from each other by such slight obstacles as the
Atlantic Ocean or the great desert of Sahara,
always manage to come together when the
exigencies of the plot require a striking tableau,
a catastrophe, or a happy reunion. Hongree,
returned from the wars, and accompanied by a
fine lady, arrives at the Lamb, and is recognised
by Pauline, who claims him as her husband.
He casts her off, and declares, by way of
explanation, to the fine lady (whom, it appears,
he has bigamously married) that this is "a vile
plot of a degraded woman to extract his gold
from him." Pauline protests that it is no
such thing, and produces from her bosom a
miniature of Hougree. Dreading this proof,
Hongree endeavours to take the miniature from
her. There is a desperate struggle; one of
Hongree's soldiers points a gun at the comic
man, rushing on to Pauline's assistance, and on
this tableau the curtain descends, amid much
whistling and laughing from Mr. Whelks.

More trials for Pauline. She is on the road
again in a very neat merino gown, wandering
from city to city with her little son. She is
attacked by two grim robbers, who demand her
money. She pleads that she is a poor wanderer,
and possesses only a few francs. The child
pleads too, and says, in a pathetic little voice,
"Don't hurt my mother." One of the robbers,
who is a facetious ruffian, declares that he is
"quite overcome," and flicks a tear out of the
corner of his eye; but immediately turns
savagely upon Pauline, and roars, " Give me
your money, or your brat finds a grave——!"
But at this moment the comic innkeeper rushes
on with a whip, and knocks the purse out of the
robber's hand. Pauline menaces the other
robber with a dagger. Tableau! The two
robbers, being baffled, slink off—the facetious
one returning for a moment to shake his fist
and say, "You shall hear from my solicitor;"
which, somehow or other, seemed to us the
funniest observation we had heard for a long
time.

In the next scene the two robbers, instigated
by the wicked Hongree, steal Pauline's child
from her in the dead of night. One robber
escapes through the window with the child,
while the other struggles with Pauline. Struggle
of five minutes' duration all over the stage,
concluding with the firing off of a gun! Call for
Pauline, who appears before the curtain with
her hair out of curl.

Many years have now elapsed, and Pauline's son
has grown to be a young man. He is poor and
unfortunate, and apparently a companion of the
two robbers. The facetious robber says to him,
"Why don't you do it up brown?" To which
the young man solemnly replies, "Because a
still small voice tells me that there are bright
days for those who are honest." However, he
is persuaded, spite of the still small voice,
to do something inclining towards brown,
having to do with a forged cheque. When the
money is obtained, the facetious robber
sarcastically proposes that they should open a
limited liability bank; but Mr. Whelks (happy
man) is not at all alive to this joke. Pauline's
next trial is to be turned out by her landlady,
though she has lived with her ten years and
owes her only a few francs. But the drama
does not stick at trifles when the agony wants
piling up. (It is worthy of remark here, that
in the course of twenty years Pauline has not
grown a day older, and has made little change
in her clothes, which have worn wonderfully.)
Pauline rushes to the river and takes a header,
but is rescued from the "result of the rash
act" by her son, who happens to be on the spot
at the moment. She has only just recognised
her son and flown to his arms, when the young
man is arrested by the military, with guns
(toujours guns), for forgery. Pauline now
seeks an interview with Hongree (not a day
older either), to plead for her son and his. But
the wicked Hongree still insists that she is a
degraded woman seeking to extract his gold
from him, and orders her to be taken away.

The last scene of all of this very strange and
eventful history represents the court-house.
Young Hongree going to be tried for forgery,
and old Hougree seated "on the right hand
of the judgment-seat," as the lad observes.
"There sits my father," says the young man.
"The proof!" demands the father.
"Behold!" says Pauline, entering at this moment
with an old gentleman in a cassock and white
bands. At sight of the reverend gentleman—
"this holy man"—who married him to Pauline,
Hongree begins to tremble, then rises and
staggers down the steps of the judgment-seat.

"Pauline," he says, "your pardon—you—
gasp—are—gurgle—my wife; he—gasp—is—
gurgle—my son." Then Hongree has a back
fall and is no more, leaving Mr. Whelks to infer
that he has died of a pricked conscience.
Certainly there were no outward causes to account
for his sudden decease. As to Pauline, Mr.
Whelks is left to infer that the death of her
husband rewards all her trials, and makes her
happiness complete.

From this temple of the drama, which really
affords the highest class of entertainment in the
immediate neighbourhood, we followed Mr.
Whelks to another place of amusement in the
New Cut. This was a waxwork show. In
front of the building, which was an old tumbledown
house, among the provision-shops, a man
played a barrel-organ, while a woman beat a
drum with one hand and took money with the
other. The price of admission was one penny,
and the shed was rapidly filling with boys,
young girls, and a sprinkling of grown-up
women, among whom were several domestic
servants who had been sent out on errands, and
were treating themselves to a little entertainment
on the way. When we were "all in," a
gloomy-looking lad came forward to describe the
figures. The whole place was a chamber of
horrors, beginning with Rush, and ending with
Doctor Pritchard, including, however, Lord
Palmerston, Sir John Franklin, and Florence
Nightingale; Lord Palmerston and Sir John
being strangely mingled up with the Italian