The Demon of the Jam Closet (rising slowly from an immense pot of preserves). None—except Myself!

[The cupboard is lit up by an infernal glare (courteously lent by the Lyceum Management from "Faust" properties); weird music; Joe turns slowly and confronts the Demon with awestruck eyes; N.B.—Great opportunity for powerful acting here.

The Demon (with a bland sneer). Pray don't mind me—I will await your leisure.

Joe (automatically). Of your acquaintance, Sir, I've not the pleasure.
Who are you? Wherefore have you intervened?

The Demon (quietly). My name is "Jim-Jam"; occupation—fiend.

Joe (cowering limply on his chair). O Mr. Fiend, I know it's very wrong of me!

Demon (politely). Don't mention it—but please to come "along of" me?

Joe (imploringly). Do let me off this once,—ha! you're relenting,
You smile——

Demon (grimly). 'Tis nothing but my jam fermenting!
[Catches Joe's ankle, and assists him to descend.

Joe. You'll drive me mad!

Demon (carelessly). I may—before I've done with you!

Joe. What do you want?

Demon (darkly). To have a little fun with you!
Of fiendish humour now I'll give a specimen.

[Chases him round and round Stage, and proceeds to smear him hideously with jam.

Joe (piteously). Oh, don't! I feel so sticky. What a mess I'm in!

Demon (with affected sympathy). That is the worst of jam—it's apt to stain you.
[To Joe, as he frantically endeavours to remove the traces of his crime.
I see you're busy—so I'll not detain you!

[Vanishes down star-trap with a diabolical laugh. Cupboard-doors close with a clang; all lights down. Joe stands gazing blankly for some moments, and then drags himself off Stage. His Mother and John, with Pear- and Plum-gatherers bearing laden baskets, appear at doors at back of Scene, in faint light of torches.

Re-enter Joe (bearing a candle and wringing his hands). Out, jammed spot! What—will these hands never be clean? Here's the smell of the raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this little hand.... (Moaning.) Oh, oh, oh!

[This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane literature.

Joe's Mother. Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
See—stains on all his fingers, and his thumbs!

"What Joe was about, His Mother found out, When she look'd at his fingers and thumbs."—Poem again.

Nay, Joseph—'tis your mother ... speak to her!

Joe (tonelessly, as before). Lady, I know you not (touches lower part of waistcoat); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label write——but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the dust-bin. (With a ghastly smile.) I know not what ails me, but I am not feeling at all well.

[Joe's Mother stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.

Joe (to the Chorus). I would shake hands with you all, were not my fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of. Hush! if Jim-Jam comes again, tell him that I am not at home. Loo-loo-loo!

All (with conviction). Some shock has turned his brine!

Joe (sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair). My curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.

[Laughs vacantly: all gather round him, shaking their heads, his Mother falls fainting at his feet, as Curtain falls upon a strong and moral, though undeniably gloomy dénoûment.

THE SAVOYARDS.

Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan's Gondoliers deserves to rank immediately after The Mikado and Pinafore bracketed. The mise-en-scène is in every way about as perfect as it is possible to be. Every writer of libretti, every dramatist and every composer, must envy the Two Savoyards, their rare opportunities of putting their own work on their own stage, and being like the two Kings in this piece, jointly and equally monarchs of all they survey, though, unlike these two potentates, they are not their subjects' servants, and have only to consider what is best for the success of their piece, and to have it carried out, whatever it is, literally regardless of expense. And what does their work amount to? Simply a Two-Act Opera, to play two-hours-and-a-half, for the production of which they have practically a whole year at their disposal. They can go as near commanding success as is given to mortal dramatist and composer, and for any comparative failure they can have no one to blame but themselves, the pair of them.

"Once upon a time there were two Kings."

Whatever the piece may be, it is always a pleasure to see how thoroughly the old hands at the Savoy enter into "the fun of the thing," and, as in the case of Miss Jessie Bond and Mr. Rutland Barrington, absolutely carry the audience with them by sheer exuberance of spirits.

Mr. Rutland Barrington possesses a ready wit and keen appreciation of humour; and, as this is true also of Miss Jessie Bond, the couple, being thoroughly in their element with such parts as The Gondoliers provide for them, legitimately graft their own fun on the plentiful stock already supplied by the author, and are literally the life and soul of the piece.

On the night I was there a Miss Norah Phyllis took Miss Ulmar's part of Gianetta, and played it, at short notice, admirably. She struck me as bearing a marked facial resemblance to Miss Fortesque, and is a decided acquisition. Mr. Denny, as the Grand Inquisitor (a part that recalls the Lord High Chancellor of the ex-Savoyard, George Grossmith, now entertaining "on his own hook"), doesn't seem to be a born Savoyard, non nascitur and non fit at present. Good he is, of course, but there's no spontaneity about him. However, for an eccentric comedian merely to do exactly what he is told, and nothing more, yet to do that, little or much, well, is a performance that would meet with Hamlet's approbation, and Mr. Gilbert's. Mr. Frank Wyatt, as "the new boy" at the Savoy School, doesn't, as yet, seem quite happy; but it cannot be expected that he should feel "quite at home," when he has only recently arrived at a new school.

Miss Brandram is a thorough Savoyard; nihil tetigit quod non ornavit, and her