Spacious Gentleman.—"Will you have the kindness, young man, to measure me for a pair of those at 12s.?"]

WHAT DO ALL ENGLISHMEN TAKE OFF THEIR
HATS TO?^[8]

Who is it that gets the most salutes in England? We do not mean the powder which is thundered into the Queen's ears wherever she goes, but the quiet salute which a person makes by taking his hat off.

Now, every Englishman dislikes taking his hat off. It is a trouble, and no genuine John Bull likes more trouble than he can help. It must be something, then, of very great importance—of general love and feeling—a chord that strikes all Englishmen's hearts—that makes everybody, without a single exception, take his hat off to it?

What can it be?

Is it Prince Albert? No; for, familiar as the prints of His Royal Highness may have made his handsome face in the eyes of those who look into print shops, still, from love of retirement, he is not generally known by the public, and he could easily pass down Lowther Arcade without fear of being recognised.

Who is it, then?

Is it the Duke of Wellington? No. It is true he commands a number of upraised hats. All those who know his venerable nose, and know how much England is indebted to it, pay him that little mark of respect. But, popular as the Duke is, every one is not acquainted with him, and there are even a few who still nourish a dislike of his political opinions, forgetting the best part, and only recollecting the worst part, of the man.

Can it be a creditor?

Certainly not; for debtors always make a practice of avoiding their creditors, especially those of a large amount, or one of the Hebrew persuasion. There may be a few who get a stray lift of the chapeau, by way of reconciliation, but in general the eyes of him that owes rarely meet the eyes of him to whom money is owing. We are all blind to our own interest, especially when we pay 10 per cent. for it.

Perhaps it is the wind?

Now, this is a vile quibble; for the reader knows well enough that no man takes off his hat to the wind. On the contrary, the whole energy of a man's ten fingers is concentrated on the rebellious rim, with the view of holding the fugitive castor on. The wind takes off many hats; it is repeatedly done on Waterloo Bridge, and round the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard—you will see it any day during March; but it is preposterous to say that a single hat is ever taken off to the wind.

Well, then, what is it?

Patience for ten lines, and you shall know. Growl, amiable reader, but read.

It is, you must know, a curious instrument, or rather a collection of instruments, that go at once to the bosoms of all Englishmen. It subdues discord, and substitutes pleasant harmony for it. No sooner is a note of it heard than off flies every hat, the whole assembly rises; fifty thousand bare heads—if there are so many present—instantly respect the majesty of the appeal, and fifty thousand voices—if you can only count them—join in glad response to it.

But what is it?

Foreigners even respect it, and take off their hats.

Once more—What is it?

Well, that which has most hats taken off to it, is—

Stop! I have it (cries a young musician, who had the signal honour of beating the big drum in the Drury Lane orchestra on the stormy nights of Monte Christo): It's—

Be quiet, sir. It's no such thing. Learn, young man, that you've no right to rob any one of his secret. Sit down, sir, and allow us to say—

Well, then, say it, and be—

Hush—breathe not a word that may be offensive to

We were just going to say, if you had not interrupted us, that that which has more hats taken off than anything else is—is—is—

Is what?

Is God Save the Queen!

And this proves that we English are the most loyal people in the world—at least as far as hats go.

But who can tell whether the reason why the tremendous shower of revolutions, which have fallen this year as thick as hail all over the Continent, have done such little injury in England, is simply because our beloved country is deeply insured in every office, farm, mansion, cottage, in every English heart, by the loyal policy of God Save the Queen?

So, "Hats off!" and let us all sing—

SQUIBS IN STATUES.

The newspapers make no mention of a statue that was forwarded to the Beaux Arts at the late competition, for the best design upon the Republique. It was a likeness of the Siamese Twins, who are supposed to have sent their adhesion to the French Government. It was meant to typify Fraternité and Egalité, but was objected to as being too figurative. The artist altered the attitudes and sent it again; saying he had made the statue literal enough this time, and that his correction enabled him fortunately to include Liberté, in addition to the other two types of the Red Republicans. Upon being exhibited, it was found that he had made the Twins fighting in the most fraternal fashion. The result of the Liberté was, that the artist was immediately carried off to prison, for such designs upon the Republique could not be possibly winked at.

VALUABLE ADVICE.

To Persons about to Marry.—Don't buy your furniture at Felix Summerley's Cheap Art-Manufacture Mart.

The above advice is given to young couples about to plunge into the deep waters of matrimony—that awful plunge which is to determine whether their future happiness is to go on swimmingly, or to sink for ever like the Télémaque, with all its fabulous treasures on board, when nothing is saved from the wreck excepting a few spars.

That long voyage, however, which ends only with the loss of one of the mates, is generally never undertaken but with the strictest economy. The speculation may turn out a bad one; things may be thrown overboard from distress that swallowed up, before sailing, a little ocean of money, but they are usually selected with care, and nothing is shipped but what will fetch in the end almost as much as it cost at first. A mother—that most thrifty shipper in the harbour of life—generally lays in the cargo, and every article is weighed to a scruple in the scales of her judgment, before it is sent home to make the anxious passage to the United States.

We can imagine a fond but imprudent couple going to Felix Summerley's beautiful Emporium of Art-Manufactures. They have no more money than they can spare, but the husband has an eye for the beautiful, and the wife likes—and where is the woman that doesn't?—to have everything of the best. They are tossed about on the beautiful carpets and lovely counterpanes, quite dazzled with the glittering warming-pans, inflamed with the glowing coal-scuttles of every possible age and period, whilst each bright poker they touch burns them to buy it. They go on hopping from one easy chair to another, now dwelling on a carved Artevelde sofa, now conversing with a Gothic dumb-waiter, dumbfounded the next minute by the sweetest causeuse of the middle ages, till they come to a lovely bedstead, where they pause and linger in speechless admiration. At last exclaims the enraptured—

Emma. "Oh, how lovely! Look, Edwin, dear, how beautiful it is decorated!"

Edwin. "Yes! but they might have selected some better subject. It would not be very pleasant, I imagine, to wake up in the middle of the night and see people killing one another before your sleepy eyes. But it's wonderfully painted to be sure. That man with the sword through him is quite a bit of real life. However, King John is of a more peaceful nature. Send the latter home, if you please."

Shopman. "Allow me to call your attention to this wonderful blind. It is painted by Corbould. The subject is 'Richard going to Palestine.'"

Emma. "I never saw anything like it. Isn't it charming, Edwin, darling? It would do very well for the back window of the pink bedroom—you know there's the chimney of the gas-factory, and the preparatory school for boys just opposite."

Edwin. "Precisely so, dear. Put it with the other things."

Emma. "Oh, what dear funny chairs."

Shopman. "They're the latest discovery in Gothic manufactures; copied from a rare hieroglyphic on the tomb of Cheops. The Earl of Peckham has six dozen exactly similar."

Edwin. "Very peculiar—they will do for the hall. What is this, pray? It looks like a cross between an altar and a sideboard."

Shopman. "Excuse me, sir, that is a washing-stand—the only one of the kind. It was made for the Grand Duke Skrubisknosklenoff, but his lamented death has left it on our hands. We can let you have it a great bargain."

Emma (ecstatically). "Oh, darling Edwin, do have it, dear."

Shopman. "Thank you, sir. Here is a dressing-table, madam, that will just match with it. It was made from a design of Lord Waltzaghane, one of the first masters in point of art of the Young England School, and is universally admired. May I include it with the other articles, sir? I'm sure you'll like it."

Edwin. "Very well, then; but that's enough. Come away, Emmy."

Emma. "Oh, stop one minute—look here—did you ever? Isn't it elegant? What is it, pray?"

Shopman. "Why, ma'am, that is a clothes-horse, made from a drawing of Edwin Landseer's. Prince Albert has the companion to it."

Emma. "Oh, do buy it, Edwin; I wont ask you for anything else, indeed."

Edwin. "Very well, then; but mind, it's to be the last."

They take arms, and are about to leave the tempting shop, when Emma's attention is suddenly drawn by a curious mug, at which she cannot help laughing.

Emma. "Oh! what is this, pray?"

Shopman. "That, madam, is a teapot, designed after a popular pattern, very generally known amongst the Ethiopians under the name of the 'blackman's teapot.' It is universally admired."

Edwin. "I think it very ugly."

Emma. "How can you, Edwin! Why, I think it so very distingué. I must have it; do buy it, there's a dear."

Edwin. "Now, come along, darling—I'm in a hurry."

Emma. "Well, if you wont, I will—I'll buy it myself, and make you a present of it, Edwin."

Edwin. "Psha! that's nonsense, child."

Edwin and Emma leave at last, and after dinner, when they are happy in assuring each other for the ten thousandth time that "they never knew what love was before," the new purchases arrive, and the bill is brought in.

The future husband reads out the following bill

We need not repeat the lady's fierce commentaries, or the gentleman's running fire of explosive criticisms upon the various items of the above little bill. Suffice it to say, the art-manufacture goods were returned, and Edwin and Emma bought at an auction the next day articles that suited their purpose just as well for 12l. 14s. They admitted the superior beauty of Mr. Felix Summerley's Art-Manufactures, but the expense, they both agreed, was "quite preposterous."

Edwin and Emma are married now, and are still of the same opinion, so we cannot help thinking that they must have been in the right.

The fine-art manufactures are certainly very beautiful, but there is moderation even in purchasing one of the earliest efforts of Teniers.

PLAY-BILL DIALOGUES.

The play-bills have got into the habit of asking questions. We should not be surprised to see the other play-bills answering them, in this way.

Adelphi. "Did you ever send your wife to Camberwell?"

Queen's. "Well, I can't say that ever I did, but I'll make a point of asking her the first time I see her."

Haymarket. "Lend me five shillings?"

Victoria. "My dear fellow, I only wish you may get it."

Covent Garden. "What will the world say?"

Surrey. "Ri tol de riddle lol, riddle lol de lay."

Lyceum. "Which Mr. Smith?"

Norton Folgate. "Whichever you like, my little dear."

Douglas Jerrold. "Time works wonders."

Paul Bedford. "I believe you, my b-o-o-o-o-oy."

EDUCATION ON THE "MUTUAL ADVANTAGE"
SYSTEM.

Pedagogue (who gives Food for the Mind for Food for the Body). "I tell you what it is, young Suett. It is not the first time your father has sent me bad mutton, and while he sends me such a bad leg as he has done now for three days running, I'm not going to tell you whether Constantinople is the capital of Otaheite or not."

MAKE A WORSE ONE IF YOU CAN.

Q. When is a landlord an insect tamer?

A. When he has ten-ants at will.

Thomson, who is a clerk in the Bank, gives his wife permission to spend the day with a dear friend at Camberwell. At six he comes home to dinner, and they bring him up

Can you find out how Thomson is to make a dinner of it?

Monsieur le Marquis de Clichy, on his arrival at Leicester Square, has an order for the Opera given to him. On looking over his wardrobe, he finds all his stock of linen to consist of

whilst his chaussure is on the following footing:—

How ever is it possible for Monsieur le Marquis to go to the Opera as a gentleman?

L, who is an excellent swimmer, goes to Paddington one beautiful warm summer's evening for a refreshing dip in the canal. He leaves on the shore

Whilst he is enjoying himself in the limpid stream, B are carried off by

who leave L as they find him.

How, in the name of goodness, is L to get home?

Little Tommy and Harry (H, T) have a penny given to them each by their kind papa, to go and enjoy themselves at the fair. They get into a swing and are soon whirled to the top. There they remain, quite delighted, for half an hour, till it comes on to rain, when little Tommy and Harry venture to ask AX (the proprietor) when is he going to move on?

AX's answer is very plain—"Not till every blessed seat is taken."

How long do little Harry and Tommy remain perched up in the swing before they get their ride?

Brook Green has for dinner on Monday a beautiful sirloin of beef (B), which he flatters himself will last all the week.

On Tuesday he is told there is not a bit of it left. Brook Green is thunderstruck. He cannot understand it. He asks to see the landlady. She "is extremely sorry, but her bothersome cat (C) has eaten it all."

You are requested to put the two together, and to state candidly if you think it very likely; and, if you have any doubt, you are to find out who really is (C) the cat?

Mrs. Large (of Wapping) has a private box (A) sent to her at Christmas, for the Adelphi, by her obliging friend Mr. Sams. The box is in the upper tier, over the proscenium. Mrs. Large (of Wapping) does not like any of her dear children to lose such a treat, so she takes all her family (B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K), besides one or two friends from Panton Square, who are stopping, for change of air, with her.

You are to find out how many the box was to admit; and how you are to get Mrs. Large and her party into it without having a single one over.

Military Intelligence.—We see a book advertised called "The Cornet Made Easy." We are very glad to hear this, and hope the poor fellow will make himself comfortable; only we should like to know what it is that has lately made the Cornet uneasy.

First Love.—The conversation at Holland House turned upon first love. Tom Moore compared it to a potato, "Because it shoots from the eyes." "Or, rather," exclaimed Byron, "because it becomes all the less by paring."

We are apt to boast that the British army has never received a good dressing, and looking at the uniforms that have lately been put upon them, we must confess there is some truth in it. Our officers were never clever at cutting, and this may account for their making such bad tailors. It is a thousand pities that the Laurel which clusters round the brows of our Commanders, should be entwined with so much cabbage. It is true the geese saved the Capitol of Rome, but we do not think the Horse Guards need put itself under the wings of the British goose. If it does, Moses, in a very short time, will be cutting out Prince Albert as a Field Marshal. Never was the British army so surprised before, as when that cruel shell-jacket attempted by sheer treachery to cut off the rear from the main body of the forces. The French have a saying "Le Riaicule tue," so our soldiers may be diminished, in a ridiculous manner little expected by our political economists, if this new deadly weapon is discharged at them; for there is many a brave fellow who can stand fire, who falls dead before ridicule. The Horse Guards must not be a clothes mart, or a masquerade warehouse, or else the Duke, when he puts himself at the head of the army, will revive the old title of the Duc de Guys, and the national cry will be, "Sauve qui peut."

TALES OF A LANDLORD.

"Not a Seat amongst Them."—There is an old country lady so modest that she cannot pronounce the word "cherub;" but she always says, "the dear little angels who have accepted the Chiltern hundreds."

AN AIRY LODGING.

Country Cousin.—"Well, Tom, my boy, where be'est thee a-lodging noo?"

Surveyor (pointing up to the top of St. Paul's).—"Why, I hang out there at present. Whenever you are passing my way, I shall be delighted to see you, if you will give me a drop in."

THE SONG OF THE KNOCKER.
(A COMPANION TO SCHILLER'S BELL.)

RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR THE CONDUCT OF
STRANGERS VISITING LONDON.

If your health is proposed, you must say it is the proudest moment of your life.

You are not expected to take your hat in with you to dinner. It is liable to be kicked about if you put it under the table—people mistake it for the cat.

It is no longer the fashion to say, "Here's to you, miss," and "I drink to you, ma'am," to every lady round the table before you take a glass of wine; however, if you do it once, never repeat it.

When you begin a speech, you must be sure to state you are unaccustomed to public speaking.

Take your coat off in the hall, but never give up your umbrella. If the servant offers to take it down stairs to dry it, tell him to mind his own business; and if he says another word, threaten to report him to his missus, and he will soon be quiet. The robberies of umbrellas in London is something awful!

If you go to the opera don't call out for "Music!" or tell "Nosey," or any of the "catgut scrapers," to strike up. Be careful also not to insult the box-keeper, by giving him a penny to run and fetch a playbill. If you take a lady, dispense with the usual gallantry of a bag of oranges. Should you take any, however, it is usual to offer them to all the ladies round you—after you have peeled them.

It is no longer the fashion for a stranger to call at Buckingham Palace; but if there should be a Drawing Room, you had better go, by all means, and present your homage to your Sovereign, for otherwise it might look disrespectful. You have only to go in costume, with the sword and cocked hat, and send in your card, "with your compliments."

If you are invited out to dinner, you must refrain as much as you can from taking a snooze directly the cloth is removed; and you should be above drinking the warm water that is given you, in a blue bowl, for your fingers.

If you intend to dance, do not, as a matter of pride, fill your pockets with halfpence; and if you have a new pair of Berlins, put them on, and do not keep them folded up in your hands, as if you were too shabby to use them.

If Joseph Ady sends you an invitation, write back word that you will come and take tea with him. You will find him a good sovereign fellow, and you may probably hear of something to your advantage.

Have your hair curled; but if you take a lady down to the refreshment-room, you must know her extremely well before you can presume to ask her if "she'll have a drop of beer," or else she will certainly be offended.

When you are leaving, supposing the servant at the door puts his hand out, shake it by all means, or else the poor fellow will fancy you are proud.

You are not bound to answer any public questions in the street, as to "Who are you?" or to put any stranger in possession of personal facts relating to "your mother."

If you are in doubt about a cab fare, or want to know some particular fact about the twopenny omnibuses, or the age of an actress, or a point at cribbage, or where the best glass of ale is to be had—write to the Duke of Wellington, and you will have an answer from the F. M. the same day.

You are not bound to go to every theatre, or to see every exhibition in London. In fact, please yourself, and do not stop in town a day longer than you choose; for you will find the "boots" generally very reluctant to call you the morning you intend to start. For better precaution, you had better shave over night, and tie a piece of string to your big toe for the policeman to pull the first thing in the morning.

THE DOMESTIC MANNERS AND
CUSTOMS OF THE BEDOUIN
ARABS.
BY ONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN AMONGST
THEM, BUT CAN IMAGINE EXACTLY WHAT
THEY ARE.

Those Bedouins are curious fellows. You have heard of a race of Jumpers; well, they are a nation of Leapers. We walk, they fly. They are the bats of the human race—not men, and decidedly not angels, but something between the two.

Their houses have no windows lower than the third floor. This is to prevent little boys jumping up. Their windows are not arranged like ours, but have small apertures, like the slits in letter-boxes, slanting downwards, to prevent any one looking into them. Bricks are exceedingly dear, on account of the height of the walls.

A military review of Bedouin Arabs exceeds anything of the sort. At a given signal a whole battalion springs upwards, gets inextricably mingled in one dense flying column, and then falls down again, each man precisely in his previous position. They discharge their muskets when they reach a given height, and no accident ever occurs, unless a raw recruit happens to have sprained his ankle. Some of their light columns advance twelve feet deep; when I say twelve feet deep, of course I mean in the air.