Part 2

Mrs. PAT CAMPBELL'S _Juliet_ takes the poison, but not the cake. Her _Juliet_ has over her the shadow of _Paula Tanqueray_. From the commencement, except in the Balcony scene, she is a _Juliet_ "with a past." The balcony and the moonlight suit this _Juliet_. Good, too, is she when, abjectly miserable, she crumples herself up all in a heap, like the victim in a picture of Japanese torture, so that at any moment, without surprising the spectator, she might turn heels over head and straighten herself out at the feet of the irascible old _Capulet_. Once again let me adapt a verse of the ancient ditty:--

"Oh Papa, oh Papa, I've not made up my mind, And to marry just yet I do _not_ feel inclined." (_Aside._) To _Laurence_ the Friar I'll tell all my grief, And the reverend gent may afford me relief By singing (_as a duett_) tooral li tooral, &c.

Judging from the _Tanqueray_ model, Mrs. PAT CAMPBELL _ought_ to have been at her best in the potion scene; but, she wasn't. As for the final stabbing, she might as well have tickled herself with a straw and died o' laughing.

Watching FORBES-ROBERTSON as _Romeo_, I could not help thinking what an excellent _Hamlet_ he would make; perhaps when I see him in that character, I shall remember how good he was as _Romeo_:--

"_Hamlet Romeo amem, rentosus Romeo Hamlet._"

But that's another story; so suffice it that temporarily FORBES-ROBERTSON is "Our Only _Romeo_."

The Rev. NUTCOMBE GOULD, as _Friar Laurence_, gives quite a new reading of the part. His _Friar_ has ever a merry little twinkle in his eye, as if quietly enjoying some intensely humourous idea. From this point of view, Mr. NUTCOMBE GOULD'S _Friar_, being a sort of Rev. THEODORE HOOK, ever ready with a practical joke and an impromptu, is admirable and--inimitable.

_Mercutio's_ part is "full of plums"; but these, in Mr. COGHLAN'S mouth, seemed rather to mar the distinctness of his utterance, as plums in a mouth have a way of doing. The _Apothecary_, by Brother ROBERTSON, was not so poor as he looked: but in spite of tradition as to the wondrous excellence of this "bit of character," what is there to be done with it except in a three minutes acting illustration of an artistic "make up"? Were I offered the part I should bargain (after settling of course to receive a thousand a week) for a scene so arranged as to show the exterior and the interior of the shop. I would be "on" from the first, visibly sleeping under the counter. The interior should be fitted up with shelves just as _Romeo_ describes it. Then while _Romeo_ is talking, my _Apothecary_ would be examining his "till"; he would turn it upside down to show there was no cash; he would then in pantomime explain how famished he feels, and would search, even in an old mouse-trap, for a bit of cheese. At last, there being no dinner and no hope of food, he, after a pantomimic exhibition of frenzied despair, would be in the act of drinking from a large bottle, labelled "_Poison,--for external application only_," when he hears _Romeo_ calling him. Then he starts: while there is life there is hope! he answers the summons! And so forth. Then imagine the _Apothecary with the money_ after _Romeo's_ departure!! As the scene is closing the _Apothecary_ should be seen bucking himself up, and preparing to go out to make a night of it at the nearest restaurant. Should Mr. FORBES-ROBERTSON be making any alterations he is welcome to these suggestions.

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"THE CRAWL TO THE SOUTH."

SIR,--In "the dead season," when despairing editors, or their representatives, pant for something especially attractive, the maxim acted upon by those whom Providence has afflicted with the "_cacoethes scribendi_" appears to be, "_When in doubt, abuse the London, Chatham, and Dover_." As a much-travelled Ulysses, experienced in "lines cast in pleasant" and unpleasant "places," and as a sympathising fellow-traveller with "A Season Ticket Holder,"--(a descriptive signature rather suggestive of a "kettle-holder" that keeps your fingers from being burnt,)--I, the Ulysses aforesaid, emphatically endorse all that "S. T. H.," in the _Times_ of last Thursday, has written. Having "crawled" North, South, East, and West, I can venture to affirm that the L. C. & D.'s "Granville Express" is, as far as my experience goes, which is co-extensive with the whole length of the line, up and down, about the most punctual of time-keeping trains with which this Ulysses happens to be acquainted. When "S. T. H." attests that "_for courtesy and attention to the oft-times exacting demands of passengers the company's staff will compare not unfavourably with those of the Northern railways_," I beg "to say ditto"; with the proviso, that, personally, I am, in a general way, of Mrs. MALAPROP'S opinion, that "caparisons are odorous." Sir, addressing you, _Mr. Punch_, as Universal Chairman of All Railways, if I wanted to pick out a fine specimen of Railway Troops, I would go to the London, Chat-with-'em and Dover for both "Guards" and "Line." Yours, AN INCONSTANT TRAVELLER.

P.S.--By the way, if names are for anything in the matter (and I object to "calling names," though this _must_ be done at every station on the line), then isn't the Brighton and S. C. the "Crawley" Line? I only ask.

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EDUCATION NOT PRICE-LESS.--The _Methodist Times_ recently announced that Mr. PRICE-HUGHES is about to publish an explanation of his suggestions as to an "educational concordat." So the present form of the educational question is, "'What Price' HUGHES?"

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OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

The Baron has dipped into a refreshingly light and airy volume called _The Impressions of Aureole_, published by CHATTO AND WINDUS. Just the volume for the tourist resting awhile from his London-seasonable labours. _Aureole_ does a little bit of everything and enjoys it all. She has the faculty of appreciation for scenes in town and country, at home and abroad. She "sails away in a galliant ship" like _Roy Neil's_ bride into Icebergian regions, where "_we pray under our breaths for illuminating sunshine and the ice bink is given us in half-miraculous substitution_." "Half-miraculous" is good. Half a miracle better than no miracle at all.

Then on another occasion writes _Aureole_:--

"We find our way into a gleamy wood, and I gather some crimson berries, oozing from a cool green bank like drops of blood, while unfamiliar blossoms flourish in gay clusters at my feet."

"Personally," says the Baron, speaking for himself, "should not like to gather 'drops of blood.'" Glad that the blossoms were so well behaved as not to be familiar.

How delightful to be on board with our enthusiastic _Aureole_, and, if she will only trust one with it, enjoy for a few moments the loan of her "_ivory lorgnette_" with "_diamond initials_" which "_seem to gleam responsively when_," says _Aureole_, "_I sweep the horizon with ecstacy_."

_Aureole_, the gadabout and globetrotter, is delightful everywhere. The one touch of domestic nature does come in now and again, and her "dear BILL," her "handsome BILL," her rackety, good-half BILL, on being reminded by _Aureole_ that they have to dine at the Savoy 7.30, exclaims "Confound these blessed bothering _cafés_. This is five nights running. Can't we chuck the thing?" Then _Aureole_ asks him "What on earth do you want?" "'Want!' why a mutton chop, and a wife, and a whisky-and-soda," says BILL, brutally. And then they go to the "palace of luxury" and "dine with seven other spirits more weary than ourselves." So they might all dirge in chorus the old duet of "_Again we come to thee, Savoy!_"

The Masked Ball story is very well told--quite a little comedy; and of course all the gay resorts at home and abroad are visited by the lively _Aureole_. 'Tis a sketch of "How we live now," and must please a number of people who are "in the movement," and a great many more who are out of it, but who like to be up in what is going on, and to imagine that they also could be of the gay world if only they chose. Fill me a bumper of cold (not iced) champagne, which, to _Aureole_, quaffs

The appreciative BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

P.S. To those among his reading-friends who appreciate the clever and amusing work of "GYP," the Baron strongly recommends _Le Coeur d'Ariane_. No necessity to send to "Rue Auber" for it: _allez le chercher chez_ M. ROQUES, 64, New Bond Street, and see that you get it. The Baron wishes you _may_ get it, as you are certain to enjoy the book immensely. Be prepared to be thoroughly _enjôlé_ by the artless _Ariane_.

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ROEHAMPTON GATE AND THE L. C. C.

The public, represented by the First Commissioner of Works in the Liberal Government, testified towards "Priory Lane" (if we remember aright, a provokingly private road, leading, as a short cut, from Wandsworth Common up to "Roehampton Gate," which is a closed entrance to Richmond Park) what _Sam Weller_ might have correctly described as a "Priory attachment"; but though its opening to the public would have been granted freely by its owner, on condition that the London County Council and Wandsworth authorities should make, repair, and keep in order the road, the London County Council refused to take any part in the matter, and so Priory Lane, "with bars at each end," remains a "spot barred" to the Richmond Park-loving Londoner. The cost of making this mile and a quarter is over-estimated at £2000. But as there are, as the _Daily Chronicle_ describes it, "_bars at each end_," surely these "bars," if properly licensed, would bring in a splendid revenue from thirsty pedestrians, equestrians, and wheelers of all sorts and conditions.

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THE LAST OF MOWGLI.

["The Man-pack do not love jungle-tales."--_Rudyard Kipling in the P. M. G. of Sept. 26._]

SACRED To the Memory of MOWGLI, Alias Little Frog, Manling, Nathoo, and Master of the Jungle, Who, After lingering on in columns of print, Came to a Doubtful End In a series of Asterisks in an Evening Paper, And in the Paws of BALOO. He was Of Uncertain Parentage, Of Unprincipled Character, Of Carnivorous and generally Unpleasant Habits, And, Though he had one or two Good Points, On the whole may be described As A THOROUGH-PACED YOUNG RASCAL. He had (In common with the rest of the Jungle-People) A curious and somewhat incomprehensible style of expressing HIMSELF In Metaphors and Master-words, Which After a bit Rather got on one's Nerves, unless, of course, You like that sort of thing. He was, however, Considered by some to be Good Copy, And, as such, His Temporary Extinction Is mourned by his Sorrowing Editors and Publishers. He will probably reappear At a later date In three-and-sixpenny book-form, Where we wish HIM All possible success and a few elucidatory FOOTNOTES.

And now, In the words of THE PANTHER BAGHEERA, Is the Time of New Talk.

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DARING PROPHECY.--When it happens, it will be remembered how _Mr. P.'s_ own prophet said of the retirement of President FAURE, that it was "a Faure-gone conclusion." _Verb. sap._

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NOTE.--That Russia was to be allowed to occupy Port Arthur seems to have been a Port-"Arthurian legend."

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SUMMER OUT OF SEASON.

["There is a theory.... according to which Texas owes its torrid climate to the fact that it is separated only by a sheet of brown paper from a reservoir of heat not of solar origin. During the last few days it must have occurred to many to suspect that the partition between ourselves and that great store of caloric must by some untoward accident have been reduced to something of Texan tenuity."--_The Times._]

The summer had gone, from city and park, But--in mid-September--_came back_ for a lark! And banged the thermometer up again. It made Mr. BULL mop, and puff, and perspire; It filled Mrs. BULL with amazement and ire, And throttled her poor old pug pup again. For fires had been lighted and top-coats put on. When--something amazing occurred in the sun, And "heat-waves" went wildly cavorting About our old planet in fashion quite frantic. The Briton was floored by the wonderful antic. Played midmost his season of sporting. "Eh? Ninety degrees in the shade--in September? So monstrous a marvel I do not remember! Here, put away bag, gun, and cartridges! Bring in a cider-cup--iced. My dear boy, Sport, at midsummer heat, who _can_ really enjoy, By Jove! It will roast the young partridges!" "A hundred and nine! Nay, a hundred and ten! By Jove, it will melt off the point of my pen!!!" The editor howled in his snuggery. The dandy in shirt-sleeves sat down to his dinner. The City Police grew perceptibly thinner, The cab-driver sported a puggaree. It played up the mischief with pleasure and work, It played into the hands of athletes in New York, Who licked molten Britishers hollow. It set the 'bus drivers indulging in naps, It made evening papers use up all their "caps," And it hindered the flight of the swallow. It fogged all earth's creatures from mammoth to midge, It made the bees swarm under Blackfriars Bridge, And owls play strange freaks down at Chiswick; And when it got over a hundred and nine, It worked on some portly old buffers like wine, On some elderly fogies like physic. O summer's a guest we all part with in sorrow; But when she comes back the day after to-morrow, (Instead of in six months, or seven,) Before her late sorrowing mourners are ready, Society's course she is apt to unsteady, Till we wish her in Tophet--or heaven. But there is one thing our late summer has done: It has widened the realm of the Spirit of Fun! Ironical? Nay, not a particle! We'll pardon this "heat-wave" a lot of small crimes Because--_it has made our own serious "Times" Indulge in a humorous article!!!_

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THE AGE OF LOVE (_computed by the Daily Telegraph_).--The time of the Silly Season.

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THE _VERY_ LATEST "HITTITE" SEAL!

This most remarkable seal, while not, perhaps, affording a complete solution of the "Hittite" problem, presents many features of the greatest possible interest. In general form it is of the shape known to the scientific world as the _Kennington Oval_, and the fact, in reality, affords the key to the partial decipherment of the "Pictographs" on the two faces of the seal.

At the upper part of the first face, shown above, is a double-headed goddess, wearing a cap with horns, which would seem to indicate that the well-known "Horns" at Kennington was, in early times, a temple dedicated to the goddess who specially watched over the chances of some ancient pastime to which these incised figures manifestly refer. Beneath this goddess is a two-headed bird, hitherto supposed to be an eagle; but we consider that its identity with the bird known to connoisseurs as the "_Double-Duck_" is now fully established.

Beneath this, again, is a curious dwarf figure with straddling legs, which, as occurring elsewhere, has been described as _homunculus_. He is evidently engaged in practising the pastime above referred to. On the right is a curious triangular object, in which we can scarcely be wrong in seeing a primitive tent or pavilion, an adjunct of great importance to the players in times of hunger.

The other face bears a spirited "Pictograph" of more than ordinary realism, representing, we would suggest, the triumphal retirement of the _homunculus_ at the conclusion of his performance, and the animated figures above would seem to represent the rejoicing adherents of the retiring player. The objects above have sorely puzzled the student, but we think it may now be generally admitted that they depict the sun setting in splendour behind a reservoir of some gaseous compound such as may even now be seen at Kennington.

It is even suggested by some that the _homunculus_ may be actually a portrait of some diminutive but distinguished Surri player of primitive times.

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WELCOME HOME!

It is with great satisfaction that we read, in the columns of the _South Wales Daily News_, of a citizens' meeting in the Cardiff Town Hall, for the purpose of discussing and arranging plans the object of which is to give a suitable and cordial "Welcome-home Reception" to the noble owner of _Valkyrie III._, upon his return from the United States. That "gallant little Wales" should take the initiative in such a project is only natural, and JOHN BULL congratulates TAFFY, and sincerely hopes that his happily-proposed demonstration to the Glamorganshire peer will be carried out with all the success it deserves. Lord DUNRAVEN has done much for yachting, and his recent sportsman-like conduct under the trying circumstances he encountered in the "trans-pond-tine drama," _The America Cup_, fully merits recognition, not only from Wales, but also from the rest of the United Kingdom. Slightly parodying BYRON, we might address the following: lines to Miss COLUMBIA:--

Laugh while thou canst--_another_ race May make thee Cup-less, pretty Yankee! But let the ships have "elbow" space Or else we'll have to say, "No, thank'ee."

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GIL BLAS-É.--CHARLES LAMB declared the human species to be divided into two distinct races, _the men who borrow_ and _the men who lend_, of which he considered the former to be infinitely superior to the latter, and consequently designated them the "Great Race." Now, undoubtedly the great race in Paris at present is the female race, the race of lady bicyclists who, not content with borrowing men's hearts, have appropriated the masculine garment as well. The enterprising _Gil Blas_ newspaper recently "brought off" a novelty in the way of _Courses à bicyclettes_ for opera dancers, which took place with great _éclat_ in the Bois de Boulogne. The fair terpsichoreans, from "_prima ballerina assoluta_, who is famous from St. Petersburg to Utah," to the humblest _rat_, or ballet-girl, assembled in force, and, with "light fantastic toe" and "twinkling foot" pressing the treadles of their willing machines, keenly contested the various events, to the huge delight of a concourse of frivolous _boulevardiers_. After the morning's sport the _chic Bicycli-ennes_ were entertained at an elegant _déjeuner_, the _menu_ of which, compiled by an Anglo-Parisian _gourmet_, comprised among its appetising items a new dish, to wit, _oeufs Cocottes à "l' Wheel_."

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ROUNDABOUT READINGS.

Relieved for a space by my own decree from the mere labour of searching for topics in the newspaper press of the United Kingdom, I have been seeking recreation in the pursuit, how often unavailing, of the partridge. "Come down on Thursday next," wrote my friend, HARTEY, "for four or five days. We are going to shoot our outsides." This was sufficiently alarming, but it was obviously better than shooting our insides, and accordingly on the appointed day the county of Norfolk received me.

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Would that it were sufficient on these occasions merely to arouse the primitive sporting instinct of man, to revert to the fringe of barbarism and to sally out, scantily clothed, with sling or bow or snare, in quest of game. But alas, the curse of civilisation cannot be got rid of; one has to think of cartridges, cartridge-bags, caps, boots, gaiters, stockings, and heaven knows what besides. And in the end the odds are quite ten to one that you forget your cartridge-magazine, or that your beautiful new pair of patent hammerless ejector guns get left under the seat of the railway-carriage and become for a day or two the sport of station-masters and porters on the Great Eastern Railway.

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"Shooting the outsides" is a sport by itself. Your one desire is to keep the birds off the land of your neighbours; the one desire of the birds is to seek that land. Your best covey gets up and pops comfortably into a lovely root-field a couple of hundred yards away, but you cannot go after it, for the field belongs to another property, and the derisive birds can chirp and run at their ease, while you tramp on, shotless, under a broiling sun. However, the outsides have to be made good, and now and then a slice of luck rewards you. For instance, if a neighbouring vicar has given notice that after a certain date he means to shoot over his own glebe, your delight is all the keener when you all but annihilate a large covey of birds whose home is on the glebe.

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