We went a little further and dropped into another theater.

Here there were two children on the stage. Some grown-up people were
standing round them listening, in respectful attitudes, while the

children talked. They appeared to be lecturing about something.
Again we fled, swearing, and made our way to a third theater. They

were all children there. It was somebody or other's Children's
Company performing an opera, or pantomime, or something of that sort.

Our friend said he would not venture into another theater. He said he
had heard there were places called music-halls, and he begged us to

take him to one of these and not to tell his wife.
We inquired of a policeman and found that there really were such

places, and we took him into one.
The first thing we saw were two little boys doing tricks on a

horizontal bar.
Our friend was about to repeat his customary programme of flying and

cursing, but we restrained him. We assured him that he would really
see a grown-up person if he waited a bit, so he sat out the boys and

also their little sister on a bicycle and waited for the next item.
It turned out to be an infantphenomenon who sang and danced in

fourteen different costumes, and we once more fled.
Our friend said he could not go home in the state he was then; he felt

sure he should kill the twins if he did. He pondered for awhile, and
then he thought he would go and hear some music. He said he thought a

little music would soothe and ennoble him--make him feel more like a
Christian than he did at that precise moment.

We were near St. James' Hall, so we went in there.
The hall was denselycrowded, and we had great difficulty in forcing

our way to our seats. We reached them at length, and then turned our
eyes toward the orchestra.

"The marvelous boy pianist--only ten years old!" was giving a recital.
Then our friend rose and said he thought be would give it up and go

home.
We asked him if he would like to try any other place of amusement, but

he said "No." He said that when you came to think of it, it seemed a
waste of money for a man with eleven children of his own to go about

to places of entertainment nowadays.
THE COMIC LOVERS.

Oh, they are funny! The comic lovers' mission in life is to serve as
a sort of "relief" to the misery caused the audience by the other

characters in the play; and all that is wanted now is something that
will be a relief to the comic lovers.

They have nothing to do with the play, but they come on immediately
after anything very sad has happened and make love. This is why we

watch sad scenes on the stage with such patience. We are not eager
for them to be got over. Maybe they are very uninteresting scenes, as

well as sad ones, and they make us yawn; but we have no desire to see
them hurried through. The longer they take the better pleased we are:

we know that when they are finished the comic lovers will come on.
They are always very rude to each other, the comic lovers. Everybody

is more or less rude and insulting to every body else on the stage;
they call it repartee there! We tried the effect of a little stage

"repartee" once upon some people in real life, and we wished we hadn't
afterward. It was too subtle for them. They summoned us before a

magistrate for "using language calculated to cause a breach of the
peace." We were fined 2 pounds and costs!

They are more lenient to "wit and humor" on the stage, and know how to
encourage the art of vituperation. But the comic lovers carry the

practice almost to excess. They are more than rude--they are abusive.
They insult each other from morning to night. What their married life

will be like we shudder to think!
In the various slanging matches and bullyragging competitions which

form their courtship it is always the maiden that is most successful.
Against her merry flow of invective and her girlish wealth of

offensive personalities the insolence and abuse of her boyish adorer
cannot stand for one moment.

To give an idea of how the comic lovers woo, we perhaps cannot do
better than subjoin the following brief example:

_SCENE: Main thoroughfare in populous district of London. Time:
Noon. Not a soul to be seen anywhere._

_Enter comic loveress R., walking in the middle of the road._
_Enter comic lover L., also walking in the middle of the road._

_They neither see the other until they bump against each other in
the center._

HE. Why, Jane! Who'd a' thought o' meeting you here!
SHE. You evidently didn't--stoopid!

HE. Halloo! got out o' bed the wrong side again? I say, Jane, if you
go on like that you'll never get a man to marry you.

SHE. So I thought when I engaged myself to you.
HE. Oh! come, Jane, don't be hard.

SHE. Well, one of us must be hard. You're soft enough.
HE. Yes, I shouldn't want to marry you if I weren't. Ha! ha! ha!

SHE. Oh, you gibbering idiot! (_Said archly._)
HE. So glad I am. We shall make a capital match (_attempts to kiss

her_).
SHE (_slipping away_). Yes, and you'll find I'm a match that can

strike (_fetches him a violent blow over the side if the head_).
HE (_holding his jaw--in a literal sense, we mean_). I can't help

feeling smitten by her.
SHE. Yes, I'm a bit of a spanker, ain't I?

HE. Spanker. I call you a regular stunner. You've nearly made me
silly.

SHE (_laughing playfully_). No, nature did that for you, Joe, long
ago.

HE. Ah, well, you've made me smart enough now, you boss-eyed old cow,
you!

SHE. Cow! am I? Ah, I suppose that's what makes me so fond of a
calf, you German sausage on legs! You--

HE. Go along. Your mother brought you up on sour milk.
SHE. Yah! They weaned you on thistles, didn't they?

And so on, with such like badinage do they hang about in the middle of
that road, showering derision and contumely upon each other for full

ten minutes, when, with one culminating burst of mutual abuse, they go
off together fighting and the street is left once more deserted.

It is very curious, by the bye, how deserted all public places become
whenever a stage character is about. It would seem as though ordinary

citizens sought to avoid them. We have known a couple of stage
villains to have Waterloo Bridge, Lancaster Place, and a bit of the

Strand entirely to themselves for nearly a quarter of an hour on a
summer's afternoon while they plotted a most diabolical outrage.

As for Trafalgar Square, the hero always chooses that spot when he
wants to get away from the busy crowd and commune in solitude with his

own bitter thoughts; and the good old lawyer leaves his office and
goes there to discuss any very delicate business over which he

particularly does not wish to be disturbed.
And they all make speeches there to an extent sufficient to have

turned the hair of the late lamented Sir Charles Warren White with
horror. But it is all right, because there is nobody near to hear

them. As far as the eye can reach, not a living thing is to be seen.
Northumberland Avenue, the Strand, and St. Martin's Lane are simply a

wilderness. The only sign of life about is a 'bus at the top of
Whitehall, and it appears to be blocked.

How it has managed to get blocked we cannot say. It has the whole
road to itself, and is, in fact, itself the only traffic for miles

round. Yet there it sticks for hours. The police make no attempt to
move it on and the passengers seem quite contented.

The Thames Embankment is an even still more lonesome and desolate
part. Wounded (stage) spirits fly from the haunts of men and, leaving

the hard, cold world far, far behind them, go and die in peace on the
Thames Embankment. And other wanderers, finding their skeletons