supports in vigorous language all dramatic
charities and institutions; it attacks in fiery terms
any short-seeing stiff-necked bigotry; in a word,
it is the actor's hebdomadal monitor and friend.

But woe be to you, general public, if (not
being theatrical) you take refuge in the excellent
Newspaper that has enlightened the writer,
and purpose therewith solacing the tedium of
your journey to Bolton-le-Moors or Stow-on-the-
Wold! How can you grasp the fact, that there
are at present wanted at the Belvidere Rooms,
Seagate, "Heavy Leading Gentleman, Juvenile
Leading Ditto, Second Low Comedy to
combine Singing, Heavy Leading Lady to combine
First Old Woman, also a few good Ability Ladies
and Gentlemen"? What do you make of the
announcement that "a couple of first-rate funny
niggers may write"? What is your notion of a
"window-distributor who can ensure a large
display"? Would anything puzzle you more than
to find "tenants for the Rifle Gallery, Hermit's
Cave, Fancy Bazaar, Tea and Coffee stands and
Confectionary Bar at the Peckham Paradise"—
unless it were to discover that you had suddenly
obtained the appointment of "stunning first-rate
go-ahead agent in advance" to the "Lancashire
clog-dancer and dulcimer-player, and the comic
gentleman (Irish)"? You have to dispose of
no paintings on glass of the best description
suitable for a pair of lanterns with three and a
half inch condensers to use with oxy-calamic
and oil lights; you could make but little use of
the fighting tiger, the property of the late King
of Oude, and Champion of the Arena; you
would stand no higher in the estimation of your
serious aunt at Clapham from whom you have
expectations, even though you were to appear
at Ebenezer Villa in company with Mr. and Mrs.
Jacopo Bligh the celebrated duologue duetists;
neither would your Angelina love you more
dearly were you to have "pegtop whiskers," or
even the "real imperceptible shape," which is
not to be equalled at the price! Worse than
Greek, Hebrew, Double-Dutch, or that
mysterious language passing under the title of
Abracadabara, would be these advertisements to you,
but the writer was cradled in a property washing-
basket, was nursed by a clown, was schooled at
Dr. Birchem's Establishment for young gentlemen
(Scene 3rd: Usher, Mr. Whackemhard;
Scholars, Masters Sleepy, Dozy, Yawn, Sluggard,
and Snore; Dunce, Master Foolscap), and
has since graduated in the university of the
great theatrical newspaper.

An advertisement in bold type, at the top of
the second column of the paper, runs thus:
"DACRE PONTIFEX.—This popular tragedian
appears at Frome, Glastonbury, Yeovil, Lyme
Regis, and at Bridport, on the 25th of April.
Managers wishing to secure the services of
this celebrated artiste are requested to apply
to the theatrical agent, Mr. Trapman, Rouge-
street, Blanco-square." Ah! a very few years
ago and the inhabitants of Frome and
Glastonbury might as well have wished for a sight
of the extinct dodo as of Dacres Pontifex!
Managers of the first London theatres fought
for him, it was whispered that marchionesses
were dying in love for him, to be seen in his
company was an honour even for the most
radiant gentleman in the crackest of crack
regiments. Dacre Pontifex had been but a short
time in London when he attracted the notice
of Mr. Bellows, the great tragedian, then
about to start on his American tour. Mr.
Bellows took Pontifex with him, taught him,
polished him, and turned him into a master
of his art. When he returned to England, one
of those fits of Shakespearian enthusiasm which
periodically seize upon the town had just begun
to germinate, newspapers were referring to
the Bard and the Swan, and several gentlemen
were lashing themselves into a state of fury
touching the immoralities of the French stage,
and the triumphs of vice. Wuff was the
manager of the T.R. Hatton-garden at that
time, and Wuff was a man of the age; he
knew when Pontifex was to return, and no
sooner had the fast-sailing Cunard packet
Basin been descried off Liverpool, than Wuff
and the pilot were on board together, and in the
course of half an hour a document duly signed
by Pontifex was in Wuff's pocket. "I'll bill
you in letters three feet long, my boy, on every
dead wall in town, and, please the pigs, we'll
resuscitate the British drayma, and put Billy
on his legs again!"

Shakespeare, thus familiarly spoken of by
Mr. Wuff as Billy, proved once more the
powers of his attraction, and the success of the
new actor was beyond all question. Whether
he raved in Hamlet, languished in Romeo,
stormed in Othello, or joked in Benedick, he
invariably drew tremendous houses and received
overwhelming applause. His portrait was in
the illustrated journals, and in chromo-
lithographic colours on the title-page of the Pontifex
Waltz (dedicated to him by his humble admirer,
Sebastian Bach Faggles, chef d'orchestre, T.R.
Hatton-garden). Old Silas Bulgrubber, the stage
door-keeper, grumbled furiously at the number of
applications for Mr. Pontifex, and at the shower of
delicately tinted notes for that gentleman, which
were perpetually pouring into Silas's dingy box.
The odour of the patchouli and sandal-wood
essences from these notes actually prevailed
over the steam of the preparation of onions and
mutton which was always brought in a yellow
basin to Silas at twelve o'clock, and which made
the porter's habitation smell like a curious
combination of a hairdresser's and a cook-shop.
Wuff, the great impresario, as in those days
the favourite journal not unfrequently
designated him, was in ecstasies; his celebrated
red velvet waistcoat was creased with
constant bowings to the aristocracy of the land;
he gave a magnificent dinner to Pontifex at
Greenwich, at which was present a large and
miscellaneous company, including the Marquis
of Groovington, who had married Miss Cholmeleigh,
late of the T. R. H. G.; Sir Charles Fakeaway;
Four-in-hand Farquhar, of the Royal
Rhinoceros Guards; Mauve; Captain Kooleese;
Tommy Tosh, well-known at the clubs; Mr. Trapgrove,