ALL A-BLOWING! ALL A-GROWING!

At the time of the French Revolution it was the fashion for ladies to wear their dresses as tight round as pillow-cases; but now-a-days all is confusion and bustle. That plaguy half-moon thing has set the ladies' dresses swelling and swelling, till it will soon take as much stuff to make a skirt as it does to make a tent. Forty years back a "full dress" would go comfortably into a bandbox, but now it is only with a great deal of pressing that more than one can be squeezed into an opera-box.

It was bad enough when "ye faire damezelles" had hoops all round, like sugar casks or painted posts; but now they are encompassed with air-tubes big enough for an atmospheric railway, and it is high time for the husbands to meddle with what they don't understand, and pick the ladies' dresses to pieces. In ten years, unless an Act of Parliament is passed to prevent the spread of feminine dresses, ladies will be such "awful swells" that there will be no coming near them. Husbands, to obtain the least "peace and quiet," will be obliged to blow their wives up not less than three times a day. Ladies' maids will be required to have lungs like an ironfounder's blast; for if, when Mary is directed to puff her mistress up into a "good figure," she cannot blow her out "nice and full," of course she will be told to suit herself with a place where "good wind" is no object. What a dreadful situation it would be for a poor dear lady of fashion if any one should call when she's en déshabillé—and consequently, by mere force of contrast, as thin as a Passover biscuit. There she would be running about the house wringing her hands, either promising, like a true Christian, to give a kiss for a blow, or else crying, like the lady with the Mackintosh life-preserver in a storm at sea, "Oh dear! Oh dear! Will nobody blow me out? Will nobody blow me out?"

One thing is certain; our parties will soon become literal "spreads," and sink into very dull affairs, for there will be no dancing, since it will be physically impossible for more than one to stand up at a time. The hornpipe—sailor's or college—is the only English pas seul, and that, we are afraid, would not exactly suit either Almack's or the ladies.

If those dreadful "dress-extenders" come into fashion, flirting assuredly must go out. It will be impossible for gentlemen, if the dear creatures keep them at such a distance—at the very outskirts as it were of their soul's idol, to come within the mortal range of the very best aimed eyeballs. A squeeze of the hand will be as rare as a squeeze at Vauxhall. The supper room on the night of a "grand spread" will be a curious place. There the gentlemen will stand, armed each with a long baker's peel with which to hand the ladies their refreshments. The greatest nicety, however, will be required in presenting a trifle, a glass of wine, or a jelly by these means, lest the whole be deposited in the fair creature's lap. Still if the ladies will persist in blowing themselves out before they come, they must not complain that they cannot eat anything when they are nearly bursting.

It would require the great prophet Moore himself to foretell all the mischief to come unless these gowns are taken in a reef or two. If a cry is raised against advertising carts for blocking up a street, what noise will the city men make to a skirt stopping the way like a dead wall! No doubt this last fact will be taken advantage of by every bill sticker in London, and many a poor dear, on returning home, will find she has been walking about all day with a three-sheet poster behind her, announcing there then were "Immense Attractions, and had been entirely re-decorated and painted."

The omnibus drivers, too, will throw up their reins to a man, unless, like Pickford's, they are allowed to charge according to size and weight, and their licences are altered from "thirteen people" to "two skirts" inside. But the most frightful picture for contemplation is, in the event of another French Revolution, what will become of the women? With those dresses they are sure to be seized for making barricades with. Three or four ladies, a carriage, and a pianoforte or two, would be better than all the paving-stones in Paris.

The ladies had better be careful, or the gentlemen in revenge will introduce the old Dutch costume.

A Splendid Spread.

PORTRAIT OF THE CULPRIT.

AN AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES
WRITTEN BY
THE WRETCHED BRIDEGROOM,
ON
THE EVENING PREVIOUS TO THE AWFUL CEREMONY.

In grief and sorrow I rue the day,

A young woman first led me astray;

There is no hope for me, to-morrow,

My life must end in shame and sorrow.

In the morning, at ten, St. George's bell

Will toll for me—dreadful for to tell;

For then, alas!—oh, bitter lot—

They ties the horrid fatal knot.

Percival Spooney is my sad name,

I do confess I was much to blame;

I see my folly, now it is too late,

And do deserve my most dreadful fate.

On the first of April, it came to pass,

I well remember,—Alas! alas!—

The very thought makes my heart to bleed,—

I did vow to do this horrid deed.

Oh, hadn't I never seen Ann Power,

I might have been happy to this hour;

Keeping company with that artful Miss

Has brought me, in my prime, to this.

It was, while a-walking in Love Lane,

She first put the thoughts into my brain;

Sure, I had much better ne'er been born,

For now I must end my days in scorn.

Intent on effecting my vile plan,

I seeks her father—a grey-hair'd man;

And, like a madman, straight attacks him,

'Twas a heavy blow when I did axe him.

With a heart of stone, or hardest metal,

The poor old man I quick did settle:

He soon was silenc'd, that fatal night,

And quite cut up—what a horrid sight!

Indeed—indeed, it was shocking sad:

How could I do it?—but I was mad;

When I did think on what I'd done

I felt inclin'd for to cut and run.

Her mother was,—oh, horrid fact!

A vile accessory to the act;

For she did urge me on, you see,

To do this here atrocity.

Young men, by me pray a warning take—

Shun woman's company ere 'tis too late;

If you're a-courting, strive your lives to mend,

Pity my sad untimely end.

To-morrow, many the crowd will swell,

To behold the awful spectacle:

What a dismal sight, alas! to see

A young man launch'd into misery.

As the church bell tolls the hour of ten,

The sad procession will begin;

And then, 'midst many a tearful eye,

My hands they will proceed to tie.

While the fatal noose they do prepare,

The Parson he will breathe a prayer,

Then vainly ask for me a blessin',

And pardon crave for my transgression.

Sadly, I confess, I've done amiss.

I know there is no hope for bliss.

To-morrow I shall be a public gaze,

And then in torments end my days.

THE MELANCHOLY PROCESSION.

WAITING FOR THE MAIL.

BON MOT-TO WAFERS:
OR, SEALS FOR "SHUTTING-UP" GOVERNORS, LOVERS, DEBTORS, AND CREDITORS.

Obliged to be sharper,
because less blunt than usual.
Love should come with a
ring, but not without a rap.
To-day I write;  
To-morrow I writ.
Rat-a-tat!
Look out for a Latitat.
A little "soft solder"
for a little tin.
A billet more than doux    
for a bill that's over-due.
Pig's cheek pleases—Woman's
tickles—Man's offends.
I send you an oat (a note),
Respondez wheat.
May we never differ,   
But always correspond.
Like a sheep I seek
consolation in my pen.
This is between you and me
and the post.
Though we correspond, I
trust there'll be no words
between us.
You can't do wrong,
If you do write.   
May the female be as
trustworthy as the mail.
I write on spec:
and hope it will answer.
You know the hand;
Become the possessor of it.
Though a person of extreme diffidence,
I write this in confidence.
Pray give me your countenance;
it will put a better
face upon the matter.
I trust you wont be dreadfully
affected on receipt of this.
Sow your wild oats, and
reap five-p'un'-'otes.
You do!
I dun. 
The "Governor" holds out,
and wont give up the keys.
Eat a hearty breakfast, and
Dinner forget.
To one who possesses a good large
chere amie (share o' me).
If I correspond with you,
You must "match" with me.
You're dying for me you declare;
So you are, poor old
fellow,—your hair.
Friendship is the cement of
life, and we the "bricks."
You require bleeding; 
Allow me to stick you.
This is the land of Liberty,
so I take one.
Don't be always for-getting,
And never for-giving.
For cleaning your tables
there's nothing like a good
"Sponge."
One chaste salute,  
Go it my two-lips.
Give your countenance, and
you'll give something
extremely handsome.