I KEEP THE OLD WATCH

GOING.

I.

I have got a brand-new golden watch,

With a beautiful pearl set in it:

From the spring's first blow till the fall of the snow
It keeps the time to a minute!

I have it set down in my will to my boy,
And I hope when I'm gone he'll wear it :
'Twas a present to me from over the sea,
And I love the hand that bare it:

But my father gave me one long ago,
When I was a lad yet growing;

How can I part with a thing near my heart?
So I keep the old watch going!

II.

You will find but right little gold in that,
And no pearl its face adorning;

But I thought it grand when I took it in hand
On my thirteenth birthday morning!

And my mother fastened a chain to its ring,
And my sister added a locket;

And I never felt since so much like a prince,
As when first it went into my pocket!

My parents are dead, and my sister sank

Where the Indian waves are flowing;

But the light of the past shall shine on to the last,
So I keep the old watch going!

III.

It is strange what oddities sometimes wake
Good thoughts that have long lain sleeping;

For the great blows fall, and scarce move us at all,
But the little things set us weeping!

I'm afraid that my life has not been what it should,

And habits a terrible fetter:

But my pulse beats quick when I list to that tick,

And I earnestly wish to be better!

OI think that I see new hopes for me,

And a brighter prospect glowing:

Though my heart be chill, 'twould be colder still

If my boyhood's watch stopped going!

VOL. XXXVI.

CECIL CLYVE.

T

THE THEATRE.

HE Opera is dead! Long live Opera! The smaller operas are indeed flourishing, and for the time of year doing as well as most green bay trees.

Madame Favart is certainly the success of the season, and Mr. Henderson has thrown doublets again. The piece is as pretty as anything on the boards anywhere, and will be sure to draw all the provincials who come to London to enjoy themselves. Can anything be pleasanter to see than Miss Florence St. John? And when you have seen her with those large languishing eyes and that pretty mobile mouth, listen to her voice. When she speaks there is a soothing music in it, and when she sings——But this will not do, there are other ladies, who might be jealous-Miss Violet Cameron for instance; who, in spite of a certain stiffness in action, and a coldness of demeanour owing more to youth than inexperience, has made great progress since the opening night. Miss St. John must get on; for one sees she is not perfectly satisfied with herself, and indeed she has still much to perfect in her acting. Miss Cameron may get on, but she must satisfy herself that she is a long way off perfection, and then she will bring art to assist nature; and nature has been very kind to her in giving her extra good looks and a pleasant voice.

Mr. Marius (we shall not talk of him as Monsieur, as he is all but English now) is a host of himself. He knows what the English public likes, and he brings to his assistance enough French gesture and expression to make his performance the most applauded in the little "Strand." With a fund of humour and fun, he has the physical characteristics of a jeune premier, added to a sense of the ridiculous sufficient to make a first low comedian. He has taken a conspicuous place among leading London actors, and if he goes on improving he will hold it against any of the rising comedians of the day.

Don't let Mr. Ashley ever indulge in sentimental old gate-keepers again, as he did in The Crimson Cross. He never made his mark until he appeared in The Pink Dominos. Rakish old boys are his line. Ashley will remain a rakish old boy—the rakish old boy, in fact, of the English stage until the end of his days.

Mr. Mervyn lacks refinement, which is essential in such a part as the Young Noble in Madame Favart; but he has a certain familiarity with the stage which makes him acceptable, and at any rate he is not a stick, which most tenors are nowa-days. The scenery, especially the first scene, is good; indeed the first set is unusually so; for by the excellent arrangements the little stage appears nearly double its usual size. The dresses are as bright as they can be, and the music is Offenbach's. To say that it is entirely fresh is scarcely possible for Offenbach; but if it does suggest old friends, they are all the children of the Maëstro Jacques himself, and if he does foist on us a valse of eighteen or a romance of two and twenty for his youngest babes, they are so pretty that we gladly receive them as if they were total strangers, whose beauties shine upon us for the first time.

The Cloches de Corneville still ring as joyfully as ever, and before long Miss Kate Munroe, who has set so many hearts beating both in London and Paris, will re-appear as Serpolotte, in which part she had never been equalled. And seeing that Miss Munroe has considerably improved both in voice and appearance since her début in Paris, we may find a fresh lease given to the chimes of Normandy as they ring out at the

Globe.

Pinafore here and Pinafore there! Pinafore and aft, in fact, in sailor parlance. Is it not told in the chronicles of the Queen's Bench how the second H. M. S. appeared suddenly at the Imperial Theatre. How the captain stormed the old ship, and how the Barker held the breach rather than strike his flag. In fact he got struck himself and pitched down the gangway. Lord Dunraven has a plucky agent, and he can sing,

My Barker's on the Strand,

and rest safely assured of the welfare of his property. But joking and rights of copyright apart, we have two companies every night assuring us they never use a big, big D., singing,

Heigh the Jolly Captain and the Tar," and still remaining an Englishman, in spite of all temptations, to belong to other nations; for, as they inform us with equal gravity, they have had opportunities of being Rooshian, Prooshian, and even Eyetalian. To say that the company at the Imperial equals the original one now recognising Mr. Doyley Carte as commodore would scarcely be true; but it is a very good company, with Mr. J. G. Taylor, an excellent comedian, as Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., at the head, and it is very well mounted. A great many in the neighbourhood will stop at the Imperial instead of going as far as the Strand. But though we personally have seen quite enough of the Pinafore, which would be worthy of its reputation were it reduced to one act, if we were bound to go again we should certainly stick to the old original Bark. We cannot be unfaithful to our Grossmith, our little Buttercup, our Captain Corcoran, and our Midshipmite-especially our Midshipmite.

Arthur Sullivan has been grievously ill, so much so that his journey to the Rhine was stopped short in Paris, where the popular composer had to undergo some torture at the hand of one of the cleverest French surgeons before he was well enough to proceed. We hope to see him in September, returning to wield the bâton so ably handled by Mr. Alfred Cellier in his absence. Arthur Sullivan is director of the Promenade Concerts at Covent Garden, and his name is a guarantee of the character and quality of the splendid orchestra now performing at the Italian Opera House. The crowds who nightly throng every corner testify to the excellence of the programme, and the pleasant appearance of the refreshment bars, with the cosy arbours, arranged with glittering lights and decorative draperies, make one wish it were possible in London to have similar places of recreation in the open air; where music and cooling drinks might accompany the evening cigar, and vary the monotony of British club and pothouse

life.

We are promised all sorts of stars here-Santley and Sims Reeves are certainties, and several novelties are in store, Before long a rival concert is to open at Her Majesty's under Signor Arditi. "There's room enough for all," and

the best will win.

Frank Burnand has done wonders with a piece which was as improper as it was really droll and cverly constructed. Bebé has become Betsy, and the English adaptation has produced an excellent farcical play, in which nothing offends and every thing amuses. Herbert Standing has a part to which he brings all his imitative powers to make a success, and he goes up another place in his class. Mr. Hill is droller than ever, and Mr. Lytton Southern affords an excellent example of "like father, like son." He will one day be a star. Miss Lottie Venne is an excellent actress, but she might be spoilt with over praise, and Mr. Maltby is clever as the Tutor. Altogether the piece has been well rehearsed and is admirably played. It will be some time before Mr. Wyndham changes his bill.

THESPIS.