time doth pass! It seems but yesterday he stood beside me up "in class," And now I count the wrinkles as I look into the glass. all, "only a chip in porridge," doing neither Joe Brown and I were schoolfellows-ye gods, how good nor harm, and is supposed to be a mild tonic; but we put in a very hearty protest against the use of copperas for the purpose of giving a "cauliflower head" to the draught porter, a practice which we know to be tolerably extensive, especially in neighbourhoods where a low trade, and a quick "bar sale" necessitates the use of salted beer, lest thirst should be quenched too readily. But Beer-beer in its pure, simple healthfulness has been for ages the natural drink of the country, as wine is of France; and suffers nothing by comparison. Oh! what ale do we know of at that little house on the brink of the old river Lea, where ancient anglers principally resort:-how lovingly it comes foaming out of the brown jug into the tall, thin glass, bubbling up from the bottom in sparkling beads of amber; how cool and yet how rich it is in its ripe, mellow sweetness. There, on the long summer evenings, under the old willows where the rustic table stands, and we can hear the murmuring ripple of the stream, have we sat and sipped-while fragrant incense from a "long clay" filled with Bristol bird'seye surrounded us-watching the glorious gradations from daylight to darkness on the scenery of earth and sky, till the sun has left his last golden legacy to night, and one by one the birds have ceased to twitter in the trees. Road, Can we refrain from speaking either of that good old coaching house on the where they yet keep a good old cask or two of that wonderful beer, which is not a beverage, but a stimulant, and should only be drank (as it is) from large champagne glasses. How cold it feels in the mouth-how hard to the teeth; but wait a minute, and right down to your benumbed toes, through the finger-nails of your blue and lifeless hands, there rushes a glow that makes your eyes sparkle, responsive to the wink of the experienced driver, who declares that that's the right sort, that is." "One dozen of natives and a glass of stout, if you please, Miss." We hold an opinion that stout should be consumed with no other food than oysters: it is too heavy for a regular drink, but, in combination with the delicious molluscs, what an exquisite blending of richness, delicacy, and plenitude! Finally, let the good drink have a hearty word from every honest citizen who, while he taps his cask of Christmas store, can help, by individual endeavour, to expose the adulteration which would "rob a poor man of his beer." T. A. AN ANNUAL TREAT. BY HENRY J. BYRON. I have some friends, some little friends, who live in Their Christian names are John, and James, and Joe Brown's a hearty Hercules, as any one may see, He's bland and baldish-headed, as a merchant ought to be. It seems but yesterday, I bought from Joe his cricket-bat That I was thrashed for putting stones into the usher's hat, And Joe they threatened to expel for grumbling at the fat. The little ones count all the days till Christmas cometh round; They love to feel the cold and see the snow upon the ground: They spell the coloured play-bills through, all I've had an early dinner, and I've had an early tea, I hire a roomy one-horse-fly, I have it every year, I to tell, He driveth bravely to the door, and pulleth at the Above the parlor blinds, the little anxious eyes I see, No tea have those three children had no appetite Their tops and hoops neglected lie, untouched for many a day They have no wish for marbles now, or any kind of play. And very grand the children think that mighty Who hath a speaking-trumpet voice and head Shakespeare to them's a charlatan, compared to Gods! how they shout where Princess Pearl gives And how they shriek when Slipperi flies up the Oh, how they stamp their little boots, and madly And when the Transformation comes, and everything is dark, The gong beats like a thunder clap, or cannons in the Park; How John doth nudge his brother James, and cry "Now comes the lark!" ENJOYING THE PANTOMIME. To him, the Clown-the little folks all greet him | Young James thinks of his Columbine, with bright with a roar, They shout when he says "Here we are!" he says it as of yore; We've laughed at it each Boxing-night--we'll laugh at it once more. And from this moment ceaselessly, until the curtain falls, Is nought but fights, and roars, and rows, and The fun is over-twelve o'clock is booming from The one-horse fly is at the door, the civil man is there; John muffles up his sister in her little cloak with care; and waving hair. John crowds up to his brother, and they keep each other warm, They dare not even whisper, for a word would break the charm But little Jane is fast asleep, her head upon my arm. What dreams, what golden dreams, my little friends will have to night Of Fairy forms, of music, and of stars of dazzling light; Oh! may their waking visions be as beautiful and bright. MISS CHESTERFIELD PATRONISES OPERATIC ENTERTAINMENTS. LADY CHESTERFIELD'S LETTERS COMPRISING THE OPINIONS OF THAT GENTLEWOMAN UPON BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. LETTER THE SEVENTH. OF PUBLIC AMUSEMENTS, AND ESPECIALLY OF DRAMATIC AND OPERATIC PERFORMANCES. YOUR last letter, my child, reads like a playbill. Surely, it should be written in alternate lines of black and red, be headed by the royal arms, and conclude with a neat epigraph of "Vivant Regina et Princeps," with a touching allusion to "No money returned." You seem to I have been gadding about from playhouse to playhouse for the last fortnight. That it is Christmas-time might be alleged as one excuse for your unusual dissipation-if any excuse were needed; but I am not about to scold Mrs. De Fytchett for taking you to the dress-circle at the Haymarket-to an avant scene at the Olympic-to a private box at the Princess's, and to the stalls at the Adelphi. Amelia Charlotte knows well my sentiments are in favour of the British Drama-and of the British Opera, when there happens to be one in existence: (you must go again to Covent Garden and hear Miss Louisa Pyne)-when those entertainments are properly conducted. I don't think ladies ought to stay out the ballet, as it is at present given at the Italian Opera-although that may be prejudice on my part. In my time the female dancersMademoiselle Noblet, and others-used to wear skirts of something like decent length; and I decidedly disapprove of theatrical performances whose attractions mainly consist in bold-faced young ladies, very thickly painted, assuming the garments of the opposite sex. But as a rule and statute for your guidance, I say, "Go to the Play," when any pieces worth seeing are being performed. I am sure more harm has been done by people stopping away from playhouses than by their attending those places of amuse ment. There is in England a vast body of conscientious persons who strongly object to any theatrical performances whatever. The majority of such persons are in easy, and many in affluent, circumstances. As to the working classes, they are, almost to a man, woman, and child, devoted admirers of the Drama. You might test this, I think, by opening Drury Lane and Covent Garden gratis one night:-why wasn't it done when the Princess Royal was married ?-and considering the rush that would take place. But as the commercial success of theatres must ever mainly depend upon the persons who can afford to pay liberally for admission to the entertainments presented-remember that the occupant of a private box disburses as much as do thirty or forty sitters in the gallery-it is worth while briefly to enquire why so many otherwise excellent and just persons rigidly and obstinately set their faces against the foot-lights and the green baize curtain. England, to be sure, is not the only country where the Drama is held in disfavour by a party. Until very lately, in France, the priests used to refuse Christian burial to actors and actresses, exactly as they denied the rites of sepulture to the great Molière. There was a reason for this rigour. The odium theologicum never dies. Priests never forget, and the dramatic descendants of Molière had never been forgiven for a certain piece he wrote against the black-gowns, called Tartuffe. But in England the priests, with their Mysteries, and Moralities, and Miracle Plays, were the first theatrical managers. In the plays of Shakespeare the dignified clergy of the Anglican persuasion are always treated with the profoundest respect; and even Romish cardinals and friars are held in some decent estimation. The Vicar of Stratfordupon-Avon in Charles's time garrulous Mr. Ward-eagerly collected particulars-scant are they, but precious-of Shakespeare's life. No ecclesiastical veto stopped the erection of the monument to the Bard in Stratford Church and Westminster Abbey. A bishop selected the magnificent extract from Prospero's speech in the "Tempest" which graces the pedestal of Roubiliac's statue. Bishops and learned divines have annotated and edited our Shakespeare's works. In that same Abbey of Westminster Garrick was buried, nobles holding up the pall, the Dean and Chapter receiving the corpse as the procession wound up the aisle. Doctor Busby and Doctor Parr, both learned and pious clergymen, loved and reverenced Shakespeare. John Kemble had fast friends among the right reverend bench. Charles Young was almost domesticated in the family of the Bishop of Bath and Wells. And even now there are cathedral dignitaries and beneficed clergymen in the provinces who deem it not derogating from their high position to attend poky little country theatres, and sit, grand in double-vested broadcloth and bowless white neckcloths, in the high places of the auditorium. Don't you remember how in "Pendennis" Doctor Portman and Mr. Smirke, the curate, escort Mrs. P. and little Laura to witness the histrionic performances of Miss Fotheringay? Thus, while lawn sleeves, shovel hats, and silk aprons, have consistently patronised the Drama, the virulent opposition thereto has generally emanated from Geneva bands, and steeple-crowned hats and closelycropped heads. There: the secret is out. It is the old, old story of Cavalier and Roundhead. High and Low Church. Cavalier wants the Book of Sports read from the pulpit; would set up a Maypole in every parish; is in favour of church ales, and Easter and Whitsuntide merrymakings; would have no objection to a bull or a bear or two for the purpose of baiting, and would welcome the players, strolling or permanent, wherever he meets them. Roundhead is for having these same playacting gentry set in the stocks as rogues and vagabonds, with a whipping at parting for luck. "Down with the Maypoles," cries Roundhead, opposing fat pig and goose, maligning custard through the nose, and disparaging plum-pudding and mince-pies meanwhile. How are we to reconcile persons who take such opposite views of things-looking, the one party on the golden, the other on the silver side of the shield. The worst of the matter is, that Cavalierism being the easier, merrier, jollier, and infinitely more comfortable creed, the idle and dissolute range themselves by preference on that side, and we who love the drama as an honest, cheerful, and ennobling recreation, are fain to put up with the company of ques tionable and sometimes disreputable allies. Once, it is true, the Stage had a High Church adversary, and a most formidable one: learned and pious and witty: no other, indeed, than Jeremy Collier, the famous non-juring divine. He attacked the Drama of his time with terrible force and justice; for it was the Drama of Cen greve, and Wycherly, and Farquhar : very witty and sparkling, no doubt, but wickedly and systematically immoral. Scarcely a comedy of those witty and sparkling gentlemen has kept the stage in our day; but the Puritans seem to have received as heirlooms all Collier's strictures and denunciations, and tell us with a furious sternness that a playhouse is a sink of Iniquity and an abode of Vice. Perhaps it may be so: we, the audience, don't go behind the scenes. The players must keep the sink very tightly sealed, and the abode tolerably select, for we do not read of their iniquity in the newspapers, and they do not parade their vice in Rotten Row or the Ring. I don't hear anything about actors being brought up before the magistrates for beating their wives or deserting their chil dren, for forging bills of exchange or stealing gammons of bacon, for frequenting gaminghouses or creating disturbances in the publie streets. I am given to understand that there never was but one actor hanged, and he was an Irishman, and is more than suspected to have been a mere mountebank of a posture-master who had turned player when his joints were too stiff to tumble. Where, then, are the vice and iniquity the good Puritans tell us about. Not, I hope, in the musicians in the orchestra. They seem harmless creatures enough, with no more vicious propensities than might consist in their taking large quantities of snuff between the bars of the overture. Not surely in the act drop. That is usually a very beautiful alle gorical tableau, charmingly painted by one of the three famous Williams, of the scenic artTelbin, or Beverley, or Calcott. Stanfield and Roberts were the great masters en décors in my time. Not among the audience; they sit patiently enough in pit, boxes, and gallery, and there cannot be much vice or iniquity in fanning one's self or sucking an orange, or in occasionally imitating the sound of a railway whistle, or a baby meekly bleating now and then. A shame to bring babies to the theatre, nevertheless; but there are positively mothers who would drag their children in arms to the battle of Waterloo or the siege of Ticonderoga, if those great his torical episodes were to occur again to-morrow. See, there is his Excellency the Russiam Ambas sador in a private box, with a head white, smooth, bare, polished as a billiard-ball, a large hungry jaw, and little bloodshot eyes. He wears his red ribbon, and a constellation of twinkling tinsel stars on the breast of his coat. There, in the stalls, you may see an English duke and a countess or two, and wits and scholars and fine gentlemen if it be the first night of a new piece by a favourite author. I look in vain for vice ・野 and iniquity before the curtain. And when that humanising. Witness the working men of Braddrapery is raised, do I behold them on the stage? ford, roaring forth their oratorio choruses in Certainly vicious and iniquitous persons abound magnificent time and tune, and the Penrhyn in the terrible tragedies of Shakespeare, and choristers, to whom her Majesty presented a silthere are mean hounds and gossiping scandal- ver cup, as a token of her admiration, only mongers in the comedies, and in the farces there lately. But after witnessing once or twice the are knaves and fools enough; but isn't vice performance of a good opera, you may hear its punished, and isn't virtue rewarded, at the end best morceaux played or sung at home, at parof the fifth act? Isn't the knave brought to ties, or at concerts. There can be no necessity shame, and the fool to scorn? Don't these for you to go night after night to the same honest people on the stage seem to strive to lyric theatre, and listen to the same opera sung paint wickedness in its darkest, and worth in its to words in a language you do not understand. brightest colours? Don't we listen to a good That you delight in the expression or delivery, deal of sermonising as to our duties, and of satire fire or pathos, of such and such a tenor or as to our faults--sermons enriched by eloquence soprano singer, is a consideration that does not and edged by poignant wit? Did the players weigh with me. The pleasure you derive from an take a lesson from Mr. Spurgeon, or Mr. Spur- ut de poitrine, or a corruscation of fioriture, is geon from the players, think you? Can an frivolous, and more than frivolous, sensual. You exhibition be vicious or iniquitous in which the plead the example of a picture with which you expression of a generous, a benevolent, a merciful are pleased. You may learn something from a feeling is sure to call forth a burst of applause picture. Through the eye the heart may be corfrom hundreds of horny hands in the gallery rected. You learn from an oratorio. The yonder? Does it advance the cause of vice and strains, solemn and sublime, of the "Messiah," iniquity to be told that we must keep our mar- or "St. Paul," elevate, inspire, awe you. One riage vows, and abide by our homes and love goes home graver, sadder, thinking very deeply our children; that extravagance is sure to end on serious things, after such music. You may in ruin, aud folly and vanity in exposure and learn much from one of the tender, graceful, yet ridicule? Do we become children of vice or homely English ballads. Did you ever hear Miss babes of iniquity when we cry our eyes out at a Poole sing "Wapping Old Stairs" in that pure pathetic denouement, or shake our sides with mellow voice of hers, and marvellously dislaughter at a droll farce? Would irreverence, tinct enunciation, in which every word has scurrility, or sedition be permitted on the stage its place, and is precious as every gem in -I say by the audience-even if the objection- a necklace of orient pearls. "Tis but a able matter had passed the licenser; a suffi- humble, pitch and tar, waterside song, this ciently useless, conceited, dunder-headed func-"Wapping Old Stairs;" the words merely tionary, my dear. Years ago it was Mr. George relating to tobacco boxes and Sailors' trousers, Colman the younger who was the licenser of and grog, and Susan from Deptford, and similarly plays; a wrinkled old gentleman with a fur vulgar things; but there is something in both collar who lived at Brompton, and, as people said, air and words suggestive of love, and fidelity, cut all the naughty words out of the plays sub-aud resignation, and true womanly trust and mitted to him, to garnish his own private conversation withal. At present there are from fifteen hundred to three thousand licensers in a large theatre when a new piece is performed; and very rigid, critical censors they are too. They would very soon scout vice and iniquity if they found them in dialogue or action. Vice and iniquity! vice and iniquity! I have used the words till they are hackneyed. Not skimming over these shallows shall you find them. Deeper and deeper must the plummet go; full fathom five through lace and embroidery; glancing by the gold and gems that heave on white bosoms, piercing through tinselled stars and radiant uniforms as through fustian vests and dimity bodices. Is it not written that the heart of man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked? Be not too ready, then, Pharisee, to assume that beneath the mummer's spangled jerkin vice and iniquity are rampant. A deeper sin may be lurking beneath yon bombazine cassock, beneath the statesman's robes, beneath the purple of the great king. For all which reasons, Miss, I would have you partake, in moderation-as of all other amusements-of the recreation of the playhouse. I would have you patronise operatic entertainments more sparingly. I love music, admire the lyric stage. "Music hath charmst (you know the rest), and is unquestionably softening and pity: an April shower and sunshine of the heart indeed, that makes these old eyes overflow whenever I hear the dear old simple ditty. King William the Fourth was very fond of "Wapping Old Stairs," and so was the good Queen Adelaide, the simple sailor's wife, who gave away three parts of her income in charity, and when she died desired that she might be carried to the grave by sailors. Be you, therefore, very fond of operas; but rather accept an invitation for the Haymarket or the Olympic than for the Italian lyrie establishments. You will hear but harmonious tinkle tinkling there, after all; and besides, I repeat, if you are amouracheé of the airs in vogue, you may hear them at home, or at St. James's Hall, or at your friend's the Euterpomani's, or even ground on a barrel organ outside your window in Pagoda-square. You can't do that with a play-book-with a single excep tion, the works of Shakespeare. I never could read the dramatic works of Bulwer or Sheridan Knowles. They want acting to be appreciated. In my youth, our French master used to set us tasks out of the "School for Scandal," to translate into the Gallic tongue, and I thought Sheridan's masterpiece the wofullest, dreariest stuff that a girl of fourteen ever waded through. To read a play without going to see it performed, is like reading on an empty stomach the Bill of Fare of the Lord Mayor's dinner. Of what |