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Oh, anything to draw attention to the production,' said he. 'Write something about the carpet, for instance.'

So I went upstairs, and wrote, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:

Playgoers who are interested in the minor romances of history should notice the Aubusson carpet used in the first act of "Poor Jonathan," to be produced to-morrow night at the Prince of Wales's Theatre. Originally designed for General Fleury's château at Compiègne, it attracted, while yet on the looms, the attention of the Empress Eugénie, and was by her desire transported to the Tuileries. At the sacking of that palace by the Communards in 1871, it was wrenched from the floor and presently sent to Vienna, where it was discovered by Mr. Lowenfeld, who immediately purchased it for the nominal sum of two hundred guineas. The costumes in the first act have been especially designed to harmonize with the delicate tints of this interesting relic of a fallen Empire.'

I remember the newspapers waxed very indignant over the paragraph.

'And has Art come to this?' they asked.

CHAPTER XII

Music-halls-The variety artist's coachman-The Great VanceAn original prestidigitator - Mr. Samuel French and his entertaining friends-Eric Lewis as a dog-fancier-Alfred Cellier-The tale of a cheque.

MANY years ago, before promotion from the theatrical stage to that of the music-hall was recognised as an artistic upwards step, a friend of mine— an actor named George Powell-was prevailed upon by tempting terms to appear as a comic vocalist. He had to sing at three different halls, and he accordingly hired a fly from a proprietor used to the business, which should take him from one palace of varieties to the other. 'I dare say you have an experienced driver,' said Powell, 'who knows where the stage-doors are, and how long it takes to get from one to the other and so on?' 'Lor' bless you, yes!' said the proprietor. I've one been at it thirty-eight year. He's driven Harry Clifton, Laburnham, Jolly Nash, the Great Vance-all the talent, in fact. He's a careful driver and a steady chap you can rely on-what I call a regular gentle

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man's servant, if you understand me.'

understand me.' The follow

ing evening, punctual to his time, this treasure of a coachman drew up at George Powell's door in Theobald's Row, where he had rooms. He was a well-set-up man of about sixty, clean-shaven and rubicund, in a fairly well-fitting livery coat and a rather besoaped hat with a cockade, which caused a pleasant flutter in Powell's innermost heart, though the glow which this flattering badge kindled chilled a little when he had to hear himself give the direction: 'Drive to the Oxford, will you? The-er— the stage-door.'

The driver saluted respectfully and drove off, and George Powell successfully performed his first turn. Immediately afterwards, he removed the bulk of his 'make-up,' threw on a big fur-lined coat-the official badge of his new calling-and returned to his carriage to be driven to the next hall. After a few minutes, the vehicle pulled up outside the Marquis of Granby. 'You've plenty of time,' observed the driver, craning round towards the offside window. 'Mr. Vance used gen'ally to paternize this 'ouse when he was workin' these turns.'

Powell felt rather dry and flat, so he availed himself of the suggestion, and was soon gulping down a tumbler of something with ice in it. Perhaps this old driver would like a drink, too,' thought Powell under the generous influence of refreshment;

and, looking out into the street, he called to his new servant, 'Would you-er-like something yourself?' The old man threw off the rug which covered his knees, and leapt nimbly from the box. And then Powell discovered for the first time why this treasure of a whip could only aspire to livery-stable work. His legs (which, by the way, were clad in shepherd's plaid trousers) were only about twelve inches long. The pigmy approached the bar with the gait of a dachshund. 'What will you have, coachman ?" inquired Powell genially. The little fellow looked round with an angry flash in his eye. 'Look 'ere,' he said, 'not so much coachman-see! Doorin' this 'ere job, as long as you're in these 'ere shops, you're George and I'm Punch, understand.' And having enlightened Powell on this social point-which he could no doubt have established by precedents extending over years-Punch rounded off his period with the pacificatory remark, Mine's Irish-hot.'

I once had the pleasure of being presented to the Great Vance. It was in the Café de l'Europe, adjoining the Haymarket Theatre, just before my evening's work. I think it was Harry Conway who introduced me. 'Let me introduce Mr. Brookfield,' he said. 'What name?' interrogated the great man, and it was repeated. Pleased to meet you' (a favourite formula in theatrical circles; I think it hails from America). We got on to the subject of

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entertainments. Ah,' said Vance, 'since poor old John Parry learnt the great secret, there's only me and Dick Grain left!' After a few minutes' conversation, I explained that I must be off.

'Where

are you going?' inquired the Giant Comique.

Only next door,' I said, 'to the Haymarket Theatre.' 'Well,' he exclaimed cordially, 'take my carriage; it's doing nothing.'

One summer evening in the early seventies, a young fellow-officer of my brother's in the 13th Hussars (it may have been Baden-Powell) strolled into one of the music-halls. In those days there was a chairman-generally with curly hair and a heavy moustache, and invariably decorated with diamond studs who sat with his back to the orchestra conductor and presided over a table at which it was the ambition of every budding man about town to be invited to sit. The Lieutenant strolled into the stalls, which were sparsely filled, and was presently honoured by a beam from the arbiter elegantiarum, who pointed hospitably with his hammer to an empty chair on his right hand. The young officer accepted the invitation, took the proffered seat, and ordered a bottle of Moët and Chandon, the merits of which wine were being at that moment musically extolled on the tiny stage by a gentleman in a heavy fair moustache, a tow wig, and a long claret-coloured frock-coat. Things