Last week was remarkable for a number of Matinées. There were two, each with a new Play, at the Vaudeville, in preparation apparently for the disappearance of Sophia. The Author of one of the pieces was, I fancy, Mr. Jones (the name fixed itself on my memory), but I am not quite so sure about the others. I rather think the first play was written in collaboration possibly by Messrs. Brown and Robinson to complete the immortal trio. However, the morning performance par excellence, was the production of a new and original poetical drama in five Acts, called Nitrocris, by Geo. Graves, at Drury Lane. This was really a very interesting occasion, as we were taken back to B.C. 1420, and I must admit that I too was rather taken aback when I found the Early Egyptians talking of the "Pharmacopœia," and many other matters of a yet more recent date. I supposed this was local colouring, and when I saw the "Banquetting Hall in the Palace," I felt sure that the Egyptian Court represented belonged to the Nineteenth Century, and could be easily discovered (either by season ticket or on payment of a shilling) in Sydenham. The Author supplies a note in the official programme, in which she informs the World that Amun-Mykera Nitocris was "handsome among women, and brave among men, and governed for her husband with great splendour and much justice, though she is rebuked by several of the ancient historians for her cruelty and sensuality," and no doubt these facts have suggested the five long Acts of the more or less poetical play. What story there is shows how the adopted son of and apprentice to an Embalmer, after being left to die in the Palace of Nitocris for refusing to join in an unpatriotic toast, escapes, and twelve weeks later is lured back once more to the Royal realms to reject the suddenly-kindled love of the Egyptian Queen in favour of the affection of a Grecian orphan called Soris, who happens to be staying on a visit with her swarthy Majesty. Then Soris gets half-poisoned and entirely stabbed, and Nitocris and the Embalmer's Apprentice repair to a "stretch of desert in the neighbourhood of the Pyramids," to be drowned in an inundation which is much talked about but never seen. As the Embalmer's Apprentice, Mr. J. H. Barnes fostered the impression that he was either a very slow and dull pupil, or that the art of embalming had taken him a middle-aged lifetime to thoroughly acquire. In the last act he looked like a portly Friar of Orders Grey sadly in need of the fast rising Nile. Mr. Robert Pateman was good as a nigger Quasimodo, who apparently had nothing in particular to do save to murder Miss Alma Murray when that popular young tragédienne's sorrows became monotonous and required curtailment in the interests of the audience. Mr. Fernandez too was useful as Chief of the Magi, and Mr. Bernard Gould's performance would have been more pleasing had he really died at the end of the Second Act, instead of living to see the final fall of the curtain. But this last was rather the Author's than the actor's fault. Personally I should have been better satisfied had every one died at the end of the First Act, but I confess I am a little exacting. On Wednesday, after the "principals" had been called and received more or less applause, there was a cry for the Authoress, when to my surprise a lady in a semi-masculine costume and seemingly in her "teens," made her way before the curtain. This was young "Clo,"—a most charming person to judge from her personal appearance. There was a further "call" when a gentleman of much maturer years was seen bowing. I do not know if he was also a "Clo,"—if so, he was unquestionably a much older "Clo"—in fact, quite an elderly "Clo." Ages ago a wonderful piece called Nitocris was played at Drury Lane for a few nights with moderate success. In it was represented an inundation, that, if it did not precisely resemble the waters of the rising Nile, at any rate was a capital realisation of green-coloured muslin sprinkled with spangles. I am afraid that young "Clo's" poetical play will not keep the stage much longer than its predecessor.
Full in Front.
It was my good fortune to be present at the opening of the Manchester Exhibition (which Mr. Punch very appropriately christened the "Gem of the Jubilee,") and on Thursday last I again paid it a visit with about sixty-five thousand other persons. In spite of the hurricane of the preceding Monday, the building was in an excellent condition, and the reproduction of the old part of the ancient city had weathered the storm as if it had been intended to remain for a thousand years instead of half-a-dozen months. I was much struck with the extreme good-nature of a Lancashire crowd. In the afternoon a severe shower of rain, which I fancy must have come down from Town by the 10.10 Express from Euston (a train which maintained the tradition of the L. & N. W. R. by arriving to the minute) drove all the pleasure-seekers from the grounds into the building, and for a moment there was an "ugly block." Immediately the police and the other officials organised a stream right and left, and when it was found that there were many schools amongst the sight-seers, a cry of "Make way for the children!" secured the safety of the little ones. The picture galleries were as popular as ever, and I observed that the crowd generally gathered in dense masses near the paintings with historical events as their subjects. The arrival of the Princess of Wales at Gravesend was particularly favoured, and some regret was expressed that the Benchers of the Middle Temple had required the return of the portrait by Holl of their Royal Treasurer. The splendid display of the works of Mr. Watts did not attract much attention, one lady observing that it was "a pity that they had not been finished," and their opposite neighbours by Mr. Burne-Jones, were also a little above the heads (in more senses than one) of the average shilling public. But Landseer, Millais, Poynter and Holman Hunt had thousands of earnest admirers, and there were always enthusiastic groups in front of "The Derby Day" and "Ramsgate Sands." It was delightful to walk through the galleries devoted to this unique, this magnificent collection of purely native Art, only saddened by the reflection that such an opportunity would never offer itself again. The machinery, from another point of view, was nearly as interesting. I have been present at many Exhibitions, but have never seen anything to equal the display of "works in operation." Both visitors and "hands" seemed to be equally in earnest; the first to watch, and the second to work. Then the music was excellent, as, indeed, it was obliged to be to satisfy the requirements of Manchester connoisseurs, who are not to be put off with second-rate bands. Lastly, the illuminated fountains were absolutely fairy-like with their colours reflected from below the water- line. And this reminds me there was also something else fairy-like—the table d'hôte dinner served in the Conservatory, which seemed (with its many courses, of the daintiest proportions) to be exactly suited to the wants of Titania and (if he took the hint printed on the menu, and "requiring extra quantities of any of the dishes," asked for more) of the robuster Oberon. The captious might certainly have objected that the dessert would have been more satisfactory had nut-crackers been supplied with the walnuts. I asked for a pair, but was told by my waiter that he could get me none. No doubt this little defect will be remedied when the contractor fulfils his intention of catering next year at the Brussels Exhibition. But this is a detail. For the rest, the Manchester celebration of the Fiftieth Year of Her Majesty's reign has been worthy of the occasion; and my second visit has fully confirmed the opinion (that was expressed in May last) that the leading town of Lancashire has produced the Gem of the Jubilee.
JAW-HOLDING.
Hold your Jaw!
At the dinner of the Nottingham Mechanics' Institution, the other night, Mr. Phelps, the American Minister, advocated the establishment of a Professorship of Silence in schools and colleges. Good! There is too much latitude given to jabberers and chatterers in the present day. Politicians do nothing but prate, and the talking man nowadays has taken the place of the working man. We might begin our reform in the House of Commons. The Sergeant-at-Arms might appoint a beadle to bridle the tongues of the everlasting talkers, and an official with a large extinguisher should make them harmless after they had bored the House for five minutes.