FRESH TO THE COUNTRY.

FRESH TO THE COUNTRY.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'!"

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'!"

Off!Yes; but inexperienced feet,With pace that's fast and a style that's neat,At first can scarcely be expectedO'er frozen waters to glide and fleet."Have them on, Sir?" Old Time was there,With the shining steels and the ready chair.His latest pupil is passing yonder,No more the ice-locked waters to dare.Hisfeet are tired and his knees are stiff,Hisbreath comes low in a wheezy whiff.He'll now "lay up," like a worn-out wherry.'Tis yours to start like a new-launched skiff.How many a novice that Skate-man oldHas helped to onset alert and bold!How many a veteran worn seen vanish,Aching with effort and pinched with cold!And you, young novice, 'tis now your turnYour skates to try and your steps to learn.You long to fly like the skimming swallow,To brave the breathless "scurry" you burn.He knows, he knows, your aged guide!The screws are fixed, and the straps are tied,And he looks sharp out for the shambling stagger,The elbows wobbling, the knees too wide.But boyhood's hopeful, and youth has pluck;And now, when scarcely your steel hath struckThe slithery ice in your first bold venture,Punch, friendly watcher, will wish you luck!He too has seen some novices start,And knows, however you play your part,The "outside edge," and attendant perils,Will tax your sinews and test your heart.But most on the ice does the old saw hold—"Be bold, be bold, but be nottoobold!"Though there's many a rotten patch marked "Danger!"Young hearts are warm if the weather be cold.Bravo, youngster! Steady! Strike out!Caution, yes, but not palsying doubt.Courage! and you—ere your course you finish—May beat "Fish"Smartat a flying bout!

Off!Yes; but inexperienced feet,With pace that's fast and a style that's neat,At first can scarcely be expectedO'er frozen waters to glide and fleet.

"Have them on, Sir?" Old Time was there,With the shining steels and the ready chair.His latest pupil is passing yonder,No more the ice-locked waters to dare.

Hisfeet are tired and his knees are stiff,Hisbreath comes low in a wheezy whiff.He'll now "lay up," like a worn-out wherry.'Tis yours to start like a new-launched skiff.

How many a novice that Skate-man oldHas helped to onset alert and bold!How many a veteran worn seen vanish,Aching with effort and pinched with cold!

And you, young novice, 'tis now your turnYour skates to try and your steps to learn.You long to fly like the skimming swallow,To brave the breathless "scurry" you burn.

He knows, he knows, your aged guide!The screws are fixed, and the straps are tied,And he looks sharp out for the shambling stagger,The elbows wobbling, the knees too wide.

But boyhood's hopeful, and youth has pluck;And now, when scarcely your steel hath struckThe slithery ice in your first bold venture,Punch, friendly watcher, will wish you luck!

He too has seen some novices start,And knows, however you play your part,The "outside edge," and attendant perils,Will tax your sinews and test your heart.

But most on the ice does the old saw hold—"Be bold, be bold, but be nottoobold!"Though there's many a rotten patch marked "Danger!"Young hearts are warm if the weather be cold.

Bravo, youngster! Steady! Strike out!Caution, yes, but not palsying doubt.Courage! and you—ere your course you finish—May beat "Fish"Smartat a flying bout!

How werry warious is the reasons whyWe welcoms Crismus with a ringing cheer!The Skoolboy nos his hollidays is nigh,And treats the hale stout Porter to sum Beer.The Cook and Ousemaid smiles upon the Baker,Who takes his little fee without no blush,Likewise upon the Butcher and Shoo MakerWho makes their calls dispite the Sno or Slush.The Dustman cums a crying out for "Dust,"But nos full well that isn't wot he seeks,And gits his well-earned shilling with the fust,And smiles on Mary as his thanks he speaks.The Groser smart, as likewise his Green Brother,In their best close cums with a modest ring,And having got their orders, one and tother,Smilingly asks for jest one other thing.The Postman's dubbel nock cums to each door,Whether he has a Letter got or no,The stingy Master thinks his call a bore,And gives his paltry shilling werry slow.The jowial Waiter shows unwonted joy!And hails his Crismus with becoming glee!Knowing full wellhisplezzurs newer cloy,Who gets from ewery Gest a dubble fee!Why are not all men like the jowial Waiter,Allers content with what kind Fortune brings,Whether it's Turtel Soop or a meer tater,He sets a pattern to Lord Mares and Kings.Then let us all while Crismus time we're keeping,Whether we barsks in fortune's smile or frown,Be thankful for the harwest we are reaping,And give a thort to them whose luck is down.

How werry warious is the reasons whyWe welcoms Crismus with a ringing cheer!The Skoolboy nos his hollidays is nigh,And treats the hale stout Porter to sum Beer.

The Cook and Ousemaid smiles upon the Baker,Who takes his little fee without no blush,Likewise upon the Butcher and Shoo MakerWho makes their calls dispite the Sno or Slush.

The Dustman cums a crying out for "Dust,"But nos full well that isn't wot he seeks,And gits his well-earned shilling with the fust,And smiles on Mary as his thanks he speaks.

The Groser smart, as likewise his Green Brother,In their best close cums with a modest ring,And having got their orders, one and tother,Smilingly asks for jest one other thing.

The Postman's dubbel nock cums to each door,Whether he has a Letter got or no,The stingy Master thinks his call a bore,And gives his paltry shilling werry slow.

The jowial Waiter shows unwonted joy!And hails his Crismus with becoming glee!Knowing full wellhisplezzurs newer cloy,Who gets from ewery Gest a dubble fee!

Why are not all men like the jowial Waiter,Allers content with what kind Fortune brings,Whether it's Turtel Soop or a meer tater,He sets a pattern to Lord Mares and Kings.

Then let us all while Crismus time we're keeping,Whether we barsks in fortune's smile or frown,Be thankful for the harwest we are reaping,And give a thort to them whose luck is down.

Robert.

Historical Parallels.—Two Directories. The FrenchDirectoirewas a short-lived stopgap of not unmixed benefit to France, but our English Directory, ycleptKelly'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.VivatKelly!

THE START.

"Très volontiers," repartit le démon. "Vous aimez les tableaux changeans: je veux vous contenter."

Le Diable Boiteux.

XV.

Downthrough the night we drifted slow, the raysFrom London's countless gas-jets starred the hazeO'er which we darkly hovered.Broad loomed the bulk ofWren'scolossal domeThrough the grey mist, which, like a sea of foam,The sleeping city covered."The year," the Shadow murmured, "nears its close.Lo! how they swarm in slumber, friends and foes,Kindred and utter strangers,The millions of this Babylon, stretched beneathThe shroud of night, and drawing peaceful breath,Unstirred by dreads and dangers.""But not by dreams," I answered, "Canst reveal,O Shade, the vagrant thoughts that throng and stealAbout these countless pillows?Or are these sleeping souls as shut to theeAs is the unsounded silence of the seaTo those who brave its billows?""Dreams?" smiled the Shadow. "What I see right wellYour eyes may not behold. Yet can I tellTheir import as unravelledBy subtler sense, whilst through these souls they pass!What said the demon toDon CléophasAs o'er Madrid they travelled?"Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering mornShadow forth truth; these through the Gates of HornFind passage to the sleeper.Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may readThe heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed;What divination deeper?"Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip,Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip,And lost a great occasionOf self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writheWith hate, on platforms oft so blandly blitheIn golden-tongued persuasion!"He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist,Is a professional philanthropist,Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty.A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deepIn jungles of self-interest, where creepSleuth-hounds of creed and party."That sleek-browed sleeper? 'Tis the Great Pooh-pooh,The 'Mugwump' of theWeekly Whillaloo,A most superior creature;Too high for pity and too cold for wrath;The pride of dawdlers on the Higher PathSuffuses every feature."Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife,And all the hot activities of life;But most the PoliticianHe mocks—for 'meanness.' How the prig would gaspIf shown the slime-trail of that wriggling aspIn his own haunts Elysian!"He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise,Is dedicate to calm æsthetic joys,That he is limply lollingAmidst the lilies that toil not nor spin,Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin,And languor, and 'log-rolling.'"The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow liesIs fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyesLook Dian-pure and saintly.Sure no Aholibah could own those lips,Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slipsSo fragrantly and faintly."That up-curved arm which bears the silken knotOf dusky hair, is it more free from blotThan is her soul who slumbers?Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,'Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's penIn ever-swelling numbers."Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a leanAnd impecunious urchin; lovers meanGifts, worship, triumph—Money!The Golden Apple is the fruit to witchOur modern Atalantas. To be rich,Live on life's milk and honey;"Stir crowds, charm royalties,—these are the thingsPsyche most cares for, not her radiant wingsOr Cupid's shy caresses.She dreams of conquests that a world applauds,Or a Stage-wardrobe with a thousand gauds,And half-a-hundred dresses."Not so, that other sleeper, stretched at length,A spectre stripped of charm and shorn of strength,In yon dismantled chamber.Dreams she of girlhood's couch, the lavenderOf country sheets, a roof where pigeons whirrAnd creamy roses clamber?"Of him the red-faced swain whose rounded eyesDwelt on her charms in moony ecstacies?Of pride, of shame, of sorrow?Nay, of what now seems Nature's crowning good;Hunger-wrought dreams are hers of food—food—food.She'll wake from them to-morrow;"Wake fiercely famishing, savagely sick,The animal in man is quick, so quickTo stir and claim full forage.Let famine parch the hero's pallid lips,Pinch Beauty's breast, then watch the swift eclipseOf virtue, sweetness, courage!"Cynical? Sense leaves that to callow youthAnd callous age; plain picturing of the truthSeems cynical,—to folly.Friend, the true cynic is the shallow mimeWho paints humanity devoid of crime,And life supremely 'jolly,'"See such an one, in scented sheets a-loll!Rich fare and rosy wine have lapped his soulIn abon-vivant'sslumbers.His pen lies there, the ink is scarcely dryWith which he sketched the smug philosophyOf Cant and Christmas Numbers."He dreams of—holly, home, exuberant hearts,Picturesque poverty, the toys and tartsOf childhood's hope?—No, verily!'Tis a dream-world of pleasure, power, and pelf,Visions of the apocalypse of Self,O'er which his soul laughs merrily.""Enough!" I cried. "The morning's earliest gleamsWill soon dissolve this pageantry of dreams.The New Year's at our portals.Unselfishness, and purity, and hope,Dawn with it through the dream-world's cloudy cope,Even on slumbering mortals.""Granted," the Shadow answered. "Poppy-LandIs notallAppetite and Humbug bland.Myriads of night-capped noddlesWe must leave unexplored. Their owners oftAre saints austere, or sympathisers soft,Truth's types and Virtue's models!"

"The year," the Shadow murmured, "nears its close.Lo! how they swarm in slumber, friends and foes,Kindred and utter strangers,The millions of this Babylon, stretched beneathThe shroud of night, and drawing peaceful breath,Unstirred by dreads and dangers."

"But not by dreams," I answered, "Canst reveal,O Shade, the vagrant thoughts that throng and stealAbout these countless pillows?Or are these sleeping souls as shut to theeAs is the unsounded silence of the seaTo those who brave its billows?"

"Dreams?" smiled the Shadow. "What I see right wellYour eyes may not behold. Yet can I tellTheir import as unravelledBy subtler sense, whilst through these souls they pass!What said the demon toDon CléophasAs o'er Madrid they travelled?

"Such dreams as haunt us near the glimmering mornShadow forth truth; these through the Gates of HornFind passage to the sleeper.Prophetic? Nay! But sense therein may readThe heart's desire, in pangs of love or greed;What divination deeper?

"Yon Statesman, struggling in the nightmare's grip,Fears he has let Time's scanty forelock slip,And lost a great occasionOf self-advancement. How that mouth's a-writheWith hate, on platforms oft so blandly blitheIn golden-tongued persuasion!

"He, blindly blundering, as through baffling mist,Is a professional philanthropist,Rosy-gilled, genial, hearty.A mouthing Friend of Man. He dreams he's deepIn jungles of self-interest, where creepSleuth-hounds of creed and party.

"That sleek-browed sleeper? 'Tis the Great Pooh-pooh,The 'Mugwump' of theWeekly Whillaloo,A most superior creature;Too high for pity and too cold for wrath;The pride of dawdlers on the Higher PathSuffuses every feature.

"Contemptuous, he, of clamorous party strife,And all the hot activities of life;But most the PoliticianHe mocks—for 'meanness.' How the prig would gaspIf shown the slime-trail of that wriggling aspIn his own haunts Elysian!

"He dreams Creation, cleared of vulgar noise,Is dedicate to calm æsthetic joys,That he is limply lollingAmidst the lilies that toil not nor spin,Given quite to dandy scorn, and dainty sin,And languor, and 'log-rolling.'

"The head which on that lace-trimmed pillow liesIs fair as Psyche's. Yes, those snow-veiled eyesLook Dian-pure and saintly.Sure no Aholibah could own those lips,Through whose soft lusciousness the bland breath slipsSo fragrantly and faintly.

"That up-curved arm which bears the silken knotOf dusky hair, is it more free from blotThan is her soul who slumbers?Her visions? Of 'desirable young men,'Who crowd round her like swine round Circe's penIn ever-swelling numbers.

"Of Love? Nay, but of lovers. Love's a leanAnd impecunious urchin; lovers meanGifts, worship, triumph—Money!The Golden Apple is the fruit to witchOur modern Atalantas. To be rich,Live on life's milk and honey;

"Stir crowds, charm royalties,—these are the thingsPsyche most cares for, not her radiant wingsOr Cupid's shy caresses.She dreams of conquests that a world applauds,Or a Stage-wardrobe with a thousand gauds,And half-a-hundred dresses.

"Not so, that other sleeper, stretched at length,A spectre stripped of charm and shorn of strength,In yon dismantled chamber.Dreams she of girlhood's couch, the lavenderOf country sheets, a roof where pigeons whirrAnd creamy roses clamber?

"Of him the red-faced swain whose rounded eyesDwelt on her charms in moony ecstacies?Of pride, of shame, of sorrow?Nay, of what now seems Nature's crowning good;Hunger-wrought dreams are hers of food—food—food.She'll wake from them to-morrow;

"Wake fiercely famishing, savagely sick,The animal in man is quick, so quickTo stir and claim full forage.Let famine parch the hero's pallid lips,Pinch Beauty's breast, then watch the swift eclipseOf virtue, sweetness, courage!

"Cynical? Sense leaves that to callow youthAnd callous age; plain picturing of the truthSeems cynical,—to folly.Friend, the true cynic is the shallow mimeWho paints humanity devoid of crime,And life supremely 'jolly,'

"See such an one, in scented sheets a-loll!Rich fare and rosy wine have lapped his soulIn abon-vivant'sslumbers.His pen lies there, the ink is scarcely dryWith which he sketched the smug philosophyOf Cant and Christmas Numbers.

"He dreams of—holly, home, exuberant hearts,Picturesque poverty, the toys and tartsOf childhood's hope?—No, verily!'Tis a dream-world of pleasure, power, and pelf,Visions of the apocalypse of Self,O'er which his soul laughs merrily."

"Enough!" I cried. "The morning's earliest gleamsWill soon dissolve this pageantry of dreams.The New Year's at our portals.Unselfishness, and purity, and hope,Dawn with it through the dream-world's cloudy cope,Even on slumbering mortals."

"Granted," the Shadow answered. "Poppy-LandIs notallAppetite and Humbug bland.Myriads of night-capped noddlesWe must leave unexplored. Their owners oftAre saints austere, or sympathisers soft,Truth's types and Virtue's models!"

(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.

HUNTING HINTS.——HOW TO KEEP THE THING GOING DURING A SNOW.

The Baron'sBooking-Office is still decked about with holly,For the Season that at any rate's conventionally "jolly,"Is by no means wholly over, and the very hard-worked BaronFeels rather like a sort of tired-out literary Charon,With an over-laden ferry-boat, and passengers too numerous.For seasonable "novelties"—and "notions" quaint and humorousStill crowd on him, and claim his constant critical attention,Some may escape his notice, but a few more he must mentionMarcus Ward'sare good as usual, and his "Christmas Cheque Book"'s funny;Though rather a sardonic "sell" to parties short of money.Castell Brothers'Cards are charming, but the words "Printed in Germany,"The patriotic Baron irk, or may he turn a Merman! HeCan't see why pictured prettiness should be beyondhome-printing.He doesn't want to dogmatise, but really can't helphinting!Scout's Head, byLangbridge, boys will like.Jerome K. Jerome'sStage-Land,WhichBernard Partridgeillustrates, might tickle e'en the sage landOf Puritan Philistia at Clapham-Rise or Barnsbury.And now let us the memory of Christmas Cards and yarns buryIn a right bowl of stingo, in the which the Baron cheerilyDrinks to his readers heartily, sincerely, and Happy-New-Year-ily!

Once upon a time Mr.Lewis Carrollwrote a marvellously grotesque, fantastic, and humorous book calledAlice in Wonderland, and on another occasion he wroteThrough the Looking-Glass, in whichAlicereappeared, and then the spring of Mr.Lewis Carroll'sfanciful 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, calledSylvie 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, becauseLewis Carroll'sname is to it, and it will be enjoyed for the sake of Mr.Furniss'sexcellent illustrations, but for no other reason, that I can see. I feel inclined to carol toCarroll, "O don't you remember sweetAlice?" and, if so, please be good enough to wake her up again, if you can.

M. Fréderic Mayer'sInternational 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 forfauteuil d'orchestreNumber 20, to Drury Lane in the same way, to the Operahaus, Berlin ("Open Haus" sounds so internationally hospitable) forParquetNumber 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 sixthSedie d'orchestraon 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 PienaandLuna Ilenain 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, whichM. Fréderic Mayerwill 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 DoctorRoosein urbe, has just published abrochure, 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, FatherDamiendied a martyr. If in the Doctor's treatment of this subject after his own peculiar fashionà laRoose, 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 entitledMaster of his Fate, byJ. 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 ofHyde and Jekyl. TheMaster of his Fatemight 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.

"THE SERVANTS."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!"

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 friendsBuckstone Boldero, Tiffington Spinks, Charlie Gushby,andHarry Hall.Besides these, we may noteColonelThomas 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 isAndrew 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 Spuffilis 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"—MissDorothy Shuttle, MissAmelia Slimper,who are new to the Amateurs,andKitty Larkings,who has "assisted" the "Thespian Wanderers" before.Bolderois Stage Manager. The Stage is occupied bySpinks(asColonelDebenham,a retired Indian Officer),Gushby(asTom Tilbury,a comic Country Squire),andDorothy Shuttle(asBelinda,Nurserymaid in the family ofLordandLadyShorthorn,represented respectively byBolderoandMissAmelia).

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 thatBelinda'sgot to wheel on in the double perambulator. I asked the Duchess ofMiddlesexto 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 bySpinksstill rankles). Why not letSpinksdo it? He's always wanting to "double" parts, and here's a splendid chance for him.

Spinks(coldly). That'sveryfunny—reallyveryfunny,Gushby. It's a pity "ColonelDebenham" (alluding to his own rôle in the comedy) isn't aclown'spart. 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"ColonelDebenham.") "Nursemaid, take those squalling infants away. I'm surprised at LadyShorthornpermitting 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? (ToDebenham.) 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. (MissDorothy Shuttleis much pleased, and foresees several stalls being taken on the occasion of her next benefit.) Now, then (toSpinks,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 dearBoldero, 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 ifeverybodywants to talk at the same moment. (Resumes his part as"ColonelDebenham,"shaking his fist at the departingBelinda.) "Impertinent minx! (Turns furiously onGushby,who is on the stage in the character ofTilbury,the comicSquire.) 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,Spinksbrings 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 unfortunateSpinkshurts 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 thereat 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—toMissKitty,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'sJarp? This is his entrance. Where the deuce is he? (EnterJarpas"Mr.Binns,Butler toLordShorthorn"). 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(asBinns,without moving a muscle). "'Er Ladyship's compliments, ColonelDebenham, and she would like to see you."

Spinks(asDebenham). "Very well. Tell her I'll come."

Jarp(asBinns). "Yes, Sir."

[ExitJarpasBinns,but immediately becomesJarp,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, andMissAmeliatakes 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 ofMissAmeliabeing engaged next season at a fashionable London Theatre, &c., &c.

Miss Dorothy(aside, in a whisper, toMissKitty,alluding toJarp'srecent exit). Is that all he's got to say?

Miss Kitty(in same tone toMissDorothy). Not quite. He says, "'Er Ladyship is served!" in the next Act. A part like that takes a deal of learning.

[The rehearsal proceeds.Spuffildoes wonders as "a young man about town";ColonelClumkperforms the part of a Country Clergyman in a manner suggestive rather of a Drill-sergeant than a Vicar.Bolderohaving praisedSpinks,is pronounced by the latter to be unapproachable asLordShorthorn.In the Third Act,Hallsings his song about"the Boy in Buttons."On the previous day, he had had a difference withSpinksandBoldero.

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 toBoldero, but you didn't seem to think much of his acting (observesSpuffilsmiling) no, nor ofSpuffil'seither, when you spoke to me yesterday: and as forGushby, why we all know whatGushbyis.

[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 onIrvingto-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(toKitty). 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.

SurelyAugustus Druriolanushas triumphed and beaten the record! For the last nine years it has been the cry, "There never was so good a Pantomime asthisone," and now again the shout is repeated.Jack and the Beanstalkis the eleventh of the series, and the best. "How it is done?" onlyAugustuscan 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 haveShakspeare'sfairy-land withOberon,Titania, andPuck, thenHarry Nicholl'sRoyal Palace with Mr.Herbert Campbelland MissHarriet Vernon, then MadameKatti Lanner'sMarket 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'sBack Garden, with Mr.George Conquestjunior as a giant, Mr.Dan Lenoas a widow, and the BrothersGriffithsas the Cow Company Limited, and lastly, controlling the whole, we have Mr.Augustus Harriswho 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 Macbethhas hardly "taken the daggers" beforeKing Lear(Mr.Lorraine) is bringing a furtive tear to the eyes of all beholders (onetear is sufficient at Christmastide) by his touching pantomime in the presence of his three fair daughters.

Then, too, Mr.Harry Paynehashischance, 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!—andNicholls."

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