in the usual way that millionnaires always do begin, by sweeping out
an office, he is simply JONES, of Messrs. BROWN, JONES, ROBINSON
& Co., Wharfingers. TOMMY TUCKER knows everybody, and everything
about everybody, too. Who is that lady with a splendid tiara of
diamonds?--that is the Duchess of BURLINGTON, "who"--and here, in a
semi-whisper, intended for everybody's information, he tells how those
brilliants come out for "one night only," and how they will be called
for to-morrow morning by a confidential agent from POPSHOPPER's
Establishment in the Great Loan Land. TOM TUCKER is full of these
stories. There isn't a person he doesn't know, until happening to
recognise here a one and there a one, I correct him of my own private
and personal knowledge, when he frankly admits that I am right;
and after casually explaining how he does occasionally mistake the
Countess of DUNNOYER for Lady ELIZABETH MARTIN, he goes off at a
tangent, and picks out several other distinguished-looking personages,
numbering them as "first to right," "second to left," and so forth, as
if in a collection of wax-works, giving to each one of them a name and
a history. His acquaintance with the private life of the aristocracy
and the plutocracy is so extensive that I can only wonder at his
knowledge, his or marvel at wondrous powers of ready invention.

[Illustration: Birds can sing, but wouldn't sing, and couldn't be made
to sing, at Covent Garden, Wednesday, July 8.]

So it goes on. Then enter the chief characters. All rise; the
orchestra plays the "_National Anthem_," in German, suppose, out
of compliment to our Imperial visitors; and afterwards in English
(translated, and, I fancy, "transposed"), in honour of H.R.H. the
Prince and Princess. All the wax-work figures form in a row, under the
direction of Lord Chamberlain LATHOM; the machinery is put in motion;
they all bow to the audience; glasses are riveted on them; everybody
is craning and straining to get a good view; the people in the gallery
and just over the Royal Box loyally enjoy the scene, being quite
unable to see any of the distinguished persons who are, in this
instance, "quite beneath their notice." And then Signor MANCINELLI
turns his back on everybody, and gets to business.

After this, I feel that a buckle, somewhere or other, has turned
traitor, and inventing an excuse with a readiness worthy of TOMMY
TUCKER himself, I suddenly, but cautiously, retire. I descend the
grand st