and a grand piano. Though mentioned last, the
grand piano is not by any means the least of these
instruments. It is so very grand a piano that
there is not sufficient room for it in the right-hand
corner of the stage which forms the orchestra, and
so its off Ieg, bestriding the foot-lights like a
Colossus, finds a footstool in the stalls. The size
of the stage may be judged of by this fact, without
a precise statement in feet and inches. It
is a stage which has only one exit, and one
entrance, leading to and from a little cupboard
of a dressing-room, whose mysteries there is
great anxiety to penetrate every time the
performers push aside the little curtain to pass in
and out. The performances are conducted by
a chairman, who sits with the back of his head
in dangerous proximity to the centre foot-light,
while in front of him he has a little deal desk, a
glass of brandy-and-water, and a hammer. It
is considered a great honour to sit at the chairman's
table, and a high privilege to stand brandy-
and-water to him; while to occupy his seat in
his temporary absence, knock on the little desk
with the hammer, and call out that Mr. So-
and-So will appear again, is a dignity which
secures for the happy delegate profound
respect. On the occasion of our visit, the enviable
individual who temporarily attained to the seat
of honour was a gentleman whose white
neckcloth and short sharp manner of knocking
unmistakably proclaimed the undertaker. When the
chairman discovered, as we are sure he did, that
his deputy was treating the little deal desk as
if it were a coffin, he speedily resumed his chair
and his duties. The other officials "in front"
were three waiters, one for the stalls in a perfectly
clean white necktie and a best dress suit; one
for the galleries in an imperfectly clean white
necktie and a second-best dress suit; one
for the body of the hall, whose costume was in
all respects in the third degree. The difference
in the hue of the neckties was greater than
could be rationally accounted for by the difference
between ninepence and sixpence, and sixpence
and threepence. There was another official,
one of a kind which we never personally met
before at a place of entertainment, and who, it
might have been imagined, was a relic of the
chapel. This was a tall fierce officer-looking
man in a buttoned-up green coat and a hat with
a broad gold band. He carried a cane; and we
were not long in suspense as to the nature of
his duties. He was the beadle, and his sole
function was to keep order in the body of the
hall and the galleries. This he did by hitting
noisy boys over the fingers with his cane, or
pouncing in among them and summarily ejecting
any offender who disregarded his admonitions.
The beadle was constantly pacing up and
down the aisles; and the audience, old and
young, seemed to hold him in great awe. The
audience was composed apparently of the
following elements. In the stalls: small tradesmen
of the neighbourhood, some of them with
their wives; shopmen and clerks, young students
of the veterinary art, and a sprinkling of those
odd little seedy buttoned-up old men, who
haunt every place of entertainment, from the
opera down to the public-house sing-song. In
the galleries: mechanics, grooms, omnibus
drivers and conductors, their wives and their
sweethearts. In the body of the hall: costermongers
and hard-working street folks; in fact,
the whole Whelks family. It is possible that
some of the occupants of the gallery were of
the class called "improper characters," but there
was certainly very few of them, and order was
strictly enforced by the chairman and his beadle.
The women present, were mostly decent-looking,
motherly persons, some of them with children
in their arms; others, work-girls and servants,
of one kind or another.

As to the drinking and smoking, these
enjoyments were part of the entertainment, no
doubt, and were calculated upon as one of the
sources of profit; but drinking seemed to be
indulged in, very moderately indeed. We watched
Mr. Whelks closely on this and other occasions,
and it did not appear that his consumption
averaged beyond a single pint of porter and
a pipe of tobacco. At all times when we
looked at him, he was more absorbed in the
performance than in his liquor. The arrangements
of the stage were made without regard to
the serving of drink. The performers followed
each other in rapid succession, and no pause was
made that gentlemen might give their orders.

And now for the entertainment. It began
with a grand instrumental trio on the fiddle, the
cornet, and the colossus—short and sharp—the
colossus going it like thunder. Then rap, rap,
rap, and "Miss Emmeline Stanley will sing the
first song." The violin, a mild young man,
walked across the stage to the little dressing-
room to ascertain what song Miss Emmeline
Stanley would be pleased to sing, and returned
with a piece of music, which was affixed to the
breast of the colossus like a dickey. A single
rap this time, and Miss Emmeline Stanley
appeared: a spectre of loveliness in a white dress,
exhibiting a vast expanse of breast-bone. She
sang shrilly—why are all these young ladies
so shrill?—what was called in the bill—there
was only one, and that was plastered on the
wall—a serio-comic song. All these songs
are constructed on the same simple principle.
The maxim of the song-writer seems to be,
"first catch your chorus." That done, the rest
is easy; in fact, if he have a good line to finish
with, he does not care what words he places
amidships. Thus, if the popular saying of the
day should happen to be—as it happened to be
sometime ago—Have you seen her lately? it
is enough to finish each verse with those
delightfully serio-comic words. The burden of
Miss Emmeline Stanley's first song was
expressed in the words:

         The sort of man we read about,
         But very seldom see.

She represented a young lady who wanted to
marry, but was not easy to please. In the course
of three or four verses she described the kind
of husband she desired to link her fate with,
who always was, in short,