PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 100.

March 21, 1891.

MY LADY.

She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be;

(And into such a rage she flew

On learning this from me;)

And yet she's lovely, nay divine,

Judged by her own peculiar line.

She's deeply read. She knows as much

As average sixth-form boys;

But not the greatest sage could touch

The high, aggressive joys

That imp her wing, like bird of prey,

When in my dates I go astray.

Not only learning's pure serene

Her soaring mind can charm;

The tradesman, shrinking from a scene,

Regards her with alarm,

And many a 'bus conductor owns

The pow'r of her metallic tones.

Contentiously content, she takes

Her strident way through life,

And goodness only knows what makes

Her choose to be my wife.

Courage, poor heart! Thy yearnings stifle.

She's not a girl with whom to trifle.

KENSINGTON CORRESPONDENCE.

I.

Instead of the Sub-Kensington Gardens Railway scheme as proposed, why not a Sub-Serpentine Line? Start it from the South Kensington Station, District-cum-Metropolitan system, run it with one station well-underground in the middle of Exhibition Road, whence an easy ascent to the Imperial Exhibition, when passengers would come up to "carp the vital airs," then right away again, branching off left and right, thus bringing the mild Southerners into rapid, easy communication, at all reasonable hours, and at reasonable prices, with the rugged denizens of the Northern districts, East and West. If Kensington Gardens are to be touched at all—and, not being sacred groves, there is no reason why they should not be, faute de mieux—a transverse tunnelling from Kensington High Street to Queen's Road would do the trick. We will be happy to render any assistance in our power, and are,—Yours truly,

WILL HONEYCOMB, MOLE, FERRET & CO.,

(Burrow-Knights.)

II.

O sir,—Pleese don't let us ave no nasty railwaies and tunels in Kinsinton Gardins, were we now are so skludid, and the childern can play about, an no danger from nothink sep dogs, wich is mosley musseled, or led with a string, an we ain't trubbled about them, an can ave a word to say to a frend, or a cuzzin, you unnerstan, unner the treeses, so nice an quite, wich it wold not be wen disterbd by ingins, an smoke, skreeges, an steem-wizzels. O, Mr. P., don't let um do it.

Yours obeegentlee, SARA JANE, (Unner Nursrymade.)

III.

Sir,—The Railway underneath Kensington Gardens won't be noticed if only taken down deep enough below the surface. No blow-holes, of course. No disfigurement. Take it under the centre path, where there are no trees, then turn to the left outside the gate and burrow away to S. Kensington Station. I can then get across the park in three minutes for a penny; and now I have to walk, for which I haven't the time, or take a cab, for which I haven't the money.

Yours, A PRACTICAL PAUPER.

IV.

Sir,—I take this opportunity of pointing out that if anything at all is to be done with Kensington Gardens, why not make a real good Rotten Row there? That would he a blessing and a convenience. We're all so sick and tired of that squirrel-in-a-cage ride, round and round Hyde Park, and that half-and-half affair in St. James's Park. No, Sir; now's the time, and now's the hour. There's plenty of space for all equestrian wants, without interfering with the sylvan delights of nurserymaids, children, lovers of nature, and all sorts of lovers too. For my part, if this is not put forward as an alternative scheme, I shall vote for tunnelling under the Gardens out of simple cussedness. If the reply, authoritatively given, be that the two schemes can go and must go together, then I will vote for both, only let's have the equestrian arrangement first.

Yours, JOLTIN TROTT,

Mount, Street, W, Captain 1st Lights and Liver Brigade.

THE TRIUMPH OF BLACK AND WHITE.

"After all, the best of KEENE's life-work is to be found in the innumerable cuts which he contributed to Punch during a period of nearly forty years; and still more in the originals of these, the masterly pen-and-ink drawings which are now for the first time shown in a collected form to the Public."

So says Mr. CLAUDE PHILLIPS, in his "Prefatory Note," to the "Catalogue of a Collection of Drawings of the late CHARLES KEENE," now on view at the Rooms of the Fine Arts Society, 148, New Bond Street.

If the British Public possess that "taste for Art" and that "sense of humour" which some claim for and others deny to it, it (the B.P.) will throng the comfortable and well-lighted Gallery in New Bond Street, where hang some hundreds of specimens of the later work of the most unaffected humorist, and most masterly "Black-and-White" artist of his time. Walk up, Ladies and Gentlemen, and see—such miracles of delineation, such witcheries of effect, as were never before put on paper by simple pen-and-ink!

It is difficult to realise sometimes that it is pen and ink, and that only—all the delightful display of fresh English landscape and unsophisticated British humanity, teeming with effects of distance, hints of atmosphere, and suggestions of colour. Many a much-belauded brush is but a fumbling and ineffective tool, compared with the ink-charged crowquill handled by CHARLES KEENE. Look at "Grandiloquence!" (No. 220) There's composition! There's effect! Stretch of sea, schooner, PAT's petty craft, grandiloquent PAT himself, a nautical Colossus astride on his own cock-boat, with stable sea-legs firmly dispread, the swirl of the sea, the swish of the waves, the very whiff of the wind so vividly suggested!—and all in some few square inches of "Black-and-White!"

Look, again, at the breadth of treatment, the power of humorous characterisation, the strong charm of technique, the colour, the action, the marvellous ease and accuracy of street perspective in No. 16 ("The Penny Toy!"). Action? Why, you can see the old lady jump, let alone the frog! Fix your eye on the frightened dame's foot, and you'll swear it jerks in time to the leap of the "horrid reptile."

Or at that vivid bit of London "hoarding," and London low life, and London street-distance in "'Andicapped!" (No. 25.) Good as is the "gaol-bird," is not the wonderfully real "hoarding" almost better?

Who now can draw—or, for that matter, paint—such a shopkeeper, such a shop, such a child customer as those in "All Alive!" (No. 41), where the Little Girl a-tip-toe with a wedge of cheap "Cheddar" at the counter, comes down upon him of the apron with the crusher, "Oh, mother's sent back this piece o' cheese, 'cause father says if he wants any bait when he's goin' a fishin', he can dig 'em up in our garden!"

Are you a fisherman, reader? Then will you feel your angling as well as your artistic heart warmed by No. 75 ("The Old Adam") and No. 6 ("Wet and Dry"), the former especially! What water, what Scotch boys, what a "prencipled" (but piscatorial) "Meenister"! Don't you feel your elbow twitch? Don't you want to snatch the rod from SANDY McDOUGAL's hand, and land that "fush" yourself, Sawbath or no Sawbath?

But, bless us, one wants to describe, and praise, and purchase them all! A KEENE drawing, almost any KEENE drawing, is "a thing of beauty and a joy for ever" to everyone who has an eye for admirable art and adorable drollery. And good as is the fun of these drawings, the graphic force, and breadth, and delicacy, and freshness, and buoyancy, and breeziness, and masterly ease, and miraculous open-airiness, and general delightfulness of them, are yet more marked and marvellous. Time would fail to tell a tithe of their merits. An essay might be penned on any one of them—but fate forbid it should be, unless a sort of artistic CHARLES LAMB could take the task in hand. Better far go again to New Bond Street and pass another happy hour or two with the ruddy rustics and 'cute cockneys, the Scotch elders and Anglican curates, the stodgy "Old Gents" and broad-backed, bunchy middle-class matrons, the paunchy port-swigging-buffers, and hungry but alert street-boys, the stertorous cabbies, and chatty 'bus-drivers, the "festive" diners-out and wary waiters, the Volunteers and vauriens, the Artists and 'Arries, the policemen and sportsmen, amidst the incomparable street scenes, and the equally inimitable lanes, coppices, turnip-fields and stubbles, green glades and snowbound country roads of wonderful, ever-delightful, and—for his comrades and the Public alike—all-too-soon-departed CHARLES KEENE!

Nothing really worthy of his astonishing life-work, of even that part of it exhibited here, could be written within brief compass, even by the most appreciative, admiring, and art-loving of his sorrowing friends or colleagues. Let the British Public go to New Bond Street, and see for itself, in the very hand-work of this great artist, what he made manifest during so many years in the pages of Punch, namely, the supreme triumph of "Black-and-White" in the achievements of its greatest master.

KING STORK AND KING LOG.

AN OLD FABLE REVERSED.

The Frogs, who lived a free and easy life

(As in the ancient fable)

Though not quite clear from internecine strife,

Fancied they were well able

To do without a King. Batrachian wisdom

Disdains the rule of fogeydom and quizdom,

And Frogs as soon would take to bibs and corals,

As ask a "King who might inspect their morals"

From Jupiter. Then 'twas Juventus Mundi;

The true King-maker now is—Mrs. GRUNDY,

And she insisted that our modern Frogs

Should have a King—the woodenest of King Logs.

At first this terrified our Frogs exceedingly,

And, sometimes passionately, sometimes pleadingly,

They grumbled and protested;

But finding soon how placidly Log rested

Prone in the pool with mighty little motion,

Of danger they abandoned the wild notion,

Finding it easy for a Frog to jog

On with a kind King Log.

But in the fulness of the time, there came

A would-be monarch—Legion his fit name;

A Plebs-appointed Autocrat, Stork-throated,

Goggle-eyed, Paul-Pry-coated;

A poking, peering, pompous, petty creature,

A Bumble-King, with beak for its chief feature.

This new King Stork,

With a fierce, fussy appetite for work;

Not satisfied with fixing like a vice

Authority on Town and Country Mice,

Tried to extend his sway to pools and bogs,

And rule the Frogs!

But modern Frogdom, which had champions able,

Had read old-Æsop's fable,

And of King Stork's appearance far from amorous,

Croaked forth a chorus clamorous

Of resonant rebellion. These, upreared

On angry legs, waved arms that nothing feared;

King Log defending. Great CRAUGASIDES,

Among batrachian heroes first with ease,

With ventriloquial vehemence defied

The long-beaked base usurper. At his side

His fond companion, PHYSIGNATHUS swelled

Cheeks humorously defiant;

The ruddy giant

CRAMBOPHAGUS, as tall as is a Tree,

Flouted King Stork with gestures fierce and free,

Sleek CALAMINTHIUS, aper deft of eld,

Against the foe a pungent dart impelled;

HYDROCHARIS too,

(Most Terryble to view),

Fared to the front, whilst smaller, yet as brave

Tiny batrachian brethren, dusk of hue,

PRASSOPHAGUS, PRASSOEUS, staunch and true,

Webbed hands did wildly wave

With the frog-host against the beaky bird—

"He be our King?" they loudly cried.

"Absurd!

Not Mercury, nor Jupiter we beg

For a devouring despot, lank of leg,

Of prying eye, and frog-transfixing beak;

Though singly we seem weak,

United we are strong to smite or scoff.

Off, would-be tyrant, off!!!"

CHURCH AND STAGE.—Let no rabid Churchmen, of any school of thought, ever again take exception to the irreligious character of playhouse entertainments. Let them read the advertisement of the Lyceum Theatre in The Times for March 13:—"During Holy Week this theatre will be closed, re-opening on Saturday, March 28, with The Bells, which will also be played on Easter Monday night." Could any arrangement be more thoroughly in harmony with general ecclesiastical practice? Any liturgical student knows that the bells are played once on Holy Saturday, and that they should be played on Easter Monday is a matter of course.

TRACKS FOR THE TIMES.

[A Magistrate has just decided that the Police have a right to interfere with the growing practice of using the public roads of the Metropolis at night-time as running-grounds for athletes.]

I come from haunts of smoke and grime,

I start in some blind alley,

And race each night against Old Time

Enthusiastically!

I dodge past frightened City gents,

And sometimes send them flying,

Which makes them cherish sentiments

Not wholly edifying.

I wind about, and in and out,

Along the crowded pavement,

While here and there the mockers flout

My costume and behavement.

I slip, I slide, I flash, I flee

Amid the teeming traffic,

And drivers often use to me

Idioms extremely graphic.

I murmur when a Lawyer's view

Absurdly tries to hinder

My turning public roads into

A private path of cinder.

Yet still to "spurt," agile, alert,

Shall be my one endeavour;

For Cits may stare, and Jehus swear,

But I run on for ever!

THE BLIZZARD.

MRS. SELDOM-FESTIVE "AT HOME" (AND THE BEST PLACE TOO!), MARCH 9, 1891.

A DIARY OF DOVER.

March, 1891.—Fearful storm in the Channel, when the Victoria is all but lost. Proposals in all the newspapers for the immediate commencement of an adequate harbour.

April, 1892.—Hurricane in the Channel, when seventeen ships are lost, and the Club Train Boat (without passengers) is carried, high and dry, as far as Amiens, by the force of the weather. Renewed suggestions for the immediate building of an adequate harbour.

May, 1893.—Cyclone in the Channel, in which the British Fleet disappears. The newspapers once more urge the immediate commencement of the proposed adequate harbour.

June, 1894.—Disaster in the Channel. Every single vessel swamped, owing to the terrific weather. Again the Press invites commencement of an adequate harbour.

July, 1895.—Members of both Houses of Parliament, invited to take part in a State function at Calais, having been put to considerable inconvenience, immediate orders are given for the prompt commencement of the much-needed adequate harbour at Dover.

August, 19—.—Proposed adequate harbour having employed the hands, night and day, of thousands of workmen, at enormous expense (owing to urgent pressure), is at length opened to the public, amidst universal rejoicing.

MR. PUNCH'S POCKET IBSEN.

(Condensed and Revised Version by Mr. P.'s Own Harmless Ibsenite.)

No. I.—ROSMERSHÖLM.

ACT I.

Sitting-room at Rosmershölm, with a stove, flower-stand, windows, ancient and modern ancestors, doors, and everything handsome about it, REBECCA WEST is sitting knitting a large antimacassar which is nearly finished. Now and then she looks out of a window, and smiles and nods expectantly to someone outside. Madam HELSETH is laying the table for supper.

Rebecca (folding up her work slowly). But tell me precisely, what about this White Horse? [Smiling quietly.

Madam Helseth. Lord forgive you, Miss!—(fetching cruet-stand, and placing it on table)—but you're making fun of me!

Rebecca (gravely). No, indeed. Nobody makes fun at Rosmershölm. Mr. ROSMER would not understand it. (Shutting window.) Ah, here is Rector KROLL. (Opening door.) You will stay to supper, will you not, Rector, and I will tell them to give us some little extra dish.

Kroll (hanging up his hat in the hall). Many thanks. (Wipes his boots.) May I come in? (Comes in, puts down his stick, sits down, and looks about him.) And how do you and ROSMER get on together, eh?

Reb. Ever since your sister, BEATA, went mad and jumped into the mill-race, we have been as happy as two little birds together. (After a pause, sitting down in arm-chair.) So you don't really mind my living here all alone with ROSMER? We were afraid you might, perhaps.

Kroll. Why, how on earth—on the contrary, I shouldn't object at all if you—(looks at her meaningly)—h'm!

Reb. (interrupting, gravely). For shame, Rector; how can you make such jokes!

Kroll (as if surprised). Jokes? We do not joke in these parts—but here is ROSMER.

[Enter ROSMER, gently and softly.

Rosmer. So, my dear old friend, you have come again, after a year's absence. (Sits down.) We almost thought that—

Kroll (nods). So Miss WEST was saying—but you are quite mistaken. I merely thought I might remind you, if I came, of our poor BEATA's suicide, so I kept away. We Norwegians are not without our simple tact.

Rosmer. It was considerate—but unnecessary. REB—I mean, Miss WEST and I often allude to the incident, do we not?

Reb. (strikes Tändstickor). Oh, yes, indeed. (Lighting lamp.) Whenever we feel a little more cheerful than usual.

Kroll. You dear good people! (Wanders up the room.) I came because the Spirit of Revolt has crept into my School. A Secret Society has existed for weeks in the Lower Third! To-day it has come to my knowledge that a booby-trap was prepared for me by the hand of my own son, LAURITS, and I then discovered that a hair has been inserted in my cane by my daughter HILDA! The only way in which a right-minded Schoolmaster can combat this anarchic and subversive spirit is to start a newspaper, and I thought that you, as a weak, credulous, inexperienced and impressionable kind of man, were the very person to be the Editor.

[REB. laughs softly, as if to herself. ROSMER jumps up and sits down again.

Reb. (with a look at Rosmer). Tell him now!

Rosmer (returning the look). I can't—some other evening. Well, perhaps— (To KROLL.) I can't be your Editor—because (in a low voice) I—I am on the side of LAURITS and HILDA!

Kroll (looks from one to the other, gloomily). H'm!

Rosmer. Yes. Since we last met, I have changed my views. I am going to create a new democracy, and awaken it to its true task of making all the people of this country noblemen, by freeing their wills, and purifying their minds!

Kroll. What do you mean? [Takes up his hat.

Rosmer (bowing his head). I don't quite know, my dear friend; it was REB—I should say. Miss WEST's scheme.

Kroll. H'm! (A suspicion appears in his face.) Now I begin to believe that what BEATA said about schemes—no matter. But, under the circumstances, I will not stay to supper.

[Takes up his stick, and walks out.

Rosmer. I told you he would be annoyed, I shall go to bed now. I don't want any supper. [He lights a candle, and goes out; presently his footsteps are heard overhead, as he undresses. REBECCA pulls a bell-rope.

Reb. (to Madam HELSETH, who enters with dishes). No, Mr. ROSMER will not have supper to-night. (In a lighter tone.) Perhaps he is afraid of the nightmare. There are so many sorts of White Horses in this world!

Mad. H. (shaking). Lord! lord! that Miss WEST—the things she does say! [REB. goes out through door, knitting antimacassar thoughtfully, as Curtain falls.

ACT II.

ROSMER's study. Doors and windows, bookshelves, a writing-table. Door, with curtain, leading to ROSMER's bedroom. ROSMER discovered in a smoking-jacket cutting a pamphlet with a paper-knife. There is a knock at the door. ROSMER says, "Come in." REBECCA enters in a morning wrapper and curl-papers. She sits on a chair close to ROSMER, and looks over his shoulder as he cuts the leaves. Rector KROLL is shown up.

Kroll (lays his hat on the table and looks at REB. from head to foot). I am really afraid that I am in the way.

Reb. (surprised). Because I am in my morning wrapper and curl-papers? You forget that I am emancipated, Rector KROLL.

[She leaves them and listens behind curtain in ROSMER's bedroom.

Rosmer. Yes, Miss WEST and I have worked our way forward in faithful comradeship.

Kroll (shakes his head at him slowly). So I perceive. Miss WEST is naturally inclined to be forward. But, I say, really you know— However, I came to tell you that poor BEATA was not so mad as she looked, though flowers did bewilder her so. (Taking off his gloves meaningly.) She jumped into the mill-race because she had an idea that you ought to marry Miss WEST!

Rosmer (jumps half up from his chair). I? Marry—Miss WEST! my good gracious, KROLL! I don't understand, it is most incomprehensible. (Looks fixedly before him.) How can people— (looks at him for a moment, then rises.) Will you get out? (Still quiet and self-restrained.) But first tell me why you never mentioned this before?

Kroll. Why? Because I thought you were both orthodox, which made all the difference. Now I know that you side with LAURITS and HILDA, and mean to make the democracy into noblemen, and accordingly I intend to make it hot for you in my paper. Good morning! [He slams the door with spite as REBECCA enters from bed-room.

Rosmer (as if surprised). You—in my bedroom! You have been listening, dear? But you are so emancipated. Ah, well! so our pure and beautiful friendship has been misinterpreted, bespattered! Just because you wear a morning wrapper, and have lived here alone for a year, people with coarse souls and ignoble eyes make unpleasant remarks! But what really did drive BEATA mad? Why did she jump into the mill-race? I'm sure we did everything we could to spare her! I made it the business of my life to keep her in ignorance of all our interests—didn't I, now?

Reb. You did—but why brood over it? What does it matter? Get on with your great, beautiful task, dear, (approaching him cautiously from behind), winning over minds and wills, and creating noblemen, you know—joyful noblemen!

Rosmer (walking about, restlessly, as if in thought). Yes, I know. I have never laughed in the whole course of my life—we ROSMERS don't—and so I felt that spreading gladness and light, and making the democracy joyful, was properly my mission. But now—I feel too upset to go on, REBECCA, unless— (Shakes his head heavily.) Yes, an idea has just occurred to me—(looks at her, and then runs his hands through his hair)—oh, my goodness, no—I can't.

[He leans his elbows on table.

Reb. Be a free man to the full, ROSMER—tell me your idea.

Rosmer (gloomily). I don't know what you'll say to it. It's this. Our platonic comradeship was all very well while I was peaceful and happy. Now that I'm bothered and badgered, I feel—why, I can't exactly explain, but I do feel that I must oppose a new and living reality to the gnawing memories of the past. I should, perhaps, explain that this is equivalent to an Ibsenian proposal.

Reb. (catches at the chairback with joy). How? at last—a rise at last! (Recollects herself.) But what am I about? Am I not an emancipated enigma? (Puts her hands over her ears as if in terror.) What are you saying? You mustn't. I can't think what you mean. Go away, do!

Rosmer (softly). Be the new and living reality. It is the only way to put BEATA out of the Saga. Shall we try it?

Reb. Never! Do not—do not ask me why—for I haven't a notion—but never! (Nods slowly to him and rises.) White Horses would not induce me! (With her hand on door-handle.) Now you know! [She goes out.

Rosmer (sits up, stares thunderstruck at the stove, and says to himself). Well—I—am— [Quick Curtain.

[The remaining two Acts of this subtle psychological study unavoidably held over.]

"KEEP YOUR HARE ON!"

In not following the advice given in the headline to this article, clever Mr. PINERO has made a mistake. Lady Bountiful with only a very little HARE is a disappointment. The majority of those who go to "Hare's Theatre" (they don't speak of it as "The Garrick") go to see the Lessee and Manager in a new part: and they go to see a lot of him: they don't ask merely for a small piece of HARE, if you please, though they might be satisfied with HARE in a small piece. Everyone goes expecting to see him in a good part in a good Comedy, his good part being equal to the better part of the whole entertainment; and if they don't so see him, they are disappointed. Why was Mr. GRUNDY's happy translation of Les Oiseaux peculiarly successful? because it was a light, fresh, and pretty piece, wherein the occasional phrase in a minor key was so artistically introduced as to be a relish to our enjoyment of the humour of the characters and of the situations; but all this would have gone for comparatively little had it not been for the excellence of Mr. HARE's rendering of the first-rate part of Goldfinch, which did not consist of occasional flashes, only to collapse and disappear in the penultimate Act, but continued right through to the end, dominating everything and everybody. This is not so with Lady Bountiful. The appearance of Roderick Heron, who is no creation of the Author's, as he admits, but merely Mr. Skimpole under another name, raises hopes at the commencement, which are blighted long before the finish. The part gutters out, as does Mr. CHARLES GROVE's John Veale, another "promise of spring." Young Mr. GILBERT HARE makes a most creditable first appearance as Sir Lucian Brent, Bart. He is easy and natural.

For the greater part of the educated audience, it might have been more useful if Sir Richard Philliter, Q.C., had gone about with an old Eton Latin Grammar in his pocket, instead of a Horace; and if Miss KATE RORKE had divided with him the quotation, "Nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit." He, being rejected, might have commenced, "Nemo mortalium," and she might have continued, "omnibus horis;" then, both together, "sapit." Or when she had snubbed him, he might have made some telling remark about "Verbum personale," and so forth. The introduction of a quotation from Horace is likely rather to be resented than appreciated by the victims of a superior education. What a bad quarter of an hour or so Paterfamilias will have when Materfamilias asks him for the translation of these lines from Horace! Poor Pater will pretend not to have "quite caught them;" or "not been attending;" but to himself he will own how entirely he has forgotten his Latin, and perhaps he will make a good resolution to himself to "look up his Horace again." Then the learned young lady will be asked by her Mamma, or by her sharp young bothering sister, "what that Latin means," and though she might be able to construe it when she sees it, to translate it offhand at one hearing is a difficulty, and she will evade the question by saying, "Please, don't talk! I want to listen to the piece."

The youth in the Stalls, fresh from college or school, will be about as much equal to the translation offhand as is young Sir Lucian Brent when asked by Mr. CATHCART to give the meaning of the Latin on the ancient brasses in the old church, and they won't thank you for bringing school studies into playtime. On the whole, nothing is gained by this Dr. Panglossian introduction of Latin quotation; it doesn't help the action, nor emphasise a character, nor does it strengthen a situation, to bring in even the most appropriate lines which are not "in a language understanded of the people." Sir Richard Philliter, Q.C., might be known in private life to his friends as Sir HORACE DAVUS (Non Oedipus). Mr. CATHCART's Pedgrift, parish clerk and sexton, is an excellent little character-sketch, as is also that of Mrs. Hornutt, the pew-opener.

As for Mr. FORBES ROBERTSON and Miss KATE RORKE, they seemed to me to be what the author had made them—i.e., stagey. Miss DOLORES DRUMMOND, as Mrs. Veale, is very good, and Miss MARIE LINDEN, except in one stagey bit in the Third Act, plays with great care and judgment. The interior of the old country church (Act III.) is a masterpiece of scenic art and stage arrangement,—a perfect picture by Mr. W. HARFORD. I wish I could say the same of the dénoûment of the interrupted marriage, which strongly reminded me of a pictorial heading to some exciting chapter in a penny novelette or The London Journal. It is a very weak finish, and not strengthened or improved in any way by the line Sir Richard Philliter, Q.C., has to say, on which the Curtain descends. And what does everybody exclaim afterwards? Simply, "Why there's nothing for HARE to do in it. We thought we should see him again, and that he would come out all right at last." That's the feeling. They can't bear the idea of their favourite first-class Comedian being a sordid, swindling old villain, unless the character be exceptionally amusing. Lady Bountiful might be termed "A bald piece," because it has so little HARE.

THE BOAT-RACE TEN YEARS HENCE!

(When no doubt it will be conducted on strictly scientific principles.)

The crews were met together on the day fixed for the event in the Council Room of the Combined Universities Barge moored at Putney. Fifteen of the athletes wore the usual training mufti, which contrasted strongly with the garb of the sixteenth—a complete suit of flannels. "To quote our ancestors—'Why this thusness?'" asked the Camford Stroke, as he recognised one of his own men in this strange apparel.

"Why not?" replied the other; "surely we are not going to pull in tweeds?"

"We are not going to pull at all," explained the leader of the Oxbridge Eight, courteously; "I think we can manage the matter in a more satisfactory fashion. It was all very well in the Nineties to race in real earnest, but now that we have reached the Twentieth Century our civilisation teaches something better."

"Certainly!" returned the Camford Stroke; "and I think we had better get at once to business. Who has the sworn information of our respective coaches?"

"I have," replied the Hon. Solicitor to the rival Boating Clubs; "and, if you will allow me, I will produce them—or rather it, for the coaches have affirmed jointly."

All present bowing acquiescence, the man of law, putting on his spectacles, and opening a brief-bag, produced a document, and read as follows:—

"It is our opinion that Oxbridge, as the heavier crew, has an advantage over Camford, which is only lessened, and certainly not entirely removed, by the better training of the latter. Moreover, the steering of the Oxbridge coxwain is infinitely preferable to the steering of his rival. The times of the various trials, too, have in every instance given a distinct advantage to Oxbridge. Again, they have a better boat. So, given fine weather, the result is a foregone conclusion. Oxbridge must win, although no doubt Camford would make a good fight for it, and come in a respectable second."

"I suppose we may add, 'barring accidents'?" suggested the Camford Stroke, with rather a forced laugh.

"Sir!" exclaimed the Hon. Solicitor, with some severity. "In a company of gentlemen like those present, accidents always are barred!"

"Quite so," admitted the Camford champion, "and I suppose our committee of the latest Senior Wrangler and the youngest Double First have considered what I may call the atmospheric conditions under which the race would have taken place?"

"Yes, Sir, we have, and those conditions are all unfavourable to the success of Camford," was the ready reply.

"Then I think we have but one more thing to do—to give three hearty cheers for our opponents." said the Oxbridge Stroke, and a minute later the rafters rang with loud applause.

"But why shouldn't we have rowed it out?" asked the gentleman in flannels—he was a Freshman—a little later. "Surely that would have been more satisfactory."

"Not at all," was the reply. "The plan is merely a survival of the fittest!" and his answer afforded general satisfaction.

Shelley Revised.

Most rhyming men

Are cradled into poetry by fashion,

And learn as formula what they print as passion.

The Development of Africa, by A.S. WHITE, is advertised. This is White on Black, and no player in hand. It should be immediately followed by Black on White, or Who takes the Pool? Exciting match, with one life each.

CONFUSION WORSE CONFOUNDED.

Jones. "CON-FOUND IT ALL! SOMEBODY'S TAKEN MY HAT, AND LEFT THIS FILTHY, BEASTLY, SHABBY OLD THING INSTEAD!"

Brown. "A—I BEG YOUR PARDON, BUT THAT HAPPENS TO BE MY HAT!"

KEPT IN THE STABLE.

Head Groom B-lf-r loq.:—

Kept in! Yes, by thunder! Be 't prudence or blunder,

Gov's fondness for Tithe, or bad weather, or what,

You're kept in the stable, though fit, ay, and able

To lead the whole field and to win by a lot.

A hunter I never bestrode half as clever!

Tithe? Pooh! He's not in it, my beauty, with you.

You've breed, style, and mettle, and look in rare fettle.

If I had to settle, you know what I'd do!

These gentlemen-riders deem all are outsiders

Save them: as if gent ever made A 1 jock!

Ah! ADAM L. GORDON,[¹] poor chap, had a word on

Such matters. I'll warrant he sat like a rock,

And went like a blizzard. Yes, beauty, it is hard

To eat off your head in the stable like this.

Too long you have idled; but wait till you're bridled!

The hunt of the season I swear you won't miss,

It has been hard weather, although, beauty, whether

'Tis that altogether your chance that postponed,

Or whether Boss SOLLY committed a folly—

No matter! A comelier crack he ne'er owned,

Although 'tis I say it who shouldn't. The way it

Has snowed and has frozen may be his excuse;

But when you're once started, deer-limbed, lion-hearted,

I warrant, my beauty, you'll go like the deuce.

"A lean head and fiery, strong quarters, and wiry,

A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb,"

That's GORDON's description of Iseult. (All whip shun

When riding such rattlers, and trust to the curb.)

That mare was your sort, lad. I guess there'll be sport, lad,

When you make strong running, and near the last jump.

And you, when extended, look "bloodlike and splendid."

Ah! poor LINDSAY GORDON was sportsman and trump.

I see your sleek muzzle in front! It will puzzle

Your critics, my boy, to pick holes in you then:

There's howling "HISTORICUS,"—he's but a sorry cuss!