There are the Gents, also, who are afterwards seen in the theatres at half-price: in the slips during the performances, and in the saloon during the _entr’acte_—the class who, whilst they carry on brisk conversation and smart repartees (of a sort) with the least reputable in public life, form the vapid nonentities of private society when females are present. They are men, to use a phrase more expressive than elegant, strongly addicted to _bear parties_—who think “a glass of grog and a weed” the acme of social enjoyment, and who look upon all entertainments that throw them into the society of ladies, or, indeed, any one of intellect and refinement, as bores. They are the great men at the night taverns, before alluded to. All that is, however, harmless in its way; for the majority of those houses are exceedingly well conducted: and, indeed, it is only the Gents of the lowest sphere who deem it spirited to mix themselves up, in other resorts, with the ruffians of the ring and the most degraded of either sex, in an atmosphere of oaths and odours, where indecency is mistaken for broad humour and dull slang for first-rate wit. It is the cheap tailor who advertises, to whom this style of Gent goes for his clothes. He is caught by the poetry and the names of the articles related; as well as of the establishment, whether it be “Paletot Palace,” “the Kingdom of Kerseymere,” or “the Walhalla of waistcoats,” as it is termed in those small but lively works of fiction thrown with such unsparing liberality through the windows of railway omnibuses. The following is an announcement peculiar to the Frankensteins of these strange creations. We have written it, and present the copy-right to any of them that may choose to adopt it. TRIUMPHS OF BRITISH VALOUR. Fame’s trumpet says we’ve had victories enough, And our great soldiers leave their arms to follow the plough: But first to London they came with their retinues complete; Everybody makes a holiday to join in the fête. Gents’ clothes now are cheap; buy, if you have not, And go to Sholomansh’s celebrated depot. Mark their drab Chesterfield of the first water, With the first rain ’twill shrink three inches shorter. Twelve shillings new—it surely can’t be dear, And warranted to wear for half the year. The celebrated window-cleaning blouse, To buy at six-and-six you can’t refuse. The pound dress-coat is worthy of all praise, And fashionably made of fine black baize. With contract suits they build for eager nobs, In the most dashing style of Sunday snobs. Coarse cloth, rude work, bad cutting, and quick wear, With Sholomansh what other can compare? And recollect—old suits to be return’d If when worn out they’re not worth being burned. To suit all climes, Iceland and Ararat, For cash he’ll dress you out, and with eclat.