Part 13

"As the balance-sheet is rather a lengthy document, I will merely quote a few of the figures for your satisfaction. We have received, during the half-year, in subscriptions, donations, and legacies, the sum of L5,403 6_s._ 83/4_d._ Rent, rates, and taxes, L305 10_s._ 01/4_d._ Seventy-one pairs of blankets, at 20_s._ per pair, have taken L71 exactly; and 128 pairs of tops-boots, at 21_s._ per pair, cost us L134 some odd shillings. The salaries and expenses of management amount to L1,307 4_s._ 21/2_d._; and sundries, which include committee meetings and travelling expenses, have absorbed the remainder of the sum, and amount to L3,268 9_s._ 13/4_d._ So that we have expended on the dear and interesting cannibals the sum of L205, and the remainder of the sum--amounting to L5,198--has been devoted to the working expenses of the society."

The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid heavy applause, which continues until Mr. Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a somewhat lengthy and discursive speech--in which the phrases, "the Corporation of the City of London," "suit and service," "ancient guild," "liberties and privileges," and "Court of Common Council," figure frequently, states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said; and has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive document than the one just read; which is calculated to satisfy even the most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals.

Gobbleton is a great man in the City. He has either been Lord Mayor, or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favourably received.

"Clever man, Gobbleton!" says a common councilman, sitting near us, to his neighbour, a languid swell of the period.

"Ya-as, vewy! Wemarkable style of owatowy--and gweat fluency," replies the other.

But attention, if you please!--for M. Hector de Longuebeau, the great French writer, is on his legs. He is staying in England for a short time, to become acquainted with our manners and customs.

"MILORS AND GENTLEMANS!" commences the Frenchman, elevating his eyebrows, and shrugging his shoulders. "Milors and Gentlemans--You excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have say to me, 'Make de toast.' Den I say to him dat I have no toast to us; but he nudge my elbow ver soft, and say dat dere is von toast dat nobody but von Frenchman can make proper; and, derefore, wid you kind permission, I will make de toast. 'De brevete is de sole of de feet,' as you great philosopher, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little work of his, de Pronouncing Dictionnaire; and derefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. Ven I vas a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade de streets of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I vas to begin de vorld as von garcon--or, vat you call in dis countrie, von vaitaire in a cafe--vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillemens at all to put onto myself, and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give to me by de proprietaire, just for to keep myself fit to be showed at, but, tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time, and I have rose myself, seulement par mon industrie et perseverance. (Loud cheers.) Ah! mes amis! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von great privilige for von etranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same food, as that grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs and de brigands of de metropolis; and who is also, I for to suppose, a halterman and de chef of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I feel dat I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common scoundrelman myself; but helas! dat plaisir are not for me, as I are not freeman of your great cite, not von liveryman servant of von of you compagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentlemans! De immortal Shakespeare he have write, 'De ting of beauty are de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more entrancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beautiful lady? It is de ladies who do sweeten de cares of life. It is de ladies who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer but not inebriate; and, derefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I have to propose is, 'De Ladies! God bless dem all!'"

And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers.

A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of thanks is passed to the noble chairman; and the Fifteenth Annual Festival of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end.

(_Copyright of_ MESSRS. F. WARNE & CO.)

ACTING WITH A VENGEANCE.

W. SAPTE, JUN.

Methinks 'tis a very remarkable "sign Of the times"--I must own this expression's not mine-- How in these latter days The theatrical craze Has obtained such a hold on all grades of society; And this love of the stage Is a mark of the age Which is not in accord with _my_ views of propriety.

'Twas only last week a young lady I know Invited the world in a body to go (On a wretched wet day) To a dull _matinee_, When she made her _debut_ in the "Hunchback," as Julia; A part which to act is A thing of long practice, Surely ne'er was conceit more absurd or unrulier.

How can amateur actors commence at the top Of the Thespian Tree, and avoid coming flop? It would seem very queer If a young volunteer Should begin by commanding the Royal Horse Artillery, Or if babies should bilk Their allowance of milk And insist upon sucking from bottles of Sillery. So it mostly occurs That an amateur errs, And gets chaffed for possessing less skill than audacity, When he tackles a part Without learning the art, And exposes his natural want of capacity-- And what is more painful, his lack of sagacity.

I'm bound to admit I was rather once bit By the mania myself in a mild sort of way; Paid a half-guinea fee To the Zeus A.D.C., And found myself cast for a part in a play. I think 'twas the Bandit Brothers of Brighton-- Or Eastbourne, or Yarmouth-- Or Hastings, or Barmouth-- I forget for the moment which place was the right 'un-- But I know there's a chief, Who at last comes to grief, After numerous blood-curdling adventures and rescues, Such as frequently writers in modern burlesque use.

Now the part of the chief Who comes to grief Was secured by a hot-tempered youth, named O'Keefe; In spite of the jealousy Of two other fellows, he Cast himself as the leader, without hesitation, And resented remarks with extreme indignation. So the others were fain Their rage to contain, And one e'en accepted the part which was reckoned To be, on the whole, the one that ranked second.

The local Town Hall was engaged, which would hold Some three hundred people--the tickets were sold-- The purchasers wishing to help the good charity We played for; some adding Donations, and gladding The treasurer's heart to a state of hilarity. Rehearsals galore Were to take place before The _debut_ on the boards of the Zeus A.D.C.-- For the members were earnest as earnest could be. Well, the opening one Was rather good fun, For we found that the practice of vigorous fighting 'Twixt Bandits and Coastguards was rather exciting; But later, you know It got rather slow For those who were "supers" to constantly go And lay the same victims perpetually low, With time after time the identical blow.

But Mr. O'Keefe, Who played the chief, Had a time less monotonous, greatly, than ours, And always kept up the rehearsals for hours. Still he wasn't quite happy, And often got snappy, For Richard McEwen, who'd wanted to play The part of the chief, and used often to say He'd have done it himself in a much better way, Was by no means contented, thus feeling superior To play "seconds" to Keefe, his decided inferior.

So he did what he could To annoy the great K., And misunderstood, In a scandalous way, All the stage-manager's proper directions, And refused to accept either hints or corrections.

Now in the third act, the time being night, The scene on the beach, there's a hand-to-hand fight 'Twixt the Bandit chief (That's Mr. O'Keefe) And the coastguard captain, Mr. McEwen, In which 'tis agreed That the first shall succeed, While the latter comes in for no end of a hewing.

But Richard McEwen was strong and quick, And a very good hand with the single-stick, And he didn't see why He should quietly die By the sword of a man, much less clever at fencing. So he _would_ give a twist Of his muscular wrist, Which disarmed the brave Bandit soon after commencing.

The rage of O'Keefe Exceeded belief, For McEwen _would_ do it at ev'ry rehearsal; The manager vowed It could not be allowed, And the company's protests became universal.

McEwen explained That he thought the piece gained By his showing his skill--how could anyone doubt it? "There's more credit," said he, "To the chief than there'd be If he killed a weak chap who knew nothing about it." And he went on to say that O'Keefe wasn't fit For the part of the chief, and could not fence a bit. O'Keefe in reply, Gave McEwen the lie, And vowed he would kick him Or otherwise "lick" him, While his eyes flashed like those of a tiger or leopard. He Induced us to think That his rival must shrink From placing himself in such obvious jeopardy.

He did so--and afterwards things all went smoothly, While O'Keefe played his part in a manner quite Booth-ly, Or, as somebody said, without meaning to gush, He'd have put Henry Irving himself to the blush.

* * * * *

As soon as the public performance drew nigh The local excitement ran awfully high, For reports had been spread (By the club, be it said) That something uncommonly good was expected, And so on the day We turned people away From the doors, where quite early a crowd had collected.

* * * * *

Well, the overture over, the drama began, But, thanks to our casual property man, The rise of the curtain Was somewhat uncertain. In fact, for five minutes or so the thing _stuck_-- Which was terrible luck! And affected the play, At least, so I should say, For the opening act went decidedly tamely, Though O'Keefe and his bandits stuck to it most gamely. There was not much applause, Which perhaps was because Our audience was certainly very genteel, And thought it was rude folks should show what they feel; Still, we should have preferred Some "bravos!" to have heard. And two or three gentlemen seemingly napping, We thought might have better employed themselves clapping.

If first act went badly The second quite dragged; The actors worked sadly, All interest flagged. And though very often we caught people laughing, The occasions they chose made us think they were chaffing.

Next came act the third, in which the O'Keefe Was to be very great as the terrible chief, For in it he killed His rival, and spilled The gore of the coastguards all over the coast, And eloped with a bride, Who beheld him with pride Though she could herself of a coronet boast. As a matter of fact We hoped that this act Would redeem in a measure the ones that preceded, And it opened so well, And O'Keefe looked so swell, That at last we obtained the encouragement needed. And then came the fight. No one thought, on that night, That McEwen would dare try his vile _tour de force_; And the battle began On the well-rehearsed plan, While the supers made ready to bear off his corse.

* * * * *

Whatever induced him to do it? Who knows? He says 'twas an accident. Well, I suppose, When a man tells you that, A denial too flat Might perhaps lead to arguments, even to blows. But, be that as it may, The O'Keefe _couldn't_ slay His opponent, whose wrist All at once gave a twist, And the brave bandit's weapon went flying away! The supers stood spellbound, as over the stage Strode the maddened O'Keefe; in a frenzy of rage He picked up his sword, and then went for his foe In terrible earnest. Oh, that was the sternest, Most truculent fight Ever fought in the sight Of innocent people, who shouted "Bravo!" Little knowing how soon the real blood was to flow.

Thank Heaven, the swords Were as blunt as two boards! Otherwise the result would have been simply frightful. As it was, every whack Make the deuce of a crack, While the audience considered it clearly delightful. With th' applause at its height, This most bloodthirsty fight, By a blow from the skilful McEwen was ended. O'Keefe fell as if dead, With a gash on his head; The supers rushed forward, the curtain descended.

Talk about clapping! And walking-stick rapping! While even the gentlemen formerly napping, "Bravoed" themselves hoarse With the whole of their force, And made their fat palms quite tender with slapping. "O'Keefe! and McEwen!" was shouted by all, Why the deuce don't they come and acknowledge the call? Then some people said "That blow on the head-- Was it part of the play?--or"--ah, see, in the hall A youth--he's a member, as that ribbon shows-- See! to Doctor Pomander he stealthily goes-- To the doctor, who sat With his coat and his hat Just under his seat, that he need not delay If a patient should send to fetch him away; But who never expected to find _in_ the hall A patient--and much less a bandit--at all!

Anxiety now Takes the place of the row, And people talk low And ask "Shall they go?" When before the dropped curtain there comes with a bow The stage-manager suave, With a countenance grave, To announce that although there's nought serious the matter, (Here applause and some chatter) Still, in the late fight The _wrong_ man beat the _right_, And that therefore the show was at end for the night.

Thus the bandit chief Came duly to grief, Though not in the way that the author intended, And as for his head Ere he went home to bed, The doctor had seen that 'twas properly mended. This, friends, was the end of the drama for me, And for most, I believe, of the Zeus A.D.C., Whose need of success May indeed have been less Than that usually obtained by such clubs and societies; But be that as it may, I have e'er from that day Placed amateur acting among th' improprieties.

(_By permission of the Author._)

MY FORTNIGHT AT WRETCHEDVILLE.

GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.

How I came to be acquainted with Wretchedville was in this wise. I was in quest last autumn of a nice quiet place within a convenient distance of town, where I could finish an epic poem--or stay, was it a five-act drama?--on which I had been long engaged, and where I could be secure from the annoyance of organ-grinders, and of reverend gentlemen leaving little subscription books one day and calling for them the next. I pined for a place where one could be very snug, and where one's friends didn't drop in "just to look you up, old fellow," and where the post didn't come in too often. So I picked up a bag of needments, and availing myself of a mid-day train on the Great Domdaniel Railway, alighted haphazard at a station.

It turned out to be Sobbington. I saw at a glance that Sobbington was too fashionable, not to say stuck-up for me. The waltz from "Faust" was pianofortetically audible from at least half-a-dozen semi-detached windows; and this, combined with some painful variations on "Take, then, the sabre," and a cursory glance into a stationer's shop and fancy warehouse, where two stern mammas of low-church aspect were purchasing the back numbers of "The New Pugwell Square Pulpit," and three young ladies were telegraphically inquiring, behind their parents' backs, of the young person at the counter whether any letters had been left for them, sufficed to accelerate my departure from Sobbington. The next station on the road, I was told, was Doleful Hill, and then came Deadwood Junction. I thought I would take a little walk, and see what the open and what the covert yielded.

I left my bag with a moody porter at the Sobbington Station, and trudged along the road which had been indicated to me as leading to Doleful Hill. It is true that I had not the remotest idea of where I was going to live. I walked onwards and onwards, admiring the field cows in the far-off pastures--cows the white specks on whose hides recurred so artistically that one might have thought the scenic arrangement of the landscape had been entrusted to Mr. Birket Foster. Anon I saw coming towards me, a butcher-boy in his cart, drawn by a fast trotting pony. I asked him when he neared me, how far it might be to Doleful Hill.

"Good two mile," quoth the butcher-boy, pulling up. "But you'll have to pass Wretchedville first. Lays in a 'ole a little to the left, 'arf a mile on."

"Wretchedville," thought I; what an odd name! "What sort of a place is it?" I inquired.

"Well," replied the butcher-boy; "it's a lively place, a werry lively place. I should say it was lively enough to make a cricket burst himself for spite: it's so uncommon lively." And with this enigmatical deliverance the butcher-boy relapsed into a whistle of the utmost shrillness, and rattled away towards Sobbington.

I wish that it had not been quite so golden an afternoon. A little dulness, a few clouds in the sky, might have acted as a caveat against Wretchedville. But I plodded on and on, finding all things looking beautiful in that autumn glow, until at last I found myself descending the declivitous road into Wretchedville and to destruction.

"Were there any apartments to let?" Of course there were. The very first house I came to was, as regards the parlour-window, nearly blocked up by a placard treating of "Apartments Furnished." Am I right in describing it as the parlour-window? I scarcely know; for the front door, with which it was on a level, was approached by such a very steep flight of steps, that when you stood on the topmost grade, it seemed as though, with a very slight effort, you could have peeped in at the bed-room window, or touched one of the chimney-pots; while as concerns the basement, the front kitchen--I beg pardon, the breakfast parlour--appeared to be a good way above the level of the street.

The space in the first-floor window not occupied by the placard, was filled by a monstrous group of wax fruit, the lemons as big as pumpkins, and the leaves of an unnaturally vivid green. The window below--it was a single-windowed front--served merely as a frame for the half-length portrait of a lady in a cap, ringlets, and a colossal cameo brooch. The eyes of this portrait were fixed upon me; and before almost I had lifted a very small light knocker, decorated, so far as I could make out, with the cast-iron effigy of a desponding ape, and had struck this against a door, which to judge from the amount of percussion produced, was composed of Bristol board highly varnished, the portal itself flew open and the portrait of the basement appeared in the flesh; indeed, it was the same portrait. Downstairs it had been Mrs. Primpris looking out into the Wretchedville Road for lodgers. Upstairs it was Mrs. Primpris letting her lodgings and glorying in the act.

She didn't ask for any references. She didn't hasten to inform me that there were no children or any other lodgers. She didn't look doubtful when I told her that the whole of my luggage consisted of a black bag which I had left at the Sobbington Station. She seemed rather pleased with the idea of the bag, and said that her Alfred should step round for it. She didn't object to smoking; and she at once invested me with the Order of the Latchkey--a latchkey at Wretchedville, ha! ha! She further held me with her glittering eye, and I listened like a two-years' child while she let me the lodgings for a fortnight certain.

She had converted me into a single gentleman lodger of quiet and retired habits--or was I a widower of independent means seeking a home in a cheerful family?--so suddenly that I beheld all things as in a dream. Thinking, perchance, that the first stone of that monumental edifice, the bill, could not be laid too quickly, she immediately provided me with tea. There was a little cottage-loaf, so hard, round, shiny, and compact, that I experienced a well-nigh uncontrollable desire to fling it up to the ceiling to ascertain whether it would chip off any portion of a preposterous rosette in stucco in the centre, representing a sunflower surrounded by cabbage-leaves. This terrible ornament was, by the way, one of the chief sources of my misery at Wretchedville: I was continually apprehensive that it would tumble down bodily on the table. In addition to the cottage-loaf there was a pretentious tea-pot, which, had it been of sterling silver, would have been worth fifty guineas, but which in its ghastly gleaming, said plainly, "Sheffield" and "imposture." There was a piece of butter in a "shape" like a diminutive haystack, and with a cow sprawling on the top in unctuous plasticity. It was a pallid kind of butter, from which with difficulty you shaved off adipocerous scales, which would not be persuaded to adhere to the bread, but flew off at tangents and went rolling about an intolerably large tea-tray on whose papier-mache surface was depicted the death of Captain Hedley Vicars. The Crimean sky was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the gallant captain's face was highly enriched with blue and crimson foil-paper.