"thousand-fold"--an exorbitant rate when you come to think of it.
Heaven is also expected to take care that the villain gets properly

cursed, and to fill up its spare time by bringing misfortune upon the
local landlord. It has to avenge everybody and to help all the good

people whenever they are in trouble. And they keep it going in this
direction.

And when the hero leaves for prison Heaven has to take care of his
wife and child till he comes out; and if this isn't a handful for it,

we don't know what would be!
Heaven on the stage is always on the side of the hero and heroine and

against the police.
Occasionally, of late years, the comic man has been a bad man, but you

can't hate him for it. What if he does ruin the hero and rob the
heroine and help to murder the good old man? He does it all in such a

genial, light-hearted spirit that it is not in one's heart to feel
angry with him. It is the way in which a thing is done that makes all

the difference.
Besides, he can always round on his pal, the serious villain, at the

end, and that makes it all right.
The comic man is not a sportsman. If he goes out shooting, we know

that when he returns we shall hear that he has shot the dog. If he
takes his girl out on the river he upsets her (literally we mean).

The comic man never goes out for a day's pleasure without coming home
a wreck.

If he merely goes to tea with his girl at her mother's, he swallows a
muffin and chokes himself.

The comic man is not happy in his married life, nor does it seem to us
that he goes the right way to be so. He calls his wife "his old Dutch

clock," "the old geyser," and such like terms of endearment, and
addresses her with such remarks as "Ah, you old cat," "You ugly old

nutmeg grater," "You orangamatang, you!" etc., etc.
Well, you know that is not the way to make things pleasant about a

house.
Still, with all his faults we like the comic man. He is not always in

trouble and he does not make long speeches.
Let us bless him.

THE LAWYER.
He is very old, and very long, and very thin. He has white hair. He

dresses in the costume of the last generation but seven. He has bushy
eyebrows and is clean shaven. His chin itches considerably, so that

he has to be always scratching it. His favorite remark is "Ah!"
In real life we have heard of young solicitors, of foppish solicitors,

of short solicitors; but on the stage they are always very thin and
very old. The youngest stage solicitor we ever remember to have seen

looked about sixty--the oldest about a hundred and forty-five.
By the bye, it is never very safe to judge people's ages on the stage

by their personal appearance. We have known old ladies who looked
seventy, if they were a day, turn out to be the mothers of boys of

fourteen, while the middle-aged husband of the young wife generally
gives one the idea of ninety.

Again, what appears at first sight to be a comfortable-looking and
eminently respectableelderly lady is often discovered to be, in

reality, a giddy, girlish, and experienced" target="_blank" title="a.缺乏经验的">inexperienced young thing, the pride of
the village or the darling of the regiment.

So, too, an exceptionally stout and short-winded old gentleman, who
looks as if he had been living too well and taking too little exercise

for the last forty-five years, is not the heavy father, as you might
imagine if you judged from mere external evidence, but a wild,

reckless boy.
You would not think so to look at him, but his only faults are that he

is so young and light-headed. There is good in him, however, and he
will no doubt be steady enough when he grows up. All the young men of

the neighborhoodworship him and the girls love him.
"Here he comes," they say; "dear, dear old Jack--Jack, the darling

boy--the headstrong youth--Jack, the leader of our juvenile
sports--Jack, whose childishinnocence wins all hearts. Three cheers

for dancing, bright-eyed Jack!"
On the other hand, ladies with the complexion of eighteen are, you

learn as the story progresses, quite elderly women, the mothers of
middle-aged heroes.

The experiencedobserver of stage-land never jumps to conclusions from
what he sees. He waits till he is told things.

The stage lawyer never has any office of his own. He transacts all
his business at his clients' houses. He will travel hundreds of miles

to tell them the most trivial piece of legal information.
It never occurs to him how much simpler it would be to write a letter.

The item for "traveling expenses" in his bill of costs must be
something enormous.

There are two moments in the course of his client's career that the
stage lawyer particularly enjoys. The first is when the client comes

unexpectedly into a fortune; the second when he unexpectedly loses it.
In the former case, upon learning the good news the stage lawyer at

once leaves his business and hurries off to the other end of the
kingdom to bear the glad tidings. He arrives at the humble domicile

of the beneficiary in question, sends up his card, and is ushered into
the front parlor. He enters mysteriously and sits left--client sits

right. An ordinary, common lawyer would come to the point at once,
state the matter in a plain, business-like way, and trust that he

might have the pleasure of representing, etc., etc.; but such simple
methods are not those of the stage lawyer. He looks at the client and

says:
"You had a father."

The client starts. How on earth did this calm, thin, keen-eyed old
man in black know that he had a father? He shuffles and stammers, but

the quiet, impenetrable lawyer fixes his cold, glassy eye on him, and
he is helpless. Subterfuge, he feels, is useless, and amazed,

bewildered at the knowledge of his most private affairs possessed by
his strange visitant, he admits the fact: he had a father.

The lawyer smiles with a quiet smile of triumph and scratches his
chin.

"You had a mother, too, if I am informed correctly," he continues.
It is idle attempting to escape this man's supernatural acuteness, and

the client owns up to having had a mother also.
From this the lawyer goes on to communicate to the client, as a great

secret, the whole of his (the client's) history from his cradle
upward, and also the history of his nearer relatives, and in less than

half an hour from the old man's entrance, or say forty minutes at the
outside, the client almost knows what the business is about.

On the other occasion, when the client has lost his fortune, the stage
lawyer is even still happier. He comes down himself to tell the

misfortune (he would not miss the job for worlds), and he takes care
to choose the most unpropitious moment possible for breaking the news.

On the eldest daughter's birthday, when there is a big party on, is
his favorite time. He comes in about midnight and tells them just as

they are going down to supper.
He has no idea of business hours, has the stage lawyer--to make the

thing as unpleasant as possible seems to be his only anxiety.
If he cannot work it for a birthday, then he waits till there's a

wedding on, and gets up early in the morning on purpose to run down
and spoil the show. To enter among a crowd of happy, joyous

fellow-creatures and leave them utterly crushed and miserable is the
stage lawyer's hobby.

The stage lawyer is a very talkative gentleman. He regards the
telling of his client's most private affairs to every stranger that he

meets as part of his professional duties. A good gossip with a few
chance acquaintances about the family secrets of his employers is food