Patron of Sport is unwholesome. The bloom of youth vanished from his face before he ceased to be a boy; he assumes the worn and sallow mask of age before he has fairly begun to be a man. His hair is thin, and is carefully flattened by the aid of unguents, his dress is flashy, his moustache thick. In order the more closely to imitate a true sportsman, he wears a baggy overcoat, with large buttons. Yet he abhors all kinds of honest exercise, and, in the days of his prosperity, keeps a small brougham with yellow wheels. Soon after he reaches the age of thirty, he begins to feel the effects of his variegated life. He fails in landing a big coup on the Stock Exchange, and loses much money over a Newmarket meeting, in which he plunges on a succession of rank outsiders, whom a set of rascals, more cunning than himself, have represented to him as certainties. His position on the Stock Exchange becomes shaky, and he attempts to restore it by embarking with a gang of needy rogues on a first-class "roping" transaction, in connection with a prize-fight in Spain. Having, however, been exposed, he is shunned by most of those who only heard of the swindle when it was too late to join in it.

This is the beginning of the end. He becomes careless of his appearance; with the decrease of his means his coats become shiny, and his cuffs more and more frayed. Eventually he falls into a state of sodden imbecility, relieved by occasional flashes of delirium tremens, and dies at the age of thirty-six, regretted by nobody except the faithful bull-dog, whose silver collar was the last thing he pawned.

A New Opera (in Preparation).

Librettist. Now here's a grand effect. They all say, "We swear!" Then there's a magnificent "Oath Chorus!" How do you propose to treat that?

Composer. Oath Chorus? In D Major.

A Page from an Imperial Note-Book.—So far so good. Got rid of the Grand Old Chancellor and the rest of that crew—without much of a row! Been civil to my English Uncle, the Pope and the Democrats. Can't be idle, so what shall I do next? Why not take a trip to America where I might stand for President? If I propose extending trip to Salt Lake, would have to go en garçon. Or I might see if I could not get a little further than Stanley in Africa. When I returned might write a book to be called, The Extra Deep-Edged Black Continent. Or why not turn painter? With a little practice would soon cut out all the Old Masters, native and foreign. And if I gave my mind to poetry, why Goethe and Heine would be simply nowhere! How about horse-racing? A Berlin Derby Day would make my English cousins "sit up." And sermons, there's something to be done in sermons! I believe I could compose as good a discourse as any of my Court chaplains. And then, possibly, I might be qualified to do that which would satisfy the sharpest craving of my loftiest ambition—I might write for Punch!

[So he shall. He shall "write for Punch," enclosing stamps, and the Number shall be sent to him by return.—Ed.]

PLAY-TIME.

Since the first night, if hearsay evidence can be accepted, as I didn't see the première, Mr. Sugden must have immensely improved his Touchstone. He plays it now with much dry, quaint humour, and when I saw him in the part last week, every line told with a decidedly discriminating but appreciative audience. His scenes with that capital Audrey, Miss Marion Lea, and with William, were uncommonly good. I confess I was surprised. Mr. Bourchier—but now an amateur, now thus—gives Jaques' immortal speech of "All the world's a stage," in a thoroughly natural and unconventional manner, chiefly remarkable for the absence of every gesture or tone that could make it a mere theatrical recitation by a modern professional reciter at a pic-nic. Mrs. Langtry's Rosalind is charming, her scenes with Orlando being as pretty a piece of acting as any honest playgoer could wish to see. And what a pretty Lamb is she they call Beatrice who plays Phœbe! What a sweet, gentle, restful play it is! How unlike these bustling times! To witness this idyllic romance as it is put on at the St. James's, is as if one had stepped aside out of "the movement," had bid adieu for a while to the madding crowd, and had plunged into the depths of the forest of Arden, to find a tranquil "society of friends," among whom, under the greenwood tree, one can rest and be thankful.

The Kan-Kan (-garoo) Dance.

I was curious to see how Alexander "the (Getting) Great" would comport himself as the hero of light farce, associated as he has always hitherto been with heroes of romance and high comedy. The theatre-going public and his admirers—the terms are synonymous—may breathe again. Alexander is surprisingly good as Dr. Bill, and the serious earnestness with which he invests the part intensifies the drollery of the complications. And to think that the adapter of this gay and festive piece should be none other than the sentimental troubadour, song-writer and composer, author of a Lyceum Tragedy and other similar trifles, Mr. Hamilton Aïdé!! "Sir," in future will Hamilton Aïdé say, when being interviewed by a Manager, "I will now read you my Five Act Tragedy entitled——" "Hang your tragedies!" will the Manager exclaim, "Give me a farce like 'Dr. Bill,' my boy!" And once more will the poet put his pride and his tragedy in one pocket, and all the money which the Comic Muse will give him in the other. I back the argumentum ad pocketum against the Tragic Muse.

How capitally it is played! Miss Brough excellent; and so also is Mr. Chevalier, who entirely loses his own identity in his make-up, and is not to be recognised at all, save for a few mannerisms. Charming housemaid is pretty Miss Marie Linden; and the idiotic youth, George Webster, played by Mr. Benjamin Webster,—two Websters rolled into one,—is very funny. But they're all as good as they can be. I congratulate Alexander the (Getting) Great, who, for pecuniary reasons, I should like to be, were I not

Diogenes Out of the Tub.

The Bitter Cry of the Dramatic Critic.

"Le Sport" in Bouverie Street.

The excellent columns of "This Morning's News" in the Daily News the other day were endowed with fresh interest by an announcement made with respect to the Emperor of Austria. It runs thus:—

"When informed that on the Imperial preserves in the neighbourhood of Vienna the