the last lot. Then Careless says, 'Did I hurt
you Moses?' and you say, 'I'll take my oath of
that.' Sure to get a laugh." And sad to say
it does.

But, now-a-days actors do worse than simply
amplify the author's idea; they introduce words
(not ideas, certainly) of their own, which have no
bearing upon what Shakespeare calls "the
question." And as we have said, these words
are generally borrowed from the slang vocabulary
of street-boys and vulgar comic singers.
Every street vulgarity, as it rises from its native
mud, is imported into the farces at the theatres.
Perhaps there never was written, or sung, a
more vulgar song than "In the Strand." The
heroine of that popular lyric was one Nancy, an
otherwise nameless woman, and our low
comedians wished they were with Nancy on all
occasions. They made the respectable public
perfectly familiar with the "Balmoral boots
going over the gutter," and with her second floor
"in the Strand, in the Strand." (This, by the
way, shows to what base uses a tune may be
put. "Dixie's Land" was the national anthem
of the Southern States of America, and is really
a very expressive and stirring piece of music.)
Nancy came to be known in aristocratic drawing-
rooms, and the mere mention of her name
on the stage was enough to call forth a burst of
applause. Two or three years ago, when the
slang was popular, if a low comedian had to
say, "How do you do?" he would be almost
certain to add, "and how's your poor feet?"
There was a roar of delight immediately. No
witticism that brain could invent was equal to
"How's your poor feet?" What the query
referred to, and how it arose, no one knew; but
it was thought a good joke. Then there was a
thief's whistle, which no one thought particularly
clever until it was introduced into a farce,
when all the butcher-boys in London took back
their own cat-call consecrated by the lips of a
popular comedian. "Where are you going on
Sunday?" used to be a popular mirth-provoking
query. Now it is, "Have you seen her lately?"
And the most luminous manner of threatening
a person on the stage is to say that you will
"scuttle his old canoe." But this sort of thing
is not confined to farcical absurdities (which
may not be entitled to much respect, either
from actor or audience), it shows itself in comedies
and pieces having some pretensions to art.
Not many nights ago, we witnessed the performance
of a comedy which seemed to be all gag.
We made a note of some of the points. The
first, which attracted our attention by the roar
of laughter it evoked is too indecent for cool
repetition in print. The next clever thing was
a telling exit. Actor number one lights a
match by scraping it on the collar of actor
number two. Actor number two looks
astonished, and says, "He takes me for a lucifer-
box." The house goes into an ecstasy of
delight. "Where am I to sleep?" says one.
"Oh, on the roof," says the other. "What,
on the tiles?" says the first speaker. "I'm
not a tom cat!" Thunders of applause. A
charming lady in the piece is constantly spoken
of as a "little devil." "She is the most brave
little devil I ever knew," evokes the reply,
"That woman would murder her mother." A
baby is introduced, and it is called a "jolly
little devil with a squashy pulpy nose, and a
good deal of the codfish about him." The act-
drop is brought down by one genteel comedy
gentleman tossing this baby to another genteel
comedy gentleman, like clown and pantaloon.
One of these gentlemen makes an attempt to
describe an oasis, and calls it a "green thing
that sprouts up in a desert." "Oh," says the
other, "you mean mangold-wurzel." The audience
are greatly delighted here. The following
passage seemed also to be much esteemed:

A. That woman is a devil in petticoats; I
know I shall knock her down.

B. Don't talk to me with your nose. I told
you last night that your nose was no great
shakes. (A. scratches his nose.) I hate a fellow
who scratches his nose.

A. Suppose a nose happens to itch?

B. Then get another fellow to scratch it.

Subsequently the baby is called a "damned
thing," and the house of a respectable gentleman,
on very slight suspicion, is called an
agapemone, with a "damn it" for emphasis.

In another comedy of life and manners, we
heard a despairing hero say, with a deep-drawn
sigh, "Now I have nothing to live for." His
interlocutor pooh-poohed this despondency, and
after specifying some reasonable things which
his friend might still live for, mentioned on his
own account, Chang the giant, the Alhambra
Music Hall, and a few other pleasures of
existence of a kindred nature.

Actors are disposed to plead that they find
their justification for these offences in the
applause and laughter of their audiences. But
clown and pantaloon cause just as much laughter
(and it is laughter in precisely the same key),
when they sit down upon babies, and bring old
gentlemen to grief on butter slides. It is most
unfortunate for the actor's art that laughter
and clapping of hands are regarded as tests of
merit. These ready stimulants have something
of the effect of drink upon performers; they
cause them to lose their heads, and drive them
to say and do what their sober judgment would
revolt from.

Let us now glance at the broader stage of
life, where all the men and women are merely
players. When a judge so far forgets his
dignity as to make a facetious remark in the
middle of a trial for murder, he is doing
precisely what an actor does when he interpolates
a vulgar joke without regard to the question.
It may be a witty remark (or it may not, for a
very little wit goes a long way from the bench),
and it may have the desired effect of causing
amusement in court; but is entirely out of
place, and in bad taste. The speeches of
counsel are often long strings of clap-trap
appeals to the jury. And what is clap-trap but
gag? Such appeals are not addressed to the
understanding, they are merely designed to