Part 2

That a child prodigy should have been able twice last week to fill St. James's Hall to overflowing, may not perhaps speak at the first glance very highly for the artistic instincts of the British Public, who, as a thoughtful musical critic remarks in the pages of a contemporary, are sometimes "more impressed by a little boy in an Eton jacket than by the finest music that might be played in less exciting circumstances;" still it cannot be denied that the couple of recitals referred to, given by Master JOSEF HOFMANN, were altogether two exceptionally brilliant performances. Commenting, however, on the little fellow's efforts to give a good rendering of a slow movement, the critic already alluded to asks how, in a long-drawn melody which is a matter of passion and of feeling, "a child of eleven can have much feeling or any passion?" Surely this is hypercriticism. Ask any boy of eleven who has had a whipping, or has come off second best in a fight with his little sister, whether he hasn't much feeling;--and as for passion! Well: but, perhaps this is not exactly what the critic means. Nevertheless, he proceeds rather pertinently to ask whether this singularly gifted young artist will be suffered, "when he has served the immediate purposes of those who have control over him, to continue his studies in a rational manner and far from the fierce light and the hot-house temperature pertaining to the concert platform?" As Master JOSEF HOFMANN is already booked for an American tour, there does not seem any prospect of this highly desirable consummation, at least in the near future. Judging, therefore, from little Master JOSEF'S present arrangements, one would be disposed to apostrophise him sympathetically in the language of Dr. WATTS, and say:--

"Night after night, you'll prove a sight To draw the cute Yankee, Because your little hands were made To stretch from C to C!"

Still, as he is an unquestionable genius who has a future before him, it is to be hoped that he won't be "worked out" early at high pressure, and stimulated by a success that will only blunt his powers by depriving him of that desire for true progress in his art by which alone they can be legitimately developed. "Not too much gaslight, some practice, and plenty of battledore and shuttlecock," is the proper _recipe_ for little Master JOSEF. With this he can't go wrong, and will, without doubt, if he stick to it, command the musical world of the future as surely as he has astonished that of to-day.

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"NO MORE SEA-SICKNESS!" NO MORE "BAD QUARTERS-OF-AN-HOUR" IN CROSSING THE CHANNEL! Try Mons. M. L. MAYER'S Remedy, to be provided on October 24 up to the middle of November, and probably longer, if all goes well, at the Remedy Theatre--no--at the Royalty Theatre, where he intends giving a season of French plays, and brings M. COQUELIN, Mmes. CHAUMONT and JANE MAY,--not all at once but one at a time,--over to afford amusement to those Londoners who can't afford amusement in Paris, or who object to the sea-passage, or who cannot spare sufficient time for the trip. M. COQUELIN has with him a fair-sized bag of tricks which includes, among other things, _Don Caesar de Bazan_, and he means to devote three-fourths of one evening's entertainment to monologues, among which, Mr. BEERBOHM TREE will be delighted to hear, is announced _Gringoire_. M. MAYER, will of course, see that his stars are well supported, and the public, delighted to save the sea-voyage, will support M. MAYER.

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SHOWS VIEWS.

_By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere._

THE suggestion made a month ago by a "Salubrity Abroad," (now happily a "Salubrity at home") that the above title would make a good heading for an all-round-about theatrical and entertainment article in _Mr. Punch's_ pages, is at length carried out. In the character of a hero conquering difficulties, I have been here, there, and everywhere. My first triumph was at the Gaiety Theatre, where (after surmounting all obstruction) I secured a place from whence _Miss Esmeralda_ could be watched in comfort. This piece is called a "melodramatic burlesque," in two Acts, but I confess I failed to distinguish either the melodrama or the burlesque. It was, however, well mounted with good scenery and pretty dresses. It had further the advantage of an excellent stage-manager in Mr. CHARLES HARRIS, and a no less excellent dance inventor in Mr. JOHN D'AUBAN, but of the book the less that is said the better. Frankly, it is not amusing. This being the case I was not surprised to find the names of its authors printed in the programme in a type just half the size accorded to the style and title of "the producer." The acting calls for no particular comment. Mr. LONNEN sings an Irish song excellently well, but is less diverting when he trusts to attitudinising as a provocative to merriment. Miss MARION HOOD'S charming face is sweeter than her voice, and Miss FANNIE LESLIE'S singing is as welcome now as ever it was--it recalls many a vocal triumph of the past. Mr. GEORGE STONE as _Gringoire_ is more broadly comic than Mr. BEERBOHM TREE in a somewhat similar _role_ in the _Ballad Monger_. Both the Misses BLANCHE are all that could be desired in two subordinate characters. In the last Act there is a "Pyramid Ballet,"--which is slightly perplexing. Until my attention was pointedly called to the fact that I was watching a terpischorean demonstration of a game of billiards, I was under the impression that some of the intricacies of the plot of VICTOR HUGO'S _Notre Dame_ were being very cleverly explained to me in easily followed dumb show. Perhaps the best thing (barring the Irish song) in the whole piece is an ingenious dance of Warders and Prisoners in Scene I., Act 2. In alluding to the list of the company I should not have forgotten to say that the names of that admirable comedian Mr. H. LESLIE and that evergreen queen of burlesque, Miss E. FARREN, are conspicuous by their absence. In spite of this very serious drawback, no doubt Miss _Esmeralda_ will be as successful as it deserves to be. The scenery, dresses, and music, are alone worth a visit. And when I say this I leave out the acting, the singing and the dancing.

I also went to the Royal Aquarium the other afternoon, and witnessed the performances of a troupe of genuine Russian Wolves. If I _had_ to appear in public myself with a company of performing animals, I think I should prefer poodles, or white mice, though, as a spectacle, wolves are undoubtedly more thrilling. I don't know that these particular wolves did much; but the really striking fact, of course, was their condescension in doing anything, and it was certainly "pretty to see" them jumping a gate, and arranging themselves picturesquely on chairs, with just sufficient display of grinning jaws to make the audience congratulate themselves that the stage was fenced round by temporary iron railings. The creatures are evidently deeply attached to the Professor, who has so ably prepared them for public life. I was convinced of this by the effusion with which one after another advanced and kissed his forehead, on receiving a slight hint to that effect from a whip. But to be kissed--however tenderly--by a wolf, must be a creepy sensation. On the occasion when I was present we were afforded an additional, and I may say an unrehearsed, sensation after the act-drop fell. There was a scurry behind, a shout, and then--a great jagged rent in the curtain. People in the front row of stalls looked uncomfortable--it did seem very much as if one of the wolves had determined to "take a call" on his own account, but it was merely a little mishap with one of the railings. However, there was no real cause for alarm in any case, for an audience would have had ample time to escape while the wolf was amusing himself with the orchestra, which, fortunately, is a remarkably good one.

After the Wolves, by way of contrast, I paid a visit to La Belle FATMA. On delivery of a shilling, I, with other members of the Public, was passed in to a screened-off portion of the Imperial Theatre. A stout French gentleman seated himself at a piano below the stage, and the curtain rose presently, disclosing the fair FATMA and her troupe seated in a row, like a new variety of Christy Minstrels. With regard to the principal lady, I am bound to say that her charms did not seem to me to have been at all overestimated, and her portraits upon the posters actually do her less than justice. But this is a matter of opinion; and I must confess that, after all, it was not upon the peerless FATMA that my eyes were most riveted. There was a stout old lady in a turban, two places from her--_such_ an old lady! with immense black eyebrows, meeting over flashing dark eyes, and a massive Oriental nose, a wide sternly compressed mouth, and three chins. Upon her knees she held a gourd-shaped drum, which she smacked severely at intervals; she might have sat for CORNELIA polishing one of her "jewels"; and when she sang, the illusion was complete!

As to the performance, it was Oriental; and no description can convey much more. We had an Overture on the familiar "Rum-tum-tum, tum-a-tum-tum-tum, tum-a-tum" theme, which revealed considerable "staying power" on both sides of the footlights. Then one member of the _troupe_ after another advanced, and, if a lady, _chasse_'d and revolved with slowly waving arms, and an expression that seemed to imply that she would take more pains if it were only worth while; if a man, he capered and grinned and shouted in a manner which, at all events, infinitely amused the performer himself. While this was going on, the old lady continued to "spank"--there really is no better term for it--her drum in a sort of grim _reverie_, and a young person by her side emitted piercing shrieks by way of enlivening the proceedings. There was a mysterious One on the stage, who reminded me of an immense dice-box muffled in muslin; this, it turned out, was the COLOSSUS of SOUSSE, to whom was entrusted the function of "presenting" Mademoiselle FATMA at the close of the performance. This seemed superfluous, particularly as the excellent Colossus had no notion of doing more than taking her by the hand and stalking two paces forward. It was all over in a quarter of an hour or so; and, for my own part, I considered the old lady in the turban alone worth the paltry shilling charged for admission.

I have also been to TERRY'S Theatre, where great precautions are taken to prevent fire. Everything, more or less, is labelled "Exit," and, instead of doors, in several parts of the house there are curtains. On the whole it must be a good theatre to escape from. This is worth noting, if the performances are wearisome.

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BALLADE OF THE TIMID BARD.

(_To Angelica, who bids him publish._)

In Memory's mystical hazes I see a vast Gander and grey, I see the small boy that he chases At the head of a hissing array: How I wept when they brought me to bay, How I pleaded in vain for a truce! Too frightened to shoo them away, I could never say Boh to a Goose!

I have lived through a number of phases, I have rhymed of the grave and the gay, But the clatter of critical phrases, But the moralist armed for the fray, I have fled in unseemly dismay, Since the Gander--'tis all my excuse-- For, in brief, since that terrible day-- I could never say Boh to a Goose!

It was fabled of old that in places Grow goose-bearing trees by the way, Where bough within bough interlaces Green geese flutter down from the spray; In reviews, at first nights of the play, These shrubs are in general use, And I would not encounter them, nay, I could _never_ say Boh to a Goose!

_Envoy._

ANGELICA! bid me essay The deeds of a WALLACE or BRUCE, But talk not of _publishing_, pray-- I could never say Boh to a Goose!

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IRISH APPOINTMENT EXTRAORDINARY (_subject to the kind permission of Sir Bernard Burke, C.B., LL.D._).--The Right Hon. JOSEPH O'CHAMBERLAIN, M.P., to be Ulster-King-of-Arms.

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NOTE BY AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, AFTER THE GRANTING OF THE LICENCE TO THE EMPIRE THEATRE.--"_L'Empire c'est la_ pay 46 per cent.--like the Alhambra."

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THE MESSENGER OF PEACE.

(_With apologies to the Shade of the Author of "Al Aarof."_)

[I have read ... that I have come to Ulster to revive religious bigotry, to rekindle the embers of party strife, and to revive ancient feuds which are now in a fair way to be forgotten. I can assure you that these are not the objects which I propose to myself. (_Laughter._)--_Report of Mr. Chamberlain's Speech in Belfast._]

_Erin's Guardian Angel sings_:--

I came (by the steamer) A cross the wild spray. No bigot, no dreamer, To moon time away. BRIGHT lingers to ponder, And make tart replies; But I come, from yonder, Drawn down from the skies. With love I am laden, Peace sits on my brow. No, sweet Ulster maiden, My game is _not_ row! Arise! from your dreaming, In bright Orange bowers, To duties beseeming, Your fame and past powers. My presence expresses My fondness for you; (My game no one guesses, They read it askew) Oh, how without you, love, Can Ireland be blest? _You_'re loyal, _you_'re true, love, Mad traitors the rest. I shake from my wing Each hindering thing. The black Parnellite Would weigh down my flight. The G. O. M.'s messes, I leave them apart, His lures and his jesses, His tricks and his art.

W. G.! W. G.! Ah! My old artful one, You had an idea With you I should run. No! it is my will On the breezes to toss At caprice, or be still Like a lone albatross. Daring duckling? That's past! Stormy petrel? That's flown! I'm a halcyon at last, A new _role_,--and my own!

W. G. Ah! Whoever Thine "items" may be, For ever I sever My fortunes from thee. Thou hast bound many eyes In sophistical sleep, But the angel that flies Will _thy_ vigilance keep? O Walker! (Again A rhetorical flower From thy full-teeming brain!) I have passed a brief hour In those same cipherings Which you fudge--let that pass! But my own view of things Is not modell'd, alas! On _yours_--none of the clearest-- But then, that's your way-- 'Tis one of the queerest; _Do_ you find it pay? Ah! love moved the smiles That beamed forth on my rest On the greenest of Isles. Its _Scotch_ natives are best, For they have in their keeping Its wealth and its trade, And Sedition, unsleeping, Has spoilt, I'm afraid, The true Pat of the Island. _He_ burns to be free, His bosom holds guile, and His bonnet a bee. Go to! Let them slumber, The Home-Ruling lot Are not the huge number They tell us--that's rot! I came to awaken, An Angel of Peace! I'm bound to be taken For such ere I cease. PARNELL'S spell makes PAT slumber, Its witchery is test, And your Orange-host's number Must manage the rest!

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A PROTEST.

DEAR MR. PUNCH,--Will you please ask the _Times_ not to allow such unpleasant subjects to be introduced into its columns as there was last Wednesday,--that is, judging by the heading on page 8, "The Birch and the Primitive Seat," which of course none of us fellows read (one line of it was enough for me), and if there is another of the sort, we shall vote that the _Times_ isn't taken in here in future, and I don't think the _Times_ would like that. A word from you will be sufficient, I am sure.

Your Constant Reader,

UPPER LOWER MIDDLETON.

_Eton College, Bucks, near Windsor, England._

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Mrs. RAM says she couldn't stop in an out-of-the-way country-place, give up society, and live like a Helmet in the desert.

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JOE'S JAUNT.

_Off to Ireland!_--At last. COLLINGS with me, of course:--rather grumpy, because SALISBURY'S got the credit of passing the Allotments Bill, instead of himself. Still, JESSE better than nobody. Would create bad impression to visit Belfast without an _entourage_.

_In Steamer._--Look up my Irish History--or rather, JESSE'S Irish History, which he's borrowed from Birmingham Free Library. An Alderman _can_ do that sort of thing. Also examine revolver. Not accustomed to carrying one. What is the best place for it? JESSE says, "left-hand coat-tail pocket, decidedly, because then you can whip it out in a twinkling." JESSE'S confidence contagious--he talks as if he had always been in the habit of "whipping-out" revolvers, like a cow-boy,--or a "three-acres-and-a-cow-boy." Do as he advises. Very uncomfortable feeling. Sit down on revolver in a moment of forgetfulness, and nearly blow Captain's head off. Captain irritated. Asks me for "ransom." Ridiculous!

_Belfast._--No end of a reception. Drive through the principal streets. Enthusiastic populace insist on taking horses out of carriage and pulling it themselves. Gratifying, but should feel safer with the horses. Why _will_ COLLINGS bow? I'm the person to bow, obviously. Bad taste, but don't like to stop him. Believe the mob _take_ him for me--or why do they cheer him so?

_At Hotel._--Just found out reason of enthusiasm evoked by appearance of JESSE. _He's got on an Orange tie!_ Ask him, reproachfully, why he did this? Pretends it was a mere accident--forgot that orange was favourite Ulster colour. Don't want a religious riot, so make him take it off. JESSE getting grumpier. Can't help it.

_Evening._--Before going to meeting, had better find out what Belfast chiefly famous for. Ask COLLINGS. Replies "linen-shirts and handkerchiefs." Try to put him in good humour by remarking that "_he_ seems shirty." Is there no other historical fact connected with place? "Yes," he replies, "visit of Lord RANDOLPH CHURCHILL." Wish he hadn't mentioned latter event. Dispiriting. Reminds one of proposed National Party, with self and RANDOLPH as sole leaders--and sole followers, too, it seems.

_At Hotel--after Speech._--Great success. Felt horribly inclined to start another Home Rule plan--my fifth--but fortunately refrained. Instead of dismemberment of Empire, I offered more Members to Ulster. Ulster people saw the justice of this arrangement at once. Told 'em there were "two Irelands." Isn't one Ireland enough, however?

_Coleraine._--A triumphal arch, with "Welcome to English Peasant Emancipators" on it. Stupid to bracket COLLINGS with me in this way. Receive threatening letter. Reminds me of my revolver. JESSE examines it with the air of a professional gunsmith, critically. Appears quite hurt at its condition; says, "I've sat on it so often he doubts if it would go off now," and recommends my carrying a "bowie-knife" instead. Am surprised at JESSE'S acquaintance with deadly weapons. Ask him what historical event took place at Coleraine. Says he doesn't know and doesn't care. But what's he here for except to keep me posted up in local details? Hint to him that "I hope I may be able to offer him post of President of Local Government Board in my future Ministry." Replies (rudely, I think) that "he'll wait till I'm asked to form one." _Query_--doesn't air of Ulster exercise demoralising effect on English politicians? Is this the "Ulster Custom" one's heard so much about? RANDOLPH a case in point.

_Back again._--Coleraine speech excellent, though I say it, as shouldn't. Cheered to the echo. So was JESSE, hang him! Shan't take _him_ to Canada with me. Now for a study of the habits of deep-sea fish in the pages of a Natural Science Primer.

* * * * *

AN AUTUMN LAY.

(_By a Belated Oarsman._)

Come, little Maid, to the cracked piano, The semi-grand in the coffee-room; We'll take your harmonies all _cum grano_, For the strings vibrate like the crack of doom. Over the lawn the flat clouds loom, And when they lighten the rain falls faster; Like gossips who relish a friend's disaster The ducks quack loud in the rain-ruled gloom.

I've studied the cracks in the ceiling-plaster, And the statuettes with their stolid leer, And the landscape visions of some Young Master, Who viewed the world through a haze of beer. We've done as much with the hostel's cheer As sane men may _in corpore sano_; So come, little Maid, to the cracked piano. Play us "_The Battle of Prague_," my dear.

The silence clouds, like a potion shaken, As the limp strings jar to an ancient pain; Their light and sweetness no touch can waken, And only the dregs of a tone remain. The silk-sewn music with fray and stain Swoons on the keys at the urgent stages, And the little Maid, as she props the pages, Just murmurs, "Bother!" and starts again.

And the streaming window again engages The thoughts that stray from the field of Prague; And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages, And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague; And the flies that buzz like a lazy plague Round the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken; And the varnished pike in the mill-pool taken About the year that they fought at Prague.

But twilight falls, and its folds encumber The misty mounds of the patient trees, And sunset cheers with a touch of umber The puddles of steel-gray Gruyere cheese. And, interposing a little ease, Our frail thoughts dally with false surmises Of a morning as brilliant as mid July's is With bravest sunshine and sweetest breeze.

A soothing silence the soul surprises, For the little Maid, like a hero true, Has fought her fight through its poignant crises, And shown what practice can dare and do. And, tearing the moonlight in handfuls through, A giant arm in the cloudland sombre Scatters the light on a world of slumber, Through snowy craters, from gulfs of blue.

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BOGEY IN BOND STREET.

(_A Legend of the Grosvenor Gallery._)

The Spirit of Art glided through the streets of Modern London, seeking a resting-place. She entered the Diploma Gallery of the Royal Academy, but hurried away, affrighted at some of the terrible examples of the illustrious Forty.

"And these are the greatest English painters!" she murmured--"the countrymen of SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, and ADDISON, TENNYSON, MACAULAY, and DICKENS! How is it that Painting cannot keep pace with Literature?"

It sounded like a Conundrum, and the Spirit of Art was not good at Conundrums. So she gave it up. Then she passed into other Exhibitions--there were quite a dozen in the neighbourhood at the very least. But she was unsatisfied, and came away. She paused, and considered. The Spirit of Art had one great English friend (of Irish extraction), who was a Musician.

"ARTHUR is a clever fellow," said the Spirit of Art to herself--there was no one else to speak to--"and if he _does_ compose more comic Operas than Oratorios, it is, I suppose, because there is a greater demand for the former than the latter."