By an Old Bachelor.
"Are children humorous?" the Spectator asks. Practical jokers are they, every one of them; Their laughter my poor tympanum sorely tasks, But I'll be hanged if I can see the fun of them!
LETTERS FROM A DÉBUTANTE.
My Dear Marjorie,—You remember Cecil Cashmore? Of course no theatricals could be a success unless he took the entire management. He is a celebrated private performer, and his name is frequently seen in "Amateur Dramatic Notes," where he is freely compared to Coquelin, Arthur Roberts, Irving, and Charles Kean, in his earlier manner—I mean Charles Keane's earlier manner, not Cecil's. He always greets me with, "Oh, I'm so afraid of you. I believe you're very cross with me"; and his parting words are invariably "Good-bye; I'm coming to see you so soon!" Cissy—everyone calls him Cissy—seems to be a little particular, not to say fidgetty.
Baby Beaumont heard him say to his valet, "Take away that eau-de-cologne—it's corked." He seems to think himself ill, though he looks blooming; and says he has neurasthenia. He's always going through some "course," or "treatment." One hears him cry to the footman who hands him a forbidden dish, "Good Heavens, my dear man, don't offer me that—I'm under Jowles!"
We wanted to act The School for Scandal, but Cissy has persuaded us to get up a burlesque of his own—Red Riding Hood. I am to be Red Riding Hood!!! I am delighted. I have never acted before; but they say I have only to trip on with a basket. Baby declared he would be a Proud Sister. In vain he was told there were no Proud Sisters in Red Riding Hood; he seemed to have set his heart on it so much that Cissy has written one in for him. Now Baby is happy, designing himself a gorgeous frock, and passing hours in front of a looking-glass, trying various patterns against his complexion. All the strength of the piece falls upon Cissy, who plays the Wolf, and has given himself any amount of songs and dances, lots of "serious interest," and all the "comic relief." He says it's not an ordinary burlesque, but a mixture of a problem play and a comic opera. Captain Mashington is to play the Mother, so I see a good deal of him. (The Lorne Hoppers are in Scotland). We had had sixteen rehearsals when Lady Taymer suddenly horrified us by saying it seemed so much trouble—why not give it up, and if we wanted a little fun, black our faces and pretend to be niggers!! Of course, we would not listen to her. I hear Captain Mashington rehearsing his part every morning, quietly, in the billiard-room. He never can remember the lines
"Good bye, my dear, now mind you're very good, And shun the dangers lurking in the wood."