BRUIN JUNIOP. "May this be my poison, if my Bear cver dances but to the very genteelest of tunes, Water-parted,' or The Minut in Ariadne." She Stoops to Conquer. 64 He'll dance to the very genteelest of tunes"! THE UP-TO-DATE CONVERSATIONIST. He (at the end of a turn). I see there's been a row in Chili-what do you think about it ? She. I don't know the place-isn't it somewhere in America ? He. I shouldn't be surprised if it were, but my geography's shaky. I rather fancy it's somehow connected with pickles. She. Oh, then it's a mistake their quarrelling, as I suppose it will be hard upon the poor, especially during the winter? He. Fancy that's the idea. Been to the Guelph Exhibition ? She. Yes, and I think it's a pity they took the jewels out of GEORGE THE FOURTH'S Crown. I should like to have seen the Koh-i-Noor. He. But they wanted them for the one at the Tower, don't you know, and as for the Koh-i-Noor, was that invented in his time? She. Perhaps it wasn't. Stay,_wasn't it discovered by Captain Cook, or DRAKE, or somebody? He. I daresay. I have never looked the matter up. A propos, One-pound Bank-notes are to be issued. She. Are they? I suppose they will be useful for change? He. Shouldn't be astonished, but don't pretend to know anything about it. By the way, do you take much interest in the subjects we have been discussing? She. Not the faintest. He. No more do I ! [Waltz continued. DEARNESS AND DEARTH. "Spanish onions are rising in price, though probably only temporarily."-Daily News. I. WILL it be long, then-long? For the people watch and wait, Till the strength of the onion makes them strong, At only the normal ra'e. And their eyes are dim with tears, And ache with the need of sleep, And watch till the lapse of the lapsing years Shall make the onions cheap. Cheap, my love, cheap! Sleep, my love, Onions are dar, love, but sentiment's cheap! sleep! II. Listen! Is it a voice Calling-again-again, Or a fragrance to make my heart rejoice Listen, my own, my bride, While the glad tears dew your cheek, They are fried, my bride, by the sad sea tide With a smell that can almost speak. Creep, my love, creep into the deep, And sing to the fishes that onions are cheap. THE PROPOSED ONE-POUND NOTES.-"NeGoschenable currency." At Hawarden lived a Grand Old | Man, A wondrous lengthy race he To see so strange and sad a sight | And swore the dog was rabid ran, Of whom the world might say, And won it all the way. Quidnuncs and gobemouches ran, quite To bite that Grand Old Man aptitude for turning up tails, which BEN no sooner perceived than he availed himself of a blessing that had, indeed, come to him in disguise! But the Bishop-what of him? Nemesis overtook him at last. The discontent long smouldering in his diocese broke out into a climax. Thousands of Curates, inflamed by professional agitators, went out on strike, and their first victim was the Bishop of TIMBERTOWS, who was discovered prostrate one dark night by his horrified Chaplain. He had been picketed as a Blackleg! THE END. Norway "very fine and large," as IBSEN might say. Surely Torvald (Copies of the above may be obtained for distribution, at very suitable for performance before an English audience, could scarcely reasonable terms, on application to the Author.) PLAYTIME FOR A DOLL'S HOUSE. DEAR MR. PUNCH,-According to a well-known Critic, writing of a morning performance of The Doll's House on Tuesday, the 27th ult., at Terry's Theatre, "There is no need to discuss IBSEN's piece any more." I will go a little further, and say, not only should the play be spared discussion, but also performance. All that could be done for this miserable drama (if a work utterly devoid of dramatic interest can be 80 entitled) was effected some years since, when Breaking a Butterfly, a version with (O CHOSTS DOLLS possess the acumen generally considered a necessary adjunct to the ONE WHO PAID FOR A PLACE IN THE PIT. OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. Messrs. I SEE three ladies in a drawing-room, each with a green volume. HERMAN "What is it?" No, they won't hear. Each one is intent on her and JONES volume, and an irritable answer, in a don't bother kind of manner, as adapters, is all that I can obtain. The novel is Miss BRADDON's latest, One was played Life, One Love (but three volumes, for all that), in which they are at the absorbed. Later on, at intervals, I get the volumes, and, raven-like, Prince's secrete them. I can quite understand the absorption of my young (now Prince friends. Marvellous, Miss BRADDON! Very few have approached you of Wales's) in sensation-writing, and none in keeping up sensationalism as fresh Theatre. Í as ever it was when first I sat up at night nervously to read Aurora believe some Floyd, and Lady Audley's Secret. In this bad time of year (I am one or other writing when the snow is without, and the North-East wind is engaged has said that in cutting leaves), the Baron recommends remaining indoors with this Fancy Picture of Hanwellian Admirer of the Ibsenseless that version Three-volume Novel as a between lunch and dinner companion, only Drama thoroughly enjoying himself. was mis- don't take it up to your bed-room, and sit over the fire with it, orleading, because it modified IBSEN, and did not reveal him in his true but there, I won't mention the consequences. Keep it till daylight doth colours. This I can readily believe, as my recollection of Breaking a appear. The Baron being a busy man-no, Sir, not a busy-body-is Butterfly merely suggests_boredom; whereas, when I consider The grateful to the authors of good short stories in Magazines. Many Doll's House of Tuesday, I distinctly mingle with boredom a recol- others agree with the Baron, who wishes to recommend "Saint or lection of something that caused a feeling of absolute loathing. That Satan" in The Argosy; The story of an "Old Beau," which might something, I imagine, must be the new matter which was absent have been advantageously abbreviated in Scribner; an odd tale from the first version, and crops up in the text of the second, which, entitled, "The Phantom Portrait," in the Cornhill, which leaves according to the Play-bill, appears "in Vol. I. of the authorised edition the reader in doubt as to whether he has been egregiously "sold" of IBSEN's Prose Dramas, edited by WILLIAM ARCHER, and published or not; and, above all, the short and interesting-too short and most by Mr. WALTER SCOTT." By the way, I must confess that, although interesting-paper on THACKERAY, in Harper's Monthly, with the name of the Editor is not familiar to me as a dramatic author, fac-similes of some of the great humorist's most eccentric and most his superintendence of the authorised text seems to have been per-spirited illustrations, conceived in the broadly burlesquing spirit formed sufficiently creditably to have rendered him as worthy of an that was characteristic of GILRAY and ROWLANDSON. THACKERAY, honourable prefix as the publisher. Why omit the "Mr."? Now I philosopher and satirist, who can take us behind the scenes of every come to think of it, there is an Englishman, not unconnected with show in Vanity Fair, who can depict the career of the scoundrel dramatic literature, who is known nowadays as WILLIAM, without Barry Lyndon, of the heathen Becky Sharp, and the death-bed of the prefix of Mister, but in his own time he was known as Master the Christian soldier and gentleman, dignissimus, Colonel Newcome, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, and Master he remains. But this," as Mr. could on occasion, and when a rollicking spirit moved him, put on a RUDYARD KIPLING might observe, "is quite another WILLIAM." pantomime mask (have we not his own pathetic vignette representing I have not the original for reference handy, but the version played him doing this ?) to amuse the children, or give us some rare burat Terry's Theatre bears internal evidence of a close translation. An lesque writing and drawing to set us all on the broad grin. The adapter, I fancy, with a free hand would scarcely have made one of the Baron trusts that Mrs. RITCHIE will give us more of this, and sincerely characters use the same exit speech on two occasions. Nils Krogstad hopes that there may be a "lot more" caricatures in that portfolio does this. He can think of nothing better than, "If I am flung into "where these came from." I heartily thank you for so much, and the gutter, you shall accompany me," repeated twice with the slight respectfully ask for more, says yours, very gratefully, variation, "If I am flung into the gutter for the second time, you shall THE BARON DE BOOK-WORMS. accompany me," used for the last exit. Again, Torvald Helmer has a long monologue in the final Act that a practised playwright would have broken up" with the assistance of a portrait, or a letter, or something. From this it would appear that the Editor, WILLIAM ARCHER (without the "Mr.") has very faithfully produced the exact translation of the original. To be hypercritical, I might suggest that perhaps occasionally the version is rather too literal. For instance, Torvald Helmer, although he is cursed with one of the most offensive wives known to creation, would scarcely call her " a little lark," ARTHUR AND COMPOSER.-Saturday, January 31.-First night (of which conveys the impression that he is a "gay dog," and one given to SULLIVAN's Ivanhoe in D'OYLEY CARTE's new Theatre. Full inside, the traditional ways of that species of ultra-sociable animals. I have all right. Sir ARTHUR's success. We congratulate him Arthurly. confessed I have not the original before me, so I cannot say whether CARTE called before horse,-should say before Curtain, but t'other the title used by IBSEN is "Smallz Larkz," but I fancy that a came so naturally,-looked pale,-quite carte blanche; but, like "capering capercailzie," if not actually his words, would be nearer SULLIVAN's music, composed. Could get a CARTE, but no cab. Galhis meaning. A capercailzie is, according to the dictionaries, a bird lant gentlemen and delicate ladies braving rain and slosh, More in of "a delicious flavour" and partially "green;" it is also found in our next, but for the present (Paroxysm of sneezing). ་ In Memoriam. STRONG man and strenuous fighter, stricken down WHAT DO YOU THINK? (A Song of the Session, as sung by that Eminent and Evergreen Lion Comique, "JOLLY GLAD" at the St. Stephen's Hall of Varieties, Westminster.) JOLLY GLAD, sings: - What do you think? Oh, I know the quidnuncs vapour, And that Tadpole, yes, and Taper, Tell in many a twaddling paper, What the few think; But they cater for the classes, What do you think? Wish is father to their thought, Their wild hope with fear is fraught. They are not au fait to aught Liberals true think. They imagine "Mr. Fox" Just inspect me, if you please! Like a 66 Think! Pooh! The part of Sisyphus On the-say the Lyric Stage- I regret, so much, to tease them! A DREAMY MADNESS. THE other night I went to bed, It may seem strange, but still I did it,And laid to rest my weary head So that the bed-clothes nearly hid it; Which was perhaps the reason why My brain throughout the night was teeming With truly wondrous sights, and I Was wholly given o'er to dreaming. 'Twas on the Twenty-first of May, The streets were filled to overflowing, The streets, that in a curious way Were clean although it kept on snowing. The daily papers for a change Came out each day without a leader, But, what was surely rather strange, They didn't lose a single reader! I saw a Bishop in a tram, Although he knew it was a Sunday; The lion lay down with the lamb, And CLEMENT SCOTT with SYDNEY GRUNDY. Professor HUXLEY said, "In truth I'm really sick to death of rows," and In which he sent his resignation; To read a line of RIDER HAGGARD. Should now be struck out altogether; To say they felt no ancient animus, And when they voted, why of Noes There wasn't one-they were unanimous ! I started up, no more to sleep, The dream somehow had seemed to spoil it, Nor did it take me long to leap Out of my bed and make my toilet. I went down-stairs, and with surprise I thought of those my dream had slandered, And there, before my very eyes, I saw it printed in the STANDARD! I wish I hadn't gone to bed, I can't imagine why I did it, So that the clothes completely hid it. At present mad, or was I dreaming? |