last September.  On the previous morning, on my way to the India House, I had run up against a stout individual on Cornhill, and on looking in his face as I stopped for a moment to apologise, an abrupt “This is surely Jack Withers,” burst from my lips, followed by—­“God bless me!  Will Bayfield!” from his.  After a hurried question or two, we shook hands warmly and parted, with the understanding that I was to cut my mutton with him next day.