Chapter II: Part 2

One fine morning, in the October of the third winter session, the student is suddenly struck by the recollection that at the end of the course the time will arrive for him to be thinking about undergoing the ordeals of the Hall and College. Making up his mind, therefore, to begin studying in earnest, he becomes a _pro tempore_ member of a temperance society, pledging himself to abstain from immoderate beer for six months: he also purchases a coffee-pot, a reading-candlestick, and Steggall's Manual; and then, contriving to accumulate five guineas to pay a "grinder," he routs out his old note-books from the bottom of his box, and commences to "read for the Hall."

Aspirants to honours in law, physic, or divinity, each know the value of private cramming--a process by which their brains are fattened, by abstinence from liquids and an increase of dry food (some of it _very_ dry), like the livers of Strasbourg geese. There are grinders in each of these three professional classes; but the medical teacher is the man of the most varied and eccentric knowledge. Not only is he intimately acquainted with the different branches required to be studied, but he is also master of all their minutiae. In accordance with the taste of the examiners, he learns and imparts to his class at what degree of heat water boils in a balloon--how the article of commerce, _Prussian blue_, is more easily and correctly defined as the _Ferrosesquicyanuret of the cyanide of potassium_--why the nitrous oxyde, or laughing gas, induces people to make such asses of themselves; and, especially, all sorts of individual inquiries, which, if continued at the present rate, will range from "Who discovered the use of the spleen?" to "Who killed cock robin?" for aught we know. They ask questions at the Hall quite as vague as these.

It is twelve o'clock at noon. In a large room, ornamented by shelves of bottles and preparations, with varnished prints of medical plants and cases of articulated bones and ligaments, a number of young men are seated round a long table covered with baize, in the centre of whom an intellectual-looking man, whose well-developed forehead shows the amount of knowledge it can contain, is interrogating by turns each of the students, and endeavouring to impress the points in question on their memories by various diverting associations. Each of his pupils, as he passes his examination, furnishes him with a copy of the subjects touched upon; and by studying these minutely, the private teacher forms a pretty correct idea of the general run of the "Hall questions."

"Now, Mr. Muff," says the gentleman to one of his class, handing him a bottle of something which appears like specimens of a chestnut colt's coat after he had been clipped; "what's that, sir?"

"That's cow-itch, sir," replies Mr. Muff.

"Cow what? You must call it at the Hall by its botanical name--_dolichos pruriens_. What is it used for?"

"To strew in people's beds that you owe a grudge to," replies Muff; whereat all the class laugh, except the last comer, who takes it all for granted, and makes a note of the circumstance in his interleaved manual.

"That answer would floor you," continues the grinder. "The _dolichos_ is used to destroy worms. How does it act, Mr. Jones?" going on to the next pupil--a man in a light cotton cravat and no shirt collar, who looks very like a butler out of place.

"It tickles them to death, sir," answers Mr. Jones.

"You would say it acts mechanically," observes the grinder. "The fine points stick into the worms and kill them. They say, 'Is this a dagger which I see before me?' and then die. Recollect the dagger, Mr. Jones, when you go up. Mr. Manhug, what do you consider the best sudorific, if you wanted to throw a person into a perspiration?"

Mr. Manhug, who is the wag of the class, finishes, in rather an abrupt manner, a song he was humming, _sotto voce_, having some allusion to a peer who was known as Thomas, Lord Noddy, having passed a night at a house of public entertainment in the Old Bailey previous to an execution. He then takes a pinch of snuff, winks at the other pupils as much as to say, "See me tackle him, now;" and replies, "The gallery door of Covent Garden on Boxing-night."

"Now, come, be serious for once, Mr. Manhug," continues the teacher; "what else is likely to answer the purpose?"

"I think a run up Holborn-hill, with two Ely-place knockers on your arm, and three policemen on your heels, might have a good effect," answers Mr. Manhug.

"Do you ever think you will pass the Hall, if you go on at this rate?" observes the teacher, in a tone of mild reproach.

"Not a doubt of it, sir," returns the imperturbable Manhug. "I've passed it twenty times within this last month, and did not find any very great difficulty about it; neither do I expect to, unless they block up Union-street and Water-lane."

The grinder gives Mr. Manhug up as a hopeless case, and goes on to the next. "Mr. Rapp, they will be very likely to ask you the composition of the _compound gamboge pill_: what is it made of?"

Mr. Rapp hasn't the least idea.

"Remember, then, it is composed of cambogia, aloes, ginger, and soap--C, A, G, S,--_cags_. Recollect Cags, Mr. Rapp. What would you do if you were sent for to a person poisoned by oxalic acid?"

"Give him some chalk," returns Mr. Rapp.

"But suppose you had not got any chalk, what would you substitute?"

"Oh, anything; pipeclay and soapsuds."

"Yes, that's all very right; but we will presume you could not get any pipeclay and soapsuds; in fact, that there was nothing in the house. What would you do then?"

Mr. Manhug cries out from the bottom of the table--"Let him die and be ----!"

"Now, Mr. Manhug, I really must entreat of you to be more steady," interrupts the professor. "You would scrape the ceiling with the fire-shovel, would you not? Plaster contains lime, and lime is an antidote. Recollect that, if you please. They like you to say you would scrape the ceiling, at the Hall: they think it shows a ready invention in emergency. Mr. Newcome, you have heard the last question and answer?"

"Yes sir," says the fresh arrival, as he finishes making a note of it.

"Well; you are sent for, to a man who has hung himself. What would be your first endeavour?"

"To scrape the ceiling with the fire-shovel," mildly observes Mr. Newcome; whereupon the class indulges in a hearty laugh, and Mr. Newcome blushes as deep as the red bull's-eye of a New-road doctor's lamp.

"What would _you_ do, Mr. Manhug? perhaps you can inform Mr. Newcome."

"Cut him down, sir," answers the indomitable _farceur_.

"Well, well," continues the teacher; "but we will presume he has been cut down. What would you strive to do next?"

"Cut him up, sir, if the coroner would give an order for a _post mortem_ examination."

"We have had no chemistry this morning," observes one of the pupils.

"Very well, Mr. Rogers; we will go on with it if you wish. How would you endeavour to detect the presence of gold in any body?"

"By begging the loan of a sovereign, sir," interrupts Mr. Manhug.

"If he knew you as well as I do, Manhug," observes Mr. Jones, "he'd be sure to lend it--oh, yes!--I should rayther think so, certainly," whereupon Mr. Jones compresses his nostril with the thumb of his right hand, and moves his fingers as if he was performing a concerto on an imaginary one handed flageolet.

"Mr. Rapp, what is the difference between an element and a compound body?"

Mr. Rapp is again obliged to confess his ignorance.

"A compound body is composed of two or more elements," says the grinder, "in various proportions. Give me an example, Mr. Jones."

"Half-and-half is a compound body, composed of the two elements, ale and porter, the proportion of the porter increasing in an inverse ratio to the respectability of the public-house you get it from," replies Mr. Jones.

The professor smiles, and taking up a Pharmacopoeia, says, "I see here directions for evaporating certain liquids 'in a water-bath.' Mr. Newcome, what is the most familiar instance of a water-bath you are acquainted with?"

"In High Holborn, sir; between Little Queen-street and Drury-lane," returns Mr. Newcome.

"A water-bath means a vessel placed in boiling-water. Mr. Newcome, to keep it at a certain temperature. If you are asked at the Hall for the most familiar instance, they like you to say a carpenter's glue-pot."

And in like manner the grinding-class proceeds.

* * * * *

THE LORD MAYORS AND THE QUEEN.

_By the Correspondent of the Observer._

The interesting condition of Her Majesty is a source of the most agonising suspense to the Lord Mayors of London and Dublin, who, if a Prince of Wales is not born before their period of office expires, will lose the chance of being created baronets.

According to rumour, the baby--we beg pardon, the scion of the house of Brunswick--was to have been born--we must apologise again; we should say was to have been added to the illustrious stock of the reigning family of Great Britain--some day last month, and of course the present Lord Mayors had comfortably made up their minds that they should be entitled to the dignity it is customary to confer on such occasions as that which the nation now ardently anticipates. But here we are at the beginning of November, and no Prince of Wales. We have reason to know that the Lord Mayor of London has not slept a wink since Saturday, and his lady has not smiled, according to an authority on which we are accustomed to rely, since Thursday fortnight. Some say it is done on purpose, because the present official is a Tory; and others insinuate that the Prince of Wales is postponed in order that there may be an opportunity of making Daniel O'Connell a baronet. Others suggest that there will be twins presented to the nation! one on the night of the 8th of November, the other on the morning of the 9th, so as to conciliate both parties; but we are not disposed at present to pronounce a decided opinion on this part of the question. We know that politics have been carried most indelicately into the very heart of the Royal Household; but we hope, for the honour of all parties, that the confinement of the Queen is not to be made a matter of political arrangement. If it is, we can only say that it will be most indecent, we might almost venture to say unbecoming; but our dislike to the use of strong language is well known, or at least it ought to be.

If there are any other particulars, we shall give them in a second edition; that is to say, if we should have anything to add, and should think it worth while to publish another impression for the purpose of stating it.

* * * * *

SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.--No. 10.

You talk of love--I would believe
Thy words were truth;
Nor deem that thou wouldst e'er deceive
My artless youth:
But when we part,
Within my heart
A small voice whispers low--
Beware! Beware!
Fond girl, the snare!
it's all no go!

You talk of love--yet would betray
The heart you seek,
And smile upon its slow decay,
If 'twould not break.
In vain you swear
That I am fair,
That heaven is on my lip!
I know each vow
Is worthless now;

* * * * *

THE TWO NEW EQUITY JUDGES.

"Between the two new Equity Courts, the suitors in Chancery will be much better off than formerly"--said Fitzroy Kelly, lately, to an intimate. "Undoubtedly," replied the friend, "they may now choose between the frying-pan and the fire."

* * * * *

MR. PUNCH,

ARTIST IN PHILOSOPHY AND FIREWORKS[1],

[1] Baylis.

BEGS TO INFORM THE

HOBBEDEHOYITY AND INFANTRY OF THE METROPOLIS

AND THE WORLD IN GENERAL,

That, for the proper commemoration of the anniversary of the 5th of November, he _had_ engaged the services of the following

EMINENT THAMESIAN INCENDIARIES.

SIR PETER LAURIE, to furnish materials for _squibs_.

MR. ROEBUCK, for _flower-pots_, containing the beautiful figure of a _genealogical tree_.

COLONEL SIBTHORP, for sky-rockets being constructed after his _own plan_; warranted to flare up at starting, and to come down--_a stick_.

DANIEL O'CONNELL, Esq., for the importation of Roman candles,

MR. WAKLEY, SIR JAMES GRAHAM, LORD STANLEY, and SIR FRANCIS BURDETT, for Catherine-wheels, which are guaranteed to _turn round_ with great celerity, and to exhibit _curious designs_.

LORD MINTO, for _Chinese fire_, prepared from the recipes of his gallant relative, the Honourable Captain Elliot, which have been procured at an immense outlay.--(See next year's "Budget.")

The MARQUIS OF WATERFORD, the celebrated Purveyor to the Police Force in general, for the supply of _crackers_.

MR. CHARLES PEARSON, for _port_-fires.

SIR ROBERT PEEL, assisted by his CABINET, for a _golden rain_.

*** A large supply of these articles always on hand. Apply at Mr. P.'s Office every Saturday.

* * * * *

AN EXTRACT FROM THE SPECTATOR.

Carter, the lion-tamer, previous to his late exhibition, when the tiger broke loose, had given an order to an old acquaintance to come and witness his performance; by great good luck, he and the rest of the affrighted spectators effected their escape; but he was heard vehemently declaring he had been deceived in the most beastly manner, as he would not have come but that he supposed he was

* * * * *

SHIP NEWS.

Off Battersea Mills, in the reeds, _La Gitana_ (wherry Z.9), Execution Dock, with loss of sculls; deserted. On nearing her, discovered the Master with his wooden leg in the mud, to which he had made fast the head-line, with his left leg over his right shoulder, high and dry.

A boat, supposed to belong to the Union Aquatic Sons of Shop Walkers, was washed ashore on Hungerford Muds, with an old ribbon-box, apparently used for a sea-chest, containing wearing apparel, 1s. 8d. in fourpenny pieces, and sundry small pieces of paper, with "Dry," sign of the "Three Balls," printed thereon, and endorsed, "Shawl, 3s. 6d., 30 remnants of ribbon 7s. 6d., waistcoat satin, 1 yard 3s. 6d.," &c. &c. The crew supposed to have abandoned her off the "Swan," where they were seen in a state of beer.

* * * * *

CAUSE AND EFFECT.

A great _fall_ of chalk occurred at Mertsham on the Brighton Railway on last Thursday morning; a corresponding _fall_ in milk took place in London on the following day.

* * * * *

SHOULD THIS MEET THE EYE--

of Sir ROBERT PEEL, LORD STANLEY, or any of Her Majesty's Ministers, in want of an active cad, or light porter; the advertiser, a young man at present out of place, would be anxious to make himself generally useful, and is not particular in what capacity. Respectability not so great an object as a good salary. Application to be made to T. WAKLEY, at the Rad's Arms, _Turn'em Green_.

* * * * *

HARD AND FAST.

That very slow coach, and would be "faster," the licensed to-carry-no-thing-inside "Bernard Cavannah," has been recently confined in a room, wherein he has lived upon the "cameleon's dish," eating the air--"jugged," we presume. Wakley declares he is an impostor; but as he has an interest in an inquest, and Bernard survives, this may be attributed to professional disappointment. Dr. Elliotson declares, from his own experience, any man can live upon nothing. The whole medical profession are getting to very high words; Anglice,--indulging in very low language. The fraternity of physicians, apothecaries, and surgeons, are growing so warm upon the living subject, that we may shortly expect to witness a beautiful tableau vivant of

* * * * *

PUNCH'S THEATRE.

MISS ADELAIDE KEMBLE.

Let every amateur, professor, and enthusiastic raver concerning "native talent" go down on his knees, and, after the manner of the ancient heathen, return thanksgiving unto Apollo for having at last sent us a singer who knows her business! One who can sing as if she had a soul; who can act as if she were not acting, but existing amidst reality; who is, in short, a performer entirely new to the British stage; to whom we have not a parallel example to produce,--a heroine of the lyric drama.

Such, in the most exalted sense of the term, is Miss Adelaide Kemble. Unlike nearly every other English singer, she has not set up with the small stock-in-trade of a good voice, and learned singing on the stage; making the public pay for her tuition. On the contrary, nature has manifestly not been bountiful to her in this respect. Her voice--the mere organ--may have been in her earlier years exceeded in quality by many other vocalists. But what is it now? Perfect in intonation; its lower tones forcible; the middle voice firm and full; the upper interval sweet and rich beyond comparison.

But how comes this? How has this moderately-good organ been brought to such perfection? By a process not very prevalent amongst English singers--practice the most constant, study the most unwearied. Punch will bet a wager with any sporting dilettante that Miss Kemble has sung _more_ while learning her art, than many old stagers while professing and practising it.

She seems, then,--as far as one may judge of that kind of perfection--a perfect mistress of her voice; she can do what she likes with it, she can sustain a note in any part of the soprano compass--swell, diminish, and keep it exactly to the same pitch for an incredible space of time. She can burst forth a torrent of sound expressive of our strongest passions, without losing an atom of tone, and she can diminish it to a whisper, in _sotto voce_, as distinct as it is thrilling and true intonation.

Having obtained this vocal mastery, she has unfettered energies to devote to her acting; which, in _Norma_, has all the elements of tragic dignity--all the tenderness of natural feeling. In one word, Miss Kemble is a mistress of every branch of her art; and we can now say, what we have so seldom had an opportunity to boast of, that our English stage possesses a singer who is also an actress and musician!

The opera is excellently put upon the stage. Miss Kemble, or somebody else, electrified the choruses; for, wonderful to relate, they condescended to act--to perform--to pretend to be what they are meant for! Never was so efficient, so well-disciplined, so unanimous a chorus heard or seen before on the English stage. The chorus-master deserves everybody's, and has our own, especial commendations.

* * * * *

NINA SFORZA.

A new melo-drama in five acts, by a gentleman who rejoices in exactly the same number of titles--namely, "R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire"--made its appearance for Miss H. Fancit's benefit on Monday last, at the Haymarket.

The old-fashioned recipe for cooking up a melo-dramatic hero has been strictly followed in "Nina Sforza." _Raphael Doria_, the heir-apparent to the dukedom of Genoa, is a man about town in Venice--is accompanied, on most occasions, by a faithful friend and a false one--saves the heroine from drowning, and, of course, falls in love with her on the spot, or rather on the water. She, of course, returns the passion; but is, as usual, loved by the villain--a regular thorough-paced Mephistopheles of the Surrey or Sadler's Wells genus. These ingredients, having been carefully compounded in the first act, are--quite _selon les regles_--allowed to simmer till the end of the fourth, and to boil over in the fifth. Thus we have a tragedy after the manner of those lively productions that flourished in the time of Garrick; when Young, Murphy, and Francklin were Melpomene's head-cooks.

Modern innovation has, however, added a sprinkle of spice to the hashes of the above-named school. This is most commonly thrown in, by giving to the stock-villain a dash of humour or sarcasm, so as to bring out his savagery in bolder relief. He is also invested with an unaccountable influence over the hero, who can on no account be made to see his bare and open treachery till about the middle of the fifth act, when the dupe's eyes must be opened in time for the catastrophe.

These improvements have been carefully introduced into the present old new tragedy. _Ugone Spinola_ is the presiding genius of _Doria's_ woes: and dogs him about for the pleasure of making him miserable. He is a finished epicure in revenge; picking little tit-bits of it with the most savage _gout_ all through; but particularly towards the end of the play. This taste was, it seems, first acquired in consequence of a feud that formerly existed between _Doria's_ family and his own, in which his side came off so decidedly second-best, that he only remains of his race; all the rest having been murdered by _Doria_ and his father's faction. From such deadly foes, it may be observed, that tragic heroes always select their most trusted friends.

_Doria's_ father dies, and _Nina's_ consents to his marriage; so that we see them, at the opening of the third act, the picture of connubial bliss, in a garden belonging to the Duke's palace at Genoa, exchanging sentiments which would be doubtless extremely tender if they were quite intelligible. A great deal is said about genius being like love; which gives rise to a simile touching a rose-bud in a poor poet's window, and other incoherencies quite natural for persons to utter who are supposed to be in love. This peaceful scene is interrupted by an alarm of war; and the Prince goes to fight the Florentines.

The battle takes place between the acts; and we next see the Genoese halting near their city after a victory. _Doria_, who in the first act has been represented to us as an exceedingly gay young fellow, is here described as indulging, in his tent, his old propensities; having brought away, with other trophies, a fair Florentine, who is diverting him with her guitar at that moment. This is excellent news for _Spinola_; the more so as we are soon made to understand that _Nina_, being impatient of her husband's return, has fled to his tent to meet him, and discovers the fair Florentine in the very act of guitar-playing, and her spouse in the midst of his raptures thereat.

A scene follows, in which _Spinola_, as a new edition of Iago, and _Nina_, in the form of a female Othello, get scope for a great variety of that kind of acting which performers call "effective." The wife--in this scene really well-drawn--will not believe Doria's falsehood, in spite of strong circumstantial evidence. _Spinola_ offers to strengthen it; and the last scene of this act--the fourth--presents a highly melo-dramatic situation. It is a street scene; and _Spinola_ has brought _Nina_ to watch her husband into her rival's house. She sees him approach it--he wavers--she hopes he will pass the door. Alas, he does not, and actually goes in! Of course she swoons and falls. So does the act drop.

The entire business of the last act is to bring about the catastrophe; and, as not one step towards it has been previously taken, there is no time to lose. _Spinola_, therefore, is made not to mince the matter, but to come boldly on at once, with a bottle of poison! This he blandly insinuates to _Nina_ might be used with great effect upon her husband, so as effectually to put a stop to future intrigues with any forthcoming fair Florentines. She, however, declines putting the poison to any such use; but, nevertheless, honours _Spinola_'s draught, by accepting it. The villain expresses himself extremely grateful for her condescension, and exits, to make way for _Doria_.

Directly he appears, you at once perceive that he has done something exceedingly naughty, for his countenance is covered with remorse and a certain white powder which is the stage specific for pallor. The lady complains of being unwell, and her husband kindly advises her to go to bed. She replies, that she has a cordial within which will soon restore her, and entreats her beloved lord to administer the potion with his own dear hand; he consents--and they both retire, and the audience shudders, because they pretty well guess that she is going to toss off the dose, of which _Spinola_ has been the dispensing chemist.

And here we may be forgiven for a short digression on the subject of the dramatic _Materia Medica_, and _poison-ology_. The sleeping draughts of the stage are, for example, generally speaking, uncommon specimens of chemical perfection. When taken--even if the patient be ever so well shaken--nothing on earth, or on the stage, can wake him after the cue for his going to sleep, and before the cue for his getting up, have been given; while it never allows him to dose an instant longer than the plot of the piece requires. Then as to poisons; there are some which kill the taker dead on the spot, like a fly in a bottle of prussic acid; others, which--swallowed with a sort of time-bargain--are warranted to do the business within a few seconds of so many hours hence; others again there are (particularly adapted for villains) that cause the most incessant torment, which nothing can relieve but death; a fourth compound (always administered to such characters as _Nina Sforza_) are peculiarly mild in their operation--no stomach-ache--no contortions--but still effectual.

The contents of the phial given to _Nina_ by _Spinola_ are compounded of the second and fourth of these _formulae_. The drink, though deadly, is guaranteed to be a mild, rather-pleasant-than-otherwise poison, warranted to operate at a given hour; one calculated to allow the heroine plenty of time to die, and to make her go off in great physical comfort.

_Nina_ has taken the poison; but, having a peculiar desire to die at home, orders a "trusty page" to provide horses for herself and attendant secretly, at the northern gate, that she may return to her native Venice. With this determination we lose sight of her.

_Doria_ is aroused by a hunting-party who have risen so early that they seem to have forgotten to take off their nightcaps, to which the Italian hood, as worn by the Haymarket hunters, bears an obstinate resemblance. The Prince discovers his wife has fled, and orders his _chasseurs_ to divert their attention from the game they had purposed to ride to cover for, and to hunt up the missing _Nina_.

"In the deep recesses of a wood" _Spinola_ and _Doria_ meet, the latter having, by some instinct, found out his _pseudo_-friend's treachery; of course they fight: _Doria_ falls; but _Spinola_ is too great a glutton in revenge to kill him till he knows of his wife's death, so, after gloating over his prostrate enemy, and poking him about with his rapier for several minutes, all he does is to steal his sword; this being found upon him by some of the hunters, who meet him quite by accident, they suppose he has killed _Doria_, and so kill him. Thus, _Spinola_ being disposed of, there are only two more that are left to die.

In her flight _Nina_ has been taken unwell--with the poison--just in that part of the forest where her spouse is left, by his enemy, in a swoon. They meet, and she dies in his arms. Two being now defunct, only one remains; but there is some difficulty in getting rid of _Doria_, for he is (as is always the case when a stage _felo-de-se_ impends) unprovided with a weapon. Going up to his trusty friend _D'Estala_, he engages him in talk, and, with the dexterity of a footpad, steals his dagger, and stabs himself. All the principal characters being now dead, the piece cannot go on, and the curtain drops.

A word or two on the merits of _Nina Sforza_. There are two classes of dramatists who are just now contending for fame--those who cannot get their plays acted because they are not dramatic, and those who can, because their pieces are _merely_ dramatic. Mr.--we beg pardon, R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire,--belongs to the latter class. He is evidently well acquainted with the mechanics of the stage; he knows all about "situation"--that is, sacrificing nature to startling effect. His language is essentially dramatic, and only fails where it aims at being poetical. His characters, too, are not drawn from life, from nature, but are copied--and cleverly copied--from other characters that strut about in the "stock" tragedies of Rowe _et hoc genus_. The fable, or plot, is deficient, from the absence of one sustaining, pervading incident to excite, and keep up a progressive interest. With every new act a new circumstance arises, which, though it is in some instances (especially in the fourth act) conducted with great skill, yet the interest it produces is not sustained, being made to give place to the author's succeeding effort to get up a new "situation" by a new incident. Though the tragedy possesses little originality, it will, from its melo-dramatic and exciting character, be most likely a very successful one. Besides, it is very well acted, by Miss Faucit, Wallack, and Macready, as _Spinola_; which, being a most unnatural character, is well calculated for so conventional an actor as Macready.

The author will doubtless become a successful dramatist, because he has taken the trouble to learn what is proper for, and effective on, the stage. Having gained that acquirement, if he will now study nature, and put men and women upon the stage that act and speak like real mortals, we may safely predict an honourable dramatic career for Mr. ----; but our space is limited, and we can't afford enough of it to print his names a third time.

* * * * *

THE QUADROON SLAVE.

A new discussion of the Slave question seems to have been much wanted on the stage. It is, alas, the black truth that "The Slave" _par excellence_, in spite of the brothers _Sharpset_ and Bishop's music, ceases to interest. The woes of "Gambia" have been turned into ridicule by the capers of "Jim Crow," and the twin pleasantries of "Jim along Josey." Since the moral British public gave away twenty millions to emancipate the black population, and to raise the price of brown sugars, they are not nearly so sweet upon the niggers as formerly; for they discover that, now Caesar being "massa-pated, him no work--dam if he do!"

To meet this dramatic exigency, the "Quadroon Slave" has been produced. It may be classed as an argumentative drama; carried on with that stage logic which always makes the heroine get the best of it. The emancipation side of the question is supported by _Julie_, ably backed by _Vincent St. George_, but opposed by _Alfred Pelham_; and the lingual combatants rush _in medias res_ at the very rising of the curtain--the "house," immediately taking sides, vehemently applauding the arguments of their respective favourites. _Vincent St. George_--ably entrusted to that interesting advocate Mr. J. Webster--opened the discussion by protesting against the flogging system, especially as applied to females. _Alfred Pelham_ answered him; the reply being taken up by the heroine _Julie_ in broken French, because she is personated by Madlle. Celeste. The state of parties as here developed turns out to be curious. The heroine, a quadroon, is on the point of matrimonial union with her antagonist, and openly resents the tender advances of her ally. "Call ye this backing of your friends?" _Vincent St. George_, disgusted at such gross tergiversation, flies entirely away from the point at issue, and applies those remarks to _Julie_ which all disappointed lovers seem to be bound to utter in such cases. Indeed, on the re-appearance of his rival, he challenges him--unblushingly forsaking every branch of the main point, by engaging in a long and not very lively discourse on the subject of duelling; amidst, however, impatient cries of "question!" "question!" from the audience.

This brings _Vincent_ back to the point, and with a vengeance! Like a great many other orators on the liberal side of the black question, he is a slave-owner himself, having--as his "attorney" _Vipper_ is careful to tell us--no fewer than two hundred and eight of those animals. Now, before he took upon himself to become an emancipationist, he might--one cannot help thinking--have had the decency--_like Saint Fowell Buxton_--to _sell_ his slaves to somebody else, and to come into court with clean hands. But so far from doing so, _Vipper_ having discovered that _Julie_ is a run-away slave from _Vincent's_ estate, just as she is ending the first act by going to be married, the latter takes the whole of the second act to claim her!

Though the argufiers change sides on account of the change of affairs--_Vincent_ insisting, as _liberals_ so often do, upon his vested rights in _Julie_ as opposed to _Pelham's_ matrimonial ones--though the heroine renders her pathetics affecting by a prostration or two before the rivals--though she rushes upon a parapet to commit suicide--though she is saved, and at length succeeds by force of mere argument to get her new-found master to give her up to her husband; yet this second act was somewhat dull; insomuch that the audience did not seem to regret when the curtain dropped the subject, and announced their own emancipation from the theatre.

Besides the parts we have named, Webster the elder played a _Telemachus Hearty_, who, further than skipping about the stage, talking very fast, and making himself not altogether disagreeable, had no more to do with the piece than his namesake, or Fenelon Archbishop of Cambray himself.

This attempt to discuss moot points upon the stage--to turn as it were the theatre into a debating society--will certainly not succeed. Audiences--especially Haymarket ones--have a taste for being amused rather than reasoned with; besides, those on that side of the question which the author chooses shall be the weaker, do not like to see the stage-orators get the upper hand, without having a chance of answering them. Even dancing is preferred by them to didactics, though it be

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