COLLINS'S MUSIC HALL
Collins's Music Hall lives at Islington. It is bounded on the north by several large buildings, on the south by Islington Green, on the east by a policeman, and on the west by a whelk-stall. It is called Collins's because it belongs to Mr. Herbert Sprake. As soon as it was quite dark I crept round by Islington Green, and, after successfully dodging the policeman, I walked boldly into the front entrance, and asked to be shorn into the Royal Box. There was a faint cheer as I took my seat, the audience being engaged in encoring Mr. Fred Herbert, who, in response came on and sang about Gladstone, Salisbury & Co., Limited, the well-known firm of soap-makers in the City.
The next turn was by Miss Alice Harris, who sang sweet ditties of love and of sweethearts who threw each other out of window for love of her; after which came the inevitable "London Day by Day" song in which bare-footed beggars and homeless cats and dogs were wonderfully mixed. A reasonable amount of that sort of thing is of course very right and proper, but as it is getting near the end of the silly season, haven't we had about enough of it for the present?
We're told of "eyes that sorrow dims,"
And tons of " aching, weary limbs,"
And Gospel a la George R. Sims,
In " London Day by Day"
And agony piled up so thick,
We yearn to write its "iacet hic,"
For just now we've got pretty sick
Of " London Day by Day."
Fanny told us that when she heard the singing of the nightingale she knew that her lover was coming. That's all right, of course, as far as poetry goes: but now-a-days I believe the approach of the young man is most frequently heralded by that pronounced aroma peculiar to cheap cigarettes. Fanny then vows by the stars above that she'll be true. The stars are pretty safe things to swear by, because they're always winking at each other, you know. After she has done her song Fanny begins to dance. I took up my programme and read it through, and when I got to the end she was still dancing. I went out and strolled up and down the corridor, and when I came back she was still at it. She seemed to me to have been wound up to go a certain time, and she was solemnly determined to do that or bust.
The next turn was extra. I couldn't catch its name, as I was busy explaining to the waiter that I didn't drink, and he was wondering what on earth I did to pass the time. But there were two of it, and they were of the Irish American variety so popular just now. After the usual amount of funny dialogue, they volunteered an American nigger hymn, which they chanted in the melodious tones of a short-winded concertina with a flat-iron inside it.
The appearance of Mr. James Fawn, modestly described as a "Comedian," was the signal for wild cheers. The grace and agility of the fawn are hardly with James now, but his great popularity is evidently on the increase, and he is quite as funny as ever. In answer to repeated calls for encores, Mr. Fawn explained that Miss Katie Seymour was coming on next, and the lady had threatened to dance all over him if he kept the floor much longer.
When Mr. Fawn's substantial shadow had quite followed him out, Miss Katie Seymour brings on a song in the usual strain, about sweethearts yearning to go and die for her somewhere; and she told us that her name was Marjorie, and that even the policeman in the street called her by name as she passed, and vowed eternal love. I can sympathise with Miss Seymour, for I blush to say I have known what it is to trifle with the truth myself. After this Katie comes on and wants to know what love is, as there is something about her she can't understand, and she thinks she's got it.
It keeps me waking half the night
with wondrous fancies teeming;
It steals upon my slumbers bright,
And sets me wildly dreaming.
Is it a message from above?
Is it—ah! that's the question—
The eager whispering of Love?
Or is it—indigestion?