SCENE XI.--_At the entrance to The Eldorado Music-hall.

TIME--_Saturday evening, about_ 8.30. Mrs. TOOVEY, _who has just alighted from a Waterloo bus, approaches; she wears a veil, under which her spectacles gleam balefully, and passes the various boards and coloured posters with averted eyes_.

_Mrs. Toovey_ (_to herself_). I'm late--I ought to have taken a cab, instead of that dawdling bus. Still, I shall be in plenty of time to surprise Pa in the very midst of his profligacy. (_She looks around her._) Gilding, rosewood and mahogany panels, plush, stained glass--oh, the wicked luxury of it all! (_She pushes open a swing door._) Where is the place you call Box C? I--I have to meet somebody there.

[_She finds herself in a glittering bar, where she produces a distinct sensation among a few loungers there._

_A Barmaid_ (_tartly_). There's no entrance to the music-hall this way. You've come to the wrong place.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_with equal acidity_). Ah, young woman, you need not tell me _that_! (_She goes out with a withering glance, and hears stifled sniggers as the doors swing after her._) A drinking-bar on the very threshold to trap the unwary--disgraceful! (_She tries the next door, and finds a stalwart official, in a fancy uniform._) Will you have the goodness to conduct me to Box C, instantly?

_The Official._ Next door, please, Ma'am. This only admits to the Grand Lounge.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). The "Grand Lounge," indeed! (_She opens another door, and finds a Pay-box, where she addresses the check-taker through the pigeon-hole_.) I want to go to Box C. I've asked for it at I don't know how many places, and----

_Checktaker_ (_politely_). I'm really afraid you'll have to ask again, Ma'am. This is the Promenade. Box-office _next_ entrance.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself, indignantly_). I only hope they make it as difficult for other people to get in as they do for me! So Pa comes here to lounge and promenade, does he? Oh, let me only catch him, I'll send him promenading! (_She goes to the Box-office._) I want Box C, wherever that is.

_Book-Keeper._ Can give you Box D, if you like. Box C is reserved for this evening.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_sharply_). I am quite aware of that. For Mr. THEOPHILUS TOOVEY. I have come to join him here.

_Book-K._ (_referring to book_). It is entered in that name, certainly; but--hem--may I ask if you belong to Mr. TOOVEY'S party?

_Mrs. Toov._ (_crushingly_). No doubt you consider that his wife has no claim to---- Most certainly I belong to his party.

_Book-K._ That is quite sufficient, Madam. (_To_ Attendant.) Show this lady to Box C. (_To himself, as_ Mrs. T. _follows the_ Attendant _up some velvet-covered stairs_.) Well, it's no business of mine; but if Mr. TOOVEY, whoever _he_ is, isn't careful what he's about, he may be sorry for it--that's all!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). They never even asked for my ticket. Pa's evidently well known here! (_To_ Attendant.) A programme? with pictures of dancing girls all over it! You ought to be ashamed to offer such things to a respectable woman!

_Att._ (_surprised_). I've never heard them objected to before, Ma'am. Can I bring you any refreshments? (_Persuasively._) Bottle-ale or stout? Lemonade and brandy? Whisky and soda?

_Mrs. Toov._ Don't imagine you can tempt _me_, man. I've been a total abstainer ever since I was five!

_Att._ (_opening box-door_). Indeed, Ma'am. I suppose now you 'aven't mistook this for Exeter 'All?--because it _ain't_!

_Mrs. Toov._ I am in no danger of making _that_ mistake! (_She enters the box._) I am here before Pa after all. What a gaudy, wicked, glaring place to be sure! Ugh, this _filthy_ tobacco; it chokes me, and I can scarcely see across the hall. Not that I _want_ to see. Well, if I sit in the corner behind the curtain I shan't be seen myself. To think that I--_I_--should be here at all, but the responsibility is on Pa's head, not mine! What are those two girls singing about on the stage? They are dressed _decently_ enough, I'll say _that_ for them, though pinafores and baby bonnets at _their_ age are ridiculous.

[_She listens._

_The Sisters Sarcenet_ (_on stage_). You men are deceivers and awfully sly. Oh, you _are_!

_Male portion of audience_ (_as is expected from them_). No we _aren't!_

_The Sisters S._ (_archly_). Now you _know_ you are! You come home with the milk; should your poor wife ask why, "Pressing business, my pet!" you serenely reply. When you've really been out on the "Tiddle-y-hi!" Yes, you _have_!

_Male audience_ (_as before_). No, we've _not_! _The Sister S._ (_with the air of accusing angels_). Why, you _know_ you have!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to herself_). It's to those young women's credit that they have the courage to come here and denounce the men to their faces--like this. And it's gone _home_ to them, too! they're shouting out "Over!" (_Here the Sisters suddenly turn a couple of "cart-wheels" with surprising unanimity, amidst roars of applause._) Oh, the shameless minxes! I will _not_ sit and look on at such scandalous exhibitions. (_She moves to the corner nearest the stage, and turns her back upon the proceedings._) How much longer will Pa compel me to assist at such scenes, I wonder? _Why_ doesn't he come? Where is he now? (_Bitterly._) No doubt on what those vulgar wretches would call the "Tiddle-y-hi!" (_The_ Brothers BIMBO, _Eccentric Clowns, appear on the stage_.) I can't sit here in a corner looking at nothing. If I do see anything improper, THEOPHILUS shall answer for it. (_She changes her place again._) Acrobats--well, they're inoffensive at least. Oh, I do believe one of the nasty things is climbing up to the balcony; he's going to walk along here!

_First Brother Bimbo_ (_on stage, to his confrère, who is balancing himself on the broad ledge of the box tier_). Ohè--'old up, there. Prenny garde! Ah, il tombera! There, I _told_ yer so! (_The_ Second Brother B. _has reached the front of_ Mrs. TOOVEY'S _box, where he pretends to stumble_.) Oh, le pover garçong, look at 'im _now_! Come back, do! Ask the lady to ketch 'old of your trousers be'ind!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_to the_ Second Brother, _firmly_). Don't expect me to do anything of the sort. Go back, as your brother asks you to, you silly fellow. You shouldn't attempt such a foolhardy thing at all!

_Second Br. B._ (_to the_ First). Oh, my! There's _such_ a nice young lady in here; she's asking me to come in and set along with her! _May_ I?

[_He lets himself drop astride the ledge, and wags his head at_ Mrs. TOOVEY, _to her intense horror_.

_Mrs. Toov._ (_in an audible undertone_). If you don't take away that leg at once, I'll pinch it!

_Second Br. B._ Eh? Not _now_; my brother says I mustn't. "Come round afterwards?" Well, well, we'll see! (_He springs up on the ledge again, and kisses his hand to her._) Goo'bye, ducky! 'Ave no fears for _me_. Whoo-up!

[_He continues his tour of the balcony, amidst roars of laughter._

_Mrs. Toov._ (_falling back in the box, speechless with fury_). And _this_ is the treatment Pa exposes me to--all those unmanly wretches laughing at me! But I don't care; here I stay till Pa comes. _Oh_, this smoke; I shall be poisoned by it soon! Upon my word, there's a bold hussy coming on to sing, in a man's coat and black satin knee-breeches. I'll stop my ears; they shall see there's _one_ woman here who respects herself! (_She does so, during that and the subsequent performances; an hour passes._) How much longer am I to be compelled to remain here? This is terrible; three creatures in tight red suits, got up to look like devils! I wonder they've no fear of being struck dead on the stage! They're standing on each other's stomachs. I daren't look on at such blasphemy! I'll take off my spectacles; then, at least, my eyes won't be offended by seeing anything distinctly! (_She removes her glasses, and replaces them in their case, which she lays on the box-ledge._) They're gone, thank goodness. What's this? There's someone opening the box-door. Pa--at last! Well, I'm ready for him!

[_She stiffens in her chair._

_Attendant's Voice_ (_outside_). This is Box C, Miss. Can I bring you any refreshments? Bottle-ale, stout, lemonade, Miss?

_A Female Voice._ I--I don't know. There's a gentleman with me; he'll be here directly; he only stopped to speak to somebody. Ah, he's coming now.

_Mrs. Toov._ "Miss"?! This is Pa's party, then. _Oh!!_

[_A quietly dressed, and decidedly good-looking girl enters, and starts on seeing that the box is already occupied._

_Mrs. Toov._ (_rising in towering wrath_). You were not expecting to find _me_ here, Miss, I've no doubt?

_The Girl_ (_sitting down_). No; PHIL didn't say there would be anyone else; but any friend of his I'm sure----

_Mrs. Toov._ PHIL? you dare to call him "PHIL!" Do you know who I am, you insolent girl, you? I am his Wife!

_The Girl._ His wife? I don't believe it. Are you sure you don't mean his mother. My _Phil_ married to _you_, indeed--a pretty story!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_trembling with rage_). Go out of this box instantly, or I'll make you!

_The Girl._ I shall do nothing of the kind. Wait till my friend comes, and we'll soon----(_As the door opens._) PHIL, PHIL, here's an abusive old female here who pretends she is your wife, and wants to order me out. I believe she must either be intoxicated or out of her senses!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_pouncing upon the newcomer and boxing his ears soundly_). Is she? it is you who are out of _your_ senses, Pa! Take that--and _that_--and now come home with me, do you hear?

_The Newcomer_ (_with his hand to his cheek_). "Pa," am I? I thought I was your _husband_ just now! Well, I must have married before I was born, either way. And now, perhaps, you'll explain what all this means?

_Mrs. Toov._ (_faintly_). Oh, my goodness! I've made a dreadful mistake; it _isn't_ Pa! Let me go--let me go!

_The Newc._ (_putting his back against the door_). Not yet, Ma'am; not yet. You don't go like this; after insulting this young lady, to whom I've the honour of being engaged, and telling her you're my wife, and then smacking my face in her presence. I've my dignity to consider, and I want satisfaction out of you. Come, we won't have a row here, for the sake of this young lady; just step out into lobby here, and I'll give you in charge for assault. Stay where you are, MILLY, my dear. Now, Ma'am, will you go, or shall I send for a constable? (Mrs. T. _totters out, protesting incoherently, and begging to be released_.) Well, I don't want to spoil my evening's pleasure on your account. You give me your name and address, and I'll simply summon you for assault; which is more than you deserve. If you won't, I'll charge you!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_reluctantly_). Oh, indeed it was an acc----I will _not_ give you my name. Yes, yes, I will; anything to get out of this horrible place. (_The young man produces a pencil, and pulls down his left shirt cuff._) Mrs.--TOO--no, I don't mean TOO--TOMKINSON JONES--The--the Laburnums--U--upper Tooting. There, _now_ are you satisfied?

_The Young Man_ (_recording it_). Thank you, that's all _I_ require. You'll hear from me later on. Good evening!

_Mrs. Toov._ (_as she crawls down the staircase_). I have only just saved myself by a--a _fib_! And I haven't even found Pa out. But I _will_. I'll go straight home and sit up for him!

END OF SCENE XI.

* * * * *

* * * * *

FRAGMENTS FROM A FRANCO-RUSSIAN PHRASE-BOOK.

(_Picked up at Toulon after the recent Fêtes._)

AT THE BANQUET.

I am glad to be next to a Russian. Believe me, France has always been the best friend of Russia.... No, _that_ was not France--it was the Corsican. Altogether a different thing.... _Were_ we at the Crimea? It is possible--through the perfidy of those English.... Try some of this old sherry. Your shark-fin soup is delicious.... As I was saying, we are a Republic now, and adore Liberty.... Siberia must be a charming place, and the climate ravishing. You have never been there? A pleasure to come!... Take a _carafe_ of champagne--there is plenty more. We are a democratic nation, and the hearts of our populace go out to an autocrat. I know well that all autocrats are not nice--but _yours!!_ _Do_ have some more champagne.... These are _Cailles Schuvaroff_. They are Russian--so they _must_ be good!... Do you know that my wife and I kissed the hands of (_ten--fifteen--fifty--two hundred_) Russian sailors through the portholes of your flagship this afternoon?... Not at all--we quite enjoyed it.... There is a proposal to present your Admiral with a model of the Tour Eiffel in brilliants. I remember it was exhibited in Paris at a franc for admission--but few people went. I wish he may get it. I subscribed ten (_Napoleons--francs--centimes_) towards the fund for presenting commemorative brooches to the wives, daughters, and sweethearts of your seamen. I hope they will all arrive quite safely.... Have you received a silver cup with a suitable inscription? Only a yellow champagne-glass with a motto! That is mean, miserable, shabby! I will speak to a waiter about it.... Why do you not drink? Fill your glass. I am filling mine.... Have you heard that our warm-hearted nation has forwarded to the Russian Fleet one hundred cases of the best blacking? The Triple Alliance is trembling in its shoes.... You drink nothing! All the same, it seems to me your Tsar might have sent _more_ ships while he was about it. Yes, I repeat; more--and bigger ones. It would have been more polished. But you Russians are _not_ polished; you are cold, brutal, phlegmatic. You remind me of an Englishman I once saw on the stage of the Variétés. But he had red whiskers, and said, "Aoh, yes!" You drink too much. The Russians are all intemperate--it is the climate. So long as you help us to our revenge, we do not care _what_ you are. I speak quite frankly. This is a great day for France. As a Frenchman, I shall never see caviar again without a thrill of heartfelt emotion. But your shark-fin soup was disgusting--beastly. It is that which is making me so ill.... _Au revoir_, dear friend. I am going under the table for a little while--to think.

* * * * *

Mrs. R. wants to know what was the classic story about Ajax and Telephone? "So," says she, "as _that_ was hundreds of years ago, it isn't such a _very_ new invention."

* * * * *

* * * * *

LITTLE MASTER MINORITY.

_A Dialogue in Dialect, some way after Bret Harte's "Jim."_

[Referring, in the course of conversation, to the deadlock in the Senate, Mr. CHAMBERLAIN said:--"My opinion is that the Americans are the most patient people on the globe. Such an outcome from an organised system of obstruction would be impossible in England, which I venture to say, with my foot on New York soil, is far more democratic than America. Democracy, as I take it, means the government of the people by the people."--_The "Times'" New York Correspondent, Oct. 13._]

"C[oe]lum, non (?) animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt."

_Jonathan to Joseph, loquitur:_--

Say thar! P'r'aps You're of them chaps _Approve_ this child, Who makes _me_ wild!-- _No?_--no offence: Thar ain't much sense In gittin' riled!

JOE, old chum, Welcome ye are! Say! Ye've jest come Up from down thar. Lookin' round, JOE? That's right, Sir! _You_ Ain't of that crew Makes freedom rar'.

_Tory?_ Not much, That ain't _my_ kind: I ain't no such,-- Democrat--blind! Rayther like _you_!

Well, this yer boy (With his derned toy), Is a fair limb.-- Not much--in size! Stirs _your_ surprise?-- Wal, that _is_ strange: _Your_ nipper, now, Riz up some row, Down under thar, Ony this year!

Since you came here. You've felt a change! Wal, he licks _us_! Eh? _Spank him_, you say! _Spank?_-- _This_ little cuss?

You make me star,-- Down under, thar, Minorities stop Truck--in your shop, And _you_ don't rar'! Here, wide awake To our mistake. _Our_ boy you bar!

_Spank!_-- This--little--cuss? Wal, he does fuss, Raises a muss. His "Silver" whim, His spoutin' prank-- (Leather-lung'd limb!) Does crab the swim. _Should_ like to yank Him crost my knees, And--but thar! spank _Him?_

_Patient_, Sir--I? No democrat? Here, Sir, stand by! I can't stand _that_! _You_ wouldn't stand _Him_--in your land? Eh? What's that you say? Why, dern it!--sho!-- Draw it mild, JOE!

Bold? Obstruction? Yes! Still, as I guess-- Though I'll confess _You_'re an authority-- 'Tain't no new thing (_You_'ve had your fling!), But ornery, Derned old, Loud-lunged--Minority! Little--Master--Minority!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

_Barabbas_ is a romance by MARIE CORELLI, founded upon the narrative given by the Four Evangelists. It is in three volumes, and _Barabbas_ is the principal character. Oratorios have been composed musically illustrating the sacred story, mystery plays there have been showing it forth in action, but never yet have we been taken, as it were, behind the scenes, introduced to JUDAS ISCARIOT'S sister, and been informed as to the motives of human action underlying "the World's Tragedy." Whether "the stock of _Barabbas_" hath been sold out or not, the Baron cannot imagine that this novel form of treating Holy Writ will ever be popular with any section of our ordinary reading public. MARIE CORELLI is a writer as picturesque as prolific, but she has wasted her time and talents on this romance. There used to be a perversion of the text, which took this form, "Now BARABBAS was--a publisher" (was it SYDNEY SMITH'S jest?); but if that applies nowadays, the publisher who depended solely upon this particular work for his success would, probably, far nearer resemble ZACCHEUS than BARABBAS, inasmuch as he might find himself "up a tree."

_Catriona_ is written by R. L. STEVENSON, and published in one volume by CASSELL & CO. "Aweel, aweel, mon!" quoth the Baron, after several praiseworthy attempts at mastering the Scotch dialect in which the story is told; "aweel, aweel! I am swier to leave ye, _Catriona_! But it maun be as it will; I'm nane sae muckle learned in your Scotch tongue; sae I'll e'en put doun the book, or I'll be wearyful, deil hae 't!" No: Scotch the Baron cannot manage--except taken as whiskey. But he will tell those who love the language that MCSTEVENSON'S _Catriona_ they will enjoy to their heart's content. All the same it remains a mystery to the Baron de B. W.

* * * * *

IN HIGH FEATHER.--It would not be fair even, for Mr. HUDSON, to define all ladies wearing feathers as "a Feather-headed Lot."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

TO A LOST FRIEND.

(_By a Briefless Barrister._)

No more! alas! completely gone, No shadow of a trace is left, And I have still to linger on, Of your companionship bereft, And fight the battle to the end, As best I may with one less friend.

It seems a cruel stroke of Fate. How eagerly I watched you grow! How much I loved you; how elate When other people came to know On what I always had insisted-- That you in point of fact existed.

I played with you, who every day Grew more responsive to my touch. I stroked you in the gentlest way, With sweet caresses. Ah! how much We seemed, as though a child and mother, To be bound up in one another.

You _did_ appear to like me then, No mere lip-service seemingly Was that you rendered to me when You never contradicted me, But hung upon my words, though true It also was they hung on you.

And then one day you disappeared, Cut off in life's most sunny prime. I missed you sadly as I feared And thought I should do at the time. Though now your image comes and plain Grows on me sometimes once again.

Oh! my moustache! I did the deed, I own it frankly, I alone. I felt it (for it made me bleed), Yet still you always must have known, Though you were of proportions regal, You hardly helped me to look legal.

* * * * *

A TRIUMPH IN COOKERY.--When the Cook makes a hash of the marrow-bones.

* * * * *

"HE IS A MANN, TAKE HIM FOR ALL IN ALL, WE NEVER WANT TO LOOK UPON HIS LIKE AGAIN." (_Shakspeare adapted_).--It is said he is going to join the Ministry--not the Cabinet--but that of the Established Church. But how will so independent a spirit ever submit to "take orders" from an Archbishop? This is to reduce himself from a MANN to a Mannikin. Not likely.

* * * * *

UP TO DATE TRANSLATION.--"_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a sur le tapis?_" asked the Frenchman. "You mean 'what's on the tape?'" returned the Englishman.

* * * * *

THE IDEAL DRAMA.

Oh think what a change would soon be wrought In sins society now condones, Were virtue and honesty properly taught By Comedy's smiles and Tragedy's groans! The peer, the scholar, the fool, the fop, Could learn deportment, high-class, tip-top, From a _Dancing Girl_ in a _Bauble Shop_-- At least so thinks Mr. H. A. JONES.

We shall call it "the work," and not "the play," When due solemnity prompts the tones Of serious actors, more grave than gay; They may be bores, but they won't be drones. So learn, should you wish to have a spree, What your Criterion ought to be, Or the _Tempter_ will put you up a Tree. Hear eloquent Mr. H. A. JONES!

Amusement? What! Do you dare to think That those respectable classic crones, Melpomene, Thalia, they should sink To make you laugh, like a nigger Bones? If you should expect to be amused, Your money would simply be refused, And you would be turned away, abused By furious Mr. H. A. JONES.

* * * * *

* * * * *

REPARTEES FOR THE RAILWAY.

"Smoking not allowed." Of course, but I am going to enjoy my cigar in silence.

"Want the window closed." Very sorry, but I can't find a cathedral.

"Find my journal a nuisance." Dear me! was under the impression it was a newspaper.

"Allow you to pass." Afraid only the Secretary can manage that for you; he alone has power to issue free tickets.

"Do I mind the draught?" Not when I am attending to the chessman.

"Do I know the station?" Of the people on the platform? Probably lower middle class.

"Is this right for Windsor?" Yes, if it's not left for somewhere else.

"Are we allowed five minutes for lunch?" Think not; but you can have sandwiches at the counter.

"Isn't this first-class?" Quite excellent--first-rate--couldn't be better!

"I want to go second." Then you had better follow me.

"I am third." Indeed! And who were first and second?

"I think this must be London." Very likely; if it is, it mustn't be anywhere else.

* * * * *

A CRY TO WHYMPER.--Last Wednesday Mr. EDWARD WHYMPER lectured at the Birkbeck. His subject was "_Twenty thousand feet above the Sea._" "That's ten thousand pairs of boots!" writes our shoemaker. "Wish I'd had the order! Well, well, soled again!"

* * * * *

A WALK IN DEVON.