PLAYHOUSE PEGS.
THE Morning Post, by a Correspondent, begs to call the earnest attention of an emotional public to the use and abuse of a wooden peg at the Princess's Theatre, "for the accommodation of a lady's bonnet." That bonnets are the source of a multitude of evils is a truth that every married man will not, for a moment, hesitate to avouch; however Henry or Augustus—not yet married—may hypocritically venture to dispute. Now a bonnet at the Princess's Theatre—according to the Post correspondent—carries with it a peculiar worth: namely, price sixpence. On the 25th instant at half-past 9, the dress-circle of the Princess's "less than half-full," a lady was required to give up her bonnet. Well and good. That bonnet was hung upon a peg. As bonnets are now worn, a bonnet, for that matter, might be hung upon nothing. When the bonnet was reclaimed, the complaining gentleman proffered 4d., which was "indignantly rejected. Nothing less than sixpence could be taken;" which being given, the gentleman remarks commercially "that 6d. per evening is too heavy a rate to exact for the use of a peg."
By no means. At least, not at the Princess's Theatre: there, the whole management is a management of pegs. What is poor Byron made of, but a peg—a mere peg—whereon to hang the fine clothes of a Sardanapalus? Plays, as mere plays, are not to be thought of; but pegs—pegs that will hold any number of fine suits, any weight of canvas. In fact, the peg is the play.
To return to the bonnet peg, it may be advisable for good housewives—visiting the Princess's—to follow the advice of Miss Martineau to travellers. She says: Fail not to take a few gimblets; they serve on board ship admirably for pegs. Perhaps the manager of the Princess's will make it known in future bills whether ladies with bonnets visiting his theatre may be permitted to bring their own gimblets.