obacco-pipe, carried by an Indian. My neighbour says,
"Old ELIZABETH would have liked all this sort of thing." Poor dear! I
pity her, I ask if Indian is to be taken as an advertisement for the
Wild West? Neighbour replies, hesitatingly, that he knows the book has
been altered from what it was three hundred years ago to suit the
present time, so that perhaps I may be right. The cracked piano, which
is having a hard day of it, breaks out into a lively measure. RED SHIRT,
SILENUS, "and his crew" join in a dance, "_Crew Junction_"--but why not
a hornpipe, if they're a crew?--and the Curtain descends on Part the
First.

_Part the Second._--Young Elizabethan Maidens in front of a bank of
roses, and a fountain lighted up, as is the garden, with variegated
lamps. "Figures look like Old Chelsea," my neighbour says. I return
(because the variegated lamps and the illuminated fountains and the
arbours appeal to bye-gone memories),--"Old Chelsea? Yes--Cremorne."
Then the Maidens sing a dirge. Perhaps mourning, or Cre-morning, for the
departure of lost glories. Then they open out gracefully, and discover
the Columbine of Part the First with a lot of young men--(Oh!),--all
seated together in the basin of the fountain. The young men in
masks--(Aha!--now I see why this is called a Masque!--Now I am happy,
whether Queen ELIZABETH would have liked it or not!)--come out of the
fountain, quite dry, rather unpolitely leaving poor Columbine still in
the basin under the dripping water. Maids of the Inn can and do sing
charmingly. The Masquers can and do dance. Plot no object. It's all
elegant and graceful, but distinctly sad, as how can it be anything else
to the accompaniment of that cracked piano, whose temporary absence must
deprive Margate Sands of much harmless enjoyment. "They haven't smiled
once," I say to my neighbour. "No more have I," he replies crustily, but
then explains that Queen ELIZABETH didn't like smiling unless she smiled
first. The Masquing men are most anxious and attentive to their steps;
the Ladies all delightful. Great applause. Encores. And during all this,
the unfortunate Columbine remains sitting in the basin, with her feet in
cold water, and her head apparently under a dripping _douche_. She must
be of a most contented disposition, as whenever I catch sight of her she
is smiling, somewhat vapidly it is true, but still smiling, and beating
time on her knees, perhaps to keep herself as warm as possible in such a
pecul