NOSTALGIA.
"YOU SEEM OUT OF SORTS, JAMES, EVER SINCE WE'VE COME NORTH. IT'S THE CHANGE OF CLIMATE AND SCENERY, I S'POSE!"
"IT'S WUSS NOR THAT, MARIAR. IT'S THE CHANGE OF BEER!"
VOCES POPULI.
AN EVENING WITH A CONJUROR.
SCENE—A Suburban Hall. The Performance has not yet begun. The Audience is limited, and low-spirited, and may perhaps number—including the Attendants—eighteen. The only people in the front seats are, a man in full evening dress, which he tries to conceal under a caped cloak, and two Ladies in plush opera-cloaks. Fog is hanging about in the rafters, and the gas-stars sing a melancholy dirge. Each casual cough arouses dismal echoes. Enter an intending Spectator, who is conducted to a seat in the middle of an empty row. After removing his hat and coat, he suddenly thinks better—or worse—of it, puts them on again, and vanishes hurriedly.