"Blackie's right," cried our old acquaintance, Mr. Cavil, who now jumped in. Not quite (thought we); for we could not find it in our hearts to complain _very_ seriously of the pretty dresses of the present day. Perhaps the train _may_ be just a thought too long. But we left Mr. Cavil full room to denounce the pinafores turned hind part before, in which young gentlemen between sixteen and thirty-five perambulate on Sundays; the best pinafore is but a poor apology for the "Sunday coat," though they do try to carry it off with a grand air, and a cigar.
now took the lead; for at this moment stepped into the vehicle, for the first time, a passenger, whose name it will be unnecessary to mention, if we introduce him under the designation of the Playgoer. Not old in years, he is not young in memory, and still less so in observation. By hearsay, or by optical note, he will tell you the colour of the small-clothes in which Munden took his farewell of the stage, and describe the exact pattern of Woodward's shoe-buckles. He hits off Keeley to the life, and gives you a very lively imitation of Stephens's pathetic execution of "Auld Robin Gray." Garrick he seems to have known from a boy, and he enlarges upon the grateful duty of subscribing to the fund now being raised for erecting a monument to Siddons, as though he had seen that incomparable actress (so every great authority proclaims her) make her first and last appearance. We ought to have been born earlier; we ought to have seen Mrs. Siddons. "You go to the theatre, I suppose, Mr. Cavil?" inquired the Playgoer of our old acquaintance beside him.
"No I don't," was the response of Mr. Cavil, "but I read the playbills. The playbill is the _veluti in speculum_ for me. There I see human nature as in a mirror. There I read of envy, jealousy, and hatred--personal pique, private friendship--self-interest, sycophancy, adulation--in the varying forms of announcement, in the varying periods of omission--in the different sizes of type, in the significant conjunction of names--that may happen to compose the playbill. I see why this actor is to be run down now, and why the other is to be cried up then. I detect a reason for the implied insult, a motive for the palpable puff. Your playbill is a wonderfully accurate expositor of the mysteries of your human being. I don't want to go _into_ the theatre, while I can read what I find at the doors. The bill's better than the play. If you want an example, look at that placard there (pointing as we passed to one that bore her Majesty's name at the head of it), I should like to see a comedy coming up to that! There you read of a piece--