We really must stop here, to point out to dramatic authors the importance of this novel form of conjuration.  When the history of Fauntleroy comes to be dramatised, the lover will, of course, be a banker’s clerk:  in the depths of distress and despair into which he will have to be plunged, a prayer-like appeal to “the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,” will, most assuredly, draw tears from the most insensible audience.  The old exclamations of “Gracious powers!”—­“Great heavens!”—­“By heaven, I swear!” &c. &c., may now be abandoned; and, after “Mary Clifford,” Bob Acres’ tasteful system of swearing may not only be safely introduced into the tragic drama, but considerably augmented.

But to return.  Dreading lest Miss Mary should really “go and tell” the illustrious governors, she is kept a close prisoner, and finishes the first act by a conspiracy with a fellow-apprentice, and an attempt to escape.

Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12, Fetter-lane, in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing, glazing, and pepper-line; and, in the next act, a correct view is exhibited of the exterior of his shop, painted, we are told, from the most indisputable authorities of the time.  Here, in Fetter, lane, the romance of the tale begins:—­A lady enters, who, being of a communicative disposition, begins, unasked, unquestioned, to tell the audience a story—­how that she married in early life—­that her husband was pressed to sea a day or two after the wedding—­that she in due time became a mother, and (affectionate creature!) left the dear little pledge at the door of the Foundling Hospital.  That was sixteen years ago.  Since then fortune has smiled, and she wants her baby back again; but on going to the hospital, says, that they informed her that her daughter has been just “put apprentice” in the very house before which she tells the story—­part of it as great a fib as ever was told; for children once inside the walls of that “noble charity,” never know who left them there; and any attempt to find each other out, by parent or child, is punished with the instant withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the awful “governors.”  This lady, who bears all the romance of the piece upon her own shoulders, expects to meet her long-lost husband at the Ship, in Wapping, and instead of seeking her daughter, repairs thither, having done all the author required, by emptying her budget of fibs.

The next scene is harrowing in the extreme.  The bills describe it as Mrs. Brownrigg’s “wash-house, kitchen, and skylight”—­the sky-light forming a most impressive object.  Poor Mary Clifford is chained to the floor, her face begrimed, her dress in rags, and herself exceedingly hungry.  Here the heroine describes the weakness of her body with energy and stentorian eloquence, but is interrupted by Mr. Clipson, whose face appears framed and glazed in the broken sky-light.  A pathetic dialogue ensues, and the lover swears he