attired in maritime costume. His troubles,
however, have driven him out of his mind and                                                             he is babbling about the Lovers' Grotto, the                                                          rising of the waters,and his being "sigh-lent."
Then he is co-o-ld, co-o-ld, and sits at a fire to                                                          warm himself in the orthodox distraught manner,
which prescribes a wide spreading-out of the                                                     fingers, when Pauline, dressed in black velvet
(mourning for the Black Doctor, whom she
thinks dead), enters the hut, recognises her                                                              husband, and flies to his arms. But, alas! the                                                           "Bloodhounds of Retribution" (whoever they
may be, and this is by no means clear) are on his
track. The Bloodhounds of Retribution rush
into the hut and seize the Black Doctor to drag
him to prison; but one of the bloodhounds says
"Better settle it here," and straightway shoots
the Black Doctor. The Doctor falls, takes out
the certificate of his marriage with Pauline, and
waves it aloft. Pauline throws herself upon
the body, and the whole concludes with a                                                                "TABLEAU OF GRIEF, DESPAIR, AND DEATH!"

How was Mr. Whelks entertained by all
this? He was entertained drearily, dismally.
He was listless and indifferent, except when
watching the rising of the waters and the
storming of the Bastille; and well he might
be, for there was not a single natural incident,
nor a single natural sentiment, that could in any
way appeal to his knowledge of life or the
sympathies of his heart. He simply tolerated
the wearisome nonsense; and, when it was over,
he walked away sullenly, with the air of a man
who had been bored with a dreary lecture. It
is really surprising how much of the complaint
which found utterance in Household Vords
sixteen years ago, still remains to be reiterated
in these pages, with regard to the humble class
of theatres and their entertainments.

It was remarked by the writer, who first took
the theatrical interests of Mr. Whelks in hand,
that "in whatever way the common people are
addressed, whether in churches, chapels, schools,
lecture-rooms, or theatres, to be successfully
addressed they must be directly appealed to. No
matter how good the feast, they will not come
to it on mere sufferance. If, on looking around
us, we find that the only things plainly and
personally addressed to them, from quack medicines
upwards, be bad or very defective things, so
much the worse for them and for all of us, and
so much the more absurd and unjust the system
which has haughtily abandoned a strong ground
to such occupation." All this still remains to
be urged. In the particular theatre we have
just visited—one of Mr. Whelks's own—Mr.
Whelks is pushed away as far from the stage as
possible, in pit and gallery, and the best places—
those in the stalls and boxes—are given over to
emptiness. Why will managers persist in thus
treating their best customers? But perhaps
managers are not so much to blame as the system.
All things theatrical have gone on so long in a
groove, that it is difficult to drag them out of
the rut into which they have sunk. Many of
the theatres in London are so encumbered with
leases, heaped one upon another, and by interests
and restrictions of all kinds, that the managers                                                          are not in a position to make alterations in the                                                      buildings. But there is no reason in the world
why they should not make improvements in the
entertainments.

It is all very well to lay down the maxim that
the great essential of a play is incident. Mr.
Whelks is treated to incidents enough and to
spare, but no pains are taken, and no art is
employed, to interest him anyhow—not to say
imperceptibly to his own advantage—in the
personages who are the heroes, or the victims, of
the incidents. Another great mistake is made
in acting on the principle that low prices will
only afford a low class of entertainment. "What
can you expect, when it is only a shilling to the
boxes?" But it is only a shilling to the Crystal
Palace, with all its wonders of nature and art.
It is only a shilling to popular concerts, where
the performers are the most gifted and the most
cultivated artists of the day. The experience of
these, and a few other endeavours of the kind,
proves that a really first-rate entertainment will
always draw the people, and exhibits the nonsense
and unreason of another great mistake,
which cants about "playing down" to Mr.
Whelks, instead of recognising the fact that
Mr. Whelks should be "played up" to a higher
level than he holds now, and that it may be
gradually and hopefully done by good sense,
good purpose, and good art.

            THE VOLANTE.

ARE there any of us so high and mighty
and wise and proud and philosophical as not
to long for something? Until I read a novel
called Barchester Towers, I never ventured to
imagine that a being so ineffable as an English
bishop could long for anything. Under the shovel-
hat and silken apron, I thought, must dwell
supreme indifference to the toys and gewgaws                                                      for for which a grosser laity struggle and intrigue,
Yet, a delicate touch of the lancet between                                                               the under muscles of the human mind is that
with which MR. TROLLOPE shows us poor
little henpecked Dr. Proudie, in his grand
palace at Barchester, longing, not for the see of
Canterbury, not to be a second Wolsey or a
new Ximenes, but merely to be able to write
his sermons and sip his negus in a warm
cozy large room above-stairs, from which he
has been banished by his imperious bishopess.
Yes; a bishop may long. A bishop! Who shall
say that his Holiness the Pope has not coveted,
within these latter years, the lot of one of his
own flunkeys? It was in the disguise of a
postilion that the poor old gentleman fled out
of Rome in 1849. Quite feasible is it to surmise
that his memory has oft reverted to the day
when he cracked his whip, and rose up and
down in his saddle, mechanical, on the dusty
road to Gaeta, and that, looking wearily on all
his tiaras, and copes, and stoles, and peacocks'
feathers, he has sighed, and thought that
happiness might be found in an obscure post,