skirts, which may be either as long as a fireman’s, or as short as Duvernay’s petticoats. This coat is, in fact, a cross between the dress and the driving, and may, perhaps, be described as a Benjamin junior.

Of the Benjamin senior, there are several kinds—the Taglioni, the Pea, the Monkey, the Box, et sui generis.

The three first are all of the coal-sackian cut, being, in fact, elegant elongated pillow-cases, with two diminutive bolsters, which are to be filled with arms instead of feathers. They are singularly adapted for concealing the fall in the back, and displaying to the greatest advantage those unassuming castors designated “Jerrys,” which have so successfully rivalled those silky impostors known to the world as

THIS (S)TILE—FOUR-AND-NINE.

The box-coat has, of late years, been denuded of its layers of capes, and is now cut for the sole purpose, apparently, of supporting perpendicular rows of wooden platters or mother-of-pearl counters, each of which would be nearly large enough for the top of a lady’s work-table. Mackintosh-coats have, in some measure, superseded the box-coat; but, like carters’ smock-frocks, they are all the creations of speculative minds, having the great advantage of keeping out the water, whilst they assist you in becoming saturated with perspiration. We strongly suspect their acquaintance with India-rubber; they seem to us to be a preparation of English rheumatism, having rather more of the catarrh than caoutchouc in their composition. Everybody knows the affinity of India-rubber to black-lead; but when made into a Mackintosh, you may substitute the lum for the plumbago.

We never see a fellow in a seal-skin cap, and one of these waterproof pudding-bags, but we fancy he would make an excellent model for

THE FIGURE-HEAD OF A CONVICT SHIP.

The ornaments and pathology will next command our attention.

A friend insulted us the other day with the following:—“Billy Black supposes Sam Rogers wears a tightly-laced boddice. Why is it like one of Milton’s heroes?” Seeing we gave it up, he replied—“Because Sam’s-on-agony-stays.”—(Samson Agonistes.)

THE GOLDEN-SQUARE REVOLUTION.

[BY EXPRESS.]

This morning, at an early hour, we were thrown into the greatest consternation by a column of boys, who poured in upon us from the northern entrance, and, taking up their-station near the pump, we expected the worst.

8 o’clock.—The worst has not yet happened. An inhabitant has entered the square-garden, and planted himself at the back of the statue; but everything is in STATUE QUO.

5 minutes past 8.—The boys are still there. The square-keeper is nowhere to be found.

10 minutes past 8.—The insurgents have, some of them, mounted on the fire-escape. The square-keeper has been seen. He is sneaking round the corner, and resolutely refuses to come nearer.

¼ past 8.—A deputation has waited on the square-keeper. It is expected that he will resign.

20 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper refuses to resign.

22 minutes past 8.—The square-keeper has resigned.

25 minutes past 8.—The boys have gone home.

½ past 8.—The square-keeper has been restored, and is showing great courage and activity. It is not thought necessary to place him under arms; but he is under the engine, which can he brought into play at a moment’s notice. His activity is surprising, and his resolution quite undaunted.

9 o’clock.—All is perfectly quiet, and the letters are being delivered by the general post-man as usual. The inhabitants appear to be going to their business, as if nothing had happened. The square-keeper, with the whole of his staff (a constable’s staff), may be seen walking quietly up and down. The revolution is at an end; and, thanks to the fire-engine, our old constitution is still preserved to us.

RECOLLECTIONS OF A TRIP IN MR HAMPTON’S BALLOON.

IN A LETTER FROM A WOULD-BE PASSENGER.

My dear Friend.—You are aware how long I have been longing to go up in a balloon, and that I should certainly have some time ago ascended with Mr. Green, had not his terms been not simply a cut above me, but several gashes beyond my power to comply with them. In a word, I did not go up with the Nassau, because I could not come down with the dust, and though I always had “Green in my eye,” I was not quite so soft as to pay twenty pounds in hard cash for the fun of going, on

A DARK (K)NIGHT,

nobody knows where, and coming down Heaven knows how, in a field belonging to the Lord knows who, and being detained for goodness knows what, for damage.

Not being inclined, therefore, for a nice and expensive voyage with Mr. Green, I made a cheap and nasty arrangement with Mr. Hampton, the gentleman who courageously offers to descend in a parachute—a thing very like a parasol—and who, as he never mounts much above the height of ordinary palings, might keep his word without the smallest risk of any personal inconvenience.

It was arranged and publicly announced that the balloon, carrying its owner and myself, should start from the Tea-gardens of the Mitre and Mustard Pot, at six o’clock in the evening; and the public were to be admitted at one, to see the process of inflation, it being shrewdly calculated by the proprietor, that, as the balloon got full, the stomachs of the lookers on would be getting empty, and that the refreshments would go off while the tedious work of filling a silken bag with gas was going on, so that the appetites and the curiosity of the public would be at the same time satisfied.

The process of inflation seemed to have but little effect on the balloon, and it was not until about five o’clock that the important discovery was made, that the gas introduced at the bottom had been escaping through a hole in the top, and that the Equitable Company was laying it on excessively thick through the windpipes of the assembled company.

Six o’clock arrived, and, according to contract, the supply of gas was cut off, when the balloon, that had hitherto worn such an appearance as just to give a hope that it might in time be full, began to present an aspect which induced a general fear that it must very shortly be empty. The audience began to be impatient for the promised ascent, and while the aeronaut was running about in all directions looking for the hole, and wondering how he should stop it up, I was requested by the proprietor of the gardens to step into the car, just to check the growing impatience of the audience. I was received with that unanimous shout of cheering and laughter with which a British audience always welcomes any one who appears to have got into an awkward predicament, and I sat for a few minutes, quietly expecting to be buried in the silk of the balloon, which was beginning to collapse with the greatest rapidity. The spectators becoming impatient for the promised ascent, and seeing that it could not be