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. [Illustration: _A Splendid Spread._ ] [Illustration: 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.