Young Lady. "Can you tell me where the Meet is?"
Butcher's Boy (a recent importation from London). "Yes, Mum. I jist took it hup to the 'All this mornin'!"
Robert.
Historical Parallels.—Two Directories. The French Directoire was a short-lived stopgap of not unmixed benefit to France, but our English Directory, yclept Kelly's, for 1890, directorily, or indirectorily, supplies all our wants, comes always "as a boon and a blessing to men," and is within a decade of becoming a hale and hearty centenarian. Vivat Kelly!
"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."
Le Diable Boiteux.
XV.
(To be continued.)
Preparing to meet an Epidemic.—If you sit all day in your great coat, muffled up to the eyes in a woollen comforter and with your feet in constantly replenished mustard and hot water, as you propose, you will certainly be prepared, when it makes its appearance, to encounter the attack of the Russian Epidemic Influenza, that you so much dread. Your idea of taking a dose of some advertised Patent Medicine every other hour, as a preventive, is by no means a bad one, and your resolution to shut yourself up in your house, see no friends, open no letters, read no newspapers, and live entirely on tinned meats for three months, might possibly secure you from the chances of an attack; but on the whole we should rather advise you to carry out your plan of leaving the country altogether and seeking a temporary asylum in South Central Africa until you are assured that the contagion has blown over, as the preferable one. Anyhow you might try it. Meanwhile, certainly drench your clothes with disinfectants, fill your hat with cotton wool steeped in spirits of camphor, and if you meet any friends in the street, prevent them addressing you, by keeping them at arm's-length with your walking-stick, or, better still, if you have it with you, your opened umbrella. They may or they may not understand your motive, and when they do, though they may not respect you for your conduct, it is just possible that they may not seriously resent it. Your precautionary measures, if scrupulously carried out, should certainly ensure your safety. Put them in hand at once, and be sure you let us hear from you next Spring informing us, on the whole, how you have got on.
What Pocket-Books to Get.—Mark us; Ward's.
Once upon a time Mr. Lewis Carroll wrote a marvellously grotesque, fantastic, and humorous book called Alice in Wonderland, and on another occasion he wrote Through the Looking-Glass, in which Alice reappeared, and then the spring of Mr. Lewis Carroll's fanciful humour apparently dried up, for he has done nothing since worth mentioning in the same breath with his two first works; and if his writings have been by comparison watery, unlike water, they have never risen by inherent quality to their original level. Of his latest book, called Sylvie and Bruno, I can make neither head nor tale. It seems a muddle of all sorts, including a little bit of Bible thrown in. It will be bought, because Lewis Carroll's name is to it, and it will be enjoyed for the sake of Mr. Furniss's excellent illustrations, but for no other reason, that I can see. I feel inclined to carol to Carroll, "O don't you remember sweet Alice?" and, if so, please be good enough to wake her up again, if you can.
M. Fréderic Mayer's International Almanack takes my breath away. It is overwhelmingly international. Most useful to the International Theatre-goer, as there are plans of all the principal theatres in Europe, with the seats numbered, so that you have only to wire (answer paid) to the Théâtre Français for fauteuil d'orchestre Number 20, to Drury Lane in the same way, to the Operahaus, Berlin ("Open Haus" sounds so internationally hospitable) for Parquet Number 200 (so as to get a good view), to the Wallner Theater, Berlin, for something of the same sort, or to La Scala, Milan, for the sixth Sedie d'orchestra on the left (as the numbers are not given—why?) and you'll be accommodated. Then with ease the internationalist can learn when the Moon is full, Pleine Lune, Vollmond, Luna Piena and Luna Ilena in five languages. The Italian, the Spaniard, the French, the Englishman, the German and the Dutchman can find out all about the different watering-places of Europe, each one in his own native tongue, and all about "the Court of Arches" in London and Madrid. There is the Jewish and also the Mahommedan Calendar, but I see nothing about the Greek Kalends. I am not quite sure that the Bulgarians will be quite satisfied, and I should say, that the Aborigines of Central Africa will have a distinct grievance, which M. Fréderic Mayer will rectify after an interview with Mr. Stanley. It's a wonderful production, and as it gives postal rates and cab-fares in ever so many languages, it will be of great practical value to the traveller. But no list of cab-fares is perfect without a model row with the driver in eight languages, including some bad language and directions as to the shortest route to the nearest police court.
Our good Doctor Roose in urbe, has just published a brochure, dealing with the origin, treatment, and prevention (for there is apparently no cure) of the fell disease to which, and for a multitude of whose victims, Father Damien died a martyr. If in the Doctor's treatment of this subject after his own peculiar fashion à la Roose, he can help to alleviate present suffering and materially assist the crusade now being undertaken against this common enemy, he will have contributed his share of energy in starting 1890 hopefully.
Those who suffer from indigestion at this festive season, and wish to intensify the effects of the malady, will do well to read a new book entitled Master of his Fate, by J. MacLaren Cobban, who, if he does not write well, that is, judging his style from a hypercritical purist's point of view, yet contrives to interest you with a story almost as sensational as that of Hyde and Jekyl. The Master of his Fate might have had for its second title, Or, The Accomplished Modern Vampire, the hero being a sort of a vampire, but not one of the good old school.
Baron De Book-Worms & Co.
Lady Patroness (Registry Office of Charitable Society). "And why are you leaving your present Place?"
Small Applicant. "Please, 'M, the Lady said she can do with a less experienced Servant!"
No. II.—PREPARATION.
Scene.—The Theatre of the provincial town of Blankbury. A company of Amateurs, the "Thespian Wanderers," are rehearsing the well-known Comedy of "Heads or Tails?" Amongst them are our friends Buckstone Boldero, Tiffington Spinks, Charlie Gushby, and Harry Hall. Besides these, we may note Colonel Thomas Clumk, an ex-military Amateur, who devotes more time to acting small parts and talking big about them than he ever did to soldiering. Then there is Andrew Jarp, a portly and elderly partner in a considerable firm of Solicitors, and an actor who, by long practice, has grown perfect in the part of a Family Butler. His office is in the City, and he drives down to it every morning in a private brougham, fitted with a looking-glass, by the help of which he studies the air and deportment characteristic of a modern Seneschal. He is a man of few words, off as well as on the stage; but his eyes flash fury if he hears his favourite Art derided by the scoffer. Horatio Spuffil is also in the cast. He has dabbled in literature, but has lately abandoned such frivolity, and been elected a Member of the London County Council. A few rising Amateur Supers complete the male portion of the cast. The Ladies' parts are played by professional Actresses, of the Theatres Royal generally, who happen to be, as they pleasantly express it in their advertisements in the "Era," "resting"—Miss Dorothy Shuttle, Miss Amelia Slimper, who are new to the Amateurs, and Kitty Larkings, who has "assisted" the "Thespian Wanderers" before. Boldero is Stage Manager. The Stage is occupied by Spinks (as Colonel Debenham, a retired Indian Officer), Gushby (as Tom Tilbury, a comic Country Squire), and Dorothy Shuttle (as Belinda, Nurserymaid in the family of Lord and Lady Shorthorn, represented respectively by Boldero and Miss Amelia).
Boldero (from the front of the house). Stop a moment! You know we really must settle what we are to do about those two children that Belinda's got to wheel on in the double perambulator. I asked the Duchess of Middlesex to lend us her twins for a couple of nights, but she writes to say they've just got the measles. Isn't there any one here who can help us? [The three Ladies titter.
Gushby (in whose breast the leading part played by Spinks still rankles). Why not let Spinks do it? He's always wanting to "double" parts, and here's a splendid chance for him.
Spinks (coldly). That's very funny—really very funny, Gushby. It's a pity "Colonel Debenham" (alluding to his own rôle in the comedy) isn't a clown's part. I'd give it up to you right off, if it was. Ha, ha! (bitterly).
Colonel Clumk. There's a man in my old regiment who's got two red-haired brats; but he wants ten shillings a night for 'em.
Boldero. That's pretty stiff. However, I'll inspect them to-morrow. Let's get on a bit now. Come, Spinks!
Spinks. Where were we? (With an air of intense annoyance.) These constant interruptions put one off so. Oh, yes, I remember. (Resumes rehearsing the part of "Colonel Debenham.") "Nursemaid, take those squalling infants away. I'm surprised at Lady Shorthorn permitting them in the drawing-room. Wheel them away at once—at once, I say; or I'll make curry-powder of the lot of you!"
Miss Dorothy Shuttle (as "Belinda"). "Well, I'm sure; I never was so spoken to afore. (To her imaginary children.) Did the horrid man scold them, then, pretty dears? (To Debenham.) You a Colonel? You ain't fit to be a General in the Salvation Army. Imperence!" [Exit, wheeling an imaginary perambulator.
Boldero (enthusiastically). Excellent! That couldn't have been done better. When we get the perambulator and the babies, it's bound to go. (Miss Dorothy Shuttle is much pleased, and foresees several stalls being taken on the occasion of her next benefit.) Now, then (to Spinks, who thinks it a mistake that a Stage Manager should stop to praise anybody, with one exception, of course, at rehearsal), Spinks, hurry up a bit, hurry up!
Spinks. My dear Boldero, I'm perfectly ready to begin as soon as ever the talking stops. I know my cues, I fancy; but it's quite hopeless to get on if everybody wants to talk at the same moment. (Resumes his part as "Colonel Debenham," shaking his fist at the departing Belinda.) "Impertinent minx! (Turns furiously on Gushby, who is on the stage in the character of Tilbury, the comic Squire.) And you, Sir, what in the name of fifty thousand jackasses, do you mean by standing there grinning from ear to ear like a buck nigger? But I'll not stand it any longer, Sir, not for a moment. D'ye hear, you miserable turnip-faced bumpkin, d'ye hear?" (Carried away by histrionic enthusiasm, Spinks brings his fist down violently on the precise spot where a table ought to be, but is not, standing. As a natural result, he hits himself with much force on his leg. The others laugh, and the Ladies turn away giggling, feeling that they ought to be sympathetic. The unfortunate Spinks hurts himself considerably, and is furious. Coming, as it were, right out of the part, and being temporarily himself again, only in a rage, he addresses the Stage Manager.) Upon my soul, Boldero, this is perfectly infamous. How often have I begged you to get that table placed there at all costs, and time after time you forget it. I know what it is; you want to make me ridiculous. But you'll be d—— (suddenly remembers that ladies are present, and substitutes a milder expletive)—confoundedly sorry for yourself when you find I'm too lame to act, and the whole of your precious piece will be ruined. You'll none of you get notices worth twopence from the critics. [Limps up and down the Stage.
Miss Amelia Slimper (rather a novice, and anxious to make useful acquaintances among the distinguished Amateurs—to Miss Kitty, whispering). Are they very keen about notices?
Miss Kitty (experienced in Amateurs). Keen! I should think they were. They talk about nothing else when it's over.
Boldero (peaceably). Well, Spinks, you know you smashed two tables last week, and I thought we agreed to rehearse without one. But I'll see it's there next time. Now then, Jarp! Where's Jarp? This is his entrance. Where the deuce is he? (Enter Jarp as "Mr. Binns, Butler to Lord Shorthorn"). Dear me, Jarp, what have you been up to?
Jarp (vexed). What have I been up to? I'll tell you. I've been learning my part, and it would be a good thing if everybody were to follow my example, instead of talking all day.
Boldero. Jarp, don't be sarcastic. It doesn't suit you. Let's see if you know your part, after all this.
Jarp (as Binns, without moving a muscle). "'Er Ladyship's compliments, Colonel Debenham, and she would like to see you."
Spinks (as Debenham). "Very well. Tell her I'll come."
Jarp (as Binns). "Yes, Sir."
[Exit Jarp as Binns, but immediately becomes Jarp, and complains to the young Ladies that these fellows never will rehearse properly. The professional Ladies sympathise with him, and admit that it is very provoking, and Miss Amelia takes the opportunity of expressing her confident opinion that he, Jarp, will play his part admirably, and only wonders that he hasn't got more to do. Then somehow the conversation wanders towards professional matters, and the probability of Miss Amelia being engaged next season at a fashionable London Theatre, &c., &c.
Miss Dorothy (aside, in a whisper, to Miss Kitty, alluding to Jarp's recent exit). Is that all he's got to say?
Miss Kitty (in same tone to Miss Dorothy). Not quite. He says, "'Er Ladyship is served!" in the next Act. A part like that takes a deal of learning.
[The rehearsal proceeds. Spuffil does wonders as "a young man about town"; Colonel Clumk performs the part of a Country Clergyman in a manner suggestive rather of a Drill-sergeant than a Vicar. Boldero having praised Spinks, is pronounced by the latter to be unapproachable as Lord Shorthorn. In the Third Act, Hall sings his song about "the Boy in Buttons." On the previous day, he had had a difference with Spinks and Boldero.
Boldero. I think that song's out of place. What say you, Spinks?
Spinks. Well, it does sound just a trifle vulgar.
Boldero. Yes. I think we shall have to cut it, Hall. It'll do for next year just as well. You can make it fit any piece?
Hall (pale, but determined). If that song goes, I go too. Oh, yes, Spinks, it's all very well for you to be so blessed polite to Boldero, but you didn't seem to think much of his acting (observes Spuffil smiling) no, nor of Spuffil's either, when you spoke to me yesterday: and as for Gushby, why we all know what Gushby is.
[All join in the fight, which continues for ten minutes.
Boldero (looking at his watch). Good heavens! we shall miss our train, and I've promised to look in on Irving to-night. He'd never forgive me if I didn't turn up.
[Smiles of quiet intelligence appear on the faces of the other Amateurs, accompanied with a few winks, which like "laughter in Court," are "immediately suppressed." Exeunt omnes, severally, each pleased with himself, and more or less disgusted with everybody else.
Miss Amelia (to Kitty). What a funny lot! Are they like that every year?
Miss Kitty. Yes, always. But (confidentially) they do come out strong for a "ben."
[They retire to their lodgings for a little quiet tea and a rest.
Surely Augustus Druriolanus has triumphed and beaten the record! For the last nine years it has been the cry, "There never was so good a Pantomime as this one," and now again the shout is repeated. Jack and the Beanstalk is the eleventh of the series, and the best. "How it is done?" only Augustus can answer. The Annual (no longer, alas! written by the gentle and genial E. L. B.) has an excellent book. It contains something of all sorts. Now we have Shakspeare's fairy-land with Oberon, Titania, and Puck, then Harry Nicholl's Royal Palace with Mr. Herbert Campbell and Miss Harriet Vernon, then Madame Katti Lanner's Market Place, with a number of the most promising of her pupils (of all ages too, from the tiny child to the "ceased-growing-a-long-while-ago") then Mrs. Simpson's Back Garden, with Mr. George Conquest junior as a giant, Mr. Dan Leno as a widow, and the Brothers Griffiths as the Cow Company Limited, and lastly, controlling the whole, we have Mr. Augustus Harris who is seen at his very best when we reach the Giant's Library and the realms of Olympus.
And this Pantomime is not only beautiful but amusing. It has two grand processions, but this year, by good stage-management, neither is tedious. The Shakspearean Heroines do a little play-acting between whiles, and the gods and goddesses, or rather their attendants, manœuvre before the eye becomes weary of watching their approach. For instance, Mars has scarcely time to swagger down to the foot-lights in the most appropriate and approved fashion, before he finds himself called upon to stand near a private box on the prompt side, to be well out of the way of his dancing terpsichorean satellites. Lady Macbeth has hardly "taken the daggers" before King Lear (Mr. Lorraine) is bringing a furtive tear to the eyes of all beholders (one tear is sufficient at Christmastide) by his touching pantomime in the presence of his three fair daughters.
Then, too, Mr. Harry Payne has his chance, and makes the most of it. It was quite pleasant to see the Clown on Boxing-Night, and those who left the theatre mindful of trains that will not delay the hours fixed for their departure, must have determined (if they were wise people) to come again to witness the remainder of the performances. Then those who liked acrobats had the Leopold Troupe, and a strong man who lifted up a horse (but did not have his own name, or the name of his charger, on the programme) to delight them. And it was also a pleasing reflection to remember that the entertainment was the result of solid hard work, combined with excellent judgment and taste. Paterfamilias could say to Young Hopeful home for the holidays, "See here, my lad, the lessee of our National Theatre could never have caused us so much thorough enjoyment had he not worked with a will that you will do well to imitate when you return to Dr. Swishtales' Academy at the conclusion of the Christmas vacation." And so all can cry with genuine enthusiasm:—"Ave, Augustus! Ave, Druriolanus! Ave, Imperator! Ave! Ave!—and Nicholls."
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