shops and that!

Culch. She is—er—vivacious, certainly. (PODBURY sighs.) You seem rather dull to-night, my dear fellow?

Podb. Not dull—a trifle out of sorts, that's all. Fact is, I don't think Venice agrees with me. All this messing about down beastly back-courts and canals and in stuffy churches—it can't be healthy, you know! And they've no drainage. I only hope I haven't caught something, as it is. I've that kind of sinking feeling, and a general lowness—She says I lunch too heavily—but I swear it's more than that!

Culch. Nonsense, you're well enough. And why you should feel low, with all your advantages—in Venice as you are, and in constant intercourse with a mind adorned with every feminine gift!

Podb. Hul-lo! why, I thought you called her a pedantic prig?

Culch. If I used such a term at all, it was in no disparaging sense. Every earnest nature presents an—er—priggish side at times. I know that even I myself have occasionally, and by people who didn't know me, of course, been charged with priggishness.

Podb. Have you, though? But of course there's nothing of that about her. Only—well, it don't signify. [He sighs.

Culch. Ah, PODBURY, take the good the gods provide you and be content! You might be worse off, believe me!

Podb. (discontentedly). It's all very well for you to talk—with Miss TROTTER all to yourself. I suppose you're regularly engaged by this time, eh?

Culch. Not quite. There's still a ——. And your probation, that's practically at an end?

Podb. I don't know. Can't make her out. She wouldn't sit on me the way she does unless she liked me, I suppose. But I say, it must be awf—rather jolly for you with Miss TROTTER? She's got so much go, eh?

Culch. You used to say she wasn't what you call cultivated.

Podb. I know I did. That's just what I like about her! At least—well, we both ought to think ourselves uncommonly lucky beggars, I'm sure! [He sighs more heavily than ever.

Culch. You especially, my dear PODBURY. In fact, I doubt if you're half grateful enough!

Podb. (snappishly). Yes, I am, I tell you. I'm not grumbling, am I? I know as well as you do she's miles too good for me. Haven't I said so? Then what the devil do you keep on nagging at me for, eh?

Culch. I am glad you see it in that light. Aren't you a little irritable to-night?

Podb. No, I'm not. It's those filthy canals. And the way you talk—as if a girl like Miss TROTTER wasn't—!

Culch. I really can't allow you to lecture me. I am not insensible to my good-fortune—if others are. Now we'll drop the subject.

Podb. I'm willing enough to drop it. And I shall turn in now—it's late. You coming?

Culch. Not yet. Good-night. (To himself, as PODBURY departs.) You insensate dolt!

Podb. Good-night! (To himself, as he swings off.) Confounded patronising prig!

HUMPTY-DUMPTY UP AGAIN!

Little Tich and the Fine Fairy.

That hardy annual known as The Drury Lane Pantomime is in full vigour this year, its flowers of a more brilliant colour than ever, and its leaves, as evidenced by the book of words, are fresh and vigorous. In no other sense, however, does the Drury Lane Pantomime bear any resemblance to "a plant." There is no "take in" about it, except that even big Old Drury is not capable of holding all who would be present; and so it happens nightly I believe, that many are turned away from the doors bitterly disappointed. Such certainly was the case when the present deponent was installed,—without any unnecessary ceremony,—on a certain given night last week. "The book" is by the Every-knightly DRURIOLANUS and his faithful Esquire, HARRY NICHOLLS, who, much to everybody's regret, does not on this occasion appear as one of the exponents of his own work. There are Miss FANNIE LESLIE—too much "ie" in this name now, and one may ask "for why"?—Miss MARIE (not "MARY"—oh dear now!) LLOYD, Miss PATTIE—not PATTY of course—HEYWOOD, Mr. JOHN and Miss EMMA (dear me! not EMMIE!) D'AUBAN, and Messrs. HERBERT CAMPBELL as a grotesque monarch, Mr. DAN LENO as Queen of Hearts, Mr. FRED WALTON, wonderful in a frame as the living image of the Knave of Hearts, and a crowd of clever people. But among the entire dramatis personæ, first and foremost, both the least and the greatest, is the impersonator of Humpty-Dumpty himself, the Yellow Dwarf alias Little TICH, who shares with the gorgeous spectacle and the exquisite combination of colours in Scene Eight, The Wedding, the first honours of the Great Drury Lane Annual. It is emphatically a Pantomime for children to see and to enjoy. The action is so rapid, song succeeds dance, and dance succeeds song, and permutations and combinations of colour are so brilliant and so frequent, that anyone who wants full change for his money and a bonus into the bargain, will find it in the return he will get for his outlay on visiting the Drury Lane Annual. And now about the Harlequinade. The "Opening," as it used to be called, which, terminating with the Grand Transformation Scene, ought to be, theoretically at least, only the introduction to the real business of the evening, that is, the "Pantomime business," concludes at 10·45, and allows three-quarters of an hour for what is called "the Double Harlequinade"—which consists of one old-fashioned English Pantomime-scene, followed by a comparatively modern—for 'tis not absolutely "new and original"—French Pantomime-scene, and this arrangement seems like, so to speak, pitting English Joey against French Pierrot. This friendly rivalry has had the effect of waking up the traditional Grimaldian spirit of Pantomime, and Mr. HARRY PAYNE's scene, besides coming earlier than usual, is, in itself, full of fun of the good old school-boyish kind; and if the Public, as Jury, is to award a palm to either competitor, then it must give a hand—which is much the same thing as "awarding a palm"—to its old friend, HARRY PAYNE, who, with TULLY LEWIS as Pantaloon, has pulled himself together, and given us a good quarter of an hour of genuine Old English Pantomime, compared with which the other, though its fooling is excellent in its own way, is only comic ballet d'action after the style of Fun in a Fog. I think that was the title, but am not sure, of the gambols with which the MARTINETTI troupe used to entertain us. The new and improved style of ballet-dancing introduced by the now celebrated pas de quatre at the Gaiety, is charming, as here and now represented by Miss MABEL LOVE and her graceful companions.

"'Fin de siècle' Clown! Why I've seen that sort o' thing done years ago, when I was a boy!"

To sum up; as the inspired poet of the immortal ode on Guy Fawkes' Day saw no reason why that particular treason should ever be forgot, so I, but uninspired, and only mortal, am unable to ascertain the existence of any objection to the opinion that this Pantomime possesses staying power sufficient to carry itself on for an extra long run of several months over Easter, and, maybe, up to Whitsuntide. There is but one