Part 2

_Stage Manager._ Don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps a gas-fitter. Now, as I was saying, Miss Frisette, I think that all your alterations in the dialogue are quite up to date, but we must give Splitter a chance for his cackle. Ah! here he is.

_Splitter._ Well, old boy, I've worked in that scene to rights, but the boss thinks that some allusions to Turkey served up with German sausage would fetch 'em. So you might chuck it in for me.

_Stage Man._ Of course I will. Capital idea. (_Marks prompt-book._) I wonder who that chap is in the wing?

_Splitter._ Haven't the faintest idea. Looks like an undertaker. Hallo, Wobbler, brought your new song?

_Wobbler._ Yes, it ought to go. And I've a gross or so of capital wheezes.

_Splitter._ No poaching, old chap.

_Wobbler._ Of course not. I'll not let them off when you're on. Morning, Miss Skid. Perfect, I suppose?

_Miss Skid (brightly)._ I'm always "perfect." But--(_seriously_)--I had to cut all the idiotic stuff in my part, and get Peter Quip of "The Kangaroo" to put in something up to date. Here's the boss!

[_Enter Mr. Footlyte, the manager, amid a chorus of salutations._

_Stage Man._ Places, ladies and gentlemen.

_Mr. Footlyte._ Before we begin the rehearsal, I would point out that I have completely rewritten the second act, and----

_The Stranger in the Ulster._ But, sir, I beg of you to remember----

_Mr. F._ Who is that man?

_Everybody._ We don't know!

_Mr. F. (advancing)._ Who are you, sir, who dare to trespass on my premises?

_The S. in the U._ Don't you remember me, Mr. Footlyte?

_Mr. F._ No, sir, I do not. What's your business?

_The S. in the U. (nervously)._ I am the author of the piece.

_Everybody._ Ha! ha! ha!

_Mr. F._ Then you're not wanted here. (_To stage manager._) Jenkins, clear the stage.

[_The author is shown out. Rehearsal proceeds. Curtain._

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MEANT AS A COMPLIMENT.--_Shakspeare Smith (to Miss Lagushe, after production of his new comedy)._ And what did you think of my little piece the other night?

_Miss Lagushe._ I didn't pay the least attention to the play. All I thought was, what a cruel ordeal the performance must be for _you_!

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NEO-DRAMATIC NURSERY RHYME

Mrs. Grundy, good woman, scarce knew what to think About the relation 'twixt drama and drink. Well, give hall--and theatre--good wholesome diet, And all who attend will be sober and quiet!

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HINTS TO AMATEUR PLAYWRIGHTS.

_Of the Essence of Drama._--It is not strictly necessary that you should know much about this, but as a rough indication it may be stated that whenever two or more persons stand (or sit) upon a platform and talk, and other persons, whether from motives of ennui, or charity, or malice, or for copyright purposes only, go and listen to them, the law says it is a stage-play. It does not follow that anybody else will.

_Of the Divers Sorts of Dramatic Writing._--Owing to the competition nowadays of the variety entertainment you will do well to treat these as practically amalgamated. For example, start Act I. with an entirely farcical and impossible marriage, consequent upon a mistake similar to that of "Mr. Pickwick" about the exact locality of his room; drop into poetry and pathos in Act II. (waltz-music "off" throughout will show that it _is_ poetry and pathos); introduce for the first time in Act III. a melodramatic villain, who endeavours to elope with the heroine (already married, as above, and preternaturally conscious of it), and wind-up Act IV. with a skirt dance and a general display of high spirits, with which the audience, seeing that the conclusion is at hand, will probably sympathise. Another mixture, very popular with serious people, may be manufactured by raising the curtain to a hymn tune upon a number of obviously early Christians, and, after thus edifying your audience, cheering them up again with glimpses of attractive young ladies dressed (to a moderate extent) as pagans, and continually in fits of laughter. The performance of this kind of composition is usually accompanied by earthquakes, thunder and lightning; but the stage carpenter will attend to these.

_Of Humour._--Much may be accomplished in this line by giving your characters names that are easily punned upon. Do not forget, however, that even higher flights of wit than you can attain by this means will be surpassed by the simple expedient of withdrawing a chair from behind a gentleman about to sit down upon it. And this only requires a stage-direction.

_Of Dialogue._--Speeches of more than half a page, though useful for clearing up obscurities, are generally deficient in the qualities of repartee. After exclaiming, "Oh, I am slain!" or words to that effect, no character should be given a soliloquy taking more than five minutes in recitation.

_Of the Censorship._--This need not be feared unless you are unduly serious. Lady Godiva, for instance, will be all right for a ball where the dress is left to the fancy, but you must not envelop her in problems.

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MOTTO FOR THE STAGE-WORSHIPPERS.--"Mummer's the word!"

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THE DECLINE OF THE DRAMA

Mundungus deems the drama is declining, Yet fain would swell the crowded playwright ranks. The secret of his pessimist opining, Is--all _his_ dramas _are_ declined--with thanks!

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CONTRIBUTION TOWARDS NURSERY RHYMES

(_For Use of Infant Students in New School of Dramatic Art_)

'Tis the voice of the prompter, I hear him quite plain; He has prompted me twice, Let him prompt me again.

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APPROPRIATE SHAKESPEARIAN MOTTO FOR A FIRM OF ADVERTISING AGENTS.--"Posters of the sea and land."

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QUID PRO QUO.--_Actor-Manager (to Dramatic Author)._ What I want is a one-part piece.

_Dramatic Author._ That's very easily arranged. You be number one, and "part" to me.

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_Araminta._ Why, dearest, do you call those witticisms, which the comedians deliver with such ready humour, "gags"?

_Corydon (the playwright)._ Because they always stifle the author.

[_Smiles no more during the evening._

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THE MUMMER'S BETE-NOIRE.--"_Benefits_ forgot."

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WHY I DON'T WRITE PLAYS

(_From the Common-place Book of a Novelist_)

Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on the stage.

Because publishers are far more amiable to deal with than actor-managers.

Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place--except in novels.

Because why waste three weeks on writing a play, when it takes only three years to compose a novel?

Because critics who send articles to magazines inviting one to contribute to the stage, have no right to dictate to us.

Because a fairly successful novel means five hundred pounds, and a fairly successful play yields as many thousands--why be influenced by mercenary motives?

Because all novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have no time left for outside labour.

And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a play? Because I _have_ tried to write _one_, and find I can't quite manage it!

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_Q._ When are the affairs of a theatre likely to assume a somewhat fishy aspect? _A._ When there's a sole lessee.

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_Evangeline._ Why is this called the dress circle mamma?

_Mamma._ Because the stalls are the undressed circle, dear.

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A FORM OF EQUESTRIAN DRAMA.--Horseplay.

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FROM OUR GENERAL THEATRICAL FUND.--Why would a good-natured dramatic critic be a valuable specimen in an anatomical museum? Because he takes to pieces easily.

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MEM. BY A MANAGER

To say "boo" to a goose requires some doing. In theatres 'tis the goose who does the "booing," And though a man may do the best he can, sir, _Anser_ will hiss, though hissing may not answer!

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REVISED VERSION OF SHAKSPEARE

"A POOR player, Who struts and frets his hour on the stage, And then--goes in society."

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There is a blessing on peacemakers--is there one on playwrights?

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THE HOME OF THE BRITISH DRAMA.--A French crib.

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A COURT THEATRE TICKET.--The order of the garter available only at Windsor as an order for the stalls.

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NEW NAME FOR A THEATRE WHERE THE ACTORS ARE MORE OR LESS UNINTELLIGIBLE.--"The Mumbles."

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THE MOAN OF A THEATRE-MANAGER

Who gets, by hook or crook, from me Admittance free, though well knows he That myriads turned away will be? The Deadhead.

Who, while he for his programme pays The smallest silver coin, inveighs Against such fraud with eyes ablaze? The Deadhead.

Who to his neighbour spins harangues, On how he views with grievous pangs The dust that on our hangings hangs? The Deadhead.

Who, in a voice which rings afar, Declares, while standing at the bar, Our drinks most deleterious are? The Deadhead.

Who, aye withholds the claps and cheers That others give? Who jeers and sneers At all he sees and all he hears? The Deadhead.

Who loudly, as the drama's plot Unfolds, declares the tale a lot Of balderdash and tommy-rot? The Deadhead.

Who dubs the actors boorish hinds? Who fault with all the scenery finds? Who with disgust his molars grinds? The Deadhead.

Who spreads dissatisfaction wide 'Mongst those who else with all they spied Had been extremely satisfied? The Deadhead.

Who runs us down for many a day, And keeps no end of folks away That else would for admittance pay? The Deadhead.

Who keeps his reputation still, For recompensing good with ill With more than pandemonium's skill? The Deadhead.

Who makes the bankrupt's doleful doom In all its blackness o'er me loom? Who'll bring my grey head to the tomb? The Deadhead.

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LESSONS LEARNED AT A PANTOMIME

(_By an Intelligent Schoolboy_)

That demons are much given to making bad puns, and have on their visiting lists the most beautiful of the fairies.

That the attendants upon the demons (presumably their victims) spend much of their time in break-downs.

That the chief amusement in Fairyland is to stand upon one toe for a distressingly long time.

That the fairies, when they speak, don't seem to have more H.'s to their tongues, than clothes to their backs.

That the fairies have particularly fair complexions, considering they dance so much in the sunlight.

That the tight and scanty costume of the fairies is most insufficient protection from the showers that must be required to produce the gigantic and highly-coloured fairy _flora_.

That the chief fairy (to judge from her allusions to current events) must take in the daily papers.

That harlequin is always shaking his bat, but nothing seems to come of it, and that it is hard to say why he comes on or goes off, or, in short, what he's at altogether.

That if clown and pantaloon want to catch columbine, it is hard to see why they don't catch her.

That pantaloon must have been greatly neglected by his children to be exposed without some filial protection to such ill-usage from clown.

That clown leads a reckless and abandoned life, between thefts, butter-slides, hot pokers, nurse-maids, and murdered babies, and on the whole is lucky to escape hanging.

That policemen are made to be chaffed, cuffed, chased, and knocked head-over-heels.

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APPRECIATIVE!

_The eldest Miss Bluestocken (to Mrs. Mugby, of the village laundry)._ I'm delighted that you were able to come to our schoolroom performance of _Scenes from Shakspeare_.

_Mrs. Mugby._ Oh, so was I, mum. That there "'Amblet"--and the grand lady, mum----

_Eldest Miss B. (condescendingly)._ You mean "Hamlet" and his mother--the vicar and myself. You enjoyed it?

_Mrs. Mugby._ Oh, we did, mum! We ain't 'ad such a rale good laugh for many a long day.

[_Exit_ Miss B., _thinking that Shakspeare is perhaps somewhat thrown away on this yokality_.]

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THE BOOK OF THE PLAY (_as managers like it_).--"All places taken for the next fortnight."

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When actors complain that all they require is "parts," they generally tell the exact truth.