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52

TOWN TALK.

BY THE SAUNTERER IN SOCIETY.

FUN.

of

OME day or other we
shall have to serve the
police as the Sultan
Mahmoud did the Janis-
saries-if some popular
outbreak does not clear
them off before that
period. I saw a bit of
tyranny the other day
that made my blood boil.
A coster of about sixteen
with his barrow
grapes was being taken
to the station. Luckily
the popular sympathy
was enlisted in his fa-
vour, and he contrived
to escape by the aid of
the crowd, but the bar-
row and scales and the
grapes on which the
poor lad had expended
his whole capital were
confiscated to the grim
satisfaction, no doubt, of
A 325. And what, do
you think, was the crime

he had committed? He had been "obstructing the thoroughfare"-that is to say, he had stopped his little barrow for a minute or two to sell some grapes, and had taken up half the room which Lord Tomnoddy's cabriolet might have occupied undisturbed for hours, and from which even the Hansom of a humble individual like the Saunterer would hardly have been ordered off. This poor fellow was striving to get an honest living, and must have worked hard to scrape together enough to set up with the stock he had, and he loses it all at one blow. A week hence he may be brought up for picking pockets, and the magistrate would be shocked at such depravity in so young a man. But there is little choice for the poor fellow beyond that. supposing, as I am told was the case, he, avoiding a night in Even the lock-up by his flight, appeared at the Police Court next day, he would be fined far more than he would have made in the way of profit on his stock-a perishable stock, too-of which, however, he was deprived for twenty-four hours at least. so small a trader something very like absolute ruin. Will some Such a loss is to of the statistical gentlemen who prose at the Social Science Congresses tell us how many thieves are annually manufactured in this way by the police? Social Science, indeed! What good comes of all this cackle of pedants and these excursions of wiseacres? Here is a wrong which one can see is a wrong without any social scientific knowledge, and not a finger has been raised to remedy it, and it will go on for years and years as it is. Until it is remedied what answer is there to the old complaint that the law is framed for the rich and not for the poor?

TALKING of law, what a charming muddle the law of licenses is! A body of unpaid magistrates (we all know the amount of intelligence and legal knowledge that represents) meet annually to make the British statute book as ludicrous as possible, by decisions of the most absurdly opposite character. To take one instance out of the batch of stupid decisions:-The proprietor of the Oxford was refused a dancing license because one of the Bench believed he wanted to turn the hall into a casino. They might as well have prohibited the use of knives in the supper room for fear he should cut his throat, or issue an injunction forbidding a man to take his money out of a safe investment that returns a good interest to fling it into a losing speculation. I suppose the Middlesex magistrate does not go to music halls-I do, as behoves a Saunterer, who wishes to see how, when, and where the public goes to amuse itself, and I can bear testimony, not only to the manner in which the Oxford is conducted, but to the fact that its operatic selections are excellent, and what is more, thoroughly appreciated by the audiences. To have taught people to appreciate music like OFFENBACH's operas is to have improved the public taste but that apparently is a thing not to be encouraged in the opinion of the Middlesex magistrates.

BRAVO MR. THOMAS HUGHES! Your speech to the Sheffield men is just the sort of thing the British workman wants. A mutual understanding will result from it, which would never come of the flattery some other gentlemen (I won't mention names) thought it wise to talk. But I hope you won't rest content with the slurry way in which the Social Science folk, who like to keep all the talk to themselves, listened to the reply of the workmen.

[OCTOBER 21, 1865.

PEOPLE are beginning to look out for Christmas books about this time, and some few announcements have been made. One of the best, to my thinking, will be DALZIEL's Round of Days, illustrated by the first artists, and with such names as ROBERT BUCHANAN, GEORGE McDONALD, CHRISTINA ROSETTI, and JEAN INGELOW among the contributors. Another capital book will be The Hatchet-Throwers, by the author of The Little Ragamuffin," with illustrations by M. GRISET, the French artist, whose caricatures and pictures of animals have drawn a good many "knowing ones" in art to Bear-street, Leicester-square.

view to the privileged at MESSRS. CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN'S for A MOST interesting collection of all DORE's illustrations has been on the last few days. Such a treat is not often to be had. The fertility and force of the genius of this one man-and he not thirty-are marvellous. We are to have English editions of all his works shortly, when the public will be able to judge for themselves.

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Sing popular Pop!
Come to the shop!

Of Ginger, this year, there's a capital crop!
Sing popular Pop!
Taste but a drop,

And you'll scarcely be able to tell when to stop?

When, fizzing and foaming, the drink comes out,
It's prettier far than your creamy stout;
With a delicate flavour for delicate tongues,
And warranted not to affect the lungs!

Sing Ginger-beer!
Its appropriate sphere
Is the hut of the peasant, the hall of the peer!
Sing Ginger-beer!
I greatly revere

The gifted inventor of Ginger-beer!

The Isle of Jamaica is dear to some
For the sake of its filthy, fiery Rum;
But the Isle of Jamaica is dearer to me
As the favourite home of the Ginger Tree!
Sing popular Pop!
Tea's but a slop!

Worthy, at best, of a Dame Mala-prop!
Sing popular Pop!

Come to my shop!

It's a drink for a King-or a British Bish-op!

Answers to Correspondents.

J. P. Y., Glasgow.-You feel wronged because we don't write. As
never succeed if we tried to answer.
we have more letters than the alphabet every day of our life, we should
If we attempted to write to all, whose contributions are declined, our
not appear you may take it for granted they have not been accepted.
If your contributions do
reasons for declining them, we should cease to be an editor and become
a Censor-or even a Nonsense-or.

FUN?" If the seaside's catches be red mullet or fresh mackerel you
F. R. G., Hastings.-"Can we do with some 'Seaside Sketches' in
warded a sample.
may send them up. You have dropt us a line-you should have for-

prize illumination at Mortimer House, should apply to MESSRS.
A LADY who wishes to know what subject has been fixed on for the
FULLER for fuller information.

original and good-from all sources.
A. L., Notting Hill.-We accept contributions-provided they are
from him, we should take A. L.
If we can get an inch of fun

FROM OUR STALL.

SPORTING INTELLIGENCE.

SUCCESSFUL PROPHECIES FOR THE CESAREWITCH.

BELGRAVIA.

"UP rose the sun, and up rose EMILIE!" if you will excuse my quoting CHAUCER, an obsolete poet of his period, but a great favourite with the old man, on Monday, the Ninth of October, "EMILIE" being really MARY JANE, who is within my gates, and came to give your Prophet a call. The Prophet hastily attired himself, and thought of the Cæsarewitch on the morrow. He heard the song of Chanticleer, such being more of a Cochin tendency than pastoral, and he said, if MR. BYRON will excuse the liberty, "Oh, Shant-I-clear a lot of money!"

But what I was most anxious to see, Mr. Editor, was the Extra Number of your New Serious containing my prediction; for although used to seeing himself in print, your Sportive Editor still feels a little nervous on the eve of a great race.

THE Haymarket opened on the 9th, with the School for Scandal, as NICHOLAS, AFTER A BRIEF EXPLANATION, PROCEEDS TO CELEBRATE HIS a comedy theatre should; and Astley's opened on the 9th with a very bad drama, as a Hippodramatic Spectacular Theatre should not. It is possible that the manager of the Haymarket may experience some difficulty in finding good new comedies, but surely even in these degenerate days (for it seems to be an understood thing that whatever is is degenerate), a better drama could be found than The Child of the Sun. With scenery, costumes, ballet, gunpowder, lime-light, actors, actresses, and auxiliaries, all good enough, the piece was as bad as a bad piece could be. This is inexcusable laches on the part of MR. JOHN BROUGHAM, who is a very clever author and adapter. It is impossible to say anything of the new drama, except that MISS ADAH ISAACS MENKEN appears in it, that she wears several very becoming costumes -pardon our saying that the Child of the Sun is arrayed after a fashion worthy of her luminous paternity, and displays considerable statuesque grace. It should be understood that "the MENKEN" is clothed, and clothed considerably, and looks very handsome and gallant. She fires a real gun, and rides a real horse, and that is all that we can remember of the drama. Is there no playwright to be found to measure and fit the MENKEN with a character? There were clever schoolboys forty years ago, who would have taken a pleasure in the task. Where is MR. EDWARD FITZBALL? Why reposes he beneath the shade of his past glories-(a lovely image that)? Shall not he who erst provoked thunders of applause by his "Jonathan Bradford," his Floating Beacon," and his "Inchcape Bell," again try the mettle of his pen against these modern recreants. "By'r Lady of Saint Anywhere!" "By the mass!" "By the mouldering bones of my unburied father!" "False caitiff!" "Heartless miscreant!" "Villanous murder-r-rer!" &c., &c., &c., but he shall, and when he doth may-marry "ifaith; ifackins! and ifegs!-we be there to see!

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Some nights ago there was a sort of " scene" or "discussion" at the Princess's Theatre, and as we hear, for we were not present, an argument between the manager on the stage and a theatrical critic in the stalls. As to how far realism, that is, the reproduction of actual things upon the stage, may be permissible, it may be as well that FUN should speak and set the question at rest.

Sir, that number was nowhere to be found! Many is the place your old man entered, and many is the glass of sherry-wine that he partook; but the Extra Number was all his eye, and well you know it never saw the light of day.

Did not prudential considerations prevent, I should say that this was something very like a gross breach of faith with "an old and deservedly-esteemed contributor," which you once called him in your own handwriting, deny it if you can; but in justice to my own reputation as a Vaticinator, I feel bound to copy out, from the slate where I always do them first, not wiping out until Wednesdays, what I had sent you as my tip. Print it, Sir, as it was wrote, every line and every letter, or you will be doing the old man a wrong:"The obsolete winner of the Seizerwitch, it will be Salpinctes, with Alleybamma for the second, and John Davis for the third, whilst if I apprehend unexpected danger from any other quarter such will be found in Gratitude."

There, Sir! Now your sportive readers can judge for themselves whether NICHOLAS is worth his prophetic salt. I say, print it as it was sent I know as well as you do, or any of the other contributors, than whom I am sure none of them have been treated worse, though perhaps a little gay-that the actual result was

Salpinctes
Gratitude

John Davis ..

We will premise, as the following is to be considered a decision,
and not the opening of a controversy, that we shall say nothing of
It is Never too Late to Mend, but we will take as a parallel case the
drama of Uncle Tom's Cabin, founded on MRS. BEECHER STOWE'S novel
of Uncle Tom's Cabin, the incidents of which were sensational, realistic,
and terrible. Well, then, the flight of Eliza Harris, with her child,
across the ice, pursued by slaveowners and their dogs, was a per-upon my own laurel-bush, figuratively speaking.
fectly legitimate melodramatic combination of moral and physical

terror. But had the ingenious dramatist or the spirited manager ex-
hibited Eliza or her child, or both, torn down by the dogs, in view of
the spectators, they would have exceeded the limits of good taste.
Again, that Legree should order Uncle Tom or Cassy to receive a
hundred thousand lashes, and that they should be dragged off to
punishment by twenty brutal overseers, would be right enough, but if
either of the dusky victims were dragged up and flogged in sight of
the audience, or if Cassy died from the punishment, or Uncle Tom
exhibited his lacerated back, the ladies in the audience could not be
accused of affectation if they fainted, nor the men if they turned sick,
nor the whole body of spectators if they hissed with forty thousand
Michaelmas goose-power. While upon the bench, FUN will also decide
as to the deportment of a newspaper critic when on duty in his stall
or box. He, the critic, may applaud, but only when some rare or
subtle stroke of the actor's genius, some delicate shade likely to pass
unheeded by the general spectators, is shown. But he may not hiss,
for he should act up to his judicial character, and be reticent of his
opinion. But there are limits to human endurance-even the critic of
a newspaper is a man-and if any person should dare to place upon
the stage, for the mere greed of gain, a "sensation" scene in the
likeness of the ward of a hospital, and simulate the operation of am-
putating the leg of the hero, or the arm of the heroine with real
bandages, real tourniquets, real unguents, real saws, real needles, real
arteries, and real blood, and the rest of the sickening apparatus, then
the newspaper critic would be dans son droit to rise and hiss loudly, and
it is to be hoped that he would be aided by audiences whose length of
suffering is as extraordinary as is their patience.

It seems as strange to have to mention these remarkable facts as to inform our readers that the sum of two and two are four, but we live in strange times. Theatres now-a-days are temples of bad taste. The question often occurs to us, "What is the use of a licenser of plays?" Is he a man who never censures, or a myth altogether, the Mrs. Harris of the Lord Chamberlain's office? As it is he seems to be a warning voice that never warns, a bailiff who never makes a capture, a beadle who is fast asleep while impudent boys play pitch and toss upon the tombstones beneath his very nose?

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and that Alabama selected by him for second was nowhere; but I scorn to appear wise after the event, and I am quite content to rest

actual position? Why it is, oh ye Sportive men of England, that he Still, despite of your leaving me in the lurch, what is the old man's named the winner, and stuck to him all along, as was the case with Gladiateur before him.

Turn, Mr. Editor, to the file of your New Serious in the backoffice, than which I am sure a more palatial department, though a little secluded.

The first time that NICHOLAS made any allusion whatever to the Cæsare witch was in Number Twenty-one, and there, Sir, on page 38, Second Volume, New Serious, on the Eighth line of his contribution from the top, you will find it put down:

"Make all square with Salpinetes!"

Next turn to Number Twenty-two, page 43, not very far down in the column neither. After playfully remarking, with that dry humour which has deservedly gained him the admiration of every true Sportive man throughout an Empire on which the sun never sits, " And so, my merry men all, under which thimble is the little pea?" the Prophet proceeds to name the horses accordingly. And which is the first horse that he does name?

SALPINCTES! SALPINCTES!! SALPINCTES!!!

Such facts as these, Sir, speak trumpet-tongued, as mentioned already in one of the Numbers, nor can his pinnacle be shaken by all the shafts of the individuous, bar none.

In my next I will discuss the Cambridgeshire, which is to come off on the Twenty-four Instant. Remember the old man's success. NICHOLAS.

P.S.-I have a good thing for next year's Derby. (Our Prophet's quotations are quite correct; but the prophecy to which he refers never reached us.-ED.)

The Last Thing in Lucifer Matches. THERE is an ingenious safety match, now in general use, which will light only on the box, and not always on that. We hear that it is to be superseded by a new invention which will not light at all. The latter is especially intended for the use of nurseries, powder magazines and asylums.

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Lady:-"I WISH, PAULINA, YOU'D TEACH YOUR SISTER HOW TO ADDRESS HER MISTRESS."
Paulina :-"LOR, MEM, SHE'LL NEVER 'AVE NO MANNERS; WHY, SHE DON'T EVEN CALL me MISS!"

IN THE MATTER OF STAGE PLAYS.

BEING A LETTER TO A POPULAR MANAGER.

MY DEAR MR. WHINING,-As a general rule I leave the discussion of theatrical topics to the accomplished and spirituel young gentleman who writes "From our Stall," and whose freedom of speech and habit of telling the truth, have, I doubt not, endeared him to every managerial bosom, especially your own.

But I am myself a patron of the drama, and I have to say a word to you on certain theories which you appear to entertain.

You have just produced a bad and tedious play, written by a man of real genius, and you pique yourself upon the intense "realism" of the scenery and accessories. You may be ready to admit that the piece is wanting in dramatic interest and unity, in force, compression, intelligibility, but you proudly cling to your "real pump," and you fancy that you can wipe away all the blots of the play with your "real

water."

I don't think, sir, that in the course of a tolerably long experience, I have ever met with a theory more degrading to the drama, or to yourself as one of its cleverest exponents on the stage.

The truth is, MR. WHINING, that your doctrine is akin to that held by the worst of the sham Pre-Raphaelites. You think that "realism" in unimportant details atones for want of thought and want of central interest. You would give us a false notion of a forest, for instance, by presenting us with the photograph of an acorn.

And just as the sham Pre-Raphaelites go in for physical ugliness, so do I find you defending what is morally repulsive. I like golden hair in a girl, but there is a difference between the colour which GIORGIONE loved and carrots. I like passion and excitement, but I would rather not see a gang of convicts on the treadmill.

Assuming, however, that for all this the author is mainly responsible, in which case I transfer the blame from your shoulders to his, and we all know with what splendid vigour he can exemplify the noble art of self-defence, I have still something to say on a matter of politeness which happens to be a matter of business as well.

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Whether this was or was not ungentlemanly, is a point which I will not now pause to discuss with you, but surely, my dear sir, it was a little imprudent. There are a few questions which it is my melancholy duty to address to you.

Do you imagine that those gentlemen come to your theatre for their own enjoyment, or, that they expect to be amused? My dear sir, you can hardly fancy that.

Do you give them a free admission simply because they are clever men, and you are passionately attached to their society even with the footlights between you? My dear sir, you will hardly expect us to believe that.

Or, do you ask them simply because it pays you? Because they are much more necessary to you than you are to them? And because, as a mere matter of business and to put the thing quite plainly, you must? Is it not so, my dear MR. WHINING? Come, be candid. Having done so, sir, I submit that you have no right to insult them because, forsooth, they don't pay.

In another sense of the word, sir, they do!

There are gradations in everything; I have spoken to you with considerable freedom, but I wouldn't for a moment think of holding you responsible for some of the nonsense that is talked on your behalf.

Take, for instance, a letter published by an evening contemporary of mine, dated " Civil Service Club," and signed B. V.

The writer is good enough to say that when gentlemen of the press "find their way into the stalls," they must be taught "how to conduct themselves."

By whom?

I am a gentleman of the press myself, and I decline to accept this person as my Social Mentor, my "guide, philosopher, and friend." And, as for the critics, you know, MR. WHINING, though I daresay B.

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SUNDAY DRAINS V. SUNDAY TRAINS. Obstructive:- "HOOT AWA, MON! DINNA YE KEN IT'S THE SAWBBATH (hic!)."

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